A Farewell to the Solstice

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The Eastoner - General Midi

It has finally passed. The days were growing longer, immeasurably, minute by minute, just as a child whose growth goes unnoticed by those who spend each waking moment with him, until you realize that, at nearly news hour, there is still not complete darkness. I found it depressing to pull the shades before turning in only to see sunlight in the northwest sky. Our planet, tilted in such a way as to maximize our exposure to the sun in our little corner of the hemisphere, was bathed in sunlight for what seemed an eternity each day. No early evening leisurely strolls in the gathering darkness; no artificial table top fires; the flickering lights of airplanes gently rumbling overhead were snuffed out in the extended twilight. But we’ve made it. We’ve started down the other side of the mountain.

This past Wednesday, June 21st, was the Summer Solstice; the longest day of the year. The western sun worshippers, so thankful for the prolonged agony of daylight, are now beginning the downward spiral experienced by us eastern night dwellers back on December 22nd. On that day, the day after the longest night of the year, the westerners emerged from their colorful cocoons, drawn out by the promise of each day becoming longer. Now, we easterners are awakened from our dreams of nocturnal harmony by the promise of ever-shortening sunlight and the lonely yet oddly satisfying feeling of being the only ones outside in the darkness.

Shorter days means autumn approaches. Even in the stifling heat of July and August, taking a moment to notice the fading orange haze as it dissipates earlier each evening can bring a respite from the heat and the scourge of God’s annoying winged creatures looking to literally suck the blood from our veins. Shorter days means the first falling leaf is within reach of our rake. It means we’re closer to the browning of the crops than we are to when they were first planted. A shorter day brings with it the reminder of the first stinging north wind in early November when everything has turned brown and desolate…perfect in every way.

Rejoice with me, my fellow Easterners, as hypoxic, exhausted alpinists, we take the final step over the summit of Mount Summer Solstice and begin our descent toward the Autumnal Equinox and the long nights beyond. Let’s not ponder December 22nd yet, though; leave that for the Westerners. They need something to keep them warm tonight.

Peace…

TC

To Be Titled At A Later Date

Fickle: "Changing frequently, especially as regards one's loyalties, interests, or affection."

Being a fickle person isn’t all bad. There are certain benefits to frequently changing one’s views on life, be they political, religious, or NFL-related for example. As William Cowper so succinctly put it, “Variety’s the very spice of life.” When you don’t know what particular god you’ll be worshiping in the next five years, there’s some edgy apprehension. When there’s a chance you could become a disciple of Donald Trump before the impeach…within the next 4-8 years, it tends to generate some static electricity. When you know Tom Brady’s retirement is imminent and you have to start planning which seminal dynastic bandwagon to jump on, you tend to question your manhood. These “fickalities” as I’ll call them may sound awful to you and make you wonder “what lunatic could live like this?” The answer: Me.

There have been studies that suggest (i.e. "many people are saying") fickle people are weak-minded and lack the moral compass necessary to lead a fulfilling life, a life pleasing and unobtrusive to the other non-fickle/normal people associated with said lunatic. While I have never been the focus of such a study, I think there may be some merit to that theory. What else could explain how I so conveniently changed my allegiance from the Dallas Cowboys to the New England Patriots? There are other theories, however, that suggest the open-mindedness (or, perhaps one could say "genius") of fickle people allows them to examine arguments and change their course of thought based upon the evidence before them. For example, there was a time when I, the left-leaning radical you’ve come to know and love, didn’t support the legal union of two people who love each other very much…but I got married anyway. BUH-DUM-TISH! I’LL BE HERE ALL WEEK! 

