He was “hypomanic on a mild day,” per historian Kay Redfield Jameson. 

Both his brother and son committed suicide. 

To manage his depression, Roosevelt sought “action.” 

And he sought it constantly. 

• He swam
• Rode horses 
• Hunted wild game
• Climbed mountains
• And practiced martial arts

In 1913, at the age of fifty-five, he embarked on his most perilous odyssey: a two-month canoe trip down the River of Duda (River of Doubt), an uncharted tributary of the Amazon. He almost died on that journey and lost nearly a quarter of his body weight. The Duda was eventually renamed in his honor. Today, it’s known as Roosevelt River.

As president, he participated in boxing matches at the White House. 

In those matches, he’d regularly challenge his competitors to hit him in the face as hard as they possibly could. 

He reportedly suffered multiple concussions.

So…

Roosevelt was insane.

But he led an extraordinary life. 

And he died of natural causes at the age of sixty, unlike his son, brother, and many others in his family who died by suicide.

Bipolar disorder was the Roosevelt “family curse.” But because Teddy stayed in motion — constant motion — he was able to channel his energy, quell his depressive tendencies, and become one of the most significant figures in American history.

I’m not advising anyone to pick fistfights or navigate uncharted river tributaries. Rather than seeking action of the extreme and insane variety like Roosevelt did throughout his life, we can simply aim to become a little more active.

At least, that’s what I’m aiming to do.

To get action, I can:

• Run
• Jump
• Swim
• Play
• Row
• And go
• On trips

Only people of a certain age will pick up on the references in the above list…

And I’m not in the advice-giving business. 

But if I were, I might say this to you:

Get out of your cushy office chair, couch, or whatever. 

At least for a little while. 

And get some ACTION. 

Today. 

Or, now is even better. 

Of course, you can leave a comment first (but only if you want to). 

What type of “action” are you presently seeking? 

Let’s keep it clean, folks. 

Below is the full quote from Teddy. 

R. Ross Horton II

R. Ross Horton is a writer, editor, and musician based in Palm Coast, FL. Last year he published his first book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy. At Lovesong.blog, Ross strives to help people find harmony in a chaotic world. Visit this website’s about page to learn more.

lovesong.blog

The post Teddy Roosevelt’s Insane but Effective Cure for Depression appeared first on Lovesong.Blog - Harmonize Your Life.

Chapter 7. I Need a Wife or a Chef

With the smell of marijuana lingering overhead, I eavesdropped on a conversation between two women walking behind me.

“I’ve smoked weed in public before,” one said.

“Me too,” the other replied.

“I haven’t,” I said to myself.

And as their slurred voices trailed off, I wished I’d done a little more living. I wished I had more stories and adventures in my backlog.

Kingfish offered low-price liquor and appetizers until seven o’clock. At the entrance I noticed a short Asian gal, smiling and holding an armful of menus. For reasons I can’t logically explain, she terrified me. My social anxiety—a disorder I’ve suffered from since the age of twelve—still has the capacity to control my behavior; the disorder often manifests at random and absurd moments when no real threat exists.

The bar wrapped around the corner onto the next block. I stopped to regain my composure. Peering through a window, I noted Kingfish had a comfortable but casual atmosphere, featuring an elegant liquor display, brick walls, and soft lighting.

I reversed course. The 22-year-old woman who’d intimidated me moments earlier was an amiable host. She promptly mentioned it was happy hour for another forty-five minutes and showed me to the bar, where a young female bartender took my order. Although the half-price beer was an enticing option, I decided to try something different, something that would hopefully offset, to some degree, my lack of style and sophistication.

“The Sazerac,” I said, pronouncing the drink name slowly. “Is that how you say it?”

“Yes, it is,” the bartender said.

“Just like it sounds. I’ll try that one.” The Sazerac is a signature New Orleans cocktail containing rye whiskey (or cognac), Herbsaint, and bitters.

I sipped on my classy red drink, with its decorative lemon peel floating at the surface, and reviewed Kingfish’s menu. As a clueless bachelor, I had little to no interest in fine dining. If the bartender had shoved a salty and preservative-dense Hungry Man meal in front of me, I would have been perfectly satisfied.

A friend of mine scrutinized my poor diet once. Then he issued this stern warning to me: “That shit’s going to catch up with you someday.”

I peeled open my favorite frozen dinner of all time, the Stouffer’s Lasagna with Meat and Sauce, and agreed with him. “You’re right,” I said. “I need a wife or a chef.”

No wonder I’ve been single for most of my adult life.

Over the preceding week, I’d tried a few classic New Orleans dishes, including the Jambalaya, a rice, veggie, and meat entrée, but I hadn’t exactly taken a comprehensive culinary tour of the city. On this evening I wasn’t in the mood for any sweet or spicy or slow-cooked dishes. Rather, I was in the mood for something . . . cheap.

“I’ll start with the gumbo,” I told the bartender.

In the kitchen, they kept the happy-hour favorite ready, hot, and available on-demand. I devoured my hearty bowl within a matter of minutes. It was the first meal I’d eaten that day. I was still hungry and ready for more budget-friendly cuisine, so I ordered another round of gumbo, plus a second cocktail.

When my food arrived, the attractive black woman sitting next to me commented, “First time ordering gumbo?”

She wore a revealing black dress and spoke with a neutralized Louisiana accent.

