Ramblings of a Wayward Code Slave

The process of giving or interpreting directions to somewhere is quite an arcane art. I just realized this as I looked out my office window and saw one of my coworkers undoubtedly giving directions to some poor sap who doesn't know his way around Lafayette. How could I tell? My coworker had this clipboard he was waving in the air with the classic "thataway" gesture and he had this confused but far-off look in his eyes as if he could see the location waaaay off there in the distance but was wondering how to get there. Think of a confused Clint Eastwood with a clipboard and you have it.

That led me to consider some of the more interesting characters who've given me directions I've received in my life. They generally fall into one of several categories:

1. The Blind Magician
2. The Old-Timer
3. The Anal-Retentive


Name: The Blind Magician
M.O.: Frequent changing of directions, always leading out into the woods somewhere.
Favorite Phrase: "No, no that isn't right. I know -- this is the way you go."

The Blind Magician is the worst of the three because he has no clue whatsoever how to go where you want or how to provide directions, but he still thinks he can. You've encountered the Blind Magician before if you've asked directions to downtown and he starts talking about the road by the lake. Beware any place to eat or stay recommended by the Blind Magician because it's probably been years since he's been there. If you encounter a Blind Magician just drive off -- he's too absorbed to notice.


Name: The Old-Timer
M.O.: Gives directions based on nonexistent landmarks.
Favorite Phrase: "Turn left at the bale of hay by the road and drive past Tom's boat ramp."

The Old-Timer has been a local for so long he just assumes that everyone knows everything about the area that he does; it doesn't register that people asking directions might be from out of town. To successfully navigate directions given by an Old-Timer you must do thorough research at the local library about the conditions of the area circa 1954. Any old structures that have been demolished in the past 60 years are fair game as well as items that seasonally might not be present. The Old-Timer has a predilection for giving distance in terms of driving minutes, e.g., "You go down that thar road for five minutes...", yet due to various parameters (driving 10 mph, driving 85 mph, not stopping at intersections, etc.) this physical distance could be anything from 100 yards to 15 miles. If you encounter an Old-Timer, just thank him and compliment him on his John Deere hat.


Name: The Anal-Retentive
M.O.: Gives excellent directions to pinpoint precision.
Favorite Phrase: "Go 1.3 miles and take a left on Hudson Avenue. Do I need to spell that for you? Are you writing this down?"

The Anal-Retentive is usually a scientific or mathematical person who prides himself in giving thorough and exactly correct directions. Possessing a seemingly-innate knowledge of the local geography thanks to hours of studying maps in the hopes of being asked for directions, the Anal-Retentive is armed and ready to assist. He can describe the terrain, give the exact number of traffic lights, and give directions that Stevie Wonder himself could follow. Unfortunately, getting away from the Anal-Retentive is somewhat difficult, possibly because you can't get in a word and possibly because of the grip he has on your arm due to the escape of previous victims. If you encounter an Anal-Retentive be prepared to write...a lot. Don't worry about pen and paper though since he'll have it with him.

Sometimes life is good and you feel like you're cruising on a rainbow from one glorious moment to the next; at other times, it seems that life has singled you out for something cold and cruel. I find myself in the latter category at this time, having to face the breakup of my marriage and the painful fact that my wife and I aren't going to be partners in life anymore. We have lawyers who are preparing to take us through the process of a divorce, but even with the knowledge that someone more intelligent than myself is working for my benefit I'm left with this empty feeling inside where my wife used to be.

This wasn't ever going to happen to me -- I knew it. Seven years ago when we married I just knew we were made for each other and we would be partners for the rest of our lives. Well, it's now seven years later and I feel like my life is over. People would say that it's a new beginning, but it's not. It's an ending. A very painful ending. And an ending that I neither foresaw nor desired. I have no intention of elaborating on the nature of our breakup because that's private and because I honor both her and the marriage that we had; suffice it to say that we knew this was coming for a while even if we didn't want to admit it to ourselves. Or at least I didn't admit it to myself until New Year's Eve.

