Stampede Like a Boss

Writer Ernest Hemingway famously ran with (and wrote about) the running of the bulls in Pamplona.

Iconically speaking, that is a famous and manly thing to do.

Well, pretty famous anyway.

If you’ve never heard of this, it’s an event that happens during the annual nine-day San Fermin festival in Pamplona, Spain when the bulls being used in the bullfight that evening are “run” by drovers through the streets and into pens inside the bullring. At some point many years ago locals decided to run along with the bulls, and eventually they took up the more daring challenge of running in front of the bulls. Now they are joined by tourists from all over the world.

I have to admit this whole thing sounds fairly stupid. I see absolutely no sense whatsoever in running down a cobblestone street with hundreds of other drunk men trying to keep ahead of a pack of confused and irritated bulls.

It’s somehow a test of one’s courage to risk a horn in the buttocks. Many have lost their lives in the odd endeavor, and not a few have lost their dignity (there is nothing so humiliating as discovering you will scream like a little girl when faced with real danger). And of course there is that photo on the Internet documenting the double victory of one steer and two rears (of brothers, no less). Chalk one up for the bovines.

That said, there is reportedly a sense of exhilaration and accomplishment that is associated with this unique event – and this I can appreciate, even if I don’t completely understand.

How?

Because there is a more modern phenomenon which gives the same sort of high. And if were Hemingway alive today he would shudder at the mere thought of a stampede far more dangerous than one of simple, snorting, horned beasts. I’m convinced he would probably come up with some manly reason for excusing himself and retiring to the card table with a double scotch if faced with today’s true test of courage:

Running with the after-Thanksgiving shoppers.

The “biggest shopping day of the year” is the official moniker for a crazed stampede to every department store in America the day following “the biggest gobbling day of the year.” Terms like DOORBUSTERS and PRICE BLOWOUT and RACE TO SAVE proliferate newspaper and television advertising in the days leading up to this event.

The other day my son responded to a store ad which excitedly informed viewers that doors would be open on Friday at 4 a.m. by saying primly, “Well, that’s a bit excessive, don’t you think?”

I could tell he didn’t get it.

He, like my husband, is not a shopper. They are the “seek and destroy” type of customer, venturing out to buy something only when absolutely necessary such as when holes in worn out socks and underwear demand replacement or the females in their lives require gifts.

They cannot imagine deliberately joining such frenzied bargain-hunting masses – the pushing, the shoving, the grabbing, the GREAT DEALS.

What’s not to like?

The exhaustion, the debt, the rampant consumerism.

What a rush!

Now, this is a true test of courage – one which is not meant for the faint of heart – and one which is not easily understood by the uninitiated.

Hmmm.

When put that way, I suppose there are some similarities between the two stampedes: both are exciting only to those who participate; both are confusing to those who don’t; both are anticipated as an annual ritual.

And both involve a lot of bull.

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On a cloudy day, you can see forever

On a drive down I-65 toward downtown Indianapolis one day, I spotted a panoramic sky view to the left. The sunrise had left some lingering color, and the cloud formation looked like those windswept sand ridges you see on desert sand. Right in the middle of those cirrus formations was a huge glob of cumulus fluff.

This cloud glob stood out against the rest of the sky as if designed to be showcased, and I couldn’t resist the urge to make a Rorschach interpretation – deciding it looked like a seal with flippers down for balance and nose in the air as if ready to balance a ball.

I admit I was pleased with myself for coming up with such a whimsically accurate figure. The more I looked at the cloud sculpture, the more clearly it couldn’t be interpreted as anything else. It was dead on.

However, as I drove through an overpass and the road curved a little, I noticed the big cloud had morphed into the shape of a large sea lion, in pretty much the same position.

Amazing scenic wonder, I thought, then looked away.

A few minutes later I looked back, and the cloud had become a great white shark, half thrust from the watery depths in a shark version of a roar. I stared in wonder.

Eventually I had to look at the road again (for you see, I was supposed to be driving) but when I looked back again, it had changed to yet another shape, this time from shark to a bottle nose dolphin – there was clearly now a bulging forehead behind a long thin snout.