I jest of course as I'm talking about the legal union of two people who love each other very much but who are...GASP...the same gender!!! I certainly wasn’t as (suspiciously) fixated on same-sex marriage as many conservatives are (i.e. “methinks the conservative doth protest too much”) but I don’t think you could’ve called me a supporter of gays or gay marriage back in my care-free "trickle-down economics works for everyone" days. Then, through an act of capriciousness perhaps brought on by an increase in the number of gay friends or maybe it was just common sense, I realized that if two dudes (or two chicks) are attracted to each other (because they’re wired that way and there’s nothing they or Mike Pence can do to change it), then they should by god be able to get married. Call it fickle but I call it…well, yeah, it’s fickle but it’s a good fickle.

Conversely, one of the more difficult aspects of being fickle is when it leads you to question those undeniable truths in life, namely one’s faith. If you know me, you know that I’ve traveled an irritatingly zealous and capricious path of Christianity; lukewarm Protestant praise band leader to Super-Duper “Knows more than the Pope” Catholic to Eastern Orthodoxy to my near conversion to Judaism (see my March 28 entry) and even a brief foray into Rastafarianism (which ended abruptly when my wife wouldn’t let me smoke weed.) There was always one constant, though, the Big Man Himself: Joel Osteen. I’m kidding, of course, it was God. But, when one is fickle, one must be prepared for the occasional spiritual off-ramp and I inadvertently took one last summer. Since then, I’ve been mired in the quagmire of agnosticism. Is He or isn’t He? It’s an awful position to say the least. It’s not the “cold turkey and cigarettes” assuredness of atheism nor is it the “hot turkey sandwich smothered in gravy” that is the total submissive faith; it’s a miasma of ambivalence and ambiguity that results in a phenomenon known as cognitive dissonance: a fancy term for being mentally uncomfortable ALL THE TIME because of these incongruent beliefs.

It’s a little like losing your Grandma and now all you have is Grandpa.  When Grandma is alive, you love to go there for all the warm-and-fuzzies. You walk into Grandma’s house and the aromatic power of chocolate chip cookies and talcum powder is intoxicating! There are hugs and kisses and food and stories and more food and love and it’s awesome. That was Catholicism for me from ’06 to last summer. I absolutely LOVED it (except for, you know, that whole "sexually abusing children" thing.) The history, the bread and wine, and the whole “being better than everyone else” part was awesome! The incense at Mass was like a cartoon where the smell of an apple pie actually picks you up and makes you float towards the pie. Then Grandma died and all that’s left is grumpy ol’ Grandpa.

Now, when you go to Grandpa’s house, there are no more cookies, no more stories, no more kisses. When you walk in, you smell Ben-Gay and farts. When you open the fridge, all you see is a half-empty jar of relish and some week-old ham. That’s agnosticism: relish, ham, and a fart. No more warm-and-fuzzy Grandma stuff, just Grandpa. You know that POSSIBLY something good could come from it, like a barely-palatable relish and ham sandwich and maybe some flatulence that makes you laugh, but you just don’t know for sure. Being fickle has its drawbacks.

As for my beloved New England Patriots, yeah, they’ll probably win the Super Bowl again this year and it’ll be awesome rubbing everyone’s stupid nose in it but let’s be real. Tom Brady’s not gonna live forever and I’ve got to start planning for my next team to follow. I mean who wants to follow the same team for their entire life?  

The ideal scenario is that Brady plays until he’s 50 (which would be a miracle and solve that whole God question for me) and goes full-gay and marries George Clooney, putting an end to the divisive issue of same-sex marriage (except for Mike Huckabee, who’s most likely a closet-gay anyway.) I’m not going to hold my breath on the G.O.A.T. being that fickle, though. Those hardcore, steadfast types need to leave the vacillating to experienced fickle bastards like myself.

Go Chargers!

Thanks for stopping by…

Travis

My Brief Life in Asia Minor

Istanbul has always fascinated me.  At one time the capital of the Byzantine Empire and the cultural and religious center of the world, this city literally lies on two continents, Asia (hence it being historically referred to as Asia Minor) and Europe, with the waters of the Bosphorus Strait splitting the city in half.  For centuries, it was known as Constantinople, after the Roman emperor Constantine who, as the first mega-church pastor, legalized Christianity and made it all the rage in 313 CE (that’s Common Era for you AD folks.) I also recently learned that Istanbul is still known as Constantinople by certain folks, mostly Eastern Christians who may or may not still have their tighty-whiteys in a bunch since the Ottoman Turks rolled into town in 1453, converted everyone to Islam, and changed the name on the water tower.

