Purple-and-blue Tie o’ the Day is one of my fave neckties. I don’t know why. It just is. I was wearing it last week when I decided to take a complete inventory of all my filled notebooks and journals. The final count? What you see here are 307 notebooks full of what goes on in my head. These writings are the sum of my notes, drafts of poems, story ideas, and other miscellany that I have scribbled in notebooks for the past 15 years. Except for TIE O’ THE DAY posts, I do not compose at a keyboard. I print wildly and illegibly on the pages of bound notebooks, for the most part. When I have gussied up a piece of writing into something that works, I then type it on the computer, before submitting it for publication.
As you can see from these photos, I am not a fan of spiral bindings, but I do make exceptions for spiral-bound notebooks that call out to me for some extra-peculiar reason—like my three, spiral-bound Joe Kenda: Homicide Hunter notebooks. I couldn’t pass those up. You’ll notice I fill up all sizes of notebooks. The smallest one you see on the table is about the size of a 50-cent piece. My preferred notebooks are the bound Moleskine brand, specifically the now-discontinued “Chapters” style. Fortunately, I can still find “Chapters” for sale on Amazon occasionally. Although I have storage bins filled with blank notebooks I haven’t yet written in, I think I should begin to pull back on writing new things. As I’m approaching my 60’s, I think it’s time to cull my already-written-in notebooks and concentrate more on arranging my ideas and drafts into completed pieces. Otherwise, when I die, my legacy will be mostly notebooks of illegible writings which will make sense to no one. For the next 15 years, I need to edit and polish and finish all the work I’ve already started. I think I’m done with first drafts.
TIE O’ THE DAY is at the ready to keep y’all informed as to what’s up. And what’s up today is the current state of my right eye socket, after I pulled my own truck door into it last week. Bow Tie o’ the Day can verify it looks much worse than it feels. I seem to display new colors on my eyelid and forehead almost daily. It’s as if I’m wearing a rainbow on my right orbital region. And the second update concerns the fact that today is the 1-year anniversary of my most recent Cranky Hanky Panky surgery. Here’s a Breast Cancer Awareness Ties o’ the Day photo of my belly, showing you how my most recent incision is healing. The 5-inch horizontal scar is from my 2018 pancreas surgery. The 7-inch vertical scar is from last year’s operation. I am an excellent healer, eh?
It’s a TIE O’ THE DAY tradition. When an important election rolls around, I drag out Chia Mitt Romney (representing the Republicans) and Chia Barry Obama (representing the Democrats) for a Chia “hairdo” race. As in the past, whichever head grows the best hairdo, it is a safe bet that their respective political party will do well in the November election. Let the political sprouting begin! TIE O’ THE DAY will keep you updated on this hairy race.
When I venture out into the community, I am used to receiving a certain level of attention to whatever my Bow Tie o’ the Day might be that particular day. My neckwear often gets a second look from people as I walk past. But when I was erranding one day last week—while wearing my jumbo seersucker cirtrus Bow Tie o’ the Day—some members of the public were giving me what I deemed to be an extra-long double glimpse. I asked myself, “Why is this bow tie more double-take-worthy than it has ever been before?” It’s true I was also wearing my new Lemonhead socks, but folks weren’t looking too over-long at them. No, I was sure something was up with the bow tie itself. Had I spilled something garish on it? Was I wearing it upside down? I was just about to take off my bow tie and examine it, when some old geezer caught my eye and said, “I forget about mine, too.” He pointed to my right cheekbone, and I knew immediately what I had done: I had forgotten to wash the lipstick off my cheek from Suzanne’s kiss goodbye when she went to work that morning. I do this more often than you can imagine. I replied to the guy, “Yeah, but we never forget we’re loved.” And we both went happily on with our respective errands. 💋
Although Rowan’s 25th birthday was weeks ago, in August, everybody’s schedules were such that we couldn’t find a time to get together with him for a celebratory brunch, until two Sundays ago. Suzanne and I finally met up with Rowan and his flame, Cameryn, at Finn’s Cafe in Sugarhouse—where we wore the birthday party hats for a total of maybe 90 seconds, so I could snap TIE O’ THE DAY photos. Suzanne, Rowan, and Cameryn are always good to indulge me in my TO’TD efforts. For the festive occasion, I did not choose to wear my birthday balloons bow tie, as I often do for birthdays. Instead, I went with the wood, puzzle piece TIE O’ THE DAY, which is fun, but it was also more in keeping with my inner mood of that day. I was trying to fit together some big answers to a big puzzle: how could Oakley be gone?
