PAPER, PLASTIC OR TAUNTAUN HIDE?

First of all, I’m probably greener than you -- partially by choice, partially by circumstance. Secondly, I don’t care how green you are. That’s your business.

I shop at Walgreens all the time. Several times a week, in fact -- and while I almost always carry reusable shopping bags to the grocery store, I rarely apply this convention to a trip to the drugstore. Call me evil. Call me irresponsible.

Last night, after a very long day, I stopped by Walgreens on the way home and purchased four items. After standing in line for several minutes and exchanging banal pleasantries with the young man behind the register, I paid for the items and waited for my bag. He thanked me, and started ringing up the next customer.

“Excuse me. Could I get a bag?”

The kid looked at me as if I had asked for free soup and a hooker. Then, he actually smirked. “Would you care to purchase a bag? We no longer carry plastic bags.”

My reply was a bit sarcastic. “Oh. You think they could have sent out a memo on that? How much is the bag?”

“Thirty-nine cents.”

“Fine.” I handed him two quarters, he handed me a small white bag and change. The bag had an odd, fibrous texture, sort of like Tauntaun hide. He immediately turned his attention back to the next customer. I bagged my own items and left.

I have no problem with the initiative behind this. I applaud it, in fact. But the attitude of this kid was insufferable. He was enjoying this process a little too much. He got to stand there, in his first crappy job ever, and piss off old people who expect plastic bags. Suddenly, he wasn’t a clerk -- he was an eco-warrior.

I shouldn’t have to explain this to anyone, but I need a bag. I need it to carry the stuff I just paid for as I walk home. I don’t drive a car these days. In fact, the last time I operated an internal combustion engine, Bush’s daddy was president. This sophomore probably drove his mother’s Escalade to work -- but he’s standing there saving the goddamn planet, and I’m just a clueless bastard with the temerity to expect the same landfill-congesting service I’ve received at that particular store for five years.

Like I said, I’m not perfect. Who is? Al Gore has a climate-controlled pool house.

I can adjust to almost anything, but I need a warning. When Whole Foods stopped offering plastic bags, they were smart enough to issue press releases and spend weeks explaining the policy change before it happened. And, because of this, it was a smooth transition, as opposed to a slap in the face.

I need laundry detergent this morning, and Walgreens is still the nearest store. I don't think I'll take the bag I purchased last night. Instead, I’ll take a plastic bag with a big red CVS logo on it. I’m sure I have one around here somewhere.

THE CONTRACT WITH DOGS

There is a street corner in Austin where I often linger at a bus stop all but obscured by shrubbery growing through a chain-link fence. The fence, like the house it surrounds, has seen better decades. This humble dwelling is interesting from a textural standpoint – with weathered wood and striated stone and a tilting stack of salmon-colored brick that was once a functioning chimney. This all looks remarkably old-world, surrounded by tufts of pine branch and drapes of moss. One could almost imagine Hansel and Gretel inside, gleefully basting a witch.

More often than not, there is a dog in the yard – a black and brown mutt who usually wanders over to help me wait for the bus. He stands and eventually sits beside me, on his side of the fence. I try to explain the bus schedule to the dog, which sets his internal pendulum in motion and causes him to inch closer, pushing the tip of his damp muzzle through the wire mesh. He sits patiently, looking up with doleful appraisal.

I always resist the temptation to pet the dog. This is an egregious omission on my part, considering our contract with dogs. Eons ago, when we were grunting savages in animal skins and dogs were still the scavenging camp wolves skittishly eating our leftovers, a sacred pact was struck. It was not a complicated bargain. The dogs would be our companions. They would warn us of approaching danger. Some of the more aggressive canines would protect us and work for us. And a few would even become unpaid spokesmodels. All we had to do in return was continue feeding them and offer a modicum of tactile validation. Eventually, a healthcare clause was added, but that’s it. That’s the deal. I’m quite certain dogs have often wished for a renegotiation of terms.

But I never pet this dog. To do that, it would be necessary for me to shove my hand through the fence, or lean over the top – and this could be interpreted as intrusive by someone living in the house. Someone who probably owns a shotgun.

