The Siren

It has been quite some time since these fingers have ticked their taps on the white squares of the keyboard that sits in front of me. Life, as it so often does, has derailed the deeds of intended action with its surprises and necessities. We sit idly by and watch as the promises of yesterday become the memories of tomorrow, obstacles pile their plight while our backs get heavier. We slough our lives away bit by bit as more and more is required of us; even that which brings us joy – our writing or cooking or golfing or thinking – falls to the ground like leaves quickly forgetting the summer from whence they grew.

Forgive the poetic wax, but my candle burns a little dim these days. Harsh realities have collided with hopeful expectations, beating wishes, peppering them with bruises so colorful they change the body underneath. I hoped to write everyday. I hoped to be surprised by kindness and I hoped that good people should only receive good treatment. But hope can be the most elusive of sirens, calling us to sail towards the sweet song of peace and ease, before disappearing behind more untrodden paths and choices. She slips yet lingers, faintly smelling like perfection and something unrecognizable.

I could have been naive about such expectations. I could have been wrong for having hope. But that’s the thing about hope. It’s admirable. It stands true forever, urging us towards overcoming that which stops us from perfection, pushing just a little bit further, a little bit further. It encourages us remove the training wheels or take a leap or have a painful conversation. It molds us, turning us malleable and amorphous, into something we could only previously imagine. It teaches, instructing us from ahead but never leaving, if we’re lucky.

We must be sure not to abandon hope. It may be fickle and empty and it might lead us down a path of foolishness and irresponsibility, tainting the lens that covers the perspectives that cage our thoughts, leaving a puddle of doubt on the carpet of our considerations. It might misbehave. In fact, it will.

But to live with no hope – to see the world in an endless gray of disappointment and eternally met lowered expectations – is a fate worth no more than the material weight of hope itself. To face the onslaught of years without hope is to live a half-life, where happiness and unadulterated glee are the luggage forgotten on the side of the road. Nothing can lie ahead without hope, so cling to it and hold steadfastly through the turbulence of these trials and tribulations. Hold strong and tighten your grip; faith and hope remain. Sometimes, it’s all there is.

Until the end. the Mended Blend.

This Just In: Teenagers No Longer Worst Drivers

I’ve discovered there are only a few things you can do to entertain yourself on a four hour sojourn across the Tennessee landscape. You can watch as the billboards start to change from “GUNS” to “Luxury Condo’s from 120,000!” You can ruminate the rolling hills, green with élan vital. You can listen to your ipod on shuffle and amaze yourself at the strange eclectic nature of your musical library (Toni Braxton, James Taylor, Mariah Carey, Girl Talk, Steve Miller Band, CCR, Jason Mraz, Mars Volta, Eminem. Confused yet?).

I did all of these things. But nothing captured my attention more than the horrific driving that has become so typical of Tennessee. Maybe it’s not just in Tennessee. Maybe everyone drives like a Tourettes sufferer on the back end of a three day sleepless binge, but it seems that the poor drivers of the country have gathered, settling in Tennessee.

I careened out of danger and weaved through recklessness. I dodged texters and GPS fiddlers. I did it all. But I noticed something interesting as I navigated my way through the traffic minefield that can be I-40: the worst drivers I encountered were in their 40s or 50s. This doesn’t make any sense! People are supposed to drive slower as they get older. I should be passing these people, not running for my life.

Don’t call me Nostradamus, but I offer you a prediction. In the next twenty years, the roads will be littered with seriously aging Baby Boomers driving too fast for their declining vision. No longer will the elderly drive at a glacial pace. This generation is the first generation to live entirely in a world of instant communication, where speed is synonymous with living. They’ve never been adult in a world that success wasn’t equated with a flurry of activity and busied antics. These people have things to do and it’s always been way. They have Tom Toms and Starbucks and Blackberries and bluberries and Sirius and DVDs in their dashboard.

They might have a whole lot. But nothing is more terrifying than the realization that this generation is also the first set of drivers with an entire fleet of tank-cars at their finger tips. Hummers, Explorers, 4Runners, Xterra, and Denalis roam the streets, bossy like schoolyard fat kids. They drive SUVs and they don’t see the twenty five year old in his little red Lancer. Oh but, they’re sure that I’ll move out of the way. Ugh.

Drivers prepare! Watch your mirrors and use your blinkers, these things can only help your chance of avoiding the most likely wreck you will ever have. Remember the defensive driving school you went to as a teenager when you received your first speeding ticket. Do well to prepare because the Boom in Baby Boomers might soon be associated with the sound of crunching metal. But hey, if you’re an Insurance Agent, you should do just fine. What recession?

Until the end, the Mended Blend.

