Brother, can you spare a buck?

It happened years ago.  I was leaving the post office on Louisiana Avenue when I was approached by a man wearing a sportcoat and tie.  If you looked closely at him you could see that his clothes were tired as the look in his rheumy eyes.

In a well-practiced rapid fire speech, he explained to me that his church van had run out of gas a couple of blocks away and he desperately needed 10 dollars to drive his van full of children back to Hammond.

"You must be the unluckiest man in the world," I said with a smile after hearing him out.

"Why do you say that?" he asked, a wary look crossing his face.

"Because you had the exact same problem when I was here last week and I didn't give you money that time, either."

"That was a different van," he said, without missing a beat and without a trace of humor in his voice.

Living in New Orleans for 15 years, I got used to being hit up for money by panhandlers, but that was my all-time favorite incident.

Last week I encountered a panhandling first in Memphis at the downtown campus of Southwest Tennessee Community College.  A college student actually begged for money.  At least I assume she was a college student.  She was the right age and she had the look.  After the standard "excuse me, sir" she solicited me for a dollar (allegedly to buy a bag of potato chips) inside the school's bookstore.  I've been to hundreds of colleges in universities over a three-decade span, and this had never happened before.

I've seen a lot of crazy things on college campuses, but not that.

For many years my policy has been to say no to panhandlers.  Always  There are several reasons for this but the main one is that any money I gave would likely not be spent in the best interests of the person asking for it.

"I'm sorry, I can't help you," is my standard response.  And it's true.  Any money I gave would not help the panhandler and would probably be used to advance the poor soul's self-destructive path. The help he or she needs is beyond the ability of a random stranger to give in a chance encounter.

But this particular random encounter threw me, and I violated my longstanding policy for the first time in decades.  I gave the "student" a buck and went on my way feeling like a sucker, knowing that it probably didn't go to buy that bag of chips.

Looking gift horses in the mouth

So, did you get what you wanted for Christmas?

My teenage nephew and niece desperately wanted iPhones and mounted lobbying campaigns to get them that would have done any presidential candidate proud.  For months, they worked their parents incessantly and intensely to get those treasured iPhones.

When they opened their presents on Christmas morning and found pay-as-you-go TracFones purchased by my brother for $8 apiece at Dollar General, they were not amused.  Of course the iPhones materialized moments later and general hilarity  and joy ensued.

My Christmas list was pretty short.  I wanted a new wallet and a few ties and got them.  I received a $50 Amazon gift card, which was very welcome--thanks, Mom!  Discerning readers of this blog already know I'm an avid reader and I can stretch 50 bucks pretty far at Amazon.

Since I hadn't asked for much and didn't want much for Christmas this  year, you'd think it would be hard for me to be disappointed with any of my gifts.  You'd be wrong.

Three, count 'em, three people gave me the same lousy gift this Christmas.  Let me preface this by saying that these are all people I like, so to get this gift from three of them came as a triple disappointment.  It's especially sad because the givers truly believed they were being thoughtful and I'd be thrilled with their gifts.

In each case the person informed me that my Christmas gift from them was a donation they were making in my name to a charity they support.  I can't remember all of them, but I'm pretty sure a food bank and breast cancer research were in the mix.  In two of the three cases, I don't even know how much I "gave" these charities.

I'm sorry--I love and respect you guys, and I know you meant well, but that's not a gift.  Not a gift to me, anyway.

Teri and I give a fair share of our money away.  I'm not boasting, but we believe in supporting worthy causes.   Ten percent of every paycheck goes to our church for starters.  We also give to a number of organizations we believe in like universities and other charities.  Teri doesn't know it, and we should have talked about it first, but the other day I sent some money so that inmates in a prison in Belize would have blankets.  I've been inside that particular prison, and I know how needed those blankets are in that bleak corner of the world.

Having said that, how does you giving your money away to the charity of your choice equate to a gift to me?

I didn't get to select the charity, so I don't have the satisfaction or the glow that comes from performing a good act on my own initiative.  In fact, I kind of feel bad that someone thought they had to give money away for me, as if I wasn't thoughtful enough to do it myself.  Hell, I don't even get the tax deduction.

