The UnTexan

HERE, THERE AND THE BEGINNING OF THE END OF TEXAS

"A philosophy which exalts health and safety to the status of virtues

cannot be called heroic."

                                               J. Brinckerhoff Jackson/A Sense of Place, a Sense of Time

On July 18 we will have lived in Texas for 10 years. Hopefully it won't come to that. The clock is running. The hourglass is trickling. The details are being worked out. Forget The Alamo! The end is near and New Mexico is close at hand.

It's over. Just like that. Finally.

A couple of weeks ago my wife sent me to New Mexico to look at houses. Alone. She put together a list of 11 places she found online - she is a meticulous and obsessive internet searcher - and sent me to have a look. And pick out a place for us to spend the rest of our lives. I picked. She likes the pick. We made an offer. It was accepted. It is a house that will embrace all of the life we bring to it and see us through. I think we recognized it as soon at we saw it on the internet. Dauna has seen photographs, but when we move there in a few weeks and she looks up the mountain and glimpses it through the trees it will be the first time she actually sees the house. ("Really," more than one person has asked? "Yes," always the answer.) I would trust her to do the same for me. And the house is right for people like us, a co-conspirator of a house. It's what we need. It's home.

Now there is the house here and there is the house there. I am juggling them as fast as I can. I spend my days wrapped up in the details of buying and selling and wandering among piles of real estate paperwork. For a man who never thought seriously about owning a house until I was 50 years old, I now have a house I want to call home and a home I want to get rid of. I am in a real estate frame of mind. Contracts are pending. It is slow and tedious work but it must be done. And it is time.

We have lived in Texas among Texans far too long - ten years in a place we always knew we never could call home. The Un-Texan was born in the first years we were here; more recently my wife has dubbed herself the Anti-Texan.

And we live in an Austin neighborhood among old people. They wrap themselves tightly in the fabric of their old lives but it does not seem to comfort them. They lament change. They worry about their health, their safety, streetlights and strangers, property values and Mexican-Americans, Jehovah's Witnesses who might be thieves casing the place (a black man and a white man together! Who knows what they might be up to?), traffic and speedbumps, firetrucks, police cars, ambulances. They worry and worry. Reports and alarms go out on the neighborhood association email daily. What we are about to do would alarm them too if they knew about it. They would advise caution. Their intentions would be good. But we have had enough of caution and good intentions, too.

So my wife and I are about to leave Texas and step into the mysterious and unsteady space between here and there one more time. It won't be the first time - in 24 years of marriage we have moved from apartment to house, renters to buyers, Minnesota urban to Wisconsin rural, Wisconsin to northern New Mexico, and from there to Texas - but we have promised ourselves this move will be the last. When we get back home to New Mexico this time we will stay. Besides, Austin's elevation is approximately 540 feet. The new house is at around 8,000 feet. We are rising in the world. We can feel how thin the air will be.

Dauna in New Mexico, 2011

THE TEA PARTY, THE N-WORD AND TIPTOEING THROUGH THE U.S. CONSTITUTION

They read the Constitution on the floor of the U.S. House of Representatives yesterday the same way Ann Coulter colors her hair -- making sure the dark roots don't show.

They left out the part about how one slave = three-fifths of a man (it was called the "three-fifths compromise," an article of the Constitution, not and amendment), which gave slave-holding southerners congressional clout by allowing them to count people they didn't really consider to be people, three-fifths or otherwise, as people for the purposes of setting up congressional districts. Slaves were property, which white southerners argued well into the 20th century was the reason they couldn't treat black people as their equals (or even as human beings) long after the 13th amendment set them free. The other amendment House members chose not to read ordered that slaves, even those who escaped to free states, had to be returned to their rightful owners. Both were crucial to the ratification of the Constitution. Leave out slavery? As we begin to commemorate the 150th anniversary of the Civil War, no time seems more approapriate for including it.

