Misery Loves Company –or- the Joy of Making Others Suffer

What’s up with the song in my head? Once in a great while, it’s a good song. Recently, I was blessed with a beautiful, haunting melody: Neko Case’s “Porchlight.” Now & again a Tom Waits song will mess me up in a very good way. Those are wonderful days. But this morning, not so great. It’s been Reba McIntire singing “the Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia.” Not good. And more often than not, the song that clogs up my brain is something along those lines, something I’d rather not hear. And to further torture me, it’s generally not the whole song, it’s one snippet of the song on infinite repeat. So today it’s the title line and its follow-up line, “that’s the night that the lights went out in Georgia / That’s the night that they hung an innocent man.” Ceaselessly. Is it in your head now? Oops, so sorry. (Heh-heh)

I often share the song in my head with my co-workers, but never when it’s a good song. I selfishly keep quiet regarding the good ones, but the more annoying the song, the more satisfying it is to sing it for whoever is present – several times, to reinforce the presence in their minds. The best is waiting 30 minutes or so and then busting into the song again, just when they’ve finally purged the memory.

I get some doozies that originate right there at work. I don’t know who picked the satellite station they use in the dining room, where my co-workers & I fetch our coffee, but the station broadcasts an endless parade of bad music that makes me chuckle (at best) or turns my stomach. As I write this, I’m beginning to wonder if the penalty for being a music snob, as I admit I am, is to be bombarded with music I cannot stand and then have it played back for me by my own brain.

Here, let me share some lines that have bounced around my cranium in the recent past. I make no claims to the accuracy of these lyrics, this is just how I experience them. If you know the lyric, the voice, the melody, the bad synthesizers and lame guitar parts will undoubtedly tag along:

“the phone rings in the middle of the night / my father says when you gonna live your life right?”
“all I wanna do when I wake up in the morning is see your eyes…Rosanna, Rosanna”
“I’ve been waiting for a girl like you, to come into my life.”
“and tonight, tonight, tonight Oh-oh / We’re gonna make it right, tonight-tonight…”
“and it’s you, babe, whenever I get weary and I’ve had enough, feel like giving up”
“knock 3 times on the ceiling if you want me / Twice on the pipe if the answer is no”
“stuck on you, got this feeling down deep in my soul that I just can’t lose / Yes, I’m on my way”
“Rickie don’t lose that number / You don’t wanna call nobody else”

Oh yes, it’s been painful. But it is such a pleasure to share my grief with my office pals…and you! After all, nothing makes this kind of suffering more bearable than knowing that others are suffering with me. Misery DOES love company.

Seven Minutes

I’m a snooze junkie. I can’t help it, it’s a sickness. I don’t set the alarm to sound when I need to get outta bed; I set my alarm to sound 30 minutes before I absolutely have to get outta bed, and then hope that I get up sometime between. It’s stupid, I know. But it doesn’t seem stupid when the alarm is blaring away, and I’ve just come out of a dream, and it’s kinda chilly in the room but I’m warm under the blanket, and I just tell myself “I’m not ready to get up yet, but I will be ready in seven minutes.” It’s amazing what I can convince myself of in those vulnerable moments, when I just want the annoying noise to stop.

Now, let’s consider my wife, the unwilling participant in this daily ritual. There she is, minding her own business, happily cruising in REM, and then BEEP!!-BEEP!!-BEEP!! Well, no problem. It’s time for Chris to start getting ready for work. Then she drifts back to sleep, barely crossing that line into dreamland, and BEEP!!-BEEP!!-BEEP!! Hmmm, Chris must be tired this morning, but it’s about time for him to get up, or else he’s gonna be late. And then she relaxes again, falling into that moment when thoughts become vivid and a little bizarre and BEEP!!-BEEP!!-BEEP!! At this point, a poll of my constituency would indicate a sudden and significant drop in my approval rating. And I shudder to consider that I just might be amazed by what my constituency – one lovely woman trying to sleep next to me – can convince herself of in those vulnerable moments, when she just wants the annoying noise to stop. (Which makes me wonder what other annoying noises she desperately wishes would cease.)

Seven minutes! Whoever invented snooze is a cruel, cruel individual indeed, akin to the Pusher (hey man, the first one’s free, but you gotta pay after that!). I mean, seven minutes a day might get us on our way to a flatter stomach, but it does nothing for the amount of rest you can get in a night. And yet, we snooze junkies can convince ourselves that a seven minute chunk of time is the key to waking refreshed. And that faith in seven minutes creates a cycle of madness. Still tired? Just add seven minutes – you’ll feel better. Still tired? Just add seven minutes – you’ll feel better, really. Still tired?... And on and on until your wife can’t take it anymore and tells you to get outta bed or just turn off the alarm, for cry-aye.

