The not-so-rugged outdoors

This past Saturday, two friends and I rode our bicycles from Macon to Athens. The draw was the Twilight Criterium, a nocturnal celebration of lurid lycra and crash-and-bash cycling. As one of my friends calls it, it's like NASCAR on two wheels.

On the way up, we stopped at a convenience store to pick up a few essentials. (Ahh, who am I kidding? We stopped there to get a couple of beers.) The store was an active way station for many people engaged in their weekend pastimes. Aside from cyclists, there were motorcyclists, football fans getting supplies for the NFL draft (that would be beer also), joyriders and one well-heeled fishing party. Out in the middle of the parking lot, there was a Hummer pulling a bass boat that looked like it was more suited to a drag race than a fishing excursion. It had a sleek, lethal look that doubtless made bass despair when its shadow appeared above. It also looked expensive as hell, and seeing as how it was being pulled by a Hummer, I was guessing there was at least one person at the convenience store who could afford about $100,000 of recreational gear. I then began to wonder whether this guy had so much money he could pay the fish to jump in the boat.

This was a far cry from the aluminum fishing boat my dad and I used to fish in. As outdoorsmen, have we strayed so far from an ideal that we can't find our way back? Have we become so addicted to creature comforts and conspicuous displays of wealth that we have become soft in our quest for prey?

Take some hunting cabins, for instance. Instead of just the bare essentials of water, stove and shelter, some have satellite TV, air conditioning and WiFi. The hunting ground is seeded with carrots and other food deer can't resist, and the tree stands are comfortably appointed. One almost expects a few deers to be chained to trees for the benefit of the more inept hunters. Not that I mind seeing any harm come to deer; they're nuisance animals and the fewer we have of them the better (screw you, Bambi!). But I think that something is lost when the playing field for hunting is tilted so firmly in the favor of humans. And seeing as how, more hunters are bringing the comforts of home into the forest, will it be long before some hunter from Atlanta -- home of some of the best adult entertainment clubs in the U.S. -- is getting a private dance in his deer stand?

Anyway, just wondering.

Hurling epithets

Lord knows that the Dark Age and medieval monarchs did few favors for their subjects, what with the grinding taxes and interminable wars. But at least they did offer truth in advertising. Attaching such epithets as "The Terrible" to a king's name let the unfortunate peasants know that a request for a tax cut might end badly with beheadings and impalements. An epithet such as "The Most Terrible" would tell peasants that the sovereign might respond with endless committee meetings about taxes and the fiscal health of his realm.

The Anglo-Saxons offer some of the most interesting epithets. The rule of Ethelred the Unready in England began during the late 10th century. His son was Edward the Confessor, which might mean that he was very pious or adept at making plea bargains. Edward was a contemporary of the Norman nobleman Ralph the Timid. Maybe his coat of arms featured a mouse in armor hiding under by the baseboard.

On the other side of the English Channel, you had such Frankish kings as Charles the Fat and Charles the Bald. Since communication was poor in this age, such epithets could be invaluable for diplomacy. Envoys to Charles the Bald would know that if the king greeted them with what appeared to be a squirrel hide on his head they should not make comments about the bad toupee. Envoys to Charles the Fat would know better than to say that the king needed to "go for the burn" to lose weight, advice that might lead to the desolation of the countryside.

Perhaps these names alone can even give us a glimpse into just how such kings might have responded to crisis. Imagine a King Ethelwulf the Apathetic and his reaction to news of a Danish invasion. Or suppose there was a King Ethelwulf the Easily Distracted. What would his response have been? Maybe we already know.

And could it be possible that there was one king who realized that it wasn't enough to rule wisely; you had to look fabulous as well? Is it possible that his battle armor was covered with sequins and rhinestones? Perhaps he was thrilled to learn that his realm was about to be overrun by muscular blond men.

We would know for sure if history ever reveals a King Ethelwulf the Gay.

Ernie Kovacs rocks

It's a shame that Ernie Kovacs' fame has not been as durable as his influence. Though Kovacs was one of great comedians and innovators of early TV, a mention of his name to people of my age and younger draws little more than blank stares and the verbal shrug, "I think I've heard of him."

Kovacs was one of the first people in television who explored the breadth of the new medium rather than use it to film plays or vaudeville routines. An entry in Wikipedia offers a better discussion of his innovations than I can give. I can only say that I have seen a little bit of his work and laughed at almost everything I saw. I also noticed that he rarely seemed to be in front of a studio audience, leaving his gags to fend for themselves.

Though Kovacs experimented constantly, he also recognized that great comedy is rooted in simplicity. Perhaps his most famous bit was the Nairobi Trio -- three people in gorilla suits and bowler hats performing a pantomime that could have been taken from a child's music box.



As you can see, there's not too much to it beyond great timing and clever use of music. It's triumph of minimalism.