The eyes beg. The tail wags. I tell myself the dog isn’t really sad. That’s just how his face was designed. Oh, sure, he would appreciate a pat on the head, but he certainly won’t cry himself to sleep if I don’t comply. He’s not that fragile. He’s a dog. And soon, there will be a new pursuit, and my lack of attention will be forgotten. Seriously. In spite of the antics of the aforementioned overachievers, most dogs aren’t really very bright.

He usually draws the same conclusion about me, and walks away – wandering around, sniffing things on the ground.

But today, I had to wait for the bus alone. There was no dog in the yard. The property was devoid of wildlife, except for a few grackles, walking and nodding like mynah birds in an old MGM cartoon.

Left to its own devices, my mind wanders to another street and a different bus stop. This one stands on the sidewalk of a wide thoroughfare, where a great deal of vehicular and pedestrian traffic passes. Bicyclists also travel this road in packs. There is a 350-acre park nearby and an abundance of restaurants and food trailers. In fact, trailers in general – or mobile homes – represent a large, unapologetic presence on this street. The bus stop in question stands just outside the entrance to a cheerfully well-tended mobile home park, where irony and necessity have collided to create an aggressively retro habitat. It is from the depths of this kitschy aluminum jungle that a large white cat almost always emerges to greet me. Talking incessantly, this friendly creature flops to the ground at my feet, snaking and stretching like a purring contortionist. The cat invariably rubs against me, depositing white cat hair and dried grass clippings on my pant legs.

I always pet the cat and tell it to go home. I don’t dislike cats, but I seriously want this one to go away, and not only because of the hair adorning my pants. The proximity of the street makes me nervous. This is a healthy, well-fed animal with tags and a bell, and obviously belongs to one of the nearby Airstream dwellers, but the pavement two feet away from the bus stop is extremely hazardous … and I’ve read Pet Sematary. Twice.

The cat doesn’t understand English and refuses to leave. I might be ignored for a few seconds, while the strict code of feline grooming overrides all other distractions, but the talking and twisting and rubbing is always on continuous replay. And, foolishly, I continue to gesture nonspecifically, and tell the cat to go home.

This always ends the same way. A bus pulls up and the cat inflates like a blowfish and streaks away with a hiss … and I climb aboard the bus with cat hair on my trousers.

I’ve never really considered our contract with cats. I suspect it might still be in committee.

Back at the original bus stop corner, a black Labrador appears with a cheerful and energetic young woman in tow, jarring me from my contemplation. Almost immediately, a deep, resounding bark from somewhere inside the house acknowledges this intrusion. My canine friend, doing his job.

The grackles fly away, and the dutiful barking continues until the Lab is halfway down the next block.

Good boy.

... AND A HOCKEY GAME BROKE OUT.

I walked into a local tavern last night, where I am no stranger. In fact, I’ve been around since they first opened their door … and designed the logo that hangs above it. Last night there were about fifteen customers watching three TV screens. One screen was enormous. A man who resembled a Hobbit was singing O Canada. (On TV, not in the bar.)

A bartender I have known in a professional capacity for many years served me a beer. I paid for the beverage and tipped her. Before long a hockey game broke out. (Also on TV.)

I can’t really blame hockey. I dislike all sports equally. And, dislike is a misleading term. It suggests I expend energy in the thought process leading to the reaction. I do not. There is no explanation for this—except that in my multiple decades on the planet I have simply never found a single reason to care about sports. Not one.

Eventually, another bartender I have known in a professional capacity for many years asked me if I wanted another beer.

I said, “I might be leaving.”

He said, “What can we do to change your mind?”

I said, “I doubt you are prepared to do it,” glancing over my shoulder at the largest offending appliance. This was meant as a joke. I had no intention of asking him to turn off the game. Like I said, there were about fifteen people there. Five for each TV. Hardly a groundswell, but certainly a quorum.

Deeper I dug the hole. “That’s a lot of hockey.”

All goodwill died face down on the bar. The bartender’s visage became a waxy scowl. Disdain emanated from him in waves. “Dude. It’s the last game.”

Still trying to be funny, I said, “You promise?”

