I am not so particularly enamored with Mondays
I don’t like football too much anymore. And some Mondays, I don’t like them too much, either. Today was one of those Mondays. I mean, it started out okay, and I got up, and did my prayers — i.e., turning the show over to what I call “god,” who is like “the great whatever” — and meditation, and ate some breakfast, and then got cleaned up and out of the house and over to Peet’, where this guy I really don’t want to label as “crazy” rambled on and on like some character from the pages of a Harvey Pekar-Robert Crumb collaboration, and then I hit the road. The new Interpol? It blows, pretty much. Then, Lodi, computer, meeting, fire under seat of trousers, yeah.
I don’t know what it is about these little things that send my fragile sense of security spiraling head over shopping cart into the weeds next to the bitter water in the roadside drainage ditch, but there you go. Maybe it’s because, over the past couple of years, I experienced my own personal version of the Great Depression, the kind of thing where you’re too embarrassed to tell anybody you’re half crazy because you’ve been stretching the couple of bucks you had left on a supermarket gift card as far as you could, and you finally broke down and bought a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread with them, and now your stomach is growling because you’ve had nothing to eat in the past 72 hours but PB&(No)J sandwiches, and your brain just isn’t working right. It doesn’t take much — a weird tone, a look from a supervisor, a feeling — to take me back to that place. But fortunately, I guess, I’m not as nutty as my mother and some of the other elders in my family, who got all loopy about rationing toilet paper and recycling weird little household items. Which, or at least the latter, may not be such a bad idea these days.
So what made the day kinda suck is that I thought I did everything perfectly this morning, or darn near perfect for a Monday, and then I was cruising through Galt (D2 Trailer Sales.com!) and suddenly realized I didn’t have my phone. I’d left it on the bed, or on my guitar case, where it serves as an alarm clock. Now, being middle-aged or old, when you stopped remembering phone numbers, because all you have to do is find a person’s name in your phone’s address book, you’re sunk. I couldn’t call anybody. So I hunkered down, listened to a steady trickle of bad country-music cheese product, wrote, revised, looked stuff up, wrote some more. Finally, after five, I hit the road, got home, laid on my bed and fell asleep for a couple of hours.
And here I am again, trying to get into the discipline of writing my own stuff. It was a mighty big temptation to pick up the old guitar and run through versions of Hank Snow’s “I’ve Been Everywhere” and Charlie Walker’s (actually, Harlan Howard’s) “Pick Me Up On Your Way Down” and a few of my original tunes, which I did, but I managed to knock this one out. Got a bunch of half-written musings and rants on the death of the music business and a few other topics, too, but those’ll have to wait. Ah, heck with it, gosh darn it. Maybe I’ll amble off to the Co-Op and get some stuff to eat, because it’s too late to go mano-a-mano with all the entitlement cases at Trader Joe’s.
And one of these days, I’ll be back up to speed as a writer. Maybe. Y’know? —Jackson Griffith