BRING BACK "DEAR RICK."

One thing I do miss is this certain article that would sporadically appear in this paper. It was an advice column called "Dear Rick," and I'd like to share my favorite one with you now, as it seems obscenely germane.

This particular one is from June 2006, I believe.

Dear Rick,

I’ve been a little reclusive lately. So reclusive that I’ve gotten three emails from three different people asking "Where are you?" "What happened to you?" "Where did you go?" in that order. The truth is that I haven’t gone anywhere. In my reclusion I’ve been thinking a lot. Sometimes about the future, sometimes about next year, sometimes about growing old. Sometimes about friends or sex. Mostly I’ve been thinking about Love. I think about Love a lot, probably because I’m lonely, and when I think about it I sometimes believe and sometimes don’t believe something that I’ve always felt to be true even before I felt it. That something is that Love is not a thing, just a word, and a pretty vague one.

I’ve heard people say about other people’s Love: He/she thinks they are in Love. I say bullshit. What else could you call it? What else could it be? If you think it, you probably are.

Love is something you say after trying it on and walking around the block or after walking around and around the block until the seams are ripping and the soles are worn through. You say to yourself, "This is it. This is Love. I Love you." Love is something that you whisper to someone in the middle of the night because you can’t think of anything else to call it. Every time you say it, it will be different and it will be true. And only you will ever know.

That decision, the naming of the thing, seems like the best definition there is.

I’ve also been thinking about crashing my car and spiders in my shoes.

So, my question is: Do you Love me, Rick?

Sincerely,

Spiders In Shoes Scare If Exist

* * *

Dear SISSIE,

No. No, I do not. You need an editor.

Rick

If you would like to read a couple more "Dear Rick"s, you should mosey on over here. That's my brother's LJ, he's the one who introduced me to Rick in the first place. He doesn't post on the LJ anymore, but if you want to read more "Dear Rick"s, you should find some way to let him know, and he can look for some more for us. His most preferred methods of communication are heliograph and crying in the nighttime.

A Note Regarding Bear Countries, Young and Old

I've been thinking a lot lately about place.

Backing up: I was going to make a post about things that have been happening in the interim between the last blog and this one, and all of them have, to me, been fairly important.

Then I got a text message from my friends over at AppyLove, and I was reminded of what "life-changing" really means. Don't get me wrong, it's nothing bad. In fact, I couldn't be prouder; my dear friend Dr. Allen Rigell just matched in Wisconsin. For those who don't know, "matching" is the term for when a newly graduated doctor chooses a residency program, and the residency program chooses him or her back.

As Joe Biden would say, it's a big fuckin' deal.

The corollary to that, though, is (sometimes) you're completely uprooted from the things you've known and done for (sometimes) your entire life.

When I moved to Vermont, I knew things would change. I knew I wouldn't know soul one up here. I knew I was embarking on something. And I did my fair share of assuming. I assumed my roots in Tennessee would stay firm and healthy. I assumed I'd never hurt anyone deeply enough to have to let them go. I assumed that no matter what happened, I could manage on my own, and I assumed that even if I couldn't, I'd have my love to help me.

I found out, out here in my Bear Country, what happens when we assume.

But that's the great thing about the great white wilderness. It doesn't give you one thing that you want, but you learn (very quickly you learn) what it is exactly that you need. And when you zero in on that, Bear Country blows wide open. In that way, it becomes your own.

I love you, Allen and Amanda, and I'm proud of you every single day. I'm proud to have known you and proud to have shared some of my most wonderful memories of Tennessee with you guys. And I am sad that you have to go through the hard journey, leaving what you know, and going out, out, out into what looks and feels like the jaws of the beast sometimes. I am sad that I feel now more than I have in months that my time in Johnson City is truly over, that the love I had there once is gone away in one way or another. You guys afforded me so many opportunities that I would have never had any other way. You guys kept me engaged with what was going on when all I wanted to do was dry up and blow away. You taught me how to love that place again, when all I wanted to do was to nuke it from space sometimes.

I know you guys. You're smart. You're talented. You're ridiculously magnetic. You're bold when you should be. You've got just enough Southern distrust to keep the Midwesterners guessing, and hearts big enough to accept the difficulties ahead and to go ahead and look for (and find) the good stuff anyway. Or the bad stuff. Bear Country is nothing if not a surprise a minute.

