Camaraderie during crisis
“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;/For he today that sheds his blood with me/Shall be my brother.” Perhaps it’s hyperbolic to compare the state of modern print journalism to the Battle of Agincourt. Nevertheless, Shakespeare’s words from Henry V evoke a certain beleaguered esprit d’corps that feels entirely relevant. Perhaps you’ve read about how my chosen industry is going through what I’ll call a dramatic transition (rather than drawing on words like “spiral” or “throes”). At a time of massive uncertainty and no shortage of bad news, I keep on keepin’ on thanks to a renewed sense of camaraderie with my fellow writers, editors and other co-workers. A streak of gallows humor goes through our editorial meetings, lunches and water-cooler conversations, but there’s also greater mutual support, appreciation and encouragement, even compared to the time before things started, uh, transitioning so dramatically. We may be cynical, but we’re not cynical about each other, as befits a band of brothers. And sisters.
Mid-day reprieve
The windows are open, and the sun is shining brightly through them. It’s about 3 in the afternoon, and I’m drowsy from a morning of running weekend errands. My lunch has settled in. Now I can. It’s time to lie down. No need for cover, except for a throw to keep my feet warm. The trains rolling by rumble me to sleep, and it’s good, deep sleep, too. I can expect vivid dreams to entertain me — they say the most revealing are those caught during midday slumber — and a fresh start for the remainder of my day.
Circumstantial bliss
Speaking only for myself and like-minded melancholiacs, the question of what makes me happy cannot be answered by a simple recitation of things I enjoy. Instead, it provokes an internal debate on whether happiness as a semi-permanent state is truly achievable. I think it safe to say I’m not exactly hard-wired for happy. That said, here’s some shit that gets me stoked: Hitting a string of great yard sales on a sunny Saturday morning. Driving through quaint villages in the Eastern European countryside. Sitting down to a plate of perfectly fried catfish. Discovering a fantastic movie or record I know I’ll enjoy for years to come. Finding a great new cocktail bar or pub. Learning that some politician, evangelist or right-wing moralist just got busted for cheating on his wife, having anonymous sex in men’s rooms, or illegally buying prescription painkillers. Ask me again under those circumstances and, who knows — maybe I’ll say I’m happy.
Kitchen-table joy
Sitting at our kitchen table on linoleum floors that we long ago swore we’d replace with hardwood — but never did. Surrounded by 1980s wallpaper that we said we’d rip off the walls — but never did. Laughing at the faux Christmas tree that still stands in the living room — in April. Seeing my father lounge in a recliner and laugh at television shows about repo men. Realizing that my family is quirky and awkward and everything I’d ever want it to be. And that we’ve been through hell together and can sit at a kitchen table, laugh with one another, and smile genuine smiles. Even if it feels sometimes like things are falling apart around us, in reality they’re not.
A sunny day in paradise
Sand. More specifically, between my toes, mysteriously under my bikini, in my hair, and my eyelashes — but essentially sand, in all the wrong/right places. Plus sun, of course, beating down in that manner that makes you feel empty, baked and a little bit cancerous but so very, very warm. Sun when it's making the sand look so white that it's blinding, sun accompanied by the peculiar coconut smell of tanning lotion that we lather on to protect us from the sun, but which usually just increases our chances of having sand stuck in all the wrong places. So, the ocean is the final piece. Watery waves of bright blueness washing up against you, taking away the heavy heat of the sun, the oily, nutty cancer-staving lotion and, of course, the sticking-everywhere-the-sun-doesn’t-quite-shine sand.
Soup and marriage
My happiness has four main ingredients. The first three are white beans, escarole and garlic. I’m obsessed with food, and I spend way too much time in the kitchen when I should be doing other things. But this isn’t my recipe. This is the recipe of the mop-headed and disheveled guy I’m about to marry. This is what he makes when I’m too busy to cook. It’s one of the only things he knows how to make. Sometimes I try my hand at it, but it’s never the same. The recipe needs him, its fourth ingredient. But first, the garlic. He always browns it too much, which used to bother me — except I eventually realized the earthiness of browned garlic plays perfectly off the velvety cannellini and nutty escarole. Next, the beans. They must be Bush brand. None of that organic stuff. Those are too firm, their juices too watery. Finally, the escarole. He’s picky about the origin of those leafy greens, too. He prefers the heads they sell at the DeKalb Farmer’s Market: messy and uneven, a little rough around the edges, and perfectly imperfect — much like that fourth ingredient.