The scowl deepened. Disdain visibly turned to anger and resentment. “It’s the Stanley Cup.” He shook his head, almost allowing abject pity to break through the veneer of disgust. As he walked away, I attempted to defuse the moment by lying. “Well, I guess it’s just a deficiency on my part.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “It is.” More head shaking. He snarked two more comments I couldn’t hear, and walked into the back room.

Pity. We have always gotten along in the past. Had I known he was a hockey fundamentalist, I would have kept my opinions to myself.

My dislike of sports creates more vehemence in others than in myself. In fact, the only aspect of it that makes me angry at all is the assumption that I care. The implication being--just because I’m standing or sitting in front of you--I obviously share your enthusiasm for the rink, the court, the diamond or the gridiron. I don’t know where such delusions are born. There are many aspects of pop culture, literature, cinema, art and life itself that interest and inspire me. But I would never assume everyone (or anyone) shares my zeal for any of it. I would never, for example, say to someone I just met or barely knew:

“So, do you agree that the non-Samurai Kurosawa films represent the best of his work? I mean, Ikiru, The Bad Sleep Well, High and Low… Drunken Angel! Come on!”

I would never say that. Or this:

“Of all the Silver Age Kirby inkers, I think Chic Stone gets shortchanged. I know everyone loves Sinnott, but I think his brush strokes often squelched the energy of Kirby’s lines. Visually, Stone was noisier and a lot more fun.”

How about:

“Dude. Anthony Mann. The westerns or the noir?”

Or:

“Charles Williams. He was like Jim Thompson, but with hillbillies and boats.”

Although, I might ask:

“Do you hold three to a Royal in Double Double, or Triple Double? Or neither?”

While I was contemplating my departure, a third bartender I have known in a professional capacity for many years walked up and started talking about Robinson Jeffers and Charles Bukowski. So I had one more for the road.

SORRY. I GOT YOU NOTHING.

The elusive and capricious Christmas spirit finally kicked me in the teeth. I celebrate a secular version of the holiday. This is an amalgam of European mythology, Norse revelry and Pagan ritual -- redefined by Madison Avenue and sanctified by Hollywood. Commercialism is unavoidable. In fact, it's fundamental.

All are welcome. None are excluded.

Anyway, this year's dose finally hit me while I was watching SNL. You never know where it will come from. The Christmas issue of Playboy used to do it, but my subscription lapsed sometime during the Carter administration.

So Merry Christmas, you wonderful old Building and Loan. We should all have a better new year.

THE GHOST OF LIVERPOOL

He was an enormous Brit in a soiled white suit. His face was unshaven. Strings of black hair brushed the splayed collar of his pink shirt. He entered the bar with an air of proprietorship and great thirst. I had never seen him before and I never laid eyes on him again.

He knew what he wanted. "Jameson.”

"No spirits, mate. Beer and wine," the bartender replied.

"In that event, " the man said, extracting an unfiltered cigarette from a crumpled pack, "I will have a pint of Guinness." He spoke with a Liverpudlian lilt – the unmistakable nasal drone that seems to resonate from an undiscovered region of the human face.

A few minutes later, the bartender placed a glistening pint before the stranger's sad and resolute smile. "Cheers," the barman said. "First one’s on the house tonight."

The big man drained the glass and slammed his palms on the bar.

"Right. Let’s do it," he said.

He pushed himself backward and pivoted. With no hesitation, he walked to the piano which had always looked out of place in the corner of the bar. He sat down and began playing "Imagine."

All conversation ceased as the stranger sang the first verse. Hesitantly, a few others joined in. He followed with "Yesterday." Then, “Eleanor Rigby.” By the end of the third song, everyone in the bar was singing. Pints of Guinness found their way to the piano. The man never spent a penny.

We sat there for hours, singing the songs that had shaped my life and the words that had once altered the landscape of my brain.

The bartender threw everyone out at 2:45. The stranger walked away, disappearing into the warm December morning. I went home and turned on my television. The overnight news repeated a single, heartbreaking story until dawn.

DELUSIONAL IN AUSTIN

Several hours ago I was standing on a street corner a few blocks from the infamous UT tower, waiting for a bus. I knew I had at least twenty minutes to kill, but I was perfectly content. The evening was alive with magic and minutiae.