Sure, folks in gorilla suits was nothing new to comedy, but not everybody can take that format and turn it into a comedy classic, as this clip shows



OK, what? What was that? Aside from the gorilla suits and robotic movements, we don't have anything close to what Kovacs did. First of all, one of the gorillas looks like the Death character from The Seventh Seal. And the music is pretty stark stuff that seems more appropriate to a goth funeral than a comedy skit. The gorillas are marching in place. Why? Is it a metaphor for the futility of life, that no matter how far we go, death claims us in the end? Is this supposed to be French existential comedy? Sure, we get the whoopie cushion as the big payoff, but it's kind of a cheap laugh (and, hey, I'll admit I love flatulence humor as much as the next guy, but in this case it looks like the easy out). And why is that one gorilla tormenting the poor bastard who just wants to play electric piano? That seems kind of mean. In the Nairobi Trio, it's the conductor who is the butt of the joke, thus giving us a dig at authority.

So, in short, if gorilla suits wind up in the hands of the wrong people, we can be given a view of the world in which we are condemned to lives of futility that only bring us closer to death, and the only comfort we have is a fart joke.

But the point here is to praise Kovacs, so if you ever come across a black-and-white show that features Percy Dovetonsils, Miklos Molnar or Matzoh Heppelwhite don't switch the channel so fast.

Edwards' enforcer


Recently, presidential candidate John Edwards was in Macon to meet with supporters and raise funds for his campaign. During his visit, Edwards made time to talk with Telegraph staffer Amy Leigh Womack. The interview was largely cordial, Amy said, but, like many candidates, Edwards was determined to spin things to his advantage. So determined, in fact, that he was willing to bring in a member of his staff to, as he said, ensure accuracy; but there was a subtle yet unmistakable intimidation at work, as this photo shows.

It is for the voters to decide whether such a man is fit for the White House.

Photo illustration by Erin Ivanov

HOW I GOT HERE AND WHERE I AM

I suppose that if I hadn’t suspected that my parents were trying to sell me into scientific research, I might not have gone into journalism. But there I was, a boomerang child living at home at an age when I should have been married or in prison for white-collar crime. I must have been in a period of “self-exploration,” trying to find out “what I really want to do with my life.” As far as Mom and Dad could see, what I really wanted to do with my life was subsidize youthful riots by sticking my snout in the family money trough and eating hearty. More than a few bewildered or angry glances from my parents told me that they were about to announce the discovery of a new life form, Homo sapiens slackerificus, and pack me off to some institute whose name causes rhesus monkeys to shudder. I’m not a man of abundant virtues, but I do know when it’s time to walk before they make me run, and so I found work as a copy editor at a newspaper in North Carolina.

The flaws in this self-preservation strategy showed themselves slowly. At first, it seemed like I was breaking into the biz at the perfect time. America was going through one of its periodic spasms of interest in “what the new generation has to say,” and newspapers were extending undue indulgence to Gen X voices. Most of what these voices disgorged struck me as slightly ridiculous, mewling lamentations: “Here we stand, a generation destroyed by peace and prosperity! Ah, the melancholy is all-consuming!” But people seemed to be eating it up, and I figured I could play that angle just as well as the next guy.

Furthermore, the job gave me a fig leaf of respectability. My father could tell his friends that I was “a journalist,” which is a word that can stand beside “doctor” and “lawyer” without too much shame. This meant that the chances were good that I could return home without my father greeting me at the door with a pistol with one bullet in it and a speech about blood washing away dishonor. Or something like that.

But there were a few things I didn’t count on. I was ignorant of the long indenture that precedes any sort of column gig, I didn’t know that I would get a rush from deadline pressure, and I didn’t know how attached I would become to my co-workers on the news desk. At most newspapers, the news desk is made of socially challenged but very intelligent misfits who could not possibly find work elsewhere. Recognizing that there is strength in numbers, we become fond of each other, almost like a family, and it’s hard to walk away from family. I found this bond at both newspapers where I have worked, and it almost makes up for the lousy pay and hours that copy/layout editors endure.

It also makes me think I would have done better as a misanthrope.

You see, a news desk is a place where dreams of love, family and middle-class prosperity go to die. Copy editors and layout editors work nights and weekends for low wages, making our marital prospects about as dismal as those of a Benedictine monk. And the only way to get rich from such work is to get a case of gout from the lousy diets we have.

Had I simply hurled ball-bearings at my co-workers or constantly told them they needed to lose weight, they might have saved me by putting me in a cannon and firing me out the front door. I might have made a fortune by starting an Internet porn site … or a gambling site … or any sort of site that catered to human vice. I might have found a woman who would have fallen for my charms without hypnosis. Or a dart gun.

As it is, I feel a little like a stranger in a strange land (sort of like Bugs Bunny regretting missing that left turn in Albuquerque). I’m a man with two college degrees and a hardworking and amiable nature. According to the criteria I grew up with, I should also have that minimum measure of the American dream: a home of my own and a family. Instead, I am looking at what is increasingly resembling permanent bachelorhood.