A Trip, A Break, A Narrative To Come

In the next few days, you might notice a marked decline in content for The Mended Blend. Never fear, we’re not breaking up. I’m just moving on to bigger and different cities: Brentwood, Franklin, and Nashville! I’m going out for a few days and when I come back, I hope you’re primed and prepped for a sprawling narrative of cultural differences.

I’m sure I will have a lot to say when I come back to you, my faithful readers, considering that I have a four hour drive to allow my brainstorming neurons to fire.

Until the end, the Mended Blend.

Local Attraction: Cirque Du Chine

The circus is a place of intrigue, bewitching us as children with death defying feats of acrobatic mastery or reminding us as adults that awe can still be found. Last night, after months anticipation, I finally got to go see Pigeon Forge’s Cirque Du Chine chinese circus, and let me just say that I loved every minute of it. If you’re in Gatlinburg, Pigeon Forge or Sevierville for any reason, you should go. Kitschy  and corny at times, yet thrilling and unbelievable at others, Cirque Du Chine will take you around the emotional block.

The theater is magnificent, a monstrous stage dominating  the center of the building. Thirty some six-foot chinese lanterns pepper the ceiling and glow with a incandescent red that softens the intimidating expanse of the place. The theater can sit thousands of people, but there isn’t a bad seat in the house.

After finding our seats in the third row, I sat down giddy like a child, my leg suddenly developing Restless Leg Syndrome as I waited for the show to begin. The lights dropped and after a short message from the master of ceremonies, the show began. Coordinated dancers, jugglers, acrobatics, human statues, heart stopping balancing acts and more. There was just so much to watch and enjoy. The show is lengthy, but not too lengthy, providing just enough amazement.

Unfortunately, Cirque Du Chine isn’t perfect. I am of the old theater tradition that staunchly hates seeing anything, hearing anything, or being distracted in anyway by the goings on in the backstage, and in this regard, Cirque Du Chine could stand to improve. On more than one occasion, I could look across the stage and see the next four people about to enter. I could see lights, I could see spinning plates, I could see motorcycles. It’s amateur theater. It ruins the illusion, and considering how important “the illusion” is the the circus, I would suggest that Cirque Du Chine pull its backstage black curtains a little tighter. Also, the magician wasn’t so spectacular. It wasn’t his fault, it was just that I was sitting to the side, which made his sleight of hand a little more obvious.

But, the show was fantastic when I wasn’t distracted. I was particularly impressed with the loose wire walker (think tightrope walker, but with more slack), who walked around and swung about with ease, demonstrating amazing strength and balance. Also, the motorcyclists (I won’t spoil it) and anything that involved a chair were just breathtaking.

Overall, I would say you should take your family if you get the chance. It’s fun and everybody should go to the circus once in a while. I was laughing for no reason and grinning for two hours; I felt like a child. And sometimes, we adults – who like to strut around so entitled and so grown up – could use a nice childlike experience. Good for the spirit.

Until the end, the Mended Blend.

Southern Artist Spotlight: Deborah Gall

Art Karma (Art Car – Muh)

Noun, Singular

1. A specific subset of karma that applies to the behaviors of those in the artistic community. Positive actions beget positive rewards, vice versa.

i.e. –  In an effort to better my Art Karma, I’ve decided to begin a new series called SAS, or Southern Artist Spotlight, in which I will provide a sampling of the some of the artistic gifts that are nestled here in Tennessee. This state is spirited and colorful, fostering an incredibly diverse collection of artistic talent. It is the aim of this series to expose and highlight the unique vision of southern artists. To begin, I offer a bit of nepotism. 

 

Check her out on facebook or at http://www.deborahgall.com

Until the end, the Mended Blend

Alec Baldwin Flashback: The Edge

I find it a personal victory that I can now connect Alec Baldwin, Anthony Hopkins, that guy from Lost, and a man-eating Kodiak bear. It’s great trivia. The movie might have been a waste of time, but the trivia was worth it at least. 1997’s The Edge is one of the most triumphant creature flops you will ever see, but strangely it’s almost fun to watch it fail so miserably.

The staggeringly unoriginal plot goes a little like this. Billionaire (Hopkins) has young wife who cuckholds him with young photographer (Baldwin). The two crash in the Alaskan wilderness and must survive. Giant bear arrives. Hunts. Kills erroneous third character (dude from Lost). Baldwin cries. Hopkins stares off into the distance. Looks crazy. Bear comes back. Hopkins somehow bests a 2 ton bear because he reads a lot.

