Chapter 24 … Play Loud, Play Fast, and …

It’s time to wrap this sucker up, or, as I say in my epic rap, “Autobio-graffiti,” “The kids are grown and doing fine, from here I see the finish line.”

Notice the small window at right, reflecting the sunset over Gilead. It’s symbolic of something or other, not sure what.

• No employees
• No Board of Directors

I was as glad to be rid of them as they were of me. As Sandy says in the garden when she reaches back to unclasp her bra, quoting Martin Luther King, “Free at last!” That’s how I felt. For over 35 years I had been chasing various indicators of success. No more.

Thus, began the next and most pleasant chapter of my life and professional career, one in which my success was determined by whether the seeds germinated, lunch tasted good, or someone in town commented that they enjoyed my most recent story. Work, relationship, and homestead were now rolled into one and shared with Sandy.

This was much like the philosophical workday of Scott and Helen Nearing, the legendary homesteaders and back-to-the-landers whole divided their time into periods of bread labor, leisure, and other distinct functions that added up to a balanced day.

Each morning Sandy and I make the arduous thirteen-step commute down to the kitchen for breakfast. This is followed by separate exercise routines (stretching, breathing, and calisthenics for me, yoga for her). Then we hit the offices for an intense couple hours. Then lunch, then whatever-the-hell needs to be done, followed by whatever-the-hell we want-to-do. In the end we might be engaged for 12 hours a day, 7 days a week, but in ways that are fulfilling and productive. As a major benefit, our work can be done from anywhere, a fact of which we take full advantage.

If it sounds idyllic, it’s pretty damn close. We live in a beautiful home (The Parsonage), in a place that we love (Vermont), travel to exotic places, and have plenty of time for family. An additional bonus for me has been inheriting four grandkids of Sandy’s that I’ve been able to watch grow up– Rhaine, Tully, Alex, and Cassie. Now that my boys have started their own broods (Hunter and Elle), I have some practical experience under my belt!

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I shuttered Green Living Journal on December 31, 2019. Sandy and I both officially retired the next day. This meant that we pretty much continued what we were doing the day before. On February 3, 2020 I had my left hip replaced, giving me a matched set. Then on March 1 came the pandemic.

I was on the home stretch of a major book project, the 50th Reunion Book for the Yale Class of 1970. We were in full sprint mode to complete the project in time for the May reunion. The good news is that we made the deadline; the bad news is that no one else did, as the reunion, along with everything else on the planet, was cancelled.

And, although we met the deadline to get the books into classmates’ hands prior to the reunion, no one shared the memo with the U.S. Postal Systems, so the scheduled reunion weekend for me meant a non-stop barrage of messages from classmates demanding “Where’s my book?”

But the book project was complete, Green Living Journal was no more, and it was time to turn the page. Thus was born “Silverback Digest.”

The Silverback Film Society was formed to give a bunch of oldsters in Vermont an excuse to watch a movie on cold, dark, winter nights.  Originally conceived to feature frozen pizza, cheap beer, and forgettable films the institution thrived despite the fact that the Green Mountain great apes rejected the original values of the group’s founder (that would be me.)

The Silverbacks of Vermont. (They prefer not to be identified.)

When the Pandemic arrived, the gatherings ceased, and I was faced with a void. “Wouldn’t it be great,” I reasoned, “if I could find a way to share the spirit of the Silverbacks with Great Apes worldwide?” The rest as they say, is history. In The Jungle of the Silverbacks the lines between my life and reality, fact and fiction, and good taste and poor taste are often blurred. Here’s a sample the content at silverbackdigest.com:

*************  The New, Hip Me

As publisher of The Silverback Digest, I’ve struggled to reconcile my recent encounter with the health care system with my environmental philosophy. There comes a time when the male of the species realizes that the herd has left him behind. As the lions circle and the hyenas hang back to pick off the stragglers, the herd takes off in magnificent unison. A single one lags behind, a fringe of grey around his muzzle, hobbling to keep up. That would be me.

The lions and hyenas lick their chops.