“Yeah,” I responded, shocked that she’d acknowledged my existence. “Does that surprise you?”

She shook her head kindly but unconvincingly. “You should try it with hot sauce.”

“I’m not into hot stuff.” After I silently scolded myself for that half-witted remark, I continued, “But I’ll give it a try.” I removed the Tabasco Sauce from the condiment tray in front of me.

“Just a couple drops, then stir.”

I followed her instructions. “It’s good. Thanks for the tip.”

I should have bought her a drink. But then my inner voice interrupted our conversation and delivered this monologue: She’s like twenty-seven or twenty-eight, I said to myself. That’s almost too young. I don’t even have a fucking job. Why would she be interested? Attractive black women only date confident, rich, or ripped white guys like Robert DeNiro and Jason Momoa. Is Jason Momoa part black? Is anybody watching us or judging me right now? It almost certainly won’t go anywhere. I’m leaving in two days. Maybe that’s enough time though. Don’t get ahead of yourself. I look like a slob. Why didn’t I dress better for this? I really should save my money. . . .

I swear, on some nights my subconscious mind is the worst wingman ever, there to distract and disorient me at every turn.

She rotated her barstool away from me and toward her friend. I was disappointed in myself but also relieved. At least I could say goodnight to my obnoxious wingman.

Moments later a middle-aged gentleman wearing a vintage Seattle Mariners cap strolled through the front door and took a seat next to me. I welcomed the influx of testosterone.

“I’m from Washington,” I said. “And a long-suffering Mariners fan.”

“Me too,” the man said. “What are the odds?”

He introduced himself as Andrew and ordered an old-fashioned. After no more than five minutes of introductory chatter, we established a bond and became friends—at least for the night. Andrew was an executive at the Aspen Foundation, a non-profit organization that endeavors, per its website, to address the world’s biggest and most complex problems. He was in town to oversee a community development project.

When he inquired about the reason for my visit, I told him the full story. He interjected with questions and anecdotes of his own as I described our journey and the events that preceded it.

“Have you ever seen the movie Chef?” Andrew asked.

I hadn’t. He said our story reminded him of the film, which chronicles a father’s cross-country road trip with his son.

Recently I saw the movie. There were parallels between the fictional chef’s trip and ours. They stopped in New Orleans and so did we. One of the chef’s specialties was brisket, and we ate brisket at a barbecue joint in San Antonio.

There were stark differences too. The chef, played by Jon Favreau, was an accomplished professional who’d previously worked at a prestigious Los Angeles restaurant. I was a flunky security guard for the worst security company in the state of Washington, if not the entire country. He was a hardcore, to-the-bone foodie. As I said earlier, I’m a guy who’d be content eating frozen dinners forever. And you recall the title of this chapter, right?

But Andrew was ultimately correct. The fundamental themes of both stories were the same—family, the pursuit of happiness, and redemption.

The bartender asked me if I wanted another drink. “Sure,” I said, intoxicated. “I think I’ll try an IPA this time.”

“That one’s on me,” Andrew said.

“No, you don’t have to do that,” I objected.

“It’s my pleasure.”

“Thanks, that’s nice of you.”

On television—just a few weeks prior to Kobe Bryant’s premature and tragic death in a helicopter crash—LeBron James and the Los Angeles Lakers faced off against Brad Stevens’s Boston Celtics. With roots in both New England and the Puget Sound area, Andrew supported Seattle’s Mariners and Seahawks but remained a fervent Celtics fan. I don’t follow the NBA, but I knew enough about the league to maintain a basketball discussion without sounding like an idiot. Good thing, too.

The customer sitting next to Andrew was Scott Cacciola, a sports columnist for The New York Times. He and Andrew debated Boston’s playoff prospects and reviewed some other noteworthy happenings around the league. I made one respectable contribution to the conversation, referencing Seattle’s dear departed Supersonics. Scott was in town to cover the NBA debut of Zion Williamson, the number-one pick of the 2019 draft and newest addition to the New Orleans Pelicans. He’d appear in his first game the following night.

In the third quarter, Andrew announced he’d be leaving soon to catch a show at The Spotted Cat on Frenchmen Street. He described the venue as “the place in New Orleans to see jazz tonight.” Dominic Grillo, a white but not “too white” saxophonist, would be the featured performer.

Andrew encouraged us both to attend the concert. Scott politely declined, saying he had research to do back at his hotel. I have a limited tolerance for fun and people. And by now, I was fast approaching my max socialization threshold for the year. I passed as well.

Before he paid his tab, Andrew handed his card to both Scott and me. We didn’t need Scott’s card. “I’ll find ya online,” I said. And then the three of us went our separate ways, forever most likely, into the arms of the brisk and wide-open New Orleans night.

I’d posted a social media update earlier that day. On my bus ride back to the RV park, I received a message from Cassie, a nurse and one of my former co-workers. “I’m glad you are having such a wonderful journey,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m shitfaced on a shuttle after another day of heavy drinking in the French Quarter and in the midst of a midlife crisis, but it’s all good.”

“Why are you having a midlife crisis?”

“I’m 35 with no career, no wife, no kids, no career, and no prospects.” I said career twice, probably because I was drunk—or maybe it was a Freudian slip of sorts.

“I’m 29 and have two kids with two deadbeats. It could always be worse.” She added an “lol” at the end of her message.