Behind me, just outside an apartment door, two very young women were engaged in an energetic conversation. We’ve all done this, although perhaps not lately. The day is done, the door is open, you say goodnight -- and three hours later you’re still discussing the difference between love, lust and drunken capitulation – perhaps with someone you’ve just met. Or, it might have been some other drastically significant topic. I couldn’t really hear the details of this particular discussion, but I recognized the exuberance and the energy. These young women are still discovering the wonderment of the journey. They are about as far from jaded as I am from human flight. And this evening, they were chatting incessantly and laughing with no restraint. For me, it was a tonic.

In addition to the conversation, I was also under the influence of a steady, seductive breeze, ripe with evening spices and rife with tobacco and other combustibles.

It was intoxicating.

Add to this -- harsh, yellow streetlamps floating iridescent shadows beneath the wheels of passing cyclists and under the feet of pedestrians. It was nothing more than illumination blocked. Light interrupted. But it looked like magic. These shadows were bottomless, film noir pools. And the breeze was suddenly cooler. I leaned into a metal pole and breathed. For the duration of that breath, I was convinced I would live forever.

Then, a door slammed. I turned from my reverie to see the girls were no longer there. I didn’t know if both were gone, both had stayed, or if one had departed with reluctance while the other stayed behind with unspoken regret. In fact, I juggled several scenarios. I was projecting -- romanticizing a simple conversation. The aforementioned streetlights seeped into a space behind my eyes and ignited a headache. The bus was late. I was ready to go. I was ready to move on down the road. I found myself staring at the tower, calculating the striking distance between the observation deck and my forehead.

Finally the bus arrived and took me home.

There was another quick moment, as I was writing this down, when I felt foolishly immortal. My hope is that I retain this delusion, until the day it becomes untenable.

AND, ANOTHER THING...

I had reached page 17 of Mockingbird, A Portrait of Harper Lee by Charles J. Shields, when I noticed something I immediately identified as a typo. It came at the end of this sentence: “If Nelle thought she could get a book written, accepted and published in a finger snap – well, she had another thing coming.”

Another thing? Are you kidding me? As it turned out, the person in the next room was a tutor, so I showed the sentence to her, and waited for a reaction. She shrugged. I gestured and pointed vigorously at the book.

“Another thing coming?”

No reaction.

“It should be another think coming.”

She seemed to doubt this. I continued. “Thing is too generic. If we reject “another think coming” because it might be clumsy or grammatically incorrect, then the expression would be "another thought coming"… but not thing. Not another thing. Thing? Really?”

This discussion continued for a few minutes without resolution (which would come eventually, thanks to Google).

Hours later I was having another discussion with another friend at another location (this one had beer) and I suddenly remembered the typo. I insinuated my earlier incredulity into our conversation and received the same blank look.

“They sound alike,” I said. “Another think coming. Another thing coming. That’s the problem.”

“Yes,” my friend said impassively, “But it’s “another thing.”

I screamed inside, but said, “No. It can’t be. I won’t have it. I will not have it.” (Did I mention the beer?)

Did you ever hear the wrong lyrics? The girl with colitis goes by? ‘Scuse me while I kiss this guy? Charlene don’t like it, rock the cash bar? It happens. I recently discovered a line from You Never Give Me Your Money I misheard for forty years.

But, my whole life, it has always been another think coming. It’s only logical. The word in question always follows the word think or the word thought. So, according to the tenor of this particular sentiment, there would be another one coming.

My tutor friend has mentioned that people don’t generally use think as a noun, and she's correct. But doing so in this context is logical -- and there is clarity in this version that bypasses the other.

Another thing deflates the meaning. It makes the expression hopelessly flaccid. In this context, thing might as well be dohickey… or doodad.

And, I will not have it.

I Googled around and found a source that (while not definitive) validates my position, and is good enough for me. What continues to boggle my mind is the popularity of another thing coming – and the fact that I had never encountered this interpretation until yesterday.

http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/another-think-coming.html

According to this link (which has convinced at least one of the aforementioned friends) most people simply say the wrong thing.

I think.