Naturally, this is something of a disappointment. In my youth, I had assumed that one day I would find a woman as twisted as I am, and she and I would become the Nag and Nagaina of the smart set of whatever city we lived in. Our children would be so impossibly attractive, athletic and intelligent that envious neighbors would suspect genetic engineering. The kids would be such high achievers that they would never need financial assistance after college and grad school, and at least one of them could be counted on to deliver an adoring eulogy at my funeral.
So without that, what’s a guy to do? My upbringing had prepared me to take on the traditional adult male roles: husband and father. Without those two responsibilities, can it not be said that I am living a life that is largely selfish and without meaning? Can it not be said that I am in an extended adolescence? Can it not be said that I have somehow failed? Well, yes, I suppose if you are channeling some stern Victorian paterfamilias. But if I’m going to adopt that view, then I might as well dig my grave and fall into it.

The alternatives that first come to mind are not so attractive. For instance, I could use the old cherchez la femme strategy and blame my situation on women and their fickleness. But I’d really like to get laid again, and writing some misogynistic screed doesn’t seem like it would help with that. I could also try to infuse meaning into my life by rejuvenating that Fire-in-the-Belly-Iron-John men’s movement that was popular back in the ‘90s. But I thought that whole “let’s go chant in the woods” crap was a masculine embarrassment that rivaled the codpiece and the leisure suit.

Well, if life has played a joke on me, if the guru at the mountaintop has zapped me with a joy buzzer when it was time for me to Learn What It’s All About, then I might was well return the favor. I might as well get a little of my own back by seeing that there’s little to love, work, family or anything else we need that can’t be played for laughs.

Take breakups, for instance. Which is more fun: telling people you and your girlfriend broke up because of your drinking or her overspending or any other character issue, or telling people you like to do touchdown dances after sex, and she just got plain sick of that? Tragedy or comedy, take your pick.

What I’m trying to get at here is that there is disappointment in being shut out from marriage and parenthood. Yeah, I want a wife to share the sorrows and joys of life with and, yeah, I want to pass things along to children who would one day surpass me in every way. But grinding myself into dust about what I don’t have is a game for losers.

What I do have is a life without a certain sort of stifling seriousness. Mortgages, school tuitions, car payments, career worries, time issues and the rest of the downside of domestic felicity can distract us from realizing that there’s a lot of silliness in everyday life. And that silliness often is in direct proportion to the seriousness with which something is treated. Work, romance, weddings, even award shows are freighted with the ridiculous, and that’s where I get to play.

I doubt this will excite much admiration; it sounds sort of like surrender than resistance. But if I am called upon to justify my stance, I don’t have to say a word. I would instead just point to Shakespeare: “This fellow is wise enough to play the fool.”

BETTER NASCAR

I think NASCAR would be more fun for the drivers and more fun for the spectators if the rules would bee loosened just a little. In every race, there are a lot of drivers who are going to be also-rans, guys who are there mostly to fill out the field and finish no better than 20th. How much fun is that for them? Sure, they get to drive fast. But doesn't the sheer repetition of the sport get boring after awhile?

So I say we should allow the also-rans to have chicks and beers in the cars with them. It would make the pit stops more fun to see when two blondes jump out of a race car and two brunettes jump in. And it would be cool to see empty beer cans being tossed out the drivers window and a full 12-pack put into the car.

By about the 20th lap, these guys would form a special sort of obstacle course for the leaders to navigate, meaning that victory would require more driving skills than just turning left over and over and over. And think what fun the onboard cameras would offer, particularly if there's some NC-17 action going on. My goodness, this would make an American sport even more American!

At least, that's what I say.

A HUNTER"S TROPHY

Awhile ago, the car I was driving struck and killed a squirrel. Sadly, the little rodent gave me no chance; he dashed under the front wheels before I had time to react, leading me to believe his death was mostly a suicide.

Yet still, I had slain a beast of the wild, and I felt a hunter's pride in my kill. A part of me wanted to display my defeated quarry, so I thought about having the squirrel's head mounted on the dashboard as a trophy. Or perhaps I could have had the beast's upper body displayed and have it look like it was bursting forth from the dashboard intent on doing harm. Yet it could do no harm, for I had stilled its malevolence.

Naturally, I wanted to do this because I figured that chicks would dig it.

But I worried that the flora and fauna of College Street might resent seeing their dead companion reduced to a trophy. Perhaps the carpenter bees might leave a message bored into the front porch: "BRING US THE HEAD OF POOR, DEAR SAMMY!" Or something like that. Perhaps the birds might be especially diligent about relieving themselves on my car.

In the end, it didn't matter. Somebody buried the squirrel, and so my triumph was lost forever.