We hit a pothole. As I favored my injured shoulder and moaned quietly, I realized I’d been living my life under a flawed supposition, commonly held by drunks and depressives, that my pain was special or unique somehow.

I didn’t text Cassie back until around midnight, after making a stop at the RV park’s bar. “Yeah, I don’t know who has it worse,” I said. “But you deserve better and at least you have cool kids! Hopefully I can sleep this off. Talk to you later.”

* * *

In March of 2020, at the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic, I wrote a thirteen-thousand-word blog post chronicling my Big Easy benders and experience. For this book I condensed that blog post down to seven thousand words.

Up next, in part two, I’ll introduce you to heroic medical professionals, a motley crew of meth heads and certifiable lunatics, and other characters who changed the trajectory of my life and travels. My search, for the purposes of this book, began in New Orleans and continued all through the plague era. But my story begins in Washington State.

R. Ross Horton II

R. Ross Horton is a writer, editor, and musician based in Palm Coast, FL. Last year he published his first book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy. At Lovesong.blog, Ross strives to help people find harmony in a chaotic world. Visit this website’s about page to learn more.

lovesong.blog

The post I Need a Wife or a Chef – New Orleans Travelogue Part 7 appeared first on Lovesong.Blog - Harmonize Your Life.

I mention my friend, Louise, a cook at the hospital where I worked as a security guard, in the excerpt you’re about to read. That should be all the context you need. In chapter 27 of my book, featured below, I talk about travel as a potential remedy for depression, among other things.

The Bipolar Express: Day Four

The Grand Canyon

I got an early start on day four, my one and only early start of the trip. With over ten hours of driving planned, plus a scheduled stop at the Grand Canyon, I had no choice in the matter and set out on my 664-mile journey around 8 a.m.

On the curvy road leading to the Grand Canyon’s South Rim, I made one immensely stupid maneuver that could’ve easily killed me, passing a slow-moving truck near the top of a hill. If someone had come flying down that hill as I passed the truck, I would’ve almost certainly died in a head-on collision. But I survived. And for the first time since that ferry ride with my friend Louise, I felt blessed and grateful—happy to be alive.

In my thirty-four years, I’d never seen the Grand Canyon in person, but I’d heard favorable reviews. While researching the park, I learned it had a 99 percent “Fresh” rating on Rotten Tomatoes.

I had made it as far as the Grand Canyon’s South Rim entrance once before, back in the summer of 2007. Just before dusk, I recall having a conversation with a park ranger.

“Hello,” the ranger said, with an oversized and phony smile. “That’ll be twenty-five dollars.” I was grumpy and disliked everything about him: his shrill voice, ridiculous hat, and air of pomposity. The price of admission offended me too.

“Twenty-five dollars? You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I complained. “That’s highway robbery.”

“Take it up with your congressman,” he suggested.

I paused for a moment and imagined the ranger’s silhouetted figure plummeting backwards into the canyon, his screams echoing through the empty space and slowly decreasing in volume.

“Will I even be able to see anything?” I eventually asked.

“It’s almost dark now. You won’t see much.”

I saved my money and turned around, not inclined to spend twenty-five dollars on a self-guided star-gazing excursion. In my daydream, the canyon floor opened and the ranger continued his head-first descent into hell while Tom Petty, flanked by George Harrison and Jesus, performed a gorgeous acoustic rendition of “Free Fallin’” from heaven on a mystical TV monitor in the sky.

* * *

Twelve years later, I used my all-inclusive “America the Beautiful” National Parks and Federal Recreational Lands Pass at the same gate and then stopped at the park’s first viewpoint, fittingly called Desert View. It was a hazy day, but that didn’t detract from my experience.

Five to six million years ago, the Colorado River carved the Grand Canyon. It’s larger than the state of Rhode Island—277 miles long and up to 18 miles wide. Elevations within the canyon vary from around two thousand feet at the bottom to nearly nine thousand feet at its highest point.

The painted desert’s reds and pinks were even more striking to me than the color combinations I’d observed in Utah. Green offspring, born with immeasurable privilege, sprouted from ancient beds of gold and yellow sand. A half-mile beneath me, decorative coats of purple splashed over the mudstone and sedimentary rock.

I spent as much time looking down at the Colorado River, slithering its way through the still and mighty abyss, as I did admiring the canyon. The river’s energy was faint but fierce and palpable from where I stood.

Blue was still my favorite color, followed by red, then gray—menacing gray, like the unforgettable sky I’d hiked under at Capitol Reef National Park. Green didn’t crack the top three. And there at the Grand Canyon, I realized I’d chosen the wrong state to call home for twenty years. It was time for me to say “so long” to Washington.

The Grand Canyon has over a dozen lookout points along its main drive. At Navajo Point, I met a cool older couple named Skip and Randi. Skip was an avid photographer. We talked about the photography conditions, previous stops on our journeys, and locations of origin. They were from New Jersey. We all began and would end our trips in Vegas.

I took their picture; they took mine and then we went our separate ways.

Five minutes later, I saw them again at the next viewpoint. While Randi explored the area, Skip and I continued chatting about the canyon, national parks in general, and careers. He said he was an engineer in a past life.

“You’re retired now then?” I asked.

“I am retarded,” he confirmed.

And yes, that is actually what he said.

When I ran into my favorite retirees from Jersey for the third time that morning, we exchanged pleasantries and commented on our shared sense of déjà vu. Then Skip pointed to a location where he could get a “perfect shot” of me. It was about fifty yards from where we stood. To get there, I’d have to climb down some boulders and onto a narrow ledge.