My strategy regarding the health care system in America can be summarized succinctly: “Avoid it at all costs.” Thus, I was in a dilemma when an orthopedic surgeon told me that my old hip had worn out.

“Should I get a second opinion?” I asked.

“Only if you like to hear the same thing twice,” he said.

I countered with “Food is my medicine. Can I eat my way out of this?” He shook his head.

“Can I exercise my way out of it?”

“Sorry, no.”

I am now officially the straggler. No matter how tough and stringy the carcass, it looks tasty to the lions and hyenas out there.

“What are my options?”

“Continued pain and deterioration,” said my doctor, “or a nice new, synthetic hip.”

Hello, traditional health care! Howyadoin’? Bionic hip replacement, here I come.

My doctor is tall, good-looking, has white, even teeth, diplomas up the ying-yang, and the sublime self-assurance of someone who knows he is a superior human being. He uses big words as if he knows what they mean, even if he knows that I am nodding in dumb agreement. While I would resent these qualities in a next door neighbor, I am happy to have a smart-ass, on-top-of-the-world surgeon, brimming with confidence. I hope his wife is beautiful, his children perfect, and his car pretentious.

The surgery went fine. I will spare the horrific details of what they did to the holy temple of my body, but in less than two hours I was sitting up happily pressing on my self-administered morphine drip. My care was turned over to the hospital staff, whose collective job is to get you out of the hospital as soon as possible. The liberating event is dependent on passing a two question quiz.

“Did you pee?” and “Did you poop?” Of course, they have fancier terms.  I could write an entire essay on the importance of stool softeners, but I can’t imagine any subject that could get you to hit delete faster. 

After 36 hours the health care system was ready to return me to the cruel world of decent food and afternoon television. I left with of Chinese-made gew-gaws that looked to have been  purchased from a late night cable TV info-mercial. “And if you place your order within the next ten minutes for your Deluxe Home Hipster Kit you will receive not only the Super-Stretch Shoe Horn, the Sock-a-Matic, the Gizmo Grabber, AND the Extend-a-Throne toilet. 

Next, my care has been turned over to … (cheesy background music, please) … visiting nurses. No term is more provocative to the male libido than “visiting nurses.” Well, maybe “twins,” or “stewardesses,” or the “Swedish National Bikini Team” but guys know what I’m talking about. You’ve been reading about them since those steamy Grade B novels in the 1950s. The nurse comes in, acting all buttoned up and professional. You’re sitting there, vulnerable in your bathrobe and three-day stubble, ready to be taken advantage of.

For the record I had two visiting nurses, an RN and a Physical Therapist. Both nurses were completely professional, but that’s part of the ruse. They changed the dressing of my wound, gave me exercises, and explained my medications. They were quite complimentary about my progress. That was enough, even in my weakened state, to tickle my vanity.

After each session I was asked to sign off on what we had done. The notes were cryptic and scrawled. Maybe it was code. I did note the frequent use of “SS” which I took to be the abbreviation for Super Star or perhaps the more provocative Super Stud. The next time I was asked to sign off, I pointed to the “SS” and asked my physical therapist. “And this is short for … ? “Stool Softener,” she answered without hesitation. 

Somewhere out there in The Jungle, a visiting nurse is laughing her ass off at this.

What’s next, Big Boy?

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

All That Remains if the Lifetime Achievement Award

The truth is, I’ve been doing the same thing … over and over … my entire life. And what exactly, is that? Telling the deluded story of my Extra-Ordinary life. I’ve told it in fiction (“Beyond Yonder”), music (“Old Rockers”), video (oops, that’s the next project). I just don’t get tired of it. 

But what about the Lifetime Achievement Award? Turns out I’ve done that too, more than once.

This particular Lifetime Achievement Award was created by Silverback Mark Jewett upon the occasion of my 70th birthday.

Here, fermented and composted many years after Mrs. Monahon advised us to accept with the left is how the experience came tumbling out onto the pages of “Livin’: The Vermont Way Magazine.” I think I was paid about the same amount as I made playing “Screwin’ Around in G” with Mason Watson.