On the other hand, the givers of these imaginary gifts get the satisfaction of the act of doing something worthy plus the stinking writeoff. Plus they get to check an item off their gift giving list.  Sounds like a win-win-win for someone.

As far as gifts go, what's in this for me, the supposed recipient?

Well, I got to write this blog post and come off as a grumpy ungrateful curmudgeon.  That's something.

My latest earworm

Over the Christmas holiday, each member of our extended family was humiliated in turn by my 15-year-old niece.  We all got the chance to be bested by Katie in family dance-offs playing a video game called "Just Dance 2."   The less said about my performance, the better.

One of the songs Katie took us to school on with her superior dance moves was the Bollywood song in the video above.  I had never heard the song and can't understand a word of it, but now it's stuck in my head and in heavy rotation on my iPod.  Clearly I'm not alone since nearly a million people have watched this homemade video of someone dancing to it on their Wii.

America as Mayberry

I've had a little time to read lately, and in the last couple of weeks, I've been living in the 50s.

First I read Stephen King's latest, 11/22/63.  Despite the title, which refers to the date of the JFK assassination, much of the book is set in the late 1950s.

Next up was Bond; James Bond.  I've seen most of the Bond films, but I'd never actually read one of Ian Fleming's novels until this week.  Live and Let Die wasn't just set in the 1950s, it was written in the 1950s

Before I go on, let me put in a plug for Mr. King's latest tome.  11/22/63 is his finest outing in decades, and might be the best thing he's ever written.  It's a story about a mild mannered teacher infiltrating the past to stop Lee Harvey Oswald from assassinating President John F. Kennedy.  I won't spoil it for you by revealing more.  Even if you don't think you like Stephen King's books, you might just like this one.  It really is a wonderful read.

Both books reminded me how much we've changed over the course of my lifetime.  Some of those changes will make you want to live in a more trusting world where the milkman delivered to your door and you could just walk onto an airplane without being strip searched or even asked for ID.

But most of what I read makes me glad I'm living in the here and now.

In both books everyone smokes everywhere and all the time.  In Live and Let Die, James Bond mentions having a three pack a day habit.  Today, even smokers would find that excessive and a little gross.

There's a lot of drinking and driving in both books.  In King's book, there are consequences--someone dies.  Not surprising since Stephen King almost died after being struck by a distracted driver.  In Fleming's book, Bond and his compatriots rarely get behind the wheel before they've had at least a couple of stiff drinks and then nothing bad happens.

The changing role of women from then to now is glaring.  The two main female characters in 11/22/63 are both victims of spousal abuse, while the only important female character in Live and Let Die is nothing more than a rich gangster's plaything (and later James Bond's plaything).

But for me, the biggest revelation was how casually racist the 1950s really were.  We've all seen pictures of my city of Birmingham, Alabama back when it was called "Bombingham," and King refers to how separate and unequal that time was.  But Live and Let Die really drives the point home in its depictions of African-American people.  For someone living on this side of the millenial line, it's shocking.

Here's a description of one woman in a Harlem nightclub in a chapter he entitled "N-word Heaven".  Only Fleming used the actual N-word--the euphemism didn't exist back then.

Opposite him, leaning forward with concern on her pretty face, was a sexy little negress with a touch of white blood in her.

An eye-opener, isn't it?

And here's a sample of dialogue between that woman and her boyfriend that Bond overhears.  This is how every black person in the book talks with one exception.  This is exactly what Fleming wrote, although I eliminated a few letters of the last word in the quote.

"Aw, honey," pleaded the girl. "Don' ack mad at me, honey. Ah was fixin' tuh treat yuh tonight.  Take yuh to Smalls Par'dise, mebbe.  See dem high-yallers shakin' 'n truckin'. Dat Birdie Johnson, da maitre d', he permis me a ringside whenebber ah com nex'."

The man's voice suddenly sharpened. "Wha' dat Birdie he mean tuh yuh, hey?  he asked suspiciously.  "Perzackly'," he paused to let the big word sink in, "perzackly wha' goes 'tween yuh 'n dat lowdown ornery wuthless n-----uh?"  