The tea partiers (and their brethren the "birther" blowhards) -- who were meant to be appeased by the reading -- apparently like their United States uncomplicated by the messy realities of history (and the messiness of the Constitution). And my guess is that African Americans are a reality lots of tea partiers wish would retreat quietly back across the tracks to what southerners routinely called (offensive word warning) "niggertown" when I was growing up. It is a word I always hated, a place I always wanted to go as a child, but I was raised around white people who remained terrified of those freed three-fifths people living over there 100 years after the Civil War. Happily my southern family has become more integrated and colorful in recent years, becoming more and more a family I could be proud to belong to (I fled the south and the family a long time ago. I had my reasons but interestingly not one relative has asked me why. Ever.)

Which brings us to the N-word. And the upcoming publication of versions of Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer without it. The books are being bowdlerized in pretty much the same way the Constitution was bowdlerized yesterday in Washington. I suppose everything becomes easier to understand with the dark parts left out. The N-word will be replaced in many instances in the books with the word "slave" (which ignores the message of "Oh, Freedom," the old spiritual that says: "Before I'd be a slave I'd be buried in my grave").

I don't use the N-word. Never use it in convsersation. Never have used it in conversation. Never was allowed to use it (my grandmother used it with impunity). Cringe when I hear people say it. But there is using it and then there is using it. When Mark Twain used it he had his reasons and they were good ones. I am not Mark Twain, but I am a writer and, as a writer, I would use it (and have used it) in my writing if the situation calls for it. I will use any word the situation calls for. That is what writers do, use the word that's called for, even the uncomfortable words. And they should not be removed, not even for children, especially not from Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn.

Huckleberry Finn is not a book for children and it should not be taught to children or anyone else not prepared to deal with its darkness and complexities -- and its language, all of it. It is an adult book, an important book. Every word of it. How important? Ernest Hemingway said, “All modern American literature comes from one book by Mark Twain called Huckleberry Finn." Why mess with a good thing?

LANGUAGE IN THE DIGITAL AGE (AND A FEW WORDS ON JONATHAN FRANZEN'S "FREEDOM")

I was reading a story in my old New Mexico hometown newspaper the other day. Who wouldn't read a story headlined: "Man Cursed by Spirits Indicted for Rape."

The suspect told detectives "he's followed by spirits that tell him to do bad things and it's possible that might have happened in this case." So did they or didn't they? How does he know? How does anybody know? It's a variation of the old devil-made-me-do-it defense that doesn't usually play to well in court, especially for things like raping a child. It was a dark and unsettling story with evil spirits demanding to be read.

Then I came to this sentence: "Sandoval was accused of digitally penetrating his niece Sept. 18 while he was staying in Espanola." I hesitated over the words "digitally penetrating." What exactly does this mean at a time in history when "digital" can mean so many things?

Digitally penetrating. Is it something physical or something numerical? Is it something real or something virtual? Does it involve hands or computers? Is it fingers or alogorithms? Did those evil spirits tell Sandoval to do something or simply to type something? Is it data or music or rape?

Not only has Sandoval's niece been compromised, the writer of the story has used compromised language as well. What happened between Sandoval and his niece is not clear at first glance because the word "digital" is not as efficient as it once was. Inefficient words die as they are starved of meaning. Or they evolve. Or they learn to keep more meaningful company.

We must be able to grasp the horror of what Sandoval is accused of doing to his niece quickly and completely. "Digitally penetrating" is "digitally" inefficient.

SPEAKING OF THE DIGITAL AGE:

I would like to repost something I posted on Facebook earlier today:

Jonathan Franzen's Freedom is the most aggressively boring book I ever read -- and I have read a lot of books. It is also aggressively well punctuated. Perhaps the two things are linked.

What was Time magazine thinking?

(NEARLY) INSTANT KARMA

Six months ago a guy took my job away. A couple of days ago somebody took his job away. The news left me feeling very merry indeed.

Did I know this would happen? Sure. I even predicted it. Do I have other predictions for the future? Of course. Am I interested in sharing them? Nah. That would take the fun out of it.

It's John Lennon's birthday. Eat, drink, be merry, and join me and John in singing "Instant Karma."

 

MERRILY WE SING ALONG

THE RETURN OF THE CREEP: HELLO, YOU MUST BE GOING

I wasted a great deal of time and energy on a guy who called my wife on the phone a few years ago. When I answered the phone, he introduced himself as her former boyfriend, which immediately said to me: This is one of those creepy-crawly assholes who find themselves sad, lonely, miserable, sickly, aging, etc., suffer from an intense attack of the-way-we-were-ism and can't resist the urge to give an old girlfriend a call. He's married, of course, and unhappy, of course. They're always married, aren't they? And unhappy and/or lying. And this guy was married and lying about it even back in what he obviously recalls as the good old days (a REALLY long time ago) up in the icy north where the lakes freeze so solidly you can drive a car on them.