The Lifetime Achievement Award

How many feminists does it take to …

THAT’S NOT FUNNY!

How many animal rights activists …

THAT’S NOT FUNNY!

A Chinese guy walks into a bar …

THAT’S NOT FUNNY!

A Lutheran, a Catholic, and a Jew …

THAT’S NOT FUNNY! THAT’S NOT FUNNY! AND THAT’S NOT FUNNY!

It’s not easy being a funny guy today. For many years you could get by being the eternal sophomore. You know … chew some gum from under the table, eat some pudding off the floor, or drink a glass of water from the toilet bowl, but now there is so much sensitivity to political correctness that you need to combine the ethics of a mortgage lender with the wordsmithing of a politician (“I did not have sex with that woman.” I think that is sex, Bill.)

It all had me feeling pretty depressed. Between the election, the economy, getting older, winter, global warming I could not think of anything cheerful that did not fall into the category of Can’t Afford It, Illegal, or Bi-i-i-g Trouble. Then it came to me in a divine flash. What I need is a Lifetime Achievement Award.

I perked right up, because I’ve never received an LAA (as we insiders call it)  before. Come to think of it I’m not a member of any Hall of Fame, nor have I ever received an honorarium. Let’s make it a trifecta. I ran the idea past my Publisher who had but one question: “Will it cost any money? I will bestow any title or recognition you want so long as it doesn’t cost money.”

I explained that the honorarium is technically a payment for professional services for which custom forbids a price to be set, but that the amount can be symbolic. “By ‘symbolic’ you mean I get to determine how much the honorarium is for?” he asked. I nodded yes.

So I notified myself, by registered letter, that I would be awarded the “Livin’ Magazine Lifetime Achievement Award for Humor Writing,” plus an honorarium, plus membership in the Livin’ Hall of Fame, whenever it is created. To my knowledge I am the first and only humor writer to ever write for this publication, not that this in any way tarnishes the accomplishment.

It was overwhelming. I had to sit down. I did not dance around the room, pumping my fist. I did not dump a cooler of Gatorade over my own head. I did not speak in tongues. I just smiled my cocky little grin and said to myself “Good things happen to those who wait.”

Suddenly there were a lot of details to think about. The only first hand experience I have with awards was when I graduated from high school. The teacher who rehearsed us said “For godssakes just remember when you reach the stage, accept with the left hand and shake with the right. Every year there’s at least one nitwit who ties himself into a knot because he accepts with the right.”  Accept with the left … Little did I suspect how those words would hold me in good stead throughout life.

I began to fantasize about my big night. It would be a black tie affair, star-studded with prominent Vermonters. Before going up to the stage (maybe I should say “ascending the stage” … sounds more awardish) to accept with the left, we would sit through one of those fawning, multi-media tributes that shows the highlights of my literary career. Heh-heh. There’s me as a long-haired college student getting my first rejection letter. There’s me tearing it up. There’s me wall-papering my room with more rejection notices.

The crowd starts chanting my name.

There I am showing the cover of my first published book. And there I am at the book signing where no one came. There I am at a different book signing where no one came. And finally, there I am at the book signing where the old lady that came thought she was coming to hear the president of the Sierra Club. And finally, there I am in my moment of greatest glory (until now), being interviewed on the local talk show, “Across the Fence.”

The fawning tribute reaches its climax. The follow-spots are scanning the crowd; the balloons are descending; the kettle drum begins its roll. The master of ceremonies, what the heck, let’s make him the Governor, says “… and this year we are proud to present the Lifetime Achievement Award to …”

The roar of the crowd drowns him out.

The crowd leaps as one to their feet. I give a kiss to the little woman next to me whose frozen smile speaks volumes. Uh … but let’s not go there, not tonight. I proceed to the stage, mentally reviewing my speech and repeating the mantra “Accept with the left, accept with the left, accept with the left.”. I want to thank my Mama and my Pa. And I want to thank all the members of the Academy. And I want thank all those faceless voters on the Internet who made me the people’s choice for this … this … … (I’ll look as if I am searching for just the right word. I’ll even lower my voice so that it sounds as if it coming, literally, from the bottom of my heart.) … this profound honor.