You see, I knew that near the end of this previously scheduled brunch celebration in honor of Rowan, it would be my job to relate to him the news about Oakley’s death. Suzanne and I had been with her in the hospital room as she passed away just the night before. Rowan and Oakley spent a lot of time around each other when they were younger, despite a seven-year age difference. Since it had been a few years since Rowan and Oakley had seen each other, I did not anticipate the news would hit Rowan as hard as it did. As a parent, I hurt for him as he teared up and struggled to process the unbelievably terrible information. As a parent, I was also proud of him that he had grown into the kind of person who still carried a tiny cousin named Oakley in his heart, despite how much time had passed since they hung out together. I am now certain he will carry his love for her—and for all “the kids” in his Delta family—with him throughout his entire life. I could see Rowan is beginning to understand the magnitude of the loss of even one person in a family. He is wrestling with the loss of our incredible Oakley, who will not live an adulthood, as he has the opportunity to do. Rowan was moved enough to feel both honored and obliged to say a few words at her graveside. Our Rowan was a grown man in his grief. As such, he is trying to put together the pieces of the existential puzzle—as are we all.
After I had the first almost-good night of sleep in the last ten nights, I slept a little late this morning, and now it’s time to post a TIE O’ THE DAY offering. Instead of a trail of my groggy words, I give you these three amusing book-y memes for your perusal. I’m sure I will be fully awake and coherent enough to don a bow tie and write an original post for y’all this afternoon. Until then, do your darnedest to have a swell day!
Yes, I purposely matched my socks so I’d blend in.Suzanne seriously cogitates over her decision on a new phone.
Tie o’ the Day couldn’t believe it either. But I tried to tone down my normal clash. I tried very hard to look like everybody else. I’ll explain, but it’ll take me a minute to get to the reason. You see, Suzanne and I had a list of errands we needed to do together on a weekday, so she took the day off yesterday. First, we were off to the credit union to sign some paperwork for our trust and estate planning. That went off without a hitch. Then we were off to the Apple store, so Suzanne could choose a new iPhone. If you’ll remember, in July—on Suzanne’s birthday—I told her I would like to gift her a new phone, but I wanted her to pick out whichever one she wanted. Flash forward to nearly 3 months later, and she was finally ready to make her decision yesterday. She went for the lilac iPhone 14. And then we were off to Verizon to get Suzanne’s new phone hooked up with a line on my account, so I and Suzanne and Rowan and Mom are truly on the same family plan.
Okay. So here’s the part where I finally tell you about why I purposely attempted to blend in yesterday. I knew one of our errands meant we were going to the credit union, and I thought we might have time to start the loan paperwork for my new truck—which really might be here sometime next week. A thing I’ve learned in my life is that what you wear in certain situations makes a bigly difference in how you are treated. If you’re going to the credit union to get a loan to buy your Velocity Blue new Maverick, there’s a better chance the credit union people will give you the money if you don’t look like you just walked in out of a hurricane under the Big Top at a circus—which is probably as good a way as any to describe my normal garb. Yesterday morning when I first got up, I was all set to wear a wood bow tie, my new Lemonhead socks, one of my protest t-shirts, my half-boots, and one of my protest baseball caps. But then I suddenly remembered our errand list. I knew it would not be to my benefit to wear what I had planned to for the day. So I found a pretty, somewhat low-key (for me), long-sleeved shirt. I paired it with a somewhat subdued (for me) Tie o’ the Day. I found a pair of not-loud-colored (for me) Sloggers shoes that didn’t have cows or paw prints, or chickens on them. Most important to my toning my look down a notch, was my decision to wear my pastel orange Bombas socks. It happened: on purpose, I chose to match my socks with my shirt! I knew this would give me the edge at the credit union when it came time for them to approve the truck loan. And I wore the most serious-looking golf cap I own. It does have black in it, after all. Alas! We didn’t even end up dealing with the truck loan yesterday, so I’ll never know if I successfully blended in enough with the other customers at the credit union, in order to achieve my loan approval.
After we got home from our errand-y day, I confessed to Suzanne that I had not been my normal self that day. I had lied with my style. She looked at me quizzically, and I told her about my decision to dress more like normal people and less like my usual clashy kind of normal-for-me attire. When she heard why I dressed down, she squint-eyed, belly-laughed out loud for a good 15 minutes straight. I suppose that meant I didn’t look all that different from how I usually do. I suspected as much. But hey, my confession made Suzanne lose herself in laughter, so my efforts were well worth it.
Yoohoo! Alert! Hey! News flash! Whoa! Hold your horses! Update! Put your listening ears on! Give me your attention, please! Listen up! Now hear this! Yo! Give heed! Hear all about it! Update! Read my lips! Mark my words! All ears this way! Hear me now! Breaking news! Ears up, people! Focus on my words! I have an announcement to make! Let the bells ring out! Let the word go forth! Attention, K-mart shoppers!
I wanted to make sure I have your undivided attention before I make the following proclamation: Ford has informed me my 2022 Maverick has finally been BUILT and is waiting to be shipped to me! Delivery date is expected to be in the range of October 5-11! My fingers, toes, and what’s left of my pancreas are all crossed in hope and anticipation for its safe arrival! Obviously, I am excited! I am so excited I might have to buy panty shields for the first time in my life!