Tom Robbins
Even cowgirls get the blues. And when those ladies in leather feel down and out, or suffer from a mildly bothersome case of seasonal affective disorder, they know where to wrangle some happiness: the pages of a Tom Robbins book. The mustachioed enigma, a Southerner by way of the Pacific Northwest, weaves intricate webs of cosmic gold, ambling lazily through plotlines, occasionally stopping to smell the flowers — and sample psychotropic mushrooms. Without batting a sunglassed eye, Robbins’ insanity reaches the outer stretches of mystical genius, shining light on dark days. To try to capture his incandescence in a mere paragraph, to try and bottle it up tight like a common lightning bug in a Mason jar, is an exercise in futility. But if Robbins can’t make happiness stay, there’s always psilocybin.
Driving home
There’s something about twilight on Atlanta’s Westside. Northside Drive from North Avenue to Martin Luther King Jr. Drive isn’t normally considered a scenic route. In fact, driving up the beleaguered strip during morning rush hour can be a washed-out and dismal start to a long day. But something ethereal happens when the early evening sun settles across the city. The Equitable building, the CNN Center, and even the Westin Peachtree Plaza with some of its windows still blown out from last spring’s tornado all glitter a silvery platinum. It’s probably the only time that I actually drive the speed limit or wait patiently behind someone turning left. And it’s worth waiting for — a quick glimpse of Atlanta basking in daylight’s waning afterglow.
A venue to be proud of
Amazingly, Atlanta has sustained the nonprofit gallery and performance space Eyedrum for more than a decade. It’s rare to find a place — outside of Manhattan’s the Kitchen — where you can catch a couple of world-class jazz musicians like Ken Vandermark and Ab Baars tear it up with an ensemble of seasoned European players, then go back the following night and see a cutting-edge metal act like Zoroaster, and — later in the week — catch an explosive punk-rock set by the Coathangers or any number of other fantastic bands the city has to offer. Another major plus: Rather than neon beer signs, there is art — really good indie and experimental art — hanging on the walls. On top of all that, smoking isn’t allowed inside. I don’t stink like cigarettes when I come home from Eyedrum. And that makes me really happy.
The Ballad of Dorothy Parker
When Prince dropped Sign ‘O’ the Times in 1987, I was just a pubescent scrub. Seventh grade had come and gone without me confessing my eternal infatuation to Danielle Smalls. Instead, I’d spent nine months yanking on those two bushy ponytails of hers, the ones with the pink barrettes. She never got the hint. Even though she practically lived within walking distance of my father’s house where I was assigned to spend the summer, Danielle may as well have been a world away considering the gumption it would’ve taken to go knock on her door.
Instead, I smothered myself in Sign ‘O’ the Times, and “The Ballad of Dorothy Parker” became my soundtrack for unrequited love. I nursed my loneliness with a double cassette deck and got so proficient at rewinding the tape that I knew exactly where to stop it for the song’s beginning:
“Dorothy was a waitress on the promenade/she worked the night shift/dishwater blonde tall and fine/she got a lot of tips.”
By the time Prince worked up the nerve to hop into Dorothy’s bubble bath with his pants on, I always felt like a sucker. I wanted to be so bold with Danielle. But I knew she was transferring to another school the next year, and it killed me that I’d missed my opportunity.
Yet, something about the song was still soothing. The anxiety of the programmed drum beats and the desperate drone of the keys matched my mood. It felt good to be understood, even if I had yet to understand my own feelings. Sometimes the best cure for the blues is a little empathy.
Eventually, I built up the nerve to tell Danielle about my crush. I whispered it in her ear nearly 15 years later when we ran into each other in a noisy club. She seemed to barely remember me. I told her it was good to see her again, even though she wasn’t as cute as I’d remembered. She told me she was recently divorced. I could hardly recall what I’d ever seen in her.
When I listen to “The Ballad of Dorothy Parker” nowadays, Danielle Smalls rarely crosses my mind. But when she does, I prefer to remember her the way I did at 12 — when we were still innocent and love was a figment of my imagination.
The Happy Issue
» What makes these Atlantan's so damn happy?
» I can haz happy? How long can a hilarious trend last?