It seemed to me that Skip’s proposition was tantamount to what my schoolyard chums in the mid-90s would have called a “double-dog dare.” Naturally, I accepted his challenge.

A dozen or so Asian tourists observed the proceedings, creating a spectacle. It was an easy fifteen-foot climb, but the ledge below was only about twenty feet wide and technically off limits to visitors. If a ranger had spotted me, I probably would’ve been kicked out of the park for my irresponsible behavior.

At Angel’s Landing I’d navigated dicier terrain, and I was never in danger at any point on this mini-hike. But it was ill-advised and I wouldn’t do it again. I’ve since realized that it’s okay to say no to double-dog dares, especially if that double-dog dare involves a cliff or the Grand Fucking Canyon.

I reached the “perfect spot” Skip had alluded to in his instructions. From fifty yards away, he and Randi both took photos of me as I struck a variety of poses. The tourists—my audience—marveled at my bravery and stupidity while chronicling the event on their camera phones.

German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche once said, “When you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.” On the million-year-old rock, I was energized rather than perturbed as I pondered my own insignificance and stared down into the world’s most breathtaking abyss.

I don’t know if there’s a meaning to life or not. Probably not.

But life certainly feels meaningful when you’re standing on the shoulders of a geological giant and tangible miracle, like the Grand Canyon.

I gave a thumbs-up signal to my new friends from New Jersey, indicating the end of our session. One tourist advised me to be careful as I climbed to safety, which was thoughtful of him.

In the parking lot, I reviewed Skip and Randi’s collection of photos. They got some incredible shots, many of which also featured my fans, the tourists, observing and documenting me from the grandstands.

After he completed his portion of the slideshow, Skip told me he was joking. He didn’t think I’d be stupid enough to accept his double-dog dare, cross the park’s unofficial boundary line, climb down the boulders, and stand on the ledge of a cliff.

Guess I showed him, huh?