This conversation continues for several pages, and its only point is to provide "color" and atmosphere.  These two characters don't do anything else other than have this one conversation.

Live and Let Die was published in 1954 to critical acclaim.  The British papers were enthralled by Fleming's exciting depiction of exotic Harlem.  Imagine how an author would be received if he published those words today, less than 60 years later.

Yes, times have changed over the course of my lifetime, and mostly for the better.  I'm nostalgic for that innocent age of America as Mayberry, but it's a nostalgia for an America that never was.  I'll live here and now, thank you.

A Celtic disaster

Christians aren't supposed to lie.  You can look it up. It's number nine of the Top Ten in the rulebook--right there between stealing and coveting your neighbor's wife.

So I didn't know how to react to the many good Christian people who stopped me last night after one of the most disastrous musical performances in history to tell me how much they enjoyed my, um, demonstration.  I was torn between chastising them for their blatant sin and pointing out their lack of discernment.

Instead, I just blushed and thanked each one while hoping to erase the memory of the evening from my mind.

It all began when the choir director at my church sent me an e-mail a few weeks ago.  Connie wrote to say that our church was having a big Celtic Christmas concert in a Sunday evening service the week before Christmas, and she was wondering if I'd play "I Saw Three Ships (Come Sailing In)" on my mountain dulcimer.

Even though neither the song I would play (it's English) nor my instrument (it's an American invention based on a German zither called the scheitholt) is technically Celtic, the combination seemed to fit the evening's theme.

Reluctantly, I agreed.  Very reluctantly.

You see, when called upon to act or play an instrument in public, I am subject to terrible, horrible, awful stage fright.  For some reason, public speaking doesn't have the same effect on me.  I do it all the time and I'm perfectly comfortable facing a crowd and talking.  But put me in a skit or ask me to play the dulcimer in front to more than three people and I turn into a panic-stricken, quivering mass.

The other thing is, our church is filled with superb musicians and singers who have genuine musical talent.  Then there's me.  I knew I had no business on that stage last night in front of hundreds of people, and that only added to my sense of impending doom.

Connie reassured me that it would be okay.  I'd be fine and I'd have plenty of backup to cover me.  In the end there were four of us performing "I Saw Three Ships".  I played my dulcimer, Teri played both the guitar and bowed psaltry (pictured) while a flute and a tin whistle backed us to make it feel even more Celtish.

By the night of the performance, I was ready.  I had the number down cold and could play "I Saw Three Ships" in my sleep.  Well, nine times out of ten I got it right--that tenth time was the problem.  Check out the video above.  A friend caught me practicing a couple of hours before the performance in the church library and caught the moment with his cell phone.  What you see on the video is more or less what it was supposed to sound like.

Our foursome had a rushed, and sketchy rehearsal an hour or so before the performance.  It went well enough that I thought we might be able to fake our way through at show time if we got lucky.  We didn't.

"I Saw Three Ships" was about a third of the way through the service.  My number was sandwiched between young Rebecca Remetich's choir-backed performance of "Joy Has Dawned Upon the World" and an instrumental ensemble performing "The Ash Grove".

As the choir and orchestra thundered through an especially inspiring rendition of "Celtic Advent Carol"  I leaned over to little Rebecca who sat alone looking nervous.  "How are you doing?" I asked her.

"Scared," she replied.

"Me too," I said, and she could tell I meant it.  "Don't worry, you'll be great."  She gave me a big and hopeful smile in return.

Rebecca was great, although her performance was all but drowned out by the sound of blood rushing to my head as panic and a sense of impending doom settled on me.

David Marvin read some of the Christmas story from Luke 2 and I was on.  I sat there thinking that if I could just remember the first note to play, I might get through on muscle memory alone.

At first it went okay.  Not great, but okay.  But it went from okay to very, very bad in a hurry.

There was supposed to be an interlude in the middle of the song, but one of the flutists missed the cue and we were bathed in an awful silence.  Fear turned to alarm and dismay at the momentary silence now filling the building.  Eventually several of us vamped our way through the interlude, each playing something unrelated either to the written music or to what any of the others were playing.

The resulting sound was not pleasant.