What really stings for me is that it's like she died, but worse. She's only 3 1/2 hours away by car and I can't forget that fact. So my mind tells me that the pain of separation could be assuaged by a simple car trip, but then I remind myself that it won't help. Our differences are irreconcilable. So the woman I still love and with whom I wanted to spend my life is an afternoon driving trip away but might as well be a continent away. It would actually be better if she were farther away because then I couldn't idly entertain the notion of just getting in the truck and driving up there to see her.

Nevertheless, I know that this must be done for both my sake and for her sake as well and I'm committed to seeing it through. I just wish it didn't hurt so damned much.

Just when I think I've seen them all, another one pops up. "10 in Turkey Diagnosed with Bird Flu" was the title. While the story is tragic, the headline makes the pun-lover in my smile a bit. Get out of the turkey and maybe you won't get bird flu! The two best ones I ever saw were in the college newspaper for the University of Southern Mississippi, The Student Printz.

When I was an undergraduate, a new Athletic Director was named and his last name happened to be McLelland. Across the front page of the Printz in the next issue was "McLelland Asks for Athletic Support" in big, bold letters. I wonder if he'd like some underwear and socks to go with that?

The other one was "Students Help Rape Victims" and also appeared in the Printz. Now I know what the grammatically unchallenged will say here -- the word rape must be an adjective since help is the verb. To be grammatically correct in the other sense one would have to use the infinitive -- making it "Students Help to Rape Victims" -- but we all know that headlines frequently leave out words for conciseness or just to be able to use a bigger typeface. It still was a big faux pas, even for a not-ready-for-prime-time paper like the Printz.

Perhaps one day I'll buy a donkey and drag it around through downtown Lafayette just so the paper the next day can read "Alexander Parades Ass through Downtown".

I really hate it when a song gets stuck in my mind and I wind up repeating it over and over in my sleep -- or when I'm trying to sleep. The first time that happened to me was with Barbara Mandrell's I Was Country When Country Wasn't Cool. I despised the song but heard it on the TV because my parents had some country music show on and wound up repeating the song to myself the entire night.

I had a similar experience last night, but with Marc Cohn's Walking in Memphis. I never had a major problem with this song but at the same time it's far from one of my favorites. Nevertheless, I must have heard it on the radio because my brain recorded it and had it looping the whole night. So let's go into this song a bit deeper.

He gets on a plane wearing blue suede shoes and then gets off in Memphis in the middle of a thunderstorm. Is he a fool? Suede never looks right again after it gets wet. He then walks down Beale St., presumably still in the middle of the rain, pondering his emotional state. It's after this that he hallucinates seeing the ghost of Elvis float up to Graceland and hook up with some bimbo in the Jungle Room. Well I think I'd be pondering my emotional state too if I'd seen that. Moreover, how does he know someone's in the Jungle Room? Oh, maybe Elvis told him. Cohn then is talking about catfish being on the table and gospel music being sung. Is this still at Graceland, because I haven't heard of their gospel catfish dinner specials. Also, Rev. Green will be glad to see me when I haven't got a prayer. Isn't that a bit too late for him to do anything? It seems to me that the good Reverend should stop eating catfish at Graceland, push back from the table, and help me while I still have a prayer, don't you? We then jump to Muriel, the piano player at the Hollywood, which I can only presume is a bar of some sort. Muriel, apparently recognizing Cohn, gets him to sing for them and then asks if he's a Christian. A curious question for someone hanging out in a bar -- it's not exactly the primo place to convert someone. He replies that he is tonight, which infers that he wasn't yesterday nor will be tomorrow. Does he just rotate through various religions in the hope that he'll be on the right one when he finally croaks? Kind of a religious roulette. Today is Christianity, tomorrow Judaism, the day after that might be Hare Krishna or perhaps Hinduism. At the very end he finally revisits the fact that he wore his suede shoes in the rain, perhaps lamenting the fact that they now look terrible.

The all-night playback thing doesn't happen to me often, but I hope that the next time it happens it's at least a song I really like.