FYI I sincerely promise that you will never again see a post from me in which every sentence is punctuated by an exclamation mark! Exclamation marks are my second least favorite punctuation mark to use!
The William Gaddis book I wrote about in the previous post is titled THE RECOGNITIONS, not, as the spell-check decided to re-name it, The Reconciliations. My apologies.
For a while, one of the cups I kept in the cupboard at the Pub for my Diet Coke had these words emblazoned on it: “I LIKE BIG BOOKS AND I CANNOT LIE”—a reference to the 1992 Sir Mix-a-Lot song, “Baby Got Back.” The point of the cup was to proclaim my undying adoration for books galore. Technically, however, I don’t like big books, and the words on my cup which said I do, are evidence I lied about it. It doesn’t matter how interesting the book is, if it’s much over 300 pages, it feels like work to me to finish it. I especially despise a long book that requires me to devote more than a week to it. After a week of reading, if I still haven’t finished it, I feel trapped. I feel as if I’m weeping and wailing and gnashing my teeth all the way to the book’s bloody last page. I’m at war with the damn tome. You can’t just jump ship and abandon a book when you’ve already spent a week on it. You have to finish reading every last word of it. It’s a point of honor—even if the book itself turns out to be worthy of only a “meh” rating.
Just last week I decided to read a somewhat obscure book I’d always heard about but hadn’t yet read: The Recognitions, by William Gaddis, originally published in 1955. I ordered it online, and less than twelve hours later, Alexa informed me prime had delivered it to my doorstep. I was excited to begin reading—until I opened the front door and saw the thick package. I lifted up the package and my spirits sunk further because it wasn’t just a thick book, it was an unusually heavy, thick book. I tore open the package, hoping maybe other books I had ordered had been shipped with it—thus, accounting for the thickness and the weight of the package. But no, it was just the one book. The Recognitions has 933 pages. I was bereft.
It’s a psychological cootie I get: I look at a book with more than 300 or so pages and think, “I will be dead before I can finish reading that bigly book. I don’t have enough time to read a book that long.” But really, I’m going to read books anyway. Between all the books I’m reading simultaneously, I’m going to read that many pages and more in a week’s time. Logically, I know it should make no difference how many pages a book has, but it really does make a difference to me. Lots of pages means lots of distress for me. I would have no anxiety about reading every page of a 1000-page book if it was presented as 3 or 4 separate and less husky books. My Bigly Book Anxiety is simply one more peculiarity in a catalog of my many reading peculiarities.
I have a theory or two about why I am anti-bigly books. The first theory is simple: most lengthy books I’ve read seem to be trying to be long, at the expense of trying to be great. I have rarely read a bigly book that couldn’t have used a good editor to do a more thorough weeding of the manuscript before publication. Too many good writers have a tendency to want to put every jot and tittle into their story. They like to hear their own writing voice. They won’t cut out a fine piece of writing that might be lovely, but is totally unnecessary to the story. I think they are secretly afraid they’ll never get published again, so their book has got to be “the” book to end all books. Sometimes these writers think they have a lot to say so they write a 1,500 page book, when the story could be beautifully told in 200 pages—with much more impact and clarity, without all the blah, blah, blah to cloud it. So, yes, I am saying that most stories don’t need to be like the Primary song in which the pioneer children sang as they walked, and walked, and walked, and walked, and walked, and walked. And walked. A story needs to end at some point, preferably while you’re still alive to read it.
My second theory—the one I think most explains my disliking bigly books—has to do with my assertion that reading is an activity. It is doing something, in the same way shooting hoops is doing something. Many of you probably heard something like this from a teacher or parent more than once when you were a kid, holed up in a chair reading a book: “It’s such a nice day outside, you need to get out of this house and ride your bike.” Like reading is the same as the Deadly Sin of sloth, or loitering. Reading is not wasting time. To read is to engage with other people in other places, dealing with other situations. Reading takes you far outside yourself, even as it simultaneously plunges you deeper inside yourself. Reading requires your attention. It requires skills. It changes you. When you finish reading a book, you are not the same person you were when you began it. I’m not overstating this point: When you give yourself up to it, the act of reading—with your full and open attention—enlarges and transforms you, one book at a time, in a multitude of ways, some of which you might not even discover until years later.
So how does this relate to my dislike of long books? For me, I like to experience these transformations regularly and often—every 300 pages or so. It’s a kind of high, and I’m proud to be addicted. To read a lengthy book is to defer the transformation for so long that some of it gets lost along the way. At the end of a bigly book, I often feel more exhausted than changed. I feel like I’ve been through an active experience, but my brain is too wrung out for me to fully care about understanding the implications. This aversion to bigly books is an eccentricity that is likely due to some sort of failing in my personal reading habits. I will own my failure. But, to be honest, I’m not all that interested in trying to alter my reading routines and proclivities at this point in the game. I am what I am, and I read how I read. I like regular-sized books, and I cannot lie.
