Public Notice: All Promises Made During Agony Are Hereby Null And Void

The older you get the crazier your expectations. Not outlandish or grandiose, just damn crazier and crazier. Example one and only: I'm looking forward to my root canal tomorrow. I could say I've experienced a couple root canals in my time and that they don't really live up to all the negative hype, but then, what would such a statement do to my sociability quotient? Oh, there's a guy I want to hang out with--a guy's who's well-versed in root canals (from the receiving, not the profitable performing end) and who practically pooh-poohs them (is A.A. Milne responsible for the phrase pooh-pooh [one hopes] or is there a more basic, less literary origin?).

Anyway, I had a horrible weekend suffering through Toothache (certainly deserving of capital status; admittedly, and fortunately, my life has been a relatively healthy one, but is there anything more persuasively paralyzing [in the rather normal range of potential body aches] than Toothache?). In addition to the pain, facial disfigurement, and limits to my diet (God forbid; I had to pass on the season's first outdoor-grilled [I just typed drilled instead of grilled--see where my mind's at?] cheeseburger and was pretty much reduced to gumming and inhaling a hot dog, which was still pretty darn good) Toothace imposed, it also affected my sleeping routine (and as one whose sleep is sacrosanct, you can imagine the further psychic damage inflicted; if one could sue one's own mouth, I'd be seeking eight figures, minimum). Put it all together and for hours on what should have been a relaxing, mom-celebrating beautiful weekend (well, outrageous storms and unseasonably cold temps notwithstanding), I was a writhing mess on alternately cold and sweaty sheets, begging for mercy (a necessary shout out to the good folks at Advil, without whose aid I might have still lived to tell this tale, but, per straitjacket and muzzle, might not have been actually able to tell it).

But now (and when, I ask myself, has a Monday ever been so good to me?) there are antibiotics coursing through my veins, the pain is virtually gone, the swelling much abated (one advantage to a chubby face: swelling isn't so obvious; though yesterday, well-rounded countenance or no, I looked like a bad fighter, so bad he had to take the punishment rather than be offered the chance to throw the fight via phantom punches). However, there is still some business to attend to (not counting enduring a root canal tomorrow) rather than blissfully basking in my non-painness. I don't know what kind of laughing gas my good friend Bob Dylan was on when he sang, "Pain sure brings out the best in people, now doesn't iiiiiiiiiiittt?" but for me, the pain of Toothache brought out some rather desperate attempts at deal-making, whined out to God or whatever other powers were listening with any kind of an interested ear. And now, while I have certainly spent some time today thanking the Good Lord for seeing me through my agony of the gums, I must, with a saner state of mind, address the promises I made in exchange for sleep and the relief of torment during my dark couple of days and nights of the molar.

Certainly some of these promises have some merit, and I will definitely consider "seeing what I can do about them" in the future; but the others, well, any sentient soul will recognize they were the mere and unfortunate ravings of a temporarily unhinged mind and as such, oblige the promiser nonewhatsoever (the legal Latin equivalent temporarily escapes me) in the future fulfillment of them. Ergo, I now decree null and void the following promises: I will shovel every driveway in Cleveland Heights next winter, everyday, snow or no snow; I will read the literary oeuvre of Jackie Collins and use tirelessly my humble blog to trumpet her canonical status and plead for her admission into the Nobel club; I will spend a year not only rooting passionately for the Pittsburgh Steelers, but daily wearing their garb; I will learn the game of cricket and enforce its pleasures on the neighborhood kids; I will look into Mormonism (it was like 4 a.m. and a fresh surge of pain gave me the momentary notion that only somebody named Joe Smith could save me); I will organize a local Tea Party to take place on Coventry Road in Cleveland Heights, July 4th (as somebody unmentioned once claimed, "The only thing worse than a Wisconsin liberal is a Cleveland Heights liberal"); I will reconsider the merits of Men Without Hats; I will uncomplainingly become one of those people who say, "And so I said to myself, 'Self...'"; I will go by the nickname Wildflower for the rest of my life; I will shop daily at Marc's discount store for exactly one item and then allow anyone who so desires to cut in front of me in the check-out line, for as long as it takes; I will only blog about my interest in numismatics; I will floss hourly from now until the hour of my death, amen (well, that one might warrant some second thoughts).

Warren Zevon-Ain't That Pretty At All

Of Nader, Hawaii, and Wally Cox

You never have to look far to find proof of rampant absurdity in our world. Today at the bookstore, I was shelving a new novel written by Ralph Nader. Yes, that one. See what I mean? This struggling scribe certainly doesn't want to plug that book, so no title, but it is very thick and sports a brightly garish cover. What really is absurd, though, it ended up being shelved right next to Nabokov's Lolita. Say what you will about politics, but literature (real or alleged) makes for some really bent bedfellows. Reminds me of the fact that early in their careers, Marlon Brando and Wally Cox were roommates.

No wonder this life-long Cleveland boy is thinking about Hawaii tonight. I've never been there, probably never will go there, and to be honest, I don't really have much desire to go there. Any place that seems perpetually sunny gives me, a pale redhead (there's some redundancy for you) the fantods. Something tells me I'd be allergic to a lei, too. I don't think I've ever watched an entire episode of Hawaii Five-O, either, but I've sure heard "Book 'em, Danno" enough for one lifetime.

Two months ago I was at a party and started making small talk with a European woman who had just moved to Cleveland after about twenty years of living in Hawaii. On this particular night she was cold. In July! I was waxing poetic about the wonderfully unique four seasons we experience every year in Cleveland, she was waxing nostalgic about how every day in Hawaii it's 84 degrees. I asked her if Hawaii had any kind of a discernible winter. "Yes," she said. "It only gets to 82." Well, that's been about the funniest retort I've heard in months.

Anyway, I can't explain why I love these three songs, other than the fact that life is absurd, and so are these three songs. The singing, from Brian Wilson's heavenly falsetto, to Warren Zevon's simpering, voice-breaking loser, to Bruno Wolfe's (who he?) side-of-the-mouth world-weary leering, is a three-course absurdist's delight.

Two months from now I could be shovelling snow and reading Ralph Nader's novel for my book club while throwing a ukulele at the TV set during a Browns game and in the process somehow switching the channel permanently to the Hawaii Five-O channel. Who do you think cleaned the bathroom, Marlon or Wally?

The Beach Boys-Hawaii

Warren Zevon-The Hula Hula Boys

Jim Kweskin & The Jug Band-Ukelele Lady