I know I'll talk to them again. Pretty soon, probably, and fairly regularly after that. We may even sing together again, or figure out how to do some long-distance recording. I just want them and the rest of world to know that I think they are two of the bravest, loveliest people I know, and I wish them nothing but the best when they get to their new place.

This I say to everyone: go forth, out into your own Bear Country, whether it's Wisconsin, Vermont, your new girlfriend, your new singleness, your new job, your new joblessness, or your 52nd year on Earth. Embrace the unchartedness, then get to work drawing that chart. Include some room to be lucky and astonished at what you find out there. Be brave. Be true.

"You can bring a storm with you;
I know you always will.
When the wind blows hard to ride,
I’ll be there by your side." - Count this Penny.

A Culture of Cold: Part I

The backstory: it's 2:30 in the afternoon, and -13 degrees outside.

One thing I don't have to say about New England is that it's cold. It's cold cold cold, and it's cold for a long time. Most people who've lived here for a long time are pretty flippant about it, especially when I mention something. In fact, they love laughing at me when I say it's cold. "You don't know cold," they snort, "you're from Tennessee."

I ask you this, though: when is -13 degrees NOT considered cold? That's cold, I don't give a rip who you are.

The cold permeates everything here. It's a way of life. Even the locals' reactions when I say "it's cold" is fairly cold, in and of itself. "You don't know cold"? Harsh. Frigid. Conversation is frozen on contact. Don't get me wrong; these are, in general, just about the nicest people you could ever meet. As nice as any venerable, hospitable old Southerner I've ever met. They're just closed-lipped about it, by and large. If a Yankee likes you, he or she just goes ahead and takes you in and doesn't make a big deal about it. You maybe have to have a little ego strength and some good insight, but you're in. A New Englander will always give you a chance, but doesn't always have the time to make you feel all warm and cozy.

And you know why?

Because it's fucking cold out there.

You Got Poison In My Whiskey.

Cross-post from my old LiveJournal, circa 5/11/2009, that I think bears repeating.

===
I was listening to Coast to Coast AM last night, and a guy called in and asked Ian Punnett if saying the word "dalma" had any sort of satanic implications. Ian Punnett was confused for a minute, because 1) he hadn't heard the word "dalma" and 2) because he's not exactly the one to counsel people in such things. But the guy kept talking and said that when he gets drunk, like really drunk, the word "dalma" comes into his mind, and he just says it. And he was afraid that this made up word might actually be satanic, and that he might actually be invoking some evil spirit through his drunken made-up word without even knowing it.

I am so that guy right now.
===
Maybe I'm just going on the old adage that the least common denominator in every failed relationship I had is me. Or maybe I just feel like it's the truth, that without even knowing it, we bring with us wherever we go a poison that we cannot fully understand until we open our mouths. But by then it's too late, and you're ass-deep in demons without the skills to disperse them.

Passing the Buck, and Other Stories to Tell in the Snow.

If I listened solely to my Tennessee friends, I'd be halfway convinced that the apocalypse is creeping slowly north, and that we're all destined to die in a snowy explosion, our frozen hands making flailing slapping motions at the old lady trying to wrangle the last jug of milk from the dairy cooler.

I called my mom last night, and she picked up the phone crying, which is usually not just bad news, but outright identity shattering, if recent history has taught me anything. "Is everything okay?" I prepared for anything.

"Yeah, just....just, are you safe?"

"Am I safe? Well," I looked around in my kitchen, where I'd been attending to some beef stew that had been simmering peacefully for three hours, "I mean, yeah."

Turns out, the drive from her job in downtown Knoxville to her house in South Knoxville took about two hours to make because of the icy snow that started at noon and continued into the evening. This is a drive that should have taken no more than fifteen minutes on good old Chapman Highway. I could understand anxiety, but the woman had been pushed to the crumbling edge of her sanity. I could also understand if I was actually living in or near Tennessee; however, I sat in two feet of snow myself in the great state of Vermont, one thousand very long, very safe miles away.

She shakily relayed her tale of the drive home, the deadlock in front of the Kroger on Chapman Highway, the cars gnarled up like pretzels on the side of the road, the usually decent people of the town gnawing at the fleshy calf muscles of the weak or sick. "I don't know if they're going to make us go in tomorrow. It's so snowy, you can't even drive on it. I guess it's about at two inches now. How much do you have?" I told her. "Oh my God," she said, "oh my God. Well, has it kept you from anything? Did they call off your work, or what happened?"