My wife, whose first impulse is not to be suspicious of people's motives (she's wonderful that way), took the phone and cheerfully caught him up on her life, her accomplishments (which have been many) and our wonderfully happy marriage (now 22 years long). That is because she mistook the guy for somebody who actually gave a shit about any of that stuff. I knew differently. And I knew it immediately. I knew it empirically; I knew it intuitively. I didn't even have to hear much of the conversation to know. Remember that old Rolling Stones lyric about being "practiced at the art of deception" from "You Can't Always Get What You Want"? That's him. That's the guy. I recognized him right away. I went to sit on the patio.

By the time my wife hung up the phone I was furious. Why didn't she hang up sooner? She was puzzled at my reaction (I don't ever act like that, never had before, never have since) and thought I was getting all worked up about nothing (which further stoked my fury). She said it had been years ago and she didn't go out with him but a short time, etc. And I was fine with that part. But I was not fine with the rest of it. She said she was "flattered" by the call. I knew he was manipulating her, playing her (and I suspect that's what he was doing even in the good old days -- he was married back then, too -- because this crap is not simply what he does, it is who he is). She couldn't see him coming (which stoked my anger even further). Or maybe she simply didn't recognize what she was looking at (which left me completely bumfuzzled).

The guy was a stereotype, somebody you could see coming from a mile away, the kind of smarmy and self-righteous creep a guy can see coming from here to California without looking very hard. He is the guy who is always out there looking for a way in. Any way in. Guys like that are dangerous.

I told my wife she would receive a heartfelt email from the guy very soon seeking another level of communication. Something warmer and fuzzier perhaps. Something secret for sure. She didn't think so. Or didn't want to think so. But an email arrived. And it didn't take long. And he sent it to her from an email account he secretly set up in his daughter's name (smarmy knows no limits).

His predictability would have been amusing if it had not been so infuriating.

DISPROPORTIONATE ANGER

But I could never have predicted the way my anger grew huge and unmanageable and would not subside. That took me by surprise. It surprised my wife. But I was not angry at her. Never ever. None of this was her fault. It was not jealousy. I am not a jealous guy. And I am intensely, happily and passionately married (the 'til death do us part kind of marriage). I love my wife and I know she loves me. This was something far more primal than jealousy.

The way I saw it, this guy was invasive, intrusive, malicious, dangerous, nearly criminal. He invaded our lives like a thief, a murderer, a rapist, stealthily crawling in through a quietly jimmied window and circling our bed on tiptoe in the dark. He was a threat. I had a reason to be angry. A guy who arrogantly identifies himself to me as my wife's ex-boyfriend, secretly sets up email accounts in his own daughter's name, is so clearly long-practiced in the art of deception, and won't go away is reason enough to be angry. But my anger was bigger than that. It was far beyond jealousy and deep into dangerous and unknown territory. It was a place I had never been before. My wife did not understand the immensity of my rage; I was beyond understanding. And I couldn't escape. That is what scared me.

My wife sent him an email politely telling him to go away and that helped for a while, but little by little my rage returned. I hated it but it happened. Then it consumed me. I did hours of research and eventually knew far more about this guy's life than my wife ever would have cared to know (I also had to wonder: What kind of narcissistic moron tries to mess with the wife of a former investigative reporter who works for an intelligence company?). I knew stuff, lots of stuff. I had enough knowledge and rage to become a destroyer of worlds and families (I won't hesitate next time). But I held it close and stifled the rage. If knowledge is power, I should have felt like Superman. But I didn't. I needed to DO something. I at least needed to speak for myself. My wife forwarded me his email address along with the email she sent him. I think she was a little nervous about what I might say or do. She asked me not to contact his wife and children. I didn't (It was my first instinct and I should have followed it. Not my problem).