Istanbul, separated by the Bosphorus Strait, showing off her mosques. 

   

A trip to Istanbul has always been on my bucket list and, in recent months, I’ve felt the pull even more acutely. However, given the current state of affairs, the U.S. Department of State is currently advising us ‘Mericans NOT to visit Turkey, giving it a “2 out of 5 Trumps” rating due to concerns of “suicide bombing” and “kidnapping and assassination” risks to American citizens. Sheesh, they’re so sensitive at the DoS.

I lived in Turkey from the time I was two years old to four years of age when my father, a fresh-faced 25-year-old member of the U.S. Air Force was stationed at Balgat Air Base in Ankara, Turkey. A few months ago, while visiting my parents’, Dad played me audio recordings of his old reel-to-reel tapes we made during our time in Turkey. To pass the time, we would make recordings of ourselves talking about our day, of Dad playing the guitar, and of my infant sister crying; we would then send these tapes back to the States for the rest of the family to hear. In 1972, it was no doubt riveting entertainment for the folks back on the farm in western Illinois. They in turn would make their own tapes and send them to us. It was the prehistoric version of FaceTime.

As I listened to these recordings for the first time in probably 30 years, my fascination with Eastern culture and music began to make sense.  My mother told me that the only thing to do in the afternoon was to listen to the local Turkish radio station that was on the air for a just a few hours a day.  I could hear the music in the background as I listened to our recording and, in a moment of true epiphany, realized THAT’S where my love of eastern music developed. The YouTube clip below is a good representation of our afternoons listening to Turkish radio. I listened to it repeatedly as I wrote this and I think you'll enjoy listening to it while you read. 

My Mom also sent me some pictures of where we lived in Ankara. I was somewhat taken aback by the first picture of our front door.  It literally took me to the opening sequence of the Exorcist when Father Merrin is stumbling through the dirty streets of northern Iraq. But then I remembered that it was Turkey in 1972; that’s how it was everywhere.

The front door of my home in Ankara,Turkey.

There have been many studies on memory and how early we can recall our first memories. I swear to God that I have memories of my time in Turkey. Perhaps I was closer to age four than age two but I swear I remember us being excited to see that a donkey had suddenly appeared in our front yard. I use the term “yard” very loosely as I don’t recall a single blade of grass in the entire city of Ankara. 

It's 1972 in Turkey...don't be surprised if a donkey wanders into your front yard.

I also remember a stone wall near our house with some steps carved into the side so one could climb from the lower level up to the next level. I remember being scared to death trying to climb these steps, which at the time seemed like climbing Everest to me, but in retrospect, were likely only 3-4 feet high. Why my parents were letting their little boy climb daunting stone-carved Turkish walls I don’t know but, like I’ve already said, it was Turkey and it was 1972. There wasn’t a lot to do.

As with most kids, I had a trike (and, according to the picture below, a hat fit for a Soviet Premier.) I also had a Turkish friend whose name I’ve long forgotten. I remember being quite jealous of my Turkish friend and her cool Turkish pedal car. Perhaps this is where my lifelong inferiority complex started: my trike and I couldn’t hold a candle to that cool little car!  

That's me on the trike, green with envy, wearing my Leonid Brezhnev hat. 

I remember learning to count to five in Turkish: “Bir” (beer), “iki” (icky), "uc" (ewch), "dort" (dirt) and "bes" (besch.) I remember my American friends being mildly fascinated with this for the first hundred or so times I did it. Not so much after that.

The snowy streets of Ankara, circa 1973. I've no idea what's holding my sister up on that sled.