And I’ll thank the Governor who is beaming at me as he announces I will now be given my honorarium. I had anticipated the oversize check, but my Publisher has come up with the more creative idea of a handful of nickels. “Don’t forget to accept with the left,” he reminds me.  Did you know that you can hold almost four dollars in nickels in your left hand?

Meanwhile stocks plummet, bombs drop, politicians bicker, and the Smugglers’ Notch Road is closed for yet another winter. Heating oil is an all time high, and dammit, your neck size has increased by another half-inch. Unidentified frozen crud is falling from the sky even while Bill McKibben blithers on about how we’re all going to fry.  Mud Season is not even a glimmer of hope on a bleak horizon, yet I soldier on, buoyed by my Lifetime Achievement Award for Self-Congratulation and Delusion.

Just remember when you reach the stage, to accept with the left.

And here it is, interpreted in a song I completed in 2014. 

Accept with the Left

I want to thank my Mama

I want to thank my Pa

I want to thank the little people

For making me a star.

I believe in God and country

I hope you’re suitably impressed

That I remember as I reach the stage

To accept with the left.

I want to thank the Mayor

For giving me the key.

I want to thank the members

Of the whole academy.

And to the faceless voters,

On the Internet.

I will remember as I walk to the stage

To accept with the left.

Oscar, Tony, Pulitzer Prize

My future never seemed so bright.

But on my mind as I walk down the aisle

Is to remember that you shake with the right.

I’ve prepared a couple comments

That I hope you’ll like,

But there is no other option,

I’m the one who has the mike.

For the moment please indulge me

Be like monkeys in a cage

‘Cuz my message is short and sweet …

Life is but a stage.

I thank you all for coming,

but it’s time for me to go.

Rest assured another player

will continue with the show.

What it really all comes down to,

Yeah, the litmus test

Will you remember when you reach the stage

To accept with the left?

Oscar, Tony, Pulitzer Prize

They all seem to come my way.

Nobel, Clio, and Peoples’ Choice

This dog sure is having his day.

I want to thank my Mama

I want to thank my PA

And my friends up in the cheap seats

Yeah, you know exactly who you are.

I will share with you my mantra

Then I’ll quickly turn the page

It’s “Play loud! Play fast!

Then get the hell off the stage!”

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

The Mantra

I was at the 50th birthday party for my friend, Ed Koren. It was held in the middle of nowhere. The keg of beer was working its magic, and we were dancing like fools to the sounds of a good rockabilly band. They had a fiddler who played many of the instrumental leads. He was much more a rock ‘n roller than an old timey type. He played a solid body fiddle that was wireless, which enabled him to periodically wander in with the dancers.

Occasionally he would offer his fiddle and bow to a dancer who typically reacted as if they had been offered a live rattlesnake. When he offered it to me, I surprised even myself by taking it without hesitation.

I’ve never even held a fiddle before, let alone played one, but I put it under my chin. I waited until the end of the measure, then attacked with gusto. I moved the bow with the same rhythm I would use with a flat pick on my guitar, and moved the fingers on my left hand with the confidence of anyone who has played air guitar. The resulting noise was both powerful and godawful. After a few seconds of loud, fast cacophony, I finished with a flourish and handed the instrument back to its rightful owner. That’s when something weird happened.

People cheered.

When the song ended and a friend said “I didn’t know you could play the violin.” Others came by to chip in their own congratulations. The rest of the evening, and even into the next week, I received compliments on my brief performance. I had learned that world can be very forgiving if you “Play loud! Play fast! And get the hell off the stage!”

Play loud … play fast … and get the hell off the stage.

Hmmm-m-m-m. These sound like famous last words* to me.

(* My favorite “famous last words” story is that when Mexican General Santa Ana was lying close to death, thousands held vigil outside. He summoned a trusted aide to come close enough to hear him whisper. “Tell them I said something,” he said, then died.)