We both laughed, shook hands, and said our goodbyes. They texted me a best-of photo compilation later that day. My canyon visit lasted less than two hours. It was, without question, the most significant pit stop I’ve made in my lifetime.

~~~

Amazon link below (click on image).

R. Ross Horton II

R. Ross Horton is a writer, editor, and musician based in Palm Coast, FL. Last year he published his first book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy. At Lovesong.blog, Ross strives to help people find harmony in a chaotic world. Visit this website’s about page to learn more.

lovesong.blog

The post Travel As an Antidepressant – My Grand Canyon Experience appeared first on Lovesong.Blog - Harmonize Your Life.

Chapter 6. American Spirit

A dozen horse carriages formed a queue in front of Jackson Square, one of the most famous landmarks in New Orleans.

I walked past a bald and disheveled coachman (horse-carriage driver). He had as much zeal for his profession as your average sewer cleaner or vice principal. I assumed he was, at minimum, a registered sex offender in the second degree. Right or wrong, I decided at that moment that if I had children, I would not take them on any carriage rides, ever.

The iconic statue of Andrew Jackson riding his bronze horse, sculpted by Clark Mills in 1856, adorns the center of Jackson Square. It’s surrounded by immaculately maintained greenery, a walking path, and quaint park benches.

Past Jackson Square, in front of the imposing St. Louis Cathedral, artists and sculptors peddled their works with varying degrees of enthusiasm while a raunchy comedy troupe simultaneously performed an improvised show before a growing audience. The troupe looked like a younger version of the Hamilton cast, wearing urban attire in lieu of wigs and waistcoats.

One of their jokes featured this punchline: “I’m not gay . . . anymore.”

I continued my trek, neither amused nor offended, and meandered onward toward Bourbon Street.

Although it’s a bustling business district, the French Quarter has the feel of a residential neighborhood. More specifically, it feels like a residential neighborhood in an especially enlightened socialist country, where everyone’s either a drunkard or artist or both and nobody needs to work. Even the French- and Spanish-inspired colonial buildings have a communal vibe, with no clear exterior boundaries between many of the businesses. Each bar seemingly bleeds into the next one.

On my solo Bourbon Street shuffle that night, musicians and street performers vied for my attention. First, two sketchy buskers in ragged clothes smoked cigarettes and sang familiar tunes as tourists, including me, passed their corner quickly and avoided eye contact with them. Beneath a crowded balcony, mime-like characters posed as street workers and showcased their robotic dance formations, moving to the beat of the community’s youthful percussion section, who played intricate drum parts with their hands on upside-down buckets. A human Drew Brees statue also made an appearance, and then a little later, I watched a gangly young clown perform a card trick. People traveled freely between watering holes and restaurants, sipping on their beers and cocktails.

Music poured onto the street and reverberated through the Quarter. Coldly, I evaluated a young female singer with a pleasant but flimsy voice performing a syrupy Adele song (as they all are). I thought, from Portland, Maine to Portland, Oregon, I could hear something like this anywhere in America on any given night. I kept walking.

The next act who auditioned for my patronage, a middle-aged quartet, nailed their rendition of “Little Piece of My Heart” by Janis Joplin, precisely executing each of the song’s forlorn verses and rollicking choruses. But cover bands lack courage. I wanted to hear something unique, inspired, and bold.

At The House of The Rising Sun, a bar I’d already passed once, a three-piece band played a funky and jazzy song I’d never heard before. That was a point in their favor. The singer-guitarist lacked technical prowess with both his voice and instrument, but he had character and spirit, the only two non-negotiable job requirements for frontmen (and frontwomen).

I’ve always been a sucker for songs that swing, and I appreciated the way their hipster drummer extended his downbeats. When the black trumpeter emerged from his post behind the drum kit and launched into a solo, I promptly entered the bar and ordered a drink.

Inside, near the stage, a voluptuous middle-aged woman with short black hair “twerked” on her male companion. She wore an extra-tight cabaret outfit. The woman’s enormous breasts and backside enveloped her partner’s pint-sized body like a total eclipse. I couldn’t help but stare for a moment. Good for them, I thought. And by the way, twerking was invented in New Orleans. I’ll present more insightful historical and cultural commentary in my next travel section, none of which will involve twerking.

I enjoyed the band’s set, despite not knowing any of their songs. Just after I put three bucks in their tip bucket, the trumpeter stepped out for another extended solo; this time he walked through the room seeking donations. He hadn’t seen me make my contribution, so I pretended to use my phone for something urgent when he passed my bar stool—not once, but twice.

The band announced they’d be taking a break after the trumpeter finished his solo. I polished off my second beer and plotted out my next solitary adventure.

As I exited the House of the Rising Sun, I saw the band again outside. The singer opened a fresh pack of Blue American Spirit cigarettes, my old brand, and handed out smokes to his comrades.

At that moment I was transported to another place and time. I recalled my ill-fated stint in Nashville when I, like the three men in front of me, was a young musician and smoker, attempting to succeed against impossible odds. My not-so-wild nights on the Nashville bar scene, solo with social anxiety, usually ended at the John Seigenthaler Pedestrian Bridge, which connects downtown with the football stadium across the river.

It was the winter of 2006. I wore a ridiculous ensemble more often than not: a black cowboy hat, navy sport jacket, and khakis. Back then I only chain-smoked when I was near water—not after sex because there wasn’t much sex or after any other occasion.

To cap my nights, I’d savor two cigarettes while gazing back and forth between the Cumberland River beneath me and Nashville’s illuminated skyline. I was certain I’d conquer Music City someday and had nothing but time, with no concerns about male pattern baldness, retirement, or lung cancer.

In front of the House of the Rising Sun, it occurred to me that I hadn’t lived all that much in the thirteen years since I’d left Nashville. So I still had nothing but time; and that was a comforting thought. I had my whole life and many happy hours ahead of me.

Speaking of happy hours, if I wanted more discounted booze and a five-dollar bowl of gumbo, I had to act fast.

Next → Chapter 7: I Need a Wife or a Chef

R. Ross Horton II