My stage fright reasserted itself at that moment as my brain closed up shop and departed to a happier place for the duration in an understandable act of self-defense, leaving me alone out there under the spotlight in front of hundreds of people.

My instrument detected my fear and decided it would now only produce sounds resembling those made by cats in heat.  It didn't matter much since my fingers were no longer receiving adequate instruction from my locked up brain and were now hitting random strings at random intervals.

After what seemed like an eternity we limped to a conclusion.  I'm not sure if we ever finished the song, but we'd all had enough of it for one night and quit more or less at the same time.  To my shock I heard some applause as I fled the stage back into the welcoming darkness of a church pew.  I don't know the applause was for our foolish bravery, what the audience supposed was intended to be comic relief, or that the disaster they had just witnessed was mercifully over.

Eventually a bagpiper played "Amazing Grace" and a gifted ladies trio rocked out a beautiful "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," in lush harmonic perfection, bringing a close to our Celtic Christmas and an especially memorable evening for me.

On the bright side, the next time our church organizes a Celtic anything, I'm pretty sure I'll be allowed to stay in the audience where I belong.

There's no place like home

Cool picture, huh?  I took it last week with my cell phone as I waited for a meeting to begin in a Cincinnati hotel conference room.  Since early August I've been on an endless road trip after a two year break from the life of a traveling salesman.

In that time I went from zero to gold with Hilton Honors and reacquainted myself with the state of our interstate highway system and our air travel infrastructure.

December is one of the slow months in my job and I'll be spending more time at home for the next several weeks.  I'm ready for the break.

I wanted to come back and give you some deep insights gleaned from my last several months of travel and my prolonged periods of windshield time, but the truth is that it was all kind of a blur.  And kind of a grind.

There are two kinds of business travel.  There's the kind where the home office type jets in from the big city for a conference or an easy two day work trip.  It's almost a vacation for these guys.  Their needs and transportation are taken care of every step of the way. The home office functionary drops in from the sky, shakes some hands, runs through a PowerPoint stack, eats at a couple of nice restaurants and zips back home.

That's not the kind of business travel I do.  In my job, I'm away three or four nights most weeks and I spend a frightening amount of time just getting to the next stop on my endless slog.  It's long days and short nights and lots and lots of time behind the wheel moving from Point A to Point B.  It's a life filled with fast food and evenings spent plowing through my in-box in that night's cookie cutter hotel room.  Glamorous it ain't.

There were some highlights along the way this autumn as I toured the highways and byways of the Deep South, but any time I stopped to smell the roses or to eat in a nice restaurant only added to what was already a long day in a string of long days.  "Experiences" are something you learn to avoid when you engage in my kind of business travel.

I'm not complaining.  Really, I'm not.  I enjoy the comforting sameness and routine of the insulated life I lead when I'm on the road even if I'm more than ready for a respite after several non-stop months of it.

I saw and did some interesting things and met some memorable people along the way this fall, and I wouldn't want to trade those.  But it's good to be home for a little while to recharge the batteries,  read a few good books, play the mountain dulcimer and maybe even get a little writing in.

Mostly, I'm looking forward to spending some time with Teri.  In a few days we'll be going to a place where our cell phones and computers won't work.  We're both excited about getting off the grid for a little while on a tropical island, practicing our pigeon Spanish, and thinking about nothing more complex than whether we'll have the steak or shrimp at dinner that night.

Black Friday update

(AP)  LOS ANGELES — A woman shot pepper spray to keep shoppers from merchandise she wanted during a Black Friday sale, and 20 people suffered minor injuries, authorities said.

The incident occurred shortly after 10:20 p.m. Thursday in a crowded Los Angeles-area Walmart as shoppers hungry for deals were let inside the store.

Police said the suspect shot the pepper spray when the coverings over the items she wanted were removed.

"Somehow she was trying to use it to gain an upper hand," police Lt. Abel Parga told The Associated Press early Friday.  He said she was apparently after some electronics and used the pepper spray to keep other shoppers at bay.

Officials said 20 people suffered minor injuries. Fire department spokesman Shawn Lenske said the injuries to least 10 of them were due to " rapid crowd movement."  Parga said police were still looking for the woman.