The driver ahead of me made an unexpected lane change and forced my attention back to the business of manning my automobile. Thus startled into road safety, I went a few miles down the road before I remembered to look back at the cloud mass – which was now completely on the other side of the road, and was most definitely the shape of a schnauzer.

I was getting very close to the downtown area by this point, and knew I would soon have to permanently turn my attention away from the cloud to navigate the various lane changes and exits ahead. In my last glance, though, I discovered two things about the extraordinary cloud mass: Number One – it was now a roaring T-Rex with a goatee; and Number Two – it was not a cloud at all, but rather a large belching mass from some factory smokestack.

For a split second I was embarrassed by my silly, sentimental misinterpretation of “nature’s” amazing beauty. But then I remembered everything was okay because I was in the car all by myself – in the only place on earth I can safely be a rock star. That meant no one else ever had to know (at least until I published it).

In the next second I was giggling at mankind's universal dorkiness. Who hasn’t been caught red-handed being high-handed?

And thus self-comforted, I ended up being 15 minutes late for my meeting because I’d been fiddling with the radio to find the 80s station, and was too busy belting out a song by Pat Benatar to notice I’d missed my exit.

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Boot Hill only for the well-shod

From that unquestionably sound source of web-based fact collection (Wikipedia), “Boot Hill” is described thus:

“Although many towns use the name ‘Boot Hill’, the first graveyard named ‘Boot Hill’ was at Dodge City, Kansas. The term alludes to the fact that many of its occupants were cowboys who ‘died with their boots on.’”

I imagine that will be me. Dying with my boots on. Not because I plan to lose a shoot-out (although anything is possible) but because I am boot crazy.

Today I am wearing boots. Yesterday I wore them. And the day before that. Different boots (obviously for different moods).

My husband does not understand my desire for so many pairs (although as far as indulgences go, he kind of digs this one). On the other hand, if he was thinking we would be able to retire – ever – then I suppose he might wish I were less of a booty spendthrift.  (And that’s even before he finds out about the awesome pair of slouch styled distressed leather lovelies that are waiting a decent interval in my closet to be introduced for Spring…)

But here’s the deal: I like seeing other people in boots – I like wearing them. Biker, cowboy, equestrian, Wellies, hiking, even those ubiquitous Ugg things. When you pull on a pair of boots, you’re pulling on a posture and a certain je ne sais quoi – not to mention the ability to wade through miles of metaphorical bullsh*t. Boot wearing is a total attitude cop. It’s all about your own personal brand, because the style you wear says as much about you as the car you drive. (And in some cases, costs nearly the same.)

When I was in grade school, I remember thinking I would die a little inside every day if I didn’t get a pair of crinkly patent-leather “go-go” boots. When I finally got them, it didn’t matter that they sloshed loosely around my slim little calves – I was ROCKING THOSE BOOTS.

The same thing sorta happens when I slip on my totally authentic cowboy boots (actually purchased within sight of an Arizona mesa) and I’ll admit there are times I can be a bit of a handful because of this, albeit a joyful one.

So, yeah, it’s just possible I may die with my boots on – qualified, as it were, to be buried in a Boot Hill Cemetery. That’s because the world is a kickier place when I am in boots, and when life offers such a scrumptious menu, I say order what you like. (That’ll be one more pair of boots, please – sauce on the side.)

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(Why not) Keep a civil tongue in your head!

I was going through a McDonald’s drive-through getting a much needed fully caffeinated soda and wondering why it was so crowded at 2:30 p.m. There were two lines backed up with several cars on both sides – that is, it was busy.

I placed my order and the disembodied voice told me the cost. I tossed out a perfunctory “thanks” – and despite the tons of transactions going on around me, the voice answered with, “My pleasure.”
  
My pleasure!

Two magic words.

For whatever reason, that little caboose comment made me feel simply… great. I said as much to my teenaged son, who was in the car with me. His reply: “Good manners.”

Two more magic words: Good Manners.

The beauty of having good manners is that it’s not a mood-based thing. You can feel perfectly awful and still practice being polite. (I call it being polite through gritted teeth.) Anyone who’s read or watched a Jane Austin story has seen the power of steely displeasure delivered with the velvet hammer of good manners.