Present-day Ankara and the Kocatepe Mosque.

From the towers and domes of the mosques that dominate the Turkish landscape, to the serpentine scales and mesmerizing melodies of Turkish music, all the way to the dusty, ancient stone-front neighborhoods, it’s become obvious to me that the city of Ankara and Turkey itself were indelibly etched upon my psyche at a very early age. The pictures and sounds of my past have given me a new-found love and longing for a country that, unbeknownst to me, has been calling me back for the past 45 years.

Thanks for checking in...

Travis

A Moment along the Roadside

Today brought more travels, this time to central Nebraska for the Nebraska Funeral Directors Convention in Kearney.  Granted, Kearney doesn’t have the same salty coastal allure as Myrtle Beach nor can it compete with the Big Apple in terms of an iconic skyline or vast cultural diversity, but Kearney does have one helluva cool archway over I-80! The Great Platte River Road Archway is the crowing jewel of a visit to Kearney and it takes approximately 0.42 seconds to drive under it at 83 mph (that’s the coolest thing about Nebraska – 75 mph speed limit!)  All sardonic comments aside, the Archway is quite a sight to behold as it spans 310 feet over the interstate and does create a sense of passing through to America’s western territory, which is its intended purpose.

Great Platte River Road Archway - Gateway to the West!

I always get a feeling of reminiscent sadness when I make this trip across Nebraska. I don’t know if anyone else experiences this but the sadness causes a physical tingling in my left arm, every time.  I’m not sure why it happens, but that’s how I know it’s real. I get sad when I make this trip because I pass one of the most innocuous yet cherished places in my life: a roadside rest stop.  It was at this mundane little wide spot in I-80 that an unexpectedly beautiful moment occurred with Jenna and Jace. 

Here's the rest stop as I passed it today. Doesn't seem that long ago...

It was July 2008 and we were on our way to Colorado for a family vacation. I’m guessing it was 20-30 minutes after a lunch stop that Tara needed to use the restroom (maybe not, but you could see that happening, right?) so I pulled into this rest stop in the middle of Nebraska.  My memory of how the event started is fuzzy, but, as I recall, Jenna, Jacer, and I eventually started running around to burn off some steam; frolic, if you will.  I vividly remember the coolness of the long, green grass on my bare feet.  It hadn’t been mowed recently but it was impeccably clean, thick, healthy grass with no weeds or dandelions and it felt wonderful. 

Funny the things that happen when you least expect it...

I remember the look of unadulterated joy on Jace’s face as we all stood hand-in-hand, ready to play whatever game he had no doubt just made up. I remember a feeling of absolute contentment and peace, not worrying about when we would get to our destination or wondering how bad the traffic was getting. Most of all I remember forgetting, for just a few minutes, that Jace had that terrible thing growing in his head; a thing that would take him from us just a few weeks later. Tara captured this unexpected, unplanned moment perfectly and I’m so thankful she did.

Our entire stay there was no more than 15 minutes and we piled back in the car to continue on our westward adventure, totally oblivious of how special the moment was we had just experienced. As I drove past that rest stop today and remembered our time there, it reminded me of when you buy an expensive Christmas gift for a child and they end up playing with the box. Here we were, on a week-long excursion to the majestic Rocky Mountains, and the best part turned out to be a rest stop on I-80.

Peace…

Travis

How to Interact with Children on an Airplane

As any of you who follow me on Facebook likely know, I spent the week before last at the ABFSE Annual Meeting in Myrtle Beach.  This is the annual meeting of educators from the 60 or so mortuary science programs around the country and we were stuck on the beach this year.  Unfortunately, it doesn’t get any better next year as we’ll have to deal with the swaying palm trees and Pacific breezes of Los Angeles. Ugh…I’m already dreading it.

Here I am, not hating children, while "working" at Myrtle Beach.