R. Ross Horton is a writer, editor, and musician based in Palm Coast, FL. Last year he published his first book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy. At Lovesong.blog, Ross strives to help people find harmony in a chaotic world. Visit this website’s about page to learn more.

lovesong.blog

The post American Spirit – New Orleans Travelogue Part 6 appeared first on Lovesong.Blog - Harmonize Your Life.

Chapter 5. Memories (the Morning After)

After our cruise, I don’t remember what bars we visited or what I drank that evening. All I know is that I drank far too much once again.

The next morning my dad started opening cabinets, slamming them shut, obsessively wiping down one surface after another, vacuuming, and generally making me want to kill myself and take him with me around nine o’clock, a little later than usual.

I’m a nocturnal insomniac by nature. He’s an early riser. Since it’s impractical to travel cross-country by night, we adopted a modified version of my father’s schedule, with the wake-up time delayed by an hour or two.

As I embarked on my sixth hangover in the Big Easy, I slipped through a wormhole somehow and then landed on a damned and fiery river. The devil stood by on the shore while thousands upon thousands of charred and mutilated bodies moved through the river’s swift and bone-crushing current. Beneath the sky of red and above the hopeless screams, I sat comfortably aboard the Steamboat Natchez as its sole passenger. The too-white jazz band—my entertainment for eternity—played “Oh When the Saints go Marching in” on an endless loop. For breakfast, lunch, and dinner, the ship offered nothing but plain mayo on its menu.

After a while I returned to New Orleans from the netherworld, unscathed. Then I rose to my feet, begrudgingly brewed the coffee, and mourned a mass murder. So many perfectly lovely and innocent brain cells had been destroyed—by me, their creator and killer!

Once the coffee took effect and quelled my homicidal urges, I read a few chapters of The Giver, the classic young-adult novel by Lois Lowry. All my middle-school teachers had tragically omitted the title from their reading lists. The book was free, courtesy of the Snohomish County Public Library System and Hoopla, an e-book provider.

In brief, The Giver is a dystopian novel about an insulated community, lacking color, culture, and terrain. A mysterious committee governs everything from the weather to each individual’s occupation. The society has one designated historian, known as the Receiver of Memory.

There’s a scene in The Giver where the title character, who deals exclusively with classified materials and works in isolation, describes the most depleting responsibility of his job. Speaking to his trainee, the future Receiver of Memory, The Giver says, “The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It’s the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared.”1

I stopped reading and bookmarked the page.

Hungover in New Orleans, I realized I’d been hoarding most of my best stories and recollections, including a story I’d started writing the previous year that recounted the sad and surprising origin of “I Can’t Make You Stay,” a song I wrote while working at the hospital. Perhaps it’s time I share some of my memories, I thought.

I forced myself into action later that afternoon, despite my aching head and body and diminished brain capacity. At four o’clock I caught our RV park’s courtesy bus and headed back to the French Quarter, solo this time, and then set out for Woldenberg Park on the Mississippi River, a place I’d already visited once.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been drawn to large bodies of water, oceans especially, but also lakes and rivers with certain intangible characteristics. I’m a nonbeliever. And unlike seemingly every twenty- and thirty-something woman who’s ever done a downward dog, downloaded a meditation app, or read an Elizabeth Gilbert book, I don’t even consider myself “spiritual,” whatever that means. Still, when I gaze upon a dazzling blue sea or larger-than-life river such as the Mississippi or Columbia, I feel, if nothing else, a benevolent force at work.

My dour mood lightened as I observed the whirlwind of activity along the waterfront. There were tourists on phones, babies in strollers, runners on steroids, lovers, drunkards, and transients too. The Crescent City Connection Bridge, one of man’s many responses to the Mississippi, hovered over the water with tenacity and elegance in the distance.

Homely, unwieldy barges traversed the river from the north and the south, all in the name of commerce—a dated, rudimentary form of commerce. In this era of Elon Musk and artificial intelligence and the side-hustle economy, it was refreshing and beautiful to watch those anonymous crews steer their unsightly ships toward distant ports and more prosperous tomorrows.

At the Monument of the Immigrants, which depicts a young family arriving in America from an unspecified foreign land, I reflected on the polarized state of politics in our country.

The crowd dispersed as sundown approached. And that’s when a familiar face emerged from the shadows. “Hey, I know where you got your shoes,” the man said. He sounded weary, like a car salesman introducing himself to a client after ten long hours in the lot.

“We met two days ago,” I reminded him. “You shined my dad’s shoes.”

“Oh yeah.”

“Mine are fine, but thanks anyway.”

“Okay, man.”

“I was impressed. It’s a good gimmick.”

“That’s it,” he said confidently. Then he walked away with his head swiveling, scanning the area for potential customers.

I stood in front of the entrance to Woldenberg Park, savoring my final moments with Ol’ Man River, my new friend. Fittingly, the guy who knew the location of my shoes photobombed my last picture of the day.

Next → Chapter 6: American Spirit

R. Ross Horton II

R. Ross Horton is a writer, editor, and musician based in Palm Coast, FL. Last year he published his first book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy. At Lovesong.blog, Ross strives to help people find harmony in a chaotic world. Visit this website’s about page to learn more.

lovesong.blog

The post Memories (the Morning After) – New Orleans Travelogue Part 5 appeared first on Lovesong.Blog - Harmonize Your Life.

* * *

Chapter 4. Current Events

Back on the Steamboat Natchez, after we came about and began the downstream portion of our trip, my dad went upstairs to order a Bloody Mary. Nothing on earth—except for mayonnaise, which I firmly believe should be illegal—sounded worse to me at that moment than a Bloody Mary. We had prime seats, catching heat from the winter sun and partially shielded from the jarring winds. I held my dad’s spot.

When he returned, I looked at his cocktail in disgust and said, “I’d literally rather jump off this fucking ship than drink a Bloody Mary right now.”

“Sounds like you took it a little too far yesterday,” my dad said.

“And the day before. Those pineapple drinks just about ended me. Then I kept going.”

“It seemed like she put a lot of vodka in them.”

“Way too much.”

An old-style Mississippi cruise liner with hundreds of staterooms and a patriotic paint job passed us on the left. My dad examined the ship’s layout and construction, then uttered a refrain I’d heard countless times on our cross-country expedition.