I’m not joking about any of that. Watching Alec Baldwin play adventure-man in the wilderness is like watching a 16 year-old overweight pug run up a hill. It wheezes and sputters, throwing so much effort into something it is clearly not meant to do. You want to pick it up and carry it up the hill, which is exactly what the other actors do in the film. Even Anthony Hopkins couldn’t save this ridiculous foray, spending the majority of his screen time muttering unintelligibly. His billionaire character is written to be brilliant but reclusive, his nose buried in books constantly absorbing completely arbitrary facts. Not a bad character on paper, but Hopkins goes for “mysterious” by donning a monotone voice and a lifeless face. The only thing mysterious here is how the famed actor could’ve made such a horribly boring choice.

My favorite character? The bear. I mean look at that thing! It’s like all the great directors say, show your monster looking like someone just stole his favorite toy and everyone will love it! Kudos to director Lee Tamahori for having the cajones to attempt a terrifying frown. Not everyday.

Until the end, the Mended Blend

“I Don’t Think I’ll Ever Leave”

Photo Cred: Me!

The people who live in the mountain, one of whom (remaining anonymous) spoke to me recently, are unlike any other group of people in the world. They don’t just live on the land, they are a part of it, seeing the terrain as an invaluable member of their family, constantly overlooking its dwellers.

I spoke to a young man a few nights ago about the place in which he lived. Bearded and short, he puffed on a Black and Mild, his forehead wrinkled and weathered from thirty some odd years of a mountain life. He lifted his head, gazing at the stars like they were beautiful women. Perhaps to him they were.

“I’ve lived here for a long time. Long time. I don’t think I’ll ever leave. The mountains though, they’re like protection. Nothing gets through those mountains.”

He may have been speaking about the increasingly hateful weather that has blessed this planet of late, but something about the fear and reminiscent uncertainty in his eyes told me otherwise. The people are held close by the cliffs and valleys, hugged tightly. Separated by the geographical hand they have been dealt, these people are protected from some of the true terrors of the world. Yes gas prices may escalate and wars may wage, but those mountains remain staunch and consistent, a veritable wall of immortal incorruptibility.

It is easy to judge these people and call them sheltered and laugh, but what does that say about the culture we live in?  There is an unspoken acceptance for the judgment and alienation of rural cultures, which I find a little backwards: that an almost imperialistic prejudice should be thrown on a group of people who value living with little and appreciating the land they live in, while those of us who destroy and consume the most are lauded as the world’s elite. I’m not growing dreds or changing to a vegan diet, but as someone who tries to understand the perspective of people vastly different from myself, I can’t help but confront the values that dictate the society in which we live.

Less humorous today, but most times a thought is just as valuable as a laugh.

Until the end, the Mended Blend.

The Longest Day Of Summer

Thousands Celebrate The Summer Solstice

If today seemed like it would never end, like the sun was beating down on you in a particularly horrific fashion; if the toils of the day extended in front of you like a growing desert and the hours stretched and stretched, never fear! You don’t have heat stroke, the day was actually longer than normal. At 1:16 ET in the afternoon, the surface of the earth was titled 23.4 degrees toward the sun, the North pole facing the sun more today than any other day of the year.  Uh. Yeah. So the sun was out a lot today.

Some interesting facts about the summer solstice.

1. Because it’s summer solstice here, it’s winter solstice in the Southern Hemisphere. Wow. Logic does tend to be the most accurate predictor of weather these days.

2. The moon during the summer solstice is called a “Honey Moon,” referring to the fermented honey mead that was traditionally served during weddings that were celebrated on the summer solstice. A Honey Moon? To celebrate a wedding? Wait, I don’t get it.

3. Pagans used to hold bonfires to celebrate the summer solstice, couples jumping through the fire together. They believed that the height of their jump through the flames would be directly related to the height of their crops for that year. You know that makes sense. I have always heard that the world’s first basketball players were Pagan corn farmers.

Whether you are Pagan or not, the power of the sun is undeniable. It’s absence and presence plays a notable role in our emotional processes and it brings an energy that is unparalleled and unsurpassed. Beating with life and warmth, the sun is the heart of organic life and everything we know. Take stock in the holiday if you want, call it nonsense and see if I care. But if nothing else, take this opportunity to be thankful. Thank your creator, thank nature, thank whatever you believe in. Just be thankful and blessed. The sun is shining.

Until the end, the Mended Blend.

I Checked Again, I’m Definitely Still In The South

Due to popular demand and a never ending supply of material, I have decided to continue the “Definitely In The South” series on an irregular yet consistent basis, diligently cataloguing the southern lifestyle in Gatlinburg, Pigeon Forge, and Sevierville . Basically, I’m gunna write ya’ll when I find some thingie er place that makes me hoot and holler like I just sat my behind down on a pile of those firey ants, tell you what. Bless your heart if you can’t read that.

So here are some more southern quirks that make this place what it is.

