Mason Jennings

I don't spend a lot of time preaching the virtues of listening to certain artists.

Unlike books/movies/theatre, I never can trust that what I like will be what someone else likes.

Music's more ephemeral, tied to a subconscious accumulation of life experiences.

Trying to describe why you like music is so much different than describing why you like a movie. There's something more tangible about words and visual stimulation. The script and the actors. It's the soundtrack, though, that can almost imperceptibly tie it all altogether.

That said ...

Listen to Mason Jennings.

Why, you ask?

Just because.

You should also listen to the first four Black Sabbath albums.

If you want to. If that's your kind of thing.

I can unearth my internal dialogue to describe why I like the first four Black Sabbath albums, but it always just sounds so uselessly pretentious. Instead, I end up saying something like, "Man, Black Sabbath is the TRUTH!"

Or I just wear a Black Sabbath T-shirt.

I also wear a Mason Jennings T-shirt. The only problem is, nobody knows who he is.

(And I don't mean that in a ... "Oh, What do I like? Shit, man. Mason Jennings. You don't know who he is? I guess you shouldn't be expected to. You have to be ultra-cool to know about somebody who nobody knows about).

I saw him at the Georgia Theatre in Athens this week. There weren't a lot of people (taking the stage a little before midnight on a Tuesday might have played a part). But let me tell you, there was this vibe -- like a thing with the crowd where everyone was feeling Mason's energy and became one and ...

Hold on. Let me puke.

OK.

Now, let me do my best to tell you basically what kind of music he does and why I think it's so special.

Hold on. Let me puke again.

OK. I'm set.

Mason Jennings is a guy from Minnesota with a guitar and a small supporting band and a distinct, fluid voice inflection.

I refuse to use the term "earthy." Shit. This is hard.

OK ... his lyrics are the kind of concise poetry that makes you enjoy hearing how someone can say something in a way that you've never heard it said before -- and somehow end up feeling that there's no other way it could have been said.

He tackles relationships, faith, world events. You know, the whole singer/songwriter deal.

He's kind of a branch of the Jack Johnson/Ben Harper family tree. He's never recorded or toured with them, but he did provide a song for the "Shelter" surf video that Jack Johnson filmed. That got Mason some recognition among the crowd who likes Jack Johnson and Ben Harper (but at the same time isn't sure they should anymore, because everybody seems to know who they are now).

Look, that's the best I can do. Listen to it if you like that kind of music. You have to start with his 1998 self-titled debut, then go to the 2004 "Use Your Voice" CD before listening to the rest of his work. Otherwise, it might not work for you.

If I have to, I'll mail you a burned disc.

Check him out. You know you want to, because you've never heard of him.

And if you don't like it, well, I told you I sucked at this.

A Seat

There are people in this world who, in passing, in just a mere moment, can alter our lives for the rest of our lives.

For both the good and the bad.

Doctors. Priests. Educators.

I think of these people when I find my better tendencies slipping.

But none of them more than the girl on the school bus.

I think of her from time to time. I want to know that she's OK, that she's happy. That life has treated her as well as she treated me.

I think of her whenever I think I should give someone what they've got coming to them (or bestow upon myself what I think I'm entitled to).

I don't know her name, and I never will.

---

In 7th grade, my young life was a disaster.

I could barely function, let alone fend for myself, in society. I had gone from a well-adjusted, popular student excelling in advanced classes just a few years before to being a perpetually ridiculed recluse with no friends, struggling to make D's.

I was weak, a bit overweight. Never a smile on my face.

My stop was the last stop, so I always stepped aboard to a packed school bus. There were still some seats, but the bus driver didn't seem to care much if no one would let me sit down.

It probably offered her some early-morning entertainment, just as it did for the other kids.

I remember seeing those short buses pull up to school with the handicapped kids. I wished to myself that I could ride on one of those instead. Maybe I'd fit in better there. Perhaps I'd get a seat.

One morning, I was late to the bus stop. I saw the bus pulling off. I had on a cheap bookbag loaded with books. As I ran to the bus, the straps broke. The bus stopped. I could hear all the kids laughing at me. My books were scattered all over the pavement and my knee was bleeding. I gathered my books in my arms and climbed aboard.

Everyone was looking at me, pointing, jeering. I didn't know how I was going to stand up for the whole ride to school with all the books in my hands. Every eye I looked into reflected cruelty and hopelessness.

Then, I heard her voice.

It was a deep-timbered voice for a middle-school-aged girl. It had the inflection of the Southern black woman who spends her spare time singing in a Gospel group. Warm and sure and real.

"Come here, baby. You sit next to me."

She slid over next to the window and patted the seat. I sat down next to her.

---

I don't remember the rest.

All I can really conjure up is the pain and embarrassment of it all.

I can remember the confusion, then her voice, then sitting down, then ... nothing else.

That nameless girl didn't make all the pain go away, but she did brand me indelibly with an undeniable truth: It's always a good thing if you can make people feel like they're not all alone.

Superior Air

Not long ago, I found a $1 bill -- folded together with shit caked in the middle -- in the trash can under my desk. People were intrigued.

I took it around and showed everyone. I analyzed the whole thing in excessive detail. Like, for instance, it wasn't dog shit. It was human shit. How do I know? I just know, because I'm an expert.