Anyway, due to the locale of this year’s meeting, air travel was necessary which brings me to the topic of this blog: the proper way to interact with children; specifically, when stuck in the claustrophobic confines of a metal tube careening across the sky at nearly 600 mph.

Let me give you a little backstory lest you think I’m some sort of abominable monster who hates children.  Many of you likely know that I lost my son 9-year-old son, Jace, back in 2008.  As I look back, I believe my distaste for children (and let me be specific: other people’s children) may have taken root riiiight about that time. So, regarding my concern about the perception of me hating kids, “hate” is such as strong term so let’s try to find another slightly less-pejorative term and we’ll all learn some new words together…one of my favorite things!

OK, let’s try eschew. “I eschew children.” No, that doesn’t work. According to Webster’s, to “eschew” something means to deliberately avoid or abstain from. It’s in the ballpark but not quite what we’re looking for. Let’s try abhor. “I abhor children.” No, that doesn’t work either. Abhor is to “regard with disgust and hatred” and I’d like to avoid the “H” word if at all possible. Ah, I’ve got it! Let’s try loathe. “I loathe children.” To loathe is to “feel intense dislike or disgust for” – I think we’ve got a winner!

So, here I am, on my way back to Iowa a couple weeks ago. One would think a week on the beach would put one in a good mood but I hadn’t slept well the previous night and was forced to get up at 7 AM EST (yes, Eastern time…that’s 6 AM according to my sensitive Circadian rhythms!)  That’s another thing: how in the name of hell does anyone thrive in the Eastern time zone?!  Everything starts an hour later than here yet the day still starts at 8 AM the next morning!  To quote Brennan Huff from Step Brothers, “This time zone is horse shit!” If everything in the evening starts an hour later (e.g. reruns of The Big Bang Theory don’t start until 8 PM), then YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE TO GO TO WORK UNTIL 9 AM THE NEXT MORNING!!! But I digress…

I'm heading back to Iowa. By the time I get to the Myrtle Beach airport at 5 PM E-MF-ST, my tank is nearing empty. I actually fell asleep while leaning on my elbow sitting at a table and when I woke up, my elbow hurt really bad. Now I’m in an even worse mood; the perfect time to board an airplane.

Here’s some more backstory: I’m traveling with my good friend and colleague and, to protect his identity and privacy, I’ll give him a completely fake, made-up name. Let’s call him Kelvin Pattinson. Kelvin is one of the nicest people you’ll ever meet and he has a genuine love of children and enjoys interacting with them; in other words, my complete opposite in every regard.  As we take our seats, I notice a handsome young “youth-pastory”-looking couple seated directly in front of us with their beautiful, big-blue-eyed toddler (no doubt a future bearded hipster mega-church worship leader.) I’m immediately irritated as I begin to plan how to avoid any and all contact with this child.

This is NOT the future Youth Pastor...I found this annoying lil' fella on the Internets.

Here’s the crux of this blog: DON’T ENGAGE A CHILD ON AN AIRPLANE!!! EVER!!! For the love of god, people, you’ve got nowhere to go! So what does my esteemed colleague do? HE ENGAGES THE CHILD!!! He begins waving at the child and using “toddler talk”, which this kid eats up and immediately stands up, turns around, and latches on for full-flight interaction. I quickly lean my head against the window (thank god for window seats) and feign a deep sleep. To Kelvin’s credit, I hear him whisper to the child, “He’s taking a nap. He’s sleeping.” “That’s good, Kelvin…keep it up! Keep lying to this kid.” I think to myself.

The child finally turns around and things would’ve gone fairly smoothly from this point but for the rage-inducing little bastard in the seat directly behind me. He’s begun to emit what can only be described as intermittent “verbal explosions” which he augments with some sort of battering ram action against the back of my seat.  His favorite verbal explosion was “gibberish…gibberish…gibberish…DADDY! DADDY! DADDY! DADDY!” at a volume that the air traffic controllers on the ground were likely able to hear.  Daddy was nowhere to be found, just Mommy, who offered a calm and ineffective “Ssssshhh” when she saw me jerk my head from side-to-side in response to each verbal explosion. 