"I think they're pretty used to dealing with it up here," I said, "and if they called off work or school for every day where over five inches of snow fell, the town would have to shut down until about late March." She was quiet. "But that's just a conservative estimate, I guess. Maybe mid-April."

When I talked to Will D. later, he told me that the clinic he was rotating through in Rogersville had closed its doors at four in the afternoon to the great disgust of the patients needing care. "I guess it was just too snowy for us to say," he said, "and goddamn, there is nothing on the shelves at Wal-Mart right now, you should see this!"

I don't want to be one of those smarmy people that says "Guys, get it together, it's just snow!" but apparently I am, since I used that very phrase more than once tonight. I remember what it was like driving in Tennessee during snow days, and it was quite the harrowing experience, but as someone who's now schlepped to work in fresh powder, smacked a blizzard in it's snow-face at 3 in the morning, and dug my car out from under almost 3 feet (all within the same two-week span), I can't help but want to scoff a little (just a little). And do you want to know what I blame for my new smugness?

Snow tires.

The day I put snow tires on my car is the day I lost my snow-complaining privileges in the world at large. I don't even have the good, studded kind - I have the regular cross-your-fingers kind. But when you have them, you have them, and that's it. "God, can you believe it? I couldn't even see the road this morning, I saw three dead, frozen people." "You got your snows?" "Yeah." "Oh, well, you're fine then."

But I suppose if you live in a place where you need snow tires, you lose the privilege to complain about snow tires. Where does this end? When can I complain again?!

In fact, today I have to go to Wal-Mart in Williston, as my olive oil has gone rancid and I have five dollars left on a gift card for there; somehow find a new headlight for my car; and return some stuff to various stores on Church Street. I'd ask Jesus to take the wheel, but he sees that I have snow tires, so he says I'll be fine.

Hay, MMX, How U Doin?

First things first: two thousand ten. I don't care if you're bored by the end of saying it. And screw your linguistic continuity between "nineteen" and "twenty." Listen, if people cared so damn much, why didn't they cry about it in 2001? No one called it "twenty-aught-one" except for I will when I tell the youths of the future about the good old days when ye mee-maw was leaving cryptically-grafittoed pumpkins on the doorsteps of her poor, poor professors at Halloween-time. I digress, as I do love referring to my future self as ye mee-maw.

Back to the monologue at hand, I suppose everyone was still so proud of themselves over coming up with the very chic "Y2K" that they didn't even notice it turned into "Y2K+1" real fast. So, in Bear Country it's two thousand ten. Trust me; I'm a linguist.

Now that unpleasantness is out of the way, and I feel better.

Burlington found itself on the business end of the lake effect this past weekend. I think the final total was 33 inches, or as I now know it, "Dude, where's my car?" Rookie mistake: I left the snow on the car instead of being a good little worker ant and clearing it off. Thus, my car and I had a rough morning. Have no fear: I got the little snot running just in time to make it to work, where my first patient was crumpled up in a ball on the floor and my second looked like an unholy hybrid between Robert Goulet and John Waters. They do not cancel Monday on account of snow here.

I tell this story for a reason. In 2010, this bear is dead set on diversifying, and along with her, she's bringing the Country. Because all sitting around on your dump watching the snow fall gets you is a dead car. And even if at the end of the road, nothing is waiting for you but pain and a room that smells like 'Lectric Shave, you gotta get up and dust it off, man.

Among the more exciting stars to which Bear Country intends on hitching her wagon is the deadly charming Jack Will Travel, two self-described "knuckleheads from suburban New Jersey" who specialize in jetsetting on the cheap, outing the secrets thereof, and all-around fast-talkitude. What's not to love?

And then there's AppyLove, just a-shinin' away in a part of the country that I left not too long ago. What can I say? The girl can pull the homesick out of Kari like feeding the five thousand with two loaves and some fishes, and I was beyond honored when she asked me maybe just maybe to write a guest column for her blog. Not to mention to lay down some vocal tracks with their band Count This Penny. Am I a lucky punk? Yep, I sure am.

Of course, there will be more out of me as well - plenty of life lessons and rookie mistakes to go around, adventures in living below the poverty line in Vermont, being a diplomat of the South, grad student follies, ESLarity, cooking, cleaning, creating, and you stopped listening at the beginning of this paragraph didn't you? It's alright. Bear Country waits for no man.

And if you've been good (and I know you have been), maybe I'll tell you the story about the time we went to the Vermont Cat Fanciers Cat Show...