Stranded notes

By: John Denson, john@densononline.com

Published On: May 07, 2010

So I wake up on a Saturday and it’s raining and maybe storming and just yesterday it was sunny and bright. It’s too early, also, like, 6. What to do?

Write this, is what. Some folks say to write about you, not me, but since I don’t know much about you—Southerners say a whole lot but not much—I write about me, who does both, often regretfully.

I let you get to know me, yet I don’t get to know you.

So tell me. Write. Say something, anything. “I hate your column.” “I love your column.” “I could care less about…”

And while you’re at it, tell me what you’re gonna wear to the Steeplechase. I mean, why not? Nobody cares, they just act like it. Polka dots? Solids? Stripes? A halter top?

Goodness. I won’t make it this year, and I don’t look at the pictures, so you’ll have to describe it. And the Bal d'Hiver…What about those? And the Swan Ball? We know what the men will wear, especially the young ones in tails and red jackets, or something. And those funny hats and…horns?

I’ll tell you what I’m wearing, right now: blue jeans, old tennis shoes, and some ginghamish shirt. If I went to the Steeplechase I’d wear this, too, I bet, but I haven’t been since I was 17 and wore cut-offs, except once when I wore seersucker. Oh my, that was a lesson in why not to go.

New House

I’ve been to a bunch of open houses lately, the kind on Sunday afternoons. They don’t care what you wear, as long as you act like you’ll buy. I always act like it, then don’t.

Except recently. I bought a condo—a condo- in town. In 37205. God forgive me. But it’s closer to my kids, and you, dearly beloved. And the coffee shop, and the office. And there’s a creek behind it. And I get to wear whatever I want.

Really Random Now

I bet Ham’s not skiing today, by the way.

Lately I rediscovered iPods and iTunes and photos on Macs and all that. It’s amazing. This is a result from visiting Thailand last fall, to see my older daughter Sarah while she studied Asian philosophy. I studied it too, just not the way I meant to. Anyway, iPods are the shit. I can blast Tom Petty and nobody knows. And take photos, load them on this machine, see them crystal clear, print them, send them, and just reminisce. If I want.

I had a motorcycle accident over there that still bothers me, months later. But it’ll heal. Seems their bikes are stronger than those putt-putts in the Bahamas. So be it. With 15 million people crammed in a place the size of Davidson County, they need to be. I bought a hand-made suit, a coffee table hand made of teak, and a solid brass Buddha. All for $3.95 (kidding). The shipping alone was $395. But it was worth it. A rather cathartic trip, it was.

And I’m damn glad to be back. Fifteen million people is just too many. It’s like they take up two lanes of West End, walking and selling stuff. Jesus. Try negotiating that.

As for clothes in Thailand, nothing but shorts and sandals: it’s tropical. Very cool. Very warm. Come home? Overcoat. Sweaters. Socks, two apair at once.

So Saturday morning’s almost over. The train went by. I didn’t edit, again. And I’m ready to move. So, hey: enjoy the day. Everyday’s not perfect, and neither are you. So read a book or something. Call a friend you haven’t called in a while. Write a letter! A real one, with a stamp! Do something. And dress casually, because no one’s looking, and, like I said, no one cares.

It’s raining again, hard. I can hear it. I might not go out, but then I might. If I do, the top will be up, this time. I assure you.

Oh wait! It’s later now. I waited to finish the story. The sun’s out. So is Ham. And the top’s going down.

Glory.