So I fantasized about doing evil things, but I finally sent him a message that was remarkably restrained (except for the "fucking pathetic" bit I included near the end). It reads in part:

"... Both (the phone call and emails) were beyond insulting to her and to me. Neither will happen again, not now, not 10 years from now, not when it strikes your fancy.

“Never EVER contact my wife again. You will not call. You will not email. You will not write. Nothing. There will never be a circumstance, no matter how dire, that will permit it. As she made clear in her response to you, 'There will not be a time in the future when we can write or talk.' As she took some pains to explain, we live in a world from which you are excluded. Your exclusion is complete and permanent and we have agreed to work together to make sure it stays that way. She has made her wishes known to you; I have made mine. Any further attempts -- ever -- at contact by you will be considered both malicious and harassing. She took the high road in responding to your email; there will be no high road if you ever contact her again.”

I sent the email to his personal account AND to his daddy's-little-secret@ email account on May 17, 2005.

I felt better. Eventually my anger subsided then finally disappeared. I can't explain it except to say what he did probably touched some dark childhood fear of threats and betrayal (dysfunctional families hide all kinds of stuff in dark places). Wherever it came from, it was terrible. It was real. I hope never to visit that dark place inside me again. I can never apologize to my wife enough for what I became in those angry days. And I can never thank her adeqately for lovingly grabbing hold of my hand and not letting go until I escaped of the dark hole I was in. We came out of it together.

WHAT HAPPENED NEXT

That was five years ago and reading over my email to him its message remains perfectly clear. "Never" still means never. And "Never EVER" still means Never EVER. And "There will never be a circumstance, no matter how dire" still means not even if you are sick, dying, ecstatically happy, seriously suicidal, being held captive in a cave by Al Qaeda, nothing. The message still says what it was meant to say.

Now this.

A few days ago the guy ignored everything my wife said and everything I said and wrote to her again. He mentions reading both of our emails to him and declares himself laughing out loud ("lol"). But we aren't laughing. This time it's a private message to her on Facebook. A "five-year update" for people who don't want to be updated and tried to make that clear five years ago. But this time she sees him for what he is. She told me about his message last night. Did he think she wouldn't mention it to me? He seems not to have understood the "we have agreed to work together" to keep you out part of the email I sent either.

My wife is angry. I am angry. We resent the intrusion. We resent having to spend any more time on this. She says we will sit down together and deal with it. No time will be wasted. And whatever we do, or don't do, I hope he gets the message. Stay away. If it isn't clear enough, he should read through the email I sent him five years ago, especially the part that says, "there will be no high road if you ever contact her again."

The message is simple: Stop now. Bad road ahead. And bad roads can lead to dark and dangerous places. But the high road ends here.

*******************

Meanwhile, this one goes out to The Creep. You know who you are.

 

Think about it darlin'.

JOB ADVICE FOR THE UNEMPLOYED: NEVER GO TO WORK FOR A MIDGET OR ANY OTHER GUY WITH A COMPLEX SHORT-GUY COMPLEX

"Now you see this one-eyed midget/Shouting the word 'NOW'" -- Bob Dylan

There are good days and bad days for the unemployed.

A couple of weeks ago I had energy and clarity for a few days. I was organized and focused. There were things to do and I did them. I thought things were improving at last and I was in the clear. It was almost like having a job. That's what jobs provide isn't it? Organization? Focus? That's one reason it is so difficult to be unemployed.

Find a job if you must. But take my advice and no matter how tough things get: Never go to work for a midget. I did. Of course, I didn't realize the guy was a midget at first. He seemed bigger, taller, especially when he talked, but the little fuckers are sneaky that way. And by the time I figured it out, years of my life had been structured  around the little guy's rants - sometimes a bit psychotic, other times more than a bit silly - and narcissistic whims. And sometimes I miss it. Sometimes I even miss the midget. Because sometimes a little something is all you need.

Especially on days like this when my head is a congestion of voices and I can't understand a thing they are saying. Not one of them is willing to speak up. It's a problem. I have spent nearly two years in therapy (of course, organizing my life around a the rants and whims of a midget with a complex short-guy complex eventually led to therapy. Where else could it lead?). And last week my therapist looked a little shocked when I told him that sometimes I wish I could be a schizophrenic just long enough for one voice to rise above the others and speak clearly to me when my head fills up like this. That is the kind of despair that comes with losing a job without warning. You end up in an enervating mumbling muddle.