And that’s the anti-negative side. On the positive side, your good manners can cause other people to feel… great. If you’re a nice person, that’s a good thing. If you’re not a particularly nice person, you can look at it as avoiding messy emotional reactions. If you’re a nasty person altogether, well this is entirely irrelevant. (And shame on you.)

The world just runs better oiled with a little civility. The practice is not only civil – it’s civic. It contributes to the greater good of the community. It keeps things on a higher, people-affirming plane. (If only our presidential candidates could read my blog!)

Like any learned behavior, it takes practice. I say learned because human beings are, by default, self-centered creatures. (You don’t have to teach little children how to be selfish – you do have to teach them how to share. One behavior comes naturally – the other is taught.) But learned behavior can become the default with enough practice – and manners are worth the effort. (Unlike reality TV, an acquired taste which is definitely NOT worth the effort. Not to mention one of the great enemies of good manners.)

Let’s say you disagree with someone. Very much. Vehemently, even. Well – that’s marvelous. Just do it in a mannerly fashion. Keep it civil so there is fruit. We never learn anything from people we agree with – right? On the other hand – we also rarely learn anything when there is much screaming and gnashing of teeth (often the result of bad manners). But to stay polite – to be civil – to practice good manners – well, that’s a lovely, humanity-building gift you can give out every time you say, “My pleasure.”

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True gauge of the economy

We all know the economy's been in a bit of a downswing. And, knowing this, you probably figure we’d all tighten our belts and bone up on supply side economics etc., but no. We’ll do the only sensible thing one can do at a time like this.

Buy stuff. Lots of stuff.

I was witness last weekend to the piranha-like purchasing habits of that very interesting species: humanus spendicus. In the common tongue, that means “people who shop prolifically at festivals, garage sales and flea markets.”

It’s nuts, I tell you. People will buy anything.

And do they even like this stuff? It’s not even possible. Face it – you got CAUGHT UP IN THE MOMENT. But it’s okay. It happens to the best of us. Let him who is without sin cast the first wreath made out of Pepsi cans.

There’s just something about the cloying aroma of hot dogs, caramel corn and wood smoke – it makes us want to buy. The bright colors of the patchwork quilted purses dazzle your senses. Being faced with a genuine sterling silver jewelry display that’s over three tables wide is positively hypnotic. And one can only stare stupidly when confronted with the myriad whirling mobiles and yard flags that beckon you like a seductive siren, “Come to my corner! Buy this tractor flag with the cleverly moving wheels!”

It’s worse than an opium den – and nearly as expensive.

You think we’d learn. But we don’t. As we greedily stuff our plastic bags with Indian corn and yard gewgaws, we don’t even realize that we’re subconsciously stocking our selves for next year’s garage sale. It’s the ultimate recycling project.

I have a sister who lives in the general vicinity of an annual phenomenon known as the Covered Bridge Festival. This girl is no economics slow coach, and smelling a ripe opportunity for what it is she sweeps out her garage at this time every year, stuffs it with her junk, my junk, my mother’s junk, my other sister’s junk (you get the idea) and offers it up to the teeming masses.

And I’m telling you, I never cease to be amazed at people’s appetite for a “bargain.”

Now, technically, a bargain is getting a good deal on something you actually need. But in reality, a bargain must be more loosely defined as something that is AMAZINGLY CHEAP.

I ask you, who needs an opened box of perfumed body powder? Well, no one. But for a quarter, it was a great BARGAIN.

Now, I’m not discounting (pardon the pun) the value of getting clothes for kids who will actually outgrow them before you even get home, and I’m all for getting a near-complete set of plastic dishes to put in the camper. It’s all that other crazy stuff I just don’t get – the gaudy glassware, the plastic drawer unit missing a wheel, the used snow cone machine.

But then there’s that old proverb: what is one person’s junk is another person’s treasure. And hey, festivals, flea markets, garage sales – all Americana at its autumnal best. It’s our little way to feel like the economy is under our control. It’s a reason to buy gas at four bucks a gallon so we can visit places like Yeddo, Steam Corner and Timbuktu.

But most of all, it’s that tremendous buzz we get when we successfully utter those immortal words: “You have $2 on this. Will you take $1?”

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Casey Anthony verdict reveals one truth

People are upset about the Casey Anthony verdict. They’re upset on Facebook, Twitter, and the news. There are petitions to leave on porch lights in a grief vigil. TV’s Jay Leno tried to joke about it on his show and totally bombed.