The Phrase “Bless Your Heart” Now as any good southerner knows, this phrase gets used as much as butter in these parts. At its best, it can make you feel like you’ve bested some moiling and herculean task: “Oh look at that, he’s carrying all those groceries for his momma, bless his heart.” Strangely though, if attached to the end of an insult and complimented with a big smile-and-nod, the blow of the insult is significantly softened. “You are so ugly, bless your heart!” What? Southerners are just nicer!

Life Stories There is no filter of waspish proportions in this part of the country. No, no. The best filter you’ll find between the brain and mouth of most people from East Tennessee is single ply toilet paper. You might get a coffee filter if it’s really early in the morning, but that’s just because the hangover hasn’t been shaken off yet. I sat down at Olive Garden last night and met four people while eating dinner! Now, when I say “met” I don’t mean that I remember their names, I mean that I remember their children’s names, from their first marriage (which lasted 22 years) with Harold, the balding emotional idiot/insurance agent who never properly communicated his feelings.

Southerns have a long tradition of talking your ear off, which I think might be the direct result of one factor: Porches. It goes like this: God, Family, Dog, Porch Time. Look at the facts, the weather here is nicer for longer, southerners actually own land they can look out over, and this is a group of people that historically loves nothing more than being outside.  So, since only a few people put TVs on their porches, southerners just get a lot of practice talking. It makes sense in a cultural evolutionary kind of way. The nice backhand side to this characteristic? They have just as much practice listening.

Well that’s it for now. But never fear, there might be more material here than calories in Dollywood’s cinnamon bread. You haven’t had any?! Oh, bless your heart.

Until the end, the Mended Blend.

Father’s Day and Air Hockey

Last night, to celebrate a friend’s birthday, the cast of Dreamland Drive-In got together and celebrated at a cabin overlooking all of Pigeon Forge. Who knew the lights coming off of upside down buildings and fake castles would look so pretty? The cabin had two decks, the lower one had a hammock and the higher one had a Jacuzzi. Nice life.

Even better, inside the upstairs there was a foosball table, a pool table, and an air hockey table. So naturally, I took it upon myself to start a small air hockey tournament. A four person round robin if you will, each player clanging the neon green puck like it were a pesky rodent needing to be squashed. Perhaps a mole.

At that point, I thought of my father in two ways. First, the mole. My dad has one in his back yard and could be, at this very moment, reenacting a small piece of Bill Murray’s Caddy Shack, running around with pitchforks and low-level explosives (just kidding about the explosives, not the pitchfork though). That’s the thing about my dad, he turns silly the most annoying of situations, immediately transforming what could be in incredibly large pain in the neck into at least a good story to tell. For as long a I can remember he’s told me stories I love. He’d make them up when I was a kid or he’d embellish true stories (only a little!) when I was older to make things even funnier. If you like the stories I have to tell, you’ll have to thank my dad for that. He taught me practically everything I know.

Second, when the final clash of air hockey was occurring right in front of me, I took it upon myself to narrate the action with as thick a British accent I could muster, like tennis commentary or My Fair Lady. “Kevin with the serve, gently plinking the Nickelodeon green puck back and forth, waiting for a moment of onslaught. His eyes are focused and he hits the puck! Ricochet left. Return ricochet! Close call ricochet! SO MANY RICOCHETS! AND HE SCOREEEEEESSSSS!!!!”

In that moment, I felt like my dad. The only way I could have been more like my father was if I walked around the room celebrating with an arm tuba. This isn’t the first time this has happened though, sounding like my father not British commentary. It’s happened a few times over the last couple of weeks. I make a joke or use a voice and hear Mr. Gall. Whoa.

But you know what, most people follow a statement like that, “I sound like my father!”, with a “blech” or a “yuck,” some look on their face like they smelled something awful. Not me. I say “whoa.” Super cliche I know, but I am proud to be even an iota like my father. He’s one of the smartest men I’ve ever met and he knows how to do everything. Take you to Austin Powers movies as a kid and quote them for the next fifteen years? He can do it. Take your son to Magic Mountain for his birthday and still get on the Superman ride like seven times? He can do it. Change your oil? He can do it. Design and construct a one-0f-a-kind high tech home theater? He can do it. Trade stocks from his computer and actually make money in a declining market? He can do it. Raise two kids who love, respect, and look up to him? He most certainly can do it.

You will have to understand if this blog post didn’t seem too centric on universal topics, arm tuba jokes flying over your heads and all. But today wasn’t really about the reader. Today is about one reader in particular. So Happy Father’s Day Mr. Gall!

Here’s to seeing you in something everyday. I love you Dad.

Also, Dad, we need to play air hockey soon. There would be so much British.

Until the end, the Mended Blend.