It has been several days now and I still can't concentrate. I lack focus. I cannot get organized. But I am trying. Yesterday I bought a cork bulletin board and hung it on the wall above my desk where the map of the world used to be. It is empty, but I envision it filled with an orderly procession of note cards held in place with thumbtacks. On them I will write down what comes first, what comes next, and what comes after that, etc. I will tack the first card in the upper left hand corner of the board. When my days muddle and congest, I will look up at the board and a note card will spell out what comes next. It is a small thing. Sometimes a little something is all it takes. Perhaps my bulletin board will be enough.

Somewhere back there the capricious midget raves on. The sound of his voice fades, lingers. It is not easy to be unemployed, but it is better than that.

Like I said. There are good days and bad days.

 

AW, SHOOT!

If there are two things Texans love, it's firearms and capital punishment.

So it must come as a great disappointment to learn that on a list of the states with the most guns published by The Daily Beast, Texas could do no better than 33rd. Number One on the list is Kentucky and Number 50 is New Jersey (New Jersey!). It turns out that on a per capita, gun purchase background check basis (per 100,000 population) people in Minnesota, Iowa, Indiana, Illinois, New Hampshire and Connecticut tote more guns than Texans do. So Texans better cowboy up. The Supreme Court is giving them all the help it can.

The governor is doing his part. This is the state where Rick Perry recently gunned down a coyote that threatened his dog while he was out on a run. He did it with his little laser-sighted Ruger .380 loaded with hollow point bullets. He said he carries it when he jogs because he is afraid of snakes. He also seems to be afraid of the conclusions a panel investigating the 2004 execution of Todd Willingham, who might have been an innocent man (despite the fact that he was without question not a very nice guy, which seems to have been sufficient reason to execute the guy whether or not he killed anybody, according to Perry). Perry signed off on the execution. Willingham died. There have been questions. And there have been other death penalty questions. Perry doesn't want answers. He has other things to do, coyotes to shoot, hair to comb, death warrants to sign, hair to comb, Sarah Palin to embrace. Things like that. And he's running for re-election.

And just when I was considering buying me one of those laser sighted .380 Rugers issued in Rick Perry's honor that has "Coyote Special" engraved on one side and "A True Texan" engraved on the other. A howling coyote and a Texas star are on it, too. I figured it would help me not feel so much like a square peg in a Texas-shaped hole. But if Texas can do no better than 33rd on the top gun list, why bother? Maybe I should develop a Texas-sized taste for capital punishment instead.Texas has executed 13 people this year (the next closest state is Virginia with two). There are five more scheduled to die between now and October. Yum.

 I live in Texas, where the governor is afraid of snakes and actually thinks he could kill one with his little pistol. A snake. Are you kidding? Not even with a laser sight. Maybe he could shoot a snake if someone killed it first. But then, Rick Perry is a man famous for saying dumb stuff, including this recent gem: "From time to time there are going to be things that occur that are acts of God that cannot be prevented." Is he calling the Gulf oil spill an act of God rather than a failure of BP or is he calling BP God and thus infallible? Does he know what he is saying? Texans love this kind of stuff. I don't.

Who am I kidding? The fact is I never will fit in. I am not a man cut out to fit in a Texas-shaped hole.

UNEMPLOYED: HOW I JUDAS-ED MY INNER JESUS, GOT MYSELF TAR-BABIED AND ENDED UP IN THE BRIAR PATCH

"Didn't the fox never catch the rabbit, Uncle Remus?" asked the little boy the next evening.

"He come mighty nigh it, honey, sho's you born - Brer Fox did."

                                                                         "The Wonderful Tar Baby Story"

                                                                         Joel Chandler Harris

1. BRER RABBIT (He looks a lot like you and me)

Once upon a time, one way or another, we all are stuck at Tar Baby, Inc.

How long have you been stuck in your job, Brer Rabbit? Days? Months? Years? Careers? Most of us spend our entire lives that way. Some of us stick with one Tar Baby; others move from Tar Baby to Tar Baby in a sort of serial Tar Babyism. Either way, stuck is stuck and you have been stuck or you will be stuck just like Brer Rabbit got himself stuck to that Tar Baby. Just like I did.