It's true...children are indeed awful.

As I contemplated the legal ramifications of inflicting physical harm on a child with 150 witnesses in close proximity, I noticed Kelvin laughing hysterically. He is aware of my feelings for the little ones and was really eating this up. Then Youth Pastor, Jr. turns around again for another interaction. Quickly back to sleep I go!  This went off and on for what thankfully was only an hour flight over to Atlanta. 

In an interesting bit of karma, as I walk off the plane, I drop my bag to the ground and it immediately starts to vibrate.  At first I thought the jet bridge was moving but as I walked into the terminal, the vibrating continued.  “What the hell could be vibrating in my bag?” I thought, as I was grateful I had cleared security without this happening.  I started to dig through it and it occurred to me, “My beard trimmer!”  Since our connecting flight was leaving in 30 minutes, I quickly plunged my hand into my bag to find the trimmer.  What I didn’t realize is that the guard had come off and, when I pulled my hand out, I was missing about a quarter-inch of skin on my finger and was bleeding like a stuck hog! Who knew they could trim hair OR be used for skin grafting? Oh karma, thou art a nasty bitch. Note to self: Be nicer to children.

My harrowing experience convinced me that if the Catholics are indeed correct and there is a purgatory, this will be mine. I’ll be stuck on an airplane full of inquisitive, shrieking children who will know that I am NOT sleeping in seat 12D and, instead of going to Atlanta, the flight will go on for eternity. (Insert "Atlanta is basically Hell anyway" joke here.)

Now I know what you’re thinking: What kind of depraved monster could hold in his blackened heart such loathing for God’s most innocent creatures?  The answer: anyone who has sat between two of those angelic lil’ creatures on a flying tube bound for Hell.  

Thanks for stopping by...

Travis

The Salieri Complex: My Life of Mediocrity

Do you ever have those moments where you read or hear something that perfectly encapsulates your current position in life? I recently stumbled across an unofficial psychological syndrome called “The Salieri Complex” – named for Antonio Salieri, the late-18th century Italian composer known for his rivalry with Mozart. This relationship was the basis for the 1984 film Amadeus in which Salieri, from an insane asylum, confesses to a priest the tale of how he was ultimately responsible for Mozart’s death. Incidentally, I hold Amadeus in the same regard as The Deer Hunter: if you haven’t seen it, you’re a loser (see my Jan. 24th entry.)

In the movie, Salieri, himself a confident court composer who has given his life to God as an offering in return for the musical talent God has bestowed upon him, becomes acquainted with Mozart. He eventually finds himself competing with Mozart and becoming envious of Mozart’s talent.  When confronted with the effortless genius of Mozart, Salieri sadly realizes that he is doomed to a life of mediocrity and, in a cathartic final scene, counsels the emotionally exhausted priest, with whom he has been sharing his story:

“I will speak for you, Father; I speak for all mediocrities in the world. I am their champion; I am their patron saint.”

Then, as he is wheeled down a corridor filled with mental patients, some chained to the wall or in cages, he joyfully proselytizes and offers absolution to his flock of lunatics:

“Mediocrity is everywhere. I absolve you. I absolve you. I absolve you all.”

Salieri has fully accepted his mediocrity and that of all those around him.

I stumbled across the Salieri Complex in a review written by Dan Zak of the Washington Post about Alec Baldwin’s new book, Nevertheless. As he closes, he disappointingly asks of Baldwin, “What about your relationship with God…and let’s address your Salieri complex head-on.” He follows with a line that slapped me right in the face: “How do you do meaningful work when you’re smart enough to know you’re not good enough?”

In a nutshell, those of us afflicted with the Salieri Complex always feel there is someone much better at what we do than we are.