It’s gotta stop, so let’s make this official. Hello, my name is Chris, and I’m a snooze junkie. I’m wallowing near the bottom and I don’t want this to continue, so I am hereby stating my intention: I will move my alarm clock to a place I cannot reach from my bed so there is no chance for me to hit that button without standing up and considering the futility of it all. I will not set the alarm too early, thereby avoiding the temptation to simply re-set the alarm and go back to bed. I will spare my wife the need to be incredibly patient with me for yet another of my bad habits.

There, I’ve said it. Thank you for listening.

Moments

I wrote this after attending my friends' wedding, back in 2006.

It was Tuesday, otherwise known as my Monday, and I dragged myself out of bed and began the morning routine. Shower, shave, dress. But the routine came to a sudden halt when I put my right foot into my shoe. There it was: the fine powder of California dirt lightly coating the black leather, and a small greasy spot on the bottom of the sole - probably some oil or pitch from a railroad tie. I was suddenly overcome with nostalgia for a weekend from which I'd barely emerged, or survived: Cocktails (the white wine, please) & dinner in the Pullman cars, more wine, a night to rest, return to the railway museum for soundcheck, a ride on the train, lemonade in the Niles car, an unexpected stop at the end of the line, windfarm, poetry, Desolation, Kerouac, the legend of Phil & Amy (recounted – brilliantly - NOT in chronological order), bright sun & brutal heat on the tracks, a momentary interruption and cause for concern with a count-your-blessings outcome, cocktails in the great hall, more wine, music, serenades, “Chris Ryan,” first dance, more wine, dinner under a canopy of lights surrounded by a canopy of trees under a canopy of stars, wine, tributes & testimony of friendship and love and accomplishment, root beer floats (no wedding cake!), more wine, jam session, kicked out of the museum, back to the hotel, another jam session, lots more wine, some sorta honey liqueur that certainly must have been produced by Beelzebub himself, late-night conversations with old & new friends, too much wine, a retreat to the hotel room - far too late - the damage was already done. So much for knowing when to say when on the night before a 4-hour flight back to Chicago. Sleeping hard, waking nauseous, wishing I'd remembered the advice I gave myself with Nicole as my witness - "ya never wanna be hungover on a plane." Got on the plane drunk (still) & sick, got off the plane sober & hungry, missing my son so much my heart ached, and reflecting on this amazing weekend and the friends I said goodbye to far too soon.

As we stood before Phil & Amy and "the Comet," Wellesley asked us to look around at this gathering and capture the moment. We did. But it was a moment I now find too big to call up lightly or briefly, because the moment was not only that gathering of friends and family on the tracks, nor was it the recitation of the most personal wedding vows we've ever heard, nor was it the recounting of the events that began and ended - or I should say, began and began anew - on Desolation. No, this was a gigantic moment to capture, because the moment represented not only the union of Phil & Amy, but also their history, their accomplishments, their trials & burdens, the impact they've had on their communities, and the love that they have spread to friends all over the country. All those things culminated in that very moment Wellesley asked us to capture, because those things are not simply what Phil and Amy have done or where they've been - those things are very much who they are.

So it was Tuesday morning, and I looked at my dusty shoes with the mixed emotions that nostalgia conjures so wonderfully and cruelly. Had I not been so hungover on Sunday (did I mention the wine?), I probably would have processed the sadness of departing California, or more accurately, of departing my old friends, on the plane bound for Chicago. But I was far more concerned with keeping a tiny crumb of dignity by getting thru the flight without using the little bag that taunted me from the magazine pouch in front of me. I succeeded, in that regard. But on Tuesday morning I stared at my shoes, a horsehair brush in my reluctant hand, hesitating, hovering, while I reflected on a captured moment much bigger than the day or even the week ahead of me. I almost left that dust on my shoes, just to physically hold on to a bit of the weekend, but then I remembered that *moments*, no matter how grand and full, are fleeting. They pass right on by to make room for the next moment. So I brushed that dirt off my shoes. There's another moment ahead that Nicole & I will share with Phil & Amy. And we will capture & relish it with them. For now, this moment will stay rooted in my heart. And there might be a little dust hiding under my laces.

- September 27, 2006