I am a serial Tar Babyist, fueled by ambition, boredom, enthusiasm, dissatisfaction, whimsy, serendipity, stupidity, salvation (need for, lack of), love (need for, lack of), limited foresight, malice aforethought, bad planning, dumb choices, dumb luck, etc. I have been stuck at several jobs for varying lengths of time. The most recent one falls under the category of DUMB DECISIONS (COMPROMISED VALUES). And this time was the worst, the longest -- and for the most unforgivable of reasons: I was in it for the money, something I promised myself long ago I would never do. Not only that, I was only in it for the money in a place I don't like. I also promised myself long ago I would never stay anywhere because of a job. And here I am in Texas and I am not a Texan of any sort. Seven years in one job (a record for me); nearly eight years in Texas when the plan was for four). I vowed when I was young that I would never be bound to a job or a place by money or by habit. I broke my vow this time. I sold out my principles to stay in a place I don't like for a job that was wrecking both my mental and physical health. I Judas-ed my own inner Jesus. But I didn't do it alone. My wife helped me.

How can two smart people make such a dumb decision? A few years ago my wife and I looked at the check book, the bank account, the paycheck and the calendar and convinced ourselves I could do my job for the money for a few more years. We thought it through. Or at least we thought we did. And it was for the best of reasons (especially if we left out the parts about greed and the panic of the no-longer-young). But no matter how much money I was paid after that, I was stuck up against the Tar Baby-est Tar Baby ever. And the more I fought it, the more stuck I became. A promotion here, a little more money there, promises, promises, promises. For a while I convinced myself I wasn't trapped at all and that I was sticking around Tar Baby, Inc., because I wanted to. But I wasn't. I was stuck. And finally, just like Brer Rabbit, I realized I couldn't unstick myself. So there I was, sold out, stranded, depressed, physically ill, but I kept on bringing home the bacon because that is what we agreed I would do.

BRER FOX (You know the type)

Behind every Tar Baby, Inc., there is a sly old Brer Fox, a Head Honcho, a Big Cheese, President, Chief Cook and Bottle Washer, Director, Manager, a Whatever-They-Call-Him-Wherever-You-Work (or -Used-to-Work). They're the ones who think their shit don't stink. You know the type. In their deluded state, they get the Holy Spirit and the Entrepreneurial Spirit confused and when he (or she) looks into the mirror they see the Face of God staring back at them. And not just any god. They see the Old Testament God (the unleavened and unJesused punishing God of the Jews), the one who spoke the world into existence (the Let-There-Be-Light God). "Let there be light. By god, that's me," they say to the face in the mirror, but it's a case of mistaken identity. Most often they rise only to the level of a less-than-god who never made it into anybody's holy book, a failed god who keeps trying to speak the world into existence but can't because: (1) they don't know precisely what they want to say or (2) when to shut up. There never can be real light (not Let-There-Be-Light kind of light) in Brer Fox's world because he/she is always telling somebody to change the bulb. But no light, no matter. Brer Fox is going to keep on talking. You know the type.

Brer Fox (a.k.a. Brer God, Brer Boss, Brer Whatever) likes to say the sort of thing from time to time that terrifies anyone who ever found himself - or herself - stuck at Tar Baby, Inc. "I'm gwinter bobby-cue you one day fo' sho." Which is a pre-Ebonics Uncle Remus-y way of saying: "You're going to be stuck to my Tar Baby until I decide to cook your fucking goose." And over the years you see other geese bobby-cued all around you for good reason or no reason. But you convince yourself it'll never happen to you. You have history, loyalty. You have friends. You even have friends in high places. But sure enough the day comes when one of Brer Fox's Tar-Babysitters (yes-men, ass-kissers, shit-shovelers, toadies, etc., you know the type) gives you the grim news. And no matter how they do it or what word they use - terminated, laid off, eliminated or bobby-cued - it always means the same thing. "You're fired."

THE BRIAR PATCH (or There's No Place Like Home)

First you're scared. Then you're mad (that won't go away for a long time, believe me. I don't know how long because it's not over yet). You feel betrayed. You feel useless. You feel bent over and -- well, you know the painful feeling. You feel like you have been flung into the briar patch in the worst possible way. I've been feeling all of that plus some for several weeks now. Still do.

