I am reasonably certain that I do not have to do anything this weekend that involves travel, other than to and from the bowling center for the usual pro shop shift. The last few months have revolved around going somewhere for a tournament or coaching course, and it's only now, as I write this, that I look backward realize just how insane the ride has been. I need a vacation from my obsessions.
In that light, I wish to heap praise on someone in my life not at all associated with bowling. His name is Rudy, but everyone calls him Peanut Man. He was at the front door of my Regular Job as I arrived this morning, the bed of his pickup truck nearly overflowing with fresh produce - watermelons, cantaloupe, peaches, tomatoes, and the holy grail (and source of his nickname), hot boiled peanuts.
(For those not familiar, boiled peanuts are unshelled, unroasted peanuts boiled in salt water and various seasonings until tender. These are then cooled, placed into ziplock bags and sold at flea markets, in gas station parking lots, out of the backs of pickups, and on the sides of roads all over the South. Done right, they are partial proof of the existence of God. Just make sure they were made from raw, not already roasted peanuts. Those made from the latter are proof of the existence of jackasses.)
Peanut Man is part savior, part huckster, but he is always good for a smile and some in-season produce brought to your door at a reasonable price. And those peanuts - Damn! I (rather painfully) avoided buying some this morning because I had already eaten breakfast and knew I would not be able to resist downing a whole bag before lunch. Instead, I invested in a watermelon so sweet it could give you diabetes. Other employees also partook of his bounty, and the office refrigerator now looks like a fruit stand.
I do not know if Peanut Man is unique to my town, or if he is one of many beautiful souls bringing tasty joy to the parking lots of office parks all over the land. Hell, he could be in a union for all I know. But I wish to make plain my feelings, as the watermelon juice runs down my arm and the smile broadens across my face...
Tuesday, February 6, 2007, 11:45 AM EST [Not Bowling]
For those few that might wonder, my blogging took a backseat to learning to actually type. You know, using all the fingers, not looking at the keyboard, etc. Seemed to me that if I was going to do this kind of thing I should take the time to learn the nuts and bolts so that creating a blog entry doesn't consume a whole day. Well, at least not in the physical execution of it anyway. My apologies to the four of you for the delay.
I could recount for you the vast amount of stuff that has happened in the last few weeks - the 300 I threw in practice (part of 15 in a row), the 762 in league a week ago, the Senior PBA regional my home bowling center hosted this weekend, meeting Guppy Troup, watching him kick bowling ass while drunk on Crown Royal Reserve at 8:30 Sunday morning, the open bar tab for pro shop employees (and the ensuing drunken idiocy) on Saturday, the "date" I arranged with a former girlfriend for my first trip to Nationals in May, my fourth trip to Kegel, meeting and receiving a day's worth of instruction from Del Warren while there, and a few other bits I can't recall right now - but I won't just yet. I'd rather tell you about what happened this morning.
I stopped by my favorite supermarket this morning to pick up some lunch supplies. It's run by an old Southern family and, especially in the mornings, the checkout people are all older ladies, always super polite and friendly as hell. I get my stuff and find my favorite checkout lady, whose name I've managed to never learn, but who always remembers me. She's doing her regular checkout thing, but she seems rattled. She says, "Forgive me, but my nineteen year-old grandson is shipping out to Iraq today, and it's about killing me." She starts crying and I suddenly feel bad for even being there, making her ring up my now-inconsequential food. She hands me my receipt, thanks me for being so kind and asks me for a hug. It's not the manliest thing to leave a supermarket in tears, yet there I was, fumbling for my keys and wiping my eyes on the walk out to the car.
I get to work and immediately get into a half-hour conversation with my friend about his current obsession with The Beach Boys and Brian Wilson, and the relationship between their music and the Beatles. Specifically, he shows me the similarities between The Beatles' "Ticket To Ride" - in retrospect, an earth-shattering shift in pop music songcraft - and an obscure Beach Boys song called "Girl Don't Tell Me". Of course, this leads to much listening of other songs by both groups, and my realization that 1) I need to do more listening to both groups' entire catalogs and 2) there is probably no other workplace in the world where this sort of conversation is even ALLOWED to go on, much less IS going on.
(Seriously, listen to the BB's "God Only Knows" sometime and tell me that it isn't a masterpiece, or the Beatles' "I'm Only Sleeping" and tell me that pop music gets much better.)