“Don’t make the same mistakes I’ve made,” my dad said. “Danny, an old friend of mine from college, was the captain of a cruise ship similar to that one. I’m sure he’s retired by now and doing much better than I am these days. But then again, who isn’t doing better than me?”

In addition to being a former lawyer, my father has many other “former” titles on his resume: boat captain, first mate, business owner, mortgage broker, and ditch digger, to name a few. His decades of self-employment and tax avoidance tactics had limited his social security contributions and jeopardized his retirement.

After my father merged onto the highway of regrets, I promptly directed him to the nearest exit with a dash of humor. “At least you still look good,” I said. “Most people your age look like shit.”

My father sighed and then took a sip of his cocktail, unamused by my snarky and hollow comment.

I continued, “And there are plenty of less successful and less fortunate people than you in the world.”

“I know,” my father said. “And look at us now, on this trip. We’re seeing places that most people will never get to see.”

As a neutered clarinet solo impotently dripped onto the deck and polluted the surrounding airwaves, another gust of cold air penetrated my hungover body. I shivered and felt violated.

The weather reminded my father of Washington. He said he missed it. I missed some of my friends, and certainly Amelia, but not the state itself. Even though I lived there for well over two decades, Washington never felt like home to me.

Maybe I used the state as a scapegoat for my lack of success in other areas. Perhaps my parents’ divorce played a role. She chose California. Like every other California castoff in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, he moved to Washington. I was their only child and picked Washington too, but only because things got too crazy in California.

We sailed past downtown New Orleans and approached the Natchez’s home port.

“I think you’ll like Florida,” my dad said. He was still considering other retirement destinations, such as Texas and Arizona, but Florida was the clear frontrunner.

A couplet from the song “Santa Monica” played through my internal sound system, interrupting the clarinet solo. I’ve rewritten that couplet to avoid fees (music publishers are rapacious scoundrels). “Santa Monica” is a song about Everclear singer Art Alexakis’s heroin addiction. While looking upstream at nothing in particular, I quietly sang, “I just wanna feel the ocean breeze. And I swear someday I will beat my disease.”

“What?” my dad asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “I hate winter. Florida sounds pretty good right about now.” I wasn’t sure what I intended to do once he got settled in a new place, but I looked forward to visiting the Sunshine State.

The jazz band’s leader thanked the audience before introducing their last song, or should I say, number. “I think everyone knows this one,” he announced.

“God, they better not,” I said. “It’s too obvious. They better not play ‘When the Saints go Marching in.’”

Seconds later those first four instantly recognizable notes rang out with no lyrical accompaniment needed. “Oh, when the saints . . .”

And sure, part of me wanted to launch their goddamn instruments one by one into the river. But upon further reflection, I realized I was the one with the problem. I knew I needed to be more tolerant of jazz bands I arbitrarily dubbed “too white,” of innocent patrons at all-you-can-eat buffets on cruise ships, and of people in general.

However, apologies to you, Mr. Twain. I know I borrowed a famous line of yours in chapter one, but you were wrong and a correction is in order. No matter how far I travel in this lifetime or the next one, I will always—yes, always—be prejudiced against mayonnaise.

Next → Chapter 5: Memories (the Morning After)

R. Ross Horton II

R. Ross Horton is a writer, editor, and musician based in Palm Coast, FL. Last year he published his first book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy. At Lovesong.blog, Ross strives to help people find harmony in a chaotic world. Visit this website’s about page to learn more.

lovesong.blog

The post Current Events – New Orleans Travelogue Part 4 appeared first on Lovesong.Blog - Harmonize Your Life.

Chapter 3. Heroes, Villains, and Lawyers

A tan and handsome young man sat down beside us at the bar. He introduced himself as Robert. We bonded over our shared name and chatted about the AFC Championship Game on TV.

“You don’t go by Rob?” I asked him.

“No, I don’t like it,” he said.

“I don’t mind it. I’d just never use it officially because it sounds too ‘snowboardery’—you know, like I’m someone who hits both the half-pipe and the hash pipe a little too hard.”

Robert laughed and agreed, saying he’d had many encounters with “Stoner Robs” in his life.

The Titans took an early lead over the Chiefs. After a discussion about Chiefs running back Derrick Henry, whom Robert described simply as “a beast,” we switched gears and moved into potentially contentious territory—politics.

Robert supported Andrew Yang for president, a semi-popular nominee at the time among tech-savvy and/or clueless-gamer millennials. If the choice were between Trump and Bernie Sanders, the leader in the crowded Democratic primary race, Robert said he’d vote for team MAGA, all day, every day.

“I’m from Columbia,” he explained. “I don’t think most people who support Bernie really understand what socialism is. I lived it, and I could never vote for him.” Robert was an articulate and charismatic speaker. My father and I wanted to know more about him.

Between sips of his Whiskey Sour, Robert provided us with an abbreviated version of his biography. His family moved from Medellín—the capital of Columbia—to Miami when he was a young child.

“My dad was the second-in-command under Pablo Escobar,” Robert said.

His claim was far-fetched yet specific, and I wasn’t exactly sure what to make of it. My father and I were familiar with Pablo Escobar, the most notorious drug lord and richest criminal of all time. When we followed up with additional questions, Robert never stumbled or became flustered in his responses. His story contained detailed plotlines, with no gaping holes in them.

“What brings you to New Orleans?” I asked.

“I’m a lawyer,” Robert said. “I represent poor and other disadvantaged people facing long prison sentences for nonviolent crimes.”

Okay, that’s a plausible and commendable motive, I thought, as my internal bullshit detector simultaneously flashed and rang at a near-deafening level.

“Where do you live now?” my dad asked.

“Huntington Beach, but I do a lot of traveling for work,” Robert said.

My dad graduated from Cal Western Law School in San Diego and practiced family law in the ‘80s and ‘90s. Both of us were suspicious of Robert by now.

Next, as if we were in the courtroom as founding members of Horton and Horton LLP, a family law firm dedicated to upholding truth and justice, we went into full interrogation mode. We wanted to know if “Robert” was real or a fictional character.

“Do you practice law in California too?” my dad asked.

Robert nodded.