They all think this woman got by with murder.

And likely, she did. She’s been caught lying. She’s exhibited less-than-admirable behavior. She clearly did not make anyone’s “Mother of the Year” list. It really looks like this woman simply got rid of her inconvenient child.

And that makes me feel upset, too.

But the really interesting thing is…why? Why am I upset? Why is everyone upset?

Actually, that’s not a rhetorical question. I very firmly believe there is an answer. It’s because – like it or not – we all have an inherent sense of right and wrong. People may want to get rid of an inconvenient concept like Moral Law, but alas, we can’t escape it.

Human beings have a sense of how things ought to be. We can all identify when things are “not fair” or hurtful. We all dislike selfish behavior (mostly in others). And we cannot seem to escape the sense of outrage over things like betrayal or cowardice. Or murder.

As a matter of fact, how else could we have tort or criminal law if it weren’t for an undergirding moral law? How would we decide something was wrong or illegal or criminal?

For example, stealing is wrong. How do we know that? How do we know rape is wrong? What about fraud or defamation? Or murder?

There is a moral code in all of us that recognizes offence against another as wrong. The problem, you see, is another universal piece of inherent coding: our desire to excuse ourselves from the first one.

There’s always a reason when we are less than “good.” But let’s face it, the world’s a better place when we at least try to heed that Moral Law. Without it, there’s only chaos. (You’ve read “Lord of the Flies” – right?)

We know when someone takes our seat or cuts in line or cheats at cards that they’re doing wrong! We know it from the way our breath quickens and our faces flush and our hearts pound.

And we know when someone has gotten away with the cruel disposal of a precious little two-year-old girl.

We know it from the way our hearts ache.

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Becoming a tattooed lady

When my mother was a little girl growing up in the 1950s south, there was a working girl in their small resort town who habitually wore dangle earrings. Since the 1950s were possibly the most uptight era of American history, those dangling bobs stood out aggressively amongst all the trim pin curls and clip-ons of the general female population. As a result, my mother deemed such earrings as “trashy.”

For years I believed fervently in the trashiness of dangle earrings.

However, as I matured into young womanhood I began to feel their sirens’ call. Away at college I would sneak and wear dangle earrings as part of my wild new individualism. (Clearly I needed to get out more.)

Eventually I came to realize that perfectly respectable women wore dangle earrings – that it was a personal taste preference – and that my mother was, um, wrong in her absolute prejudice.

All this said, I have to confess that I grew up in an era that was not tattoo-friendly and it affected my opinion of them. Men with tattoos were merchant marines, and tattooed women were… well, either circus freaks or biker chicks.

But God, He loves a good laugh. So what happens but my teenage daughter goes out and gets a rather large tattoo (see above).

Despite heroic efforts to NOT turn into my mother, I struggled with the whole judgment thing and ardently fought that tattoo for a couple of years. She would mention her desire to acquire one and I would thunder about Biblical inferences or point out they were “trashy.”

Then I came across this octogenarian woman – her skin mottled with tats and still proudly displayed courtesy of a rather skimpy sundress. I did not think of this woman as trashy. Instead, I saw a person who was probably a WAVES vet from WWII (based on some of the body art) – and clearly someone of intense personality and spunk. I personally didn’t want her tats, but then, they were her tats. They were part of her style and personality.

And all of a sudden I realize cultural things like that are perspective-based. There’s no objective connection between “goodness/badness” and a tattoo. As it turns out, it’s personal style like dying your hair or getting a tummy tuck or dieting. My perspective of tattoos was based on the culture trends of my youth, as was my mother’s unfortunate opinion of dangle earrings.

But trends change. That’s why they’re called trends. And it’s important to accept the outer accoutrements as just that – outer accoutrements. They do intentionally signal something personal about you, but it’s a wise and loving person who tries to see past the lens of their own limited experience to see the unique and beautiful package of each individual.

As it turns out, I rather like my daughter’s tattoo. On her. I’m still a “no-go” for a proposed mother-daughter matching set, but that’s because mine would not be authentic. (That is, I am so not cool enough to wear one.)

But then, you should see my kick-ass collection of dangle earrings.

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