But think about this: For the first time in a long time (days, months, years, careers) you are Brer Rabbit (or somebody a lot like him) and you are free from Tar Baby, Inc. Think about it. Brer Fox (Brer Boss, Brer Flunky, Brer Shit-Don't-Stink) thinks you're a goner. But you're not because the briar patch is where you live (at least you used to back when you had promises to keep). And you are home free, which I'll admit can be a very scary place to be, especially if you don't recognize it at first. But while you are waiting for the scary-ness to wear off, remember what Brer Rabbit said to Brer Fox after he had been flung into the briar patch:

" 'Bred and born in the briar patch, Brer Fox -- bred and born in the briar patch!' And with that he skipped out just as lively as a cricket in the embers."

The briar patch is the place to be.

As for Brer Fox and the rest of them? They are still stuck back at Tar Baby, Inc. And I almost feel sorry for them. But only almost. Feeling sorry would mean I give a damn. And I don't. You think Brer Rabbit felt sorry for Brer Fox after he tricked him into tossing him into the briar patch? Hell no! For that matter, do you think your friends back at old Tar Baby, Inc., really give a shit about what happened to you? Hell no! I would like to see the whole bunch of them from the Brer-iest Fox to the Toadiest Toady La Brea-ed in their own tar pit. In fact, if I caught them standing at the edge of the pit, I might be tempted to give them a little shove.

I read recently that losing a job is just about the worst thing that can happen to a person and I am not about to claim that all of the zip-a-dee is back in my doo-dah and I am not yet as lively as a cricket in the embers. But for now I am feeling a little more at home in my own private briar patch every day. That's enough.

UNEMPLOYED: TERROR AT THE DELI COUNTER

Even the unemployed have to eat even if we are not supposed to enjoy it (isn't that the American way of looking at things? You have to work for it to enjoy it?). But, as The Misfit says in Flannery O'Connor's famous story ,"It's no real pleasure in this life." So yesterday I went to my favorite local grocery store to pick up a few things - milk, bread, eggs, coffee, a big sack of dried pinto beans, the usual. Then I stopped by the deli counter to buy some ham and some mesquite roast beef, sliced thin for sandwiches (speaking of sandwiches, my local H.E.B. grocery now carries Duke's mayonnaise - the best mayonnaise, period - whose praises I have sung here before. Such wonderful mayonnaise, available so far from home). The woman behind the counter was pleasant, eager to slice the meat just the way I wanted it. We chatted about the weather, the chances of another freeze (she thinks there will be one) and planting tomatoes. Hers were already in the ground and I went straight home and planted mine. A good tomato is something to chance a freeze for (and a homegrown tomato sandwich with Duke's mayonnaise on soft, store-bought white bread is an ecstatic event). The woman was older, gray haired, like an aging but cheerful and patient aunt. I am sure the grocery store manager loves having people like that behind the deli counter. Then I realized she was not an aging aunt. She was a woman around my age who was working behind the deli counter in a grocery store talking to strangers about tomatoes and the weather. For a second I saw myself there behind the counter and being jobless took on a frightening new dimension for me.That's how jobless "older" people like me can end up, right? Managers love having people like me behind the deli counter. I shivered it off, but as The Misfit says, "It's no pleasure...." I shivered again.

MAYBE TIGER CAN ASK PETA FOR HELP

I have always been interested in Tiger Woods. I have watched him play golf and I watched him give his speech today on television. I thought the speech was head and shoulders above the usual "I'm sorry" speech we hear from athletes. It was a serious occasion. And in the end it was funereal. When he stepped down from the podium to solemnly hug his mother and his various invited friends when the speech was over he looked for all the world like a man who had delivered his own eulogy and was consoling the mourners and thanking them for attending the graveside service. He buried himself and no one was allowed to throw even a handful of dirt into the hole he dug. Now we wait and see. Lazarus was called forth from the grave. But Tiger will have to be self-rising if he is to be Lazarus at all. Self-crucified. Self-buried. Can he be self-rising? And, if he rises, will he be Tiger again or will it turn out he is just another self-serving dough boy?