If somebody hates me, they did the wrong thing to get under my skin. If somebody thought I might think it's funny, they were right. If somebody just felt the random urge to wipe with a $1 bill and throw it in the first random trash can, they might need some help.

I have a strange obsession with potty humor. I freely admit it.

I've crapped my pants and worn an adult diaper and told everybody I possibly could about it.

My oldest son, when he was about 3, once passed gas and said, "I blew smoke out my poo-poo way." He said it in all seriousness and had no idea how indelibly that phrase would stick with me.

Still, there's something I can't quite figure out.

There's something out of place. Something at my workplace.

When I go to the restroom, I don't like people to know I'm going to take a dump.

Actually, not just people in general, but certain people. And I can't exactly explain who those people are. I might walk in and see someone and say to myself, "Oh, I don't care if he knows I'm about to stock the pond," but, usually, it's just not cool with me.

I won't make a big show of having a newspaper in my hand if someone is passing by in the hall as I walk into the restroom. If I walk in and someone is at the sink, I'll walk out and go to another floor.

If someone is in the accompanying stall, I might also walk out. If I don't, the only way I stay is if I get the stall that has a solid wall on one side. Never just stall walls on either side.

Maybe it has to do with my attitude toward others. If I walk into the restroom and have to hold my breath while I pee at the urinal, and then I see the dude who has tainted the atmosphere I have to breathe, I tend to have a sense of superiority about me.

Along the lines of "Damn, something crawled up in him and DIED!"

I think that's one thing. I don't want people smelling something coming out of me. I like gas for the sound it makes and the relief it brings, not the smell. I never want anyone to smell it.

I also feel so ... defenseless.

My highest-level supervisor could be washing his hands, oblivious and aloof, but I still succumb to the numbing fear that he's going to pass by the stall door and say, "WHEW! Somebody got something that crawled up in them and DIED!"

Even if I make it in with no one spotting me, I still feel like they know who I am in there. What if I cough? You can hear someone cough and know who they are. I realized that in the restroom one time when I heard a guy cough. Forevermore, I see him as someone who has a lot of stink going on inside him.

What about when my sunglasses fall off the top of my head and onto the floor and slide over to the guy next to me? I quickly grab them, saying nothing, because I so don't want someone picking them up, handing them to me and saying, "Here you go, Eric. You dropped these."

It's my fault.

I can be sitting there, quietly, and someone busts into the stall next to me, makes a bunch of heaving sighs, pulls his pants down and explodes.

I can be sitting there, quietly, and someone will answer his cell phone.

I can be sitting there, quietly, and someone will pull off one piece of toilet paper and then flush and leave.

And each time, I sit there, smugly, shaking my head and grinning: "Damn, that guy was taking a shit."

Warning: (Graphic) Graphic

Oh, boy.

So, this is how South Carolina serves barbeque. At least according to an industry trade association (which is full of what I've experienced as being a bunch of generally nice guys).

Interesting piece of trivia that might one day save you from some sadistic psychopath's torture chamber: South Carolina is the only state in the union that serves the four different flavor bases of barbeque.

For those of you outside the South -- ie. above the Mason-Dixon line, or in Florida -- barbeque here is both a verb and a noun. We eat barbeque. We barbeque things. We barbeque barbeque.

I'm partial to the mustard-based. To say that publicly is to risk inciting a culture war. We're territorial as shit down here.

As you can see, the graphic illustrates these differences -- and how liking mustard-based barbeque can be seen as a more ... volatile ... choice:

Notice how the mustard-based barbeque is overtly aggressive, thrusting itself through the vinegar base and between the softer-toned tomato and light-tomato bases. Truly exerting its dominance, creating a wedge between the two tomato flavors and stamping out any possibility of compromise.

Like ... a ... well ...

I showed this graphic to my boss, a woman nearly double my age and one of the most motherly kinds of people you'll meet.

I was talking about how interesting I thought this was. All four bases! Praise be to Allah!

And then it hit me. I started laughing. And couldn't stop -- even though I wanted nothing more than to be able to stop. Then she started laughing. That made me even more uncomfortable. The more she laughed, the more I laughed, the more I wanted it all to be over so I could give in to the all-overs and shake off my embarrassment.

Then, she stopped chuckling and took a breath.

"Yeah, that's funny. It looks like a hurricane."

Umm ... yeah ... that's what I was thinking, too.

Haiku #3-K

Three, first day of school
Baby no more; last baby
Both hands clasp tightly.

Colorless

From the wrist, cold water drips to the hardwood floor, disturbing the pool with each new drop of melted refridgerator ice.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

---

A million bio-electrical salvos attack under the skin.

Sizzle the left forearm.

Then stop.

Then explode again.

Sting the right elbow.

Scars painted by desperate fingernails are the only sign of the riot of synapses raging underneath.

Voices that describe you have returned:

"There is an inevitable end."

Ssssss ...

"You had time to do it, but I had to do it for you."

Ssssss ...

"This won't stop. Not this time."

Ssssss ...

"You can't feel."

Ssssss ...

"These voices do nothing but describe."

Ssssss ...

---

Ice melts down the forearm, a temperatureless conflagration beneath.

Trails of water snake around, and down, and around, and down.

Coalescing into a droplet.

Pausing.

At the wrist, over the pulse ...

Pump. Drip.

Pump. Drip.

Pump. Drip.

Onto the floor.

Colorless.