This is a great segue into the whole Dunning-Kruger effect which states that incompetent people overestimate their own skill level and lack the self-awareness to realize their mistake. In other words, you’re too incompetent to know you’re incompetent. There are scads of articles out there now that delve into this fascinating topic, most of them apply to a certain segment of Trump supporters. If you’re one of them, go ahead and read it anyway; you probably won’t know it’s about you.

Anyway, this Salieri Complex hit me head on because I immediately realized it perfectly encapsulates my musical life: it has since I was in college. I went to a small, liberal arts school where I blossomed from an acne-ridden fat kid with zero confidence into what I thought was a pretty damn good bassist with little-to-no acne and a svelte figure...a veritable stud-muffin as the girls would say (see below.) I was the classic “big fish in a little pond” but, as Mr. Dunning and Mr. Kruger would’ve told me had I been one of their lab rats, I was too dumb to know it at the time.

That's me, the stud-muffin on the left, with a couple of my college jazz band buddies.

Let’s fast-forward 20-something years to the recent past. In spite of the efforts of Mr. Dunning and Mr. Kruger, I had fallen into another incompetent haze where I felt like I was a bass player extraordinaire and was playing with a hot band, you know, kickin’ ass and takin’ names as the kids say nowadays.

But hang on there just a minute, Guiseppe! Now we have Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and a host of other social shit-shows that hold our attention like a bad haircut with a red tie. I follow many Instagram accounts of talented bass players from around the world who seem to be normal people like me and they routinely post video clips of themselves playing some killer bass grooves. It’s hugely entertaining but at the same time, I found that constantly watching players who are technically better than me was wearing me down. I even tried posting my own video of me “kickin’ it with a tasty groove” but removed it after deciding that is was not even close to what I usually saw on IG (that’s Instagram for all you uncool people out there.)

Then I read Mr. Zak’s aforementioned article and did a self-diagnosis: the Salieri Complex! It all became crystal clear. How do I create meaningful (i.e. impressive) work bass videos when I’m smart enough to know I’m not good enough? Answer: I can’t. I must admit though, that like Salieri, I found a certain peace when I came to grips with my own mediocrity. The complex has even become manifest in the basses I obtain. I didn’t buy a Music Man Stingray bass for $2000 or the Jaco Fender Jazz fretless bass for $1800; I bought the less-expensive knock-off brands because, in my head, I wasn’t good enough to “deserve” the top-of-the-line. Finally, it all makes sense.  

Do I write this to elicit sympathy or petty encouragement from you, my valued reader? No. I have a pretty good life and I’m a decent bassist in a pretty damn good band (that's now taking bookings for fall) with some awesome guys. Do I write this cathartically to purge myself of any Dunning/Kruger-esque ignorance or delusion? No. I am acutely aware of my short-comings as a musician and, to a lesser degree, as a person. An insane person doesn’t know he’s insane but I know that I am mediocre. My, my, self-actualization feels nice!

Lastly, as I’m wheeled down the corridor of my insane asylum (that’s just a metaphor for life, Holmes, not a literal reflection of my home life), I look at you, dear reader, and offer you tender absolution from your mediocrity, should there be any in your life. Acknowledge it. Embrace it. Learn from it and remember, there can be no excellence without mediocrity. The world NEEDS us.

I absolve you. 

Travis

How I Almost Became Jewish Today

Hello again, everyone...

I’m suffering from some serious writer’s block right now so, in lieu of the standard hilarious anecdote or political tirade, I’m just going to tell you about my day in a quasi-stream-of-consciousness style.  Enjoy.

Today my fellow mortuary science faculty members and I took our students to various places of worship in the greater Des Moines area (we’ve come to call it our “Religious Road Show”) where funeral rituals and customs are demonstrated and discussed. We began the day at the Tifereth Israel Synagogue where I found a tennis ball lying in the parking lot and promptly threw it at a group of inattentive students; it was basically like the classroom only with a paved surface and a tennis ball. The synagogue is home to a conservative Jewish community, which, according to Rabbi Steven’s general description, is about half-way between the Orthodox Jewish and Reformed Jewish faiths.  

