Friday, September 30, 2011

Theme And Variation on Happiness

This was written under great duress and an empty stomach. If there are any grammatical errors please ignore them or accept them as being intentional attempts to create a breezy, cherry conversational tone.

Now each happy man seems to have collected faces happy and not so happy around him; a sad face is a challenge to him for his happiness, to his sense of well-being. So when I make my rounds on Saturday afternoons I distribute a honorable chorus of hopefulness with just a dollop of hopelessness to keep things honest, to keep things alive. All that an address is to a street, its honor, its spouse, its confidante, so the lucky ones are to each other as our lives intersect with Rihanna or Beyonce or Madonna or Britney Spears or Justin Timberlake or Ashford and Simpson or Ray Charles or Marvin Gaye or Johnny Cash or Merle Haggard songs playing under conversations about the Redskins, the Nationals, the Fighting Irish, the Cowboys, the Steelers. So the Saturday escape allows us to distribute hope and half remembered song lyrics. For a moment I am a polite gentleman for thirty seconds until I overhear some political declaration about immigration, global warming, rain forest deforestation, acid rain, negative advertising, budget deficit, government shutdown, Rihanna’s emergency Belfast bikini wax. Certain topics penetrate my mufti and calls me Governor or Sir and I am ready to march out with the infantry instead of thinking of ways to help the Salvation Army. But the first taste of food, the first sip of whatever the happy man has provided for his guests to sip and gulp, there is always a struggle between sipping or talking, between gulping or talking, between sipping or listening, between sipping and observing, between sipping and observing and remembering. Yes there is a struggle about when it is appropriate to remember the most juvenile and inappropriate story between sips, bites, and elongated sidelong glances. Saturdays were made for those wonderful pregnant pauses which used to indicate confusion, embarrassment but has fallen into disuse because of Youtube and psychotherapy. I often forget how many vowels are in vodka; I sometimes forget that embarrassment contains double letters. I often forget names, birthdays, anniversaries, song titles, movie titles, movie stars, television stars, celestial stars, tinsel stars, stencil stars, Russian czars, French cars, Italian scarves.

Fresh food and lots of ice makes things proceed happily. Discussing the latest detective novel or book of Victorian poetry creates a pleasant smile. There are so many topics which are approved for Saturday afternoon discourse Laurel and Hardy, twentieth century art, fast food, Asian food, Ethiopian food, Redd Foxx, the fox in sheep’s clothing, the sheep in foxy clothing, Bill Cosby, Bing Crosby, fatherhood, motherhood, childhood, getting out of the hood, designer hoodies, designer goodies, goodie bags, wearing your good time rags. There are so many topics. I am overwhelmed with topics, with memories, with snarky things to say. Of course I find ways to sneak snarky things into the conversation so innocently like a Bob Dylan lyric or a Dylan Thomas poem or a Clarence Thomas Coke can.

Oh, sipping whatever I am sipping allows me a moment to climb up on that soapbox and complain about what they are doing in Washington, how my favorite soap opera was canceled how so many of my friends lives are better than soap operas because everybody has a secret, everybody is searching for a beautiful stranger, everybody to express yourself.

Between all the sipping and sipping suddenly everybody becomes human and humorous with a dollop of compassion as we listen to each other and chime into the various conversations. I feel that the world is safe, people are good, people are kind. How great it is to have a pleasant afternoon with friends who smile heartily, laugh energetically, listen patiently, kindly. How wonderful it is to hear about South Bend, Harrisburg, Charlottesville, Charleston, Fort Washington, Boston, Reading, South Hill.

Somehow my glass no longer contains anything for me to sip. My mind finds ideas for comments; my stomach wants some salty food, some good food. I am tired of this shrimp, that hummus, this cheese but I’ll keep eating it until something else is offered.

Presently we talk only about approved kid friendly G-rated topics. Rihanna is too risque with her four letter necklace and all that which I should not know about but I do know about because of the internet and Patti Labelle and Patti Lupone and patty cake.

I sit there shoveling shrimp and hummus and cheese and crackers and napkins and shrimp and cheese and truffles and shrimp and pork rinds ad cheese and buffalo wings and hummus and peanut butter and celery and adult vitamins into my gullet as if I was doing some type of FDA inspection. My glass remains empty.

I am happy to be with my friends and talking about runs batted in, old nosy bats, wagging tongues, beef tongue, running backs, fat back. How great it is to talk about Quincy Jones, Quincy Adams, Kirk Franklin, Ben Franklin, Kurt Cobain Kirk Cameron, Captain Kirk, Erica Kane, Roger Federer, Roger Ebert. Now did I just hear that Tyler Perry and Rick Perry are related? Does Madea have a secret sister?

I am happy to be here with an empty glass hearing about birthdays, work days, school days, being in a daze, being in a haze, wanting to be in a daze. I am happy to hear about Teena Marie, Angela Bofill, Gladys Knight, Samantha Stevens, Samantha Fox, her father Redd Foxx, his daughter Foxy Brown, her husband James Brown, his son Jackson Brown, his second wife Julie Brown.

I am happy to be here with all this pleasant conversation. It is totally cool. And then all of sudden someone screamed something about sex. It’s amazing how much sex talk there is. Sex is like that movie Citizen Kane where at the end you learn Rosebud is a sled. There is chitterling sex, hummus sex, black eyed peas sex, quick sex, slow sex, so-so sex, sewing sex, secret sex, happy sex, empty glass sex, hoodie sex.

I am happy to be here objecting to all this sex talk. In polite society sex can discussed after dinner with a glass of port or maybe a cup of coffee. In polite society friendship bounces and trounces all rules, betrays all rules with kindness and hopefulness and laughter. There are jokes, there are anecdotes. There is lust, there is love. There is laughter.

Oh someone’s talking about Barry White, Barry Manilow, Barry Goldwater, the Beach Boys, the Good ole boys, Princess Diana, Diana Ross and the Supremes, Deena Jones and the Dreams, Mr. Magoo, Mr. Peabody and Sherman, Peabo Bryson, Peter Brady, Wayne Brady, Rocky and Bullwinkle, Toni Braxton, Toni Basil, Tony Orlando and Dawn, King Kong, Confunkshun, Earthquake, Moms Mabley, Big Mabel, Billie Holiday, Doc Holliday, Doc Martens. Friends always find new and crazy things to talk about and names discarded and wandering in that kind of anonymity of blissful forgetfulness that have all types of silly associations. My friends are always talking always texting always asking about this joking about that. Remembering this shady girl, remembering that shady guy and dropping them conspicuously, copiously into the conversation.

There is laughter, there is love. There is friendship. There is happiness with friends on a Saturday.

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