Tifereth Israel Synagogue

Interestingly enough, the temple has a very impressive art collection including an original Andy Warhol collection and a series of paintings done on the Holocaust.  Rabbi Steven Edelman-Blank was a very congenial and unexpectedly humorous host who delivered some great religious humor.  As we all arrived and sat down in the worship area, he proudly pronounced, “Congratulations, you’re all Jewish now.”  Another comment that struck my funny bone followed his description of the Jewish belief in resurrection when he said, “We invented it before you…HA HA!”

Rabbi Steven Edelman-Blank

From there, our next stop was St. George’s Greek Orthodox Church.  I had to chuckle when a student told me he would refrain from talking about Jesus in this church (that was the LAST one, Einstein!).  I told him that this was an Orthodox Christian community and that these people were more Christian than he was!  (Lighten up, Francis…that’s a “they’ve been doing this for 2000 years” joke.)  If you’re ever in Des Moines and you have a thing for unique, beautiful churches, St. George's should be on your list of places to visit. It is full of rich, vivid iconography (pictures of saints and major figures of the faith…a la’ Mary and Jesus), a beautiful iconostasis (a large wall of icons that separates the altar from the rest of the church), and a dome that serves as a natural amplifier.  I’m not kidding!  As you walk to different spots in the church while the priest is talking, it literally sounds like he is standing right next to you.

St. George's Greek Orthodox Church

After that, the students headed to Our Lady’s Immaculate Heart Catholic Church in Ankeny.  I, however, went to Maccabee’s Kosher Deli in Des Moines and ordered a pastrami-on-marble rye.  Before you think I’m some anti-religious slacker *wink, wink* with an axe to grind against Catholics, I had business there as I had to pick up kosher meals for one of our visiting Jewish students.  As I stood there inhaling the various culinary odors, entranced by the meat slicer, I thought, “Do I really wanna eat Papa John’s pizza for lunch today?”  I went so far as to ask the Rabbi who was preparing the food.  Rabbi Yossi Jacobson is a delightfully witty and humorous man and my visit with him alone made the trip worth it.  However, in my best dietary interests, I asked his opinion: “Rabbi Yossi, should I have pizza for lunch with the rest of my students or should I get a pastrami-on-rye?”  His answer was right out of Fiddler on the Roof: (In a heavy Yiddish accent): “What, are you kidding me? Is it better to live or to die?” He rightfully took my laughter to mean “I’ll take the pastrami!” and I didn’t regret my decision.  He told me he would make it with extra love and it was AWESOME!!!  He proceeded to ask my name and I told him.  He said, “Carrico…a nice Jewish name!”  I chuckled and said the name originated in eastern Spain.  He said (again with the Yiddish), “I’m kidding. I can tell by your body language that you’re not Jewish.  Not enough resistance.  You’re being too NICE to me.”  My visit to Maccabee’s Deli was the highlight of my day.

Rabbi Yossi Jacobson

After making sweet culinary love to my ambrosial pastrami sandwich in direct view of all the pizza-eating troglodytes, my colleagues, the students, and I returned to campus where the students witnessed a live military honors service.  I was struck by the gravity of the simulated presentation; even without the deceased veteran present, seeing the slow, deliberate movements, the salutes, the rifles, and hearing Taps still brings a chill to the skin and a tear to the eye.  Anyone who has witnessed such a service knows what I mean.

At 4:15, I jumped in my car and prepared for the daily one-hour Battle Royale/commute across the barren combat zone that is Interstate 80 and returned home to an empty house where I promptly removed all my clothing and ate two tacos while sitting on the couch in my underwear watching Big Bang Theory.  Top that, dear reader.

Well, there it is…my day.  Not a bad way to earn a living if you ask me.

Thanks for checking in…

Travis