“Wow, any other states?”

“Massachusetts and Louisiana.”

He’d told us earlier that he was only twenty-three. “How old were you when you passed the bar exam for the first time?” I asked.

“I was sixteen.”

Wow again, I thought. “And what school did you go to?”

“The University of Louisiana for my undergrad degree and Harvard for law school.”

My father and I looked at each other in a fleeting glance. Of course he went to Harvard. We reached our verdict swiftly with no deliberations needed—guilty. Robert was completely full of shit, and we had no further questions.

Before he left, Robert insisted on buying our next round. “You don’t have to do that,” we told him, but he overruled our objection. A few minutes later, Robert stood up, casually moved toward the bathroom, took a sharp left turn, and then plunged into the stream of bodies that flowed through Decanter Street in both directions.

The next time our bartender checked on us, she noticed Robert was MIA.

“Sorry,” I said. “We’ll pay for the two drinks he ordered.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, removing Robert’s coaster from the bar. “That doesn’t surprise me. I could tell he was full of shit.”

After Robert’s sudden departure, my father and I speculated on his motives. Was he a con man looking to scam us? Did he have a more sinister objective in mind? Or was he just a sad and lonely guy seeking attention? I guess we’ll never know.

I have scattered recollections of our evening, following the fruity cocktails and our encounter with Robert, the Harvard-educated attorney from Columbia. When we got back to the trailer, I must have walked the dogs, picked up their shit in bags, and probably bitched about the cold to myself and to God. My father and I also visited The Lighthouse, our RV park’s bar and grill, for several unnecessary night caps.

Sometime later I converted our dining room table into a bed. Just eight feet away, my intoxicated 69-year-old father snored in his master suite.

I fell asleep quickly but woke up within an hour or two, around 2:30 a.m. My dusty box fan blasted cold air and carcinogens into my face, and our heating system supplied as much warmth as a dying trash-can fire.

In my brief and booze-induced coma, I had twisted my injured shoulder somehow. Electric currents shot from one side of my skull to the other like lasers. I had limited control over my limbs. My brain felt like a bowl of flavorless oatmeal with maggots and thumbtacks on top. I stumbled for the ibuprofen, then toward the bathroom. I didn’t puke. Success!

No, far from it.

I made many bathroom trips after that, adjusted my bedding, turned up the heat, tilted the fan to a different angle, rolled around endlessly as if I were on fire, listened to music, ate two blueberry Nutri-Grain bars, thought about dying, my top ten preferred ways to die, and drank about a gallon of water because I’d consumed nothing but booze and coffee on the previous day.

While lying on my side and facing my filthy fan, I caught a few sharp and flickering winks of sleep just after dawn. Then a vision of hell flashed before me—the extra-pale jazz band played a special concert, just for me, for all eternity. Actually, the boat trip came later. I didn’t visualize hell until the next day, during my next hangover.

Next → Chapter 4: Current Events

R. Ross Horton II

R. Ross Horton is a writer, editor, and musician based in Palm Coast, FL. Last year he published his first book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy. At Lovesong.blog, Ross strives to help people find harmony in a chaotic world. Visit this website’s about page to learn more.

lovesong.blog

The post Heroes, Villains, and Lawyers – New Orleans Travelogue Part 3 appeared first on Lovesong.Blog - Harmonize Your Life.

Chapter 2. French Quarter

Before I had my first fruity cocktail of the day, I enjoyed a beer with my cholesterol-laden breakfast at Fleur De Lis, a New Orleans diner. Meanwhile, my dad did his best to maximize the value of his liquid asset—a bottomless Bloody Mary.

We then took an aimless stroll through the chilly French Quarter, with its elongated brick buildings, narrow streets, and plant-covered balconies. It wasn’t busy for a Sunday, but I still found time to complain about the crowds, and I acknowledged that it was a good thing we were visiting New Orleans off-season.

At Woldenberg Park, which straddles the Mississippi River, a gentleman wearing a backwards ball cap and stylish, albeit slightly ragged winter attire approached my father and said, “I know where you got your shoes.”

My dad didn’t respond, but his body language suggested he was open to having a dialogue. The man continued, “Yeah, I’ve seen these fly kicks before. I bet I can tell you where you got them.”

My dad knew the premise was deceptive; it was also intriguing. “Okay, where?” he asked.

The man dropped to his knees and abruptly said, “You got them on your feet.”

As he polished my father’s Filas, I motioned toward my pocket as if to say, “That’s a clever routine. Give him a few bucks.” The man requested five dollars for the fifteen-second shoeshine. My dad agreed to pay three dollars, still a reasonable price.

By the way, apparently the “I know where you got your shoes” scam is one of the top scams to watch out for in New Orleans. We found it to be harmless and all in good fun.

After cruising Bourbon Street for the second time, my dad grew weary and thirsty simultaneously. We ambled back toward the water and landed at The House of Blues, a lively spot on Decanter Street.

A tall and chesty bartender greeted us with a smile and, based on her authoritative tone, we could tell she was in charge of the establishment. For entertainment, a multi-racial band served up an appetizing rendition of “Stand by Me,” one of my personal favorites.

We ordered two American lagers for a total of twelve dollars. And I wondered how much it would cost me to reach my desired level of drunkenness (I sought to get shitfaced). When the white plastic at the bottom of my tall Dixie cup became visible through the remains of my mediocre beverage, I began working on my personal inebriation equation, sorting through the alcohol, price, and location variables.

Then I overheard a customer order a vodka-pineapple cocktail.

“Three dollars,” the bartender said.

I swiveled my barstool in their direction and half-shouted, “That drink’s only three bucks?”

The bartender yelled back at me, “Yeah, it’s a good deal!”

I was sold. The drink was far too effeminate for my dad’s tastes. I told him I placed the order based on cost-effectiveness, nothing more, but he seemed disappointed nevertheless. I sipped on my fruity cocktail with a white straw, quietly savoring the delightful combination of sweet and tangy flavors.

We enjoyed watching the staff work, including the spunky black waitress who managed the dining area and often patted her soldiers on the rear before sending them out into battle. “No waters,” our bartender told another team member. “I want people drinking liquor!”

“Even the alcoholics?” I asked.

“Especially the alcoholics!”

We laughed. She smiled, poured and served a round of drinks for another group, and then disappeared into the kitchen.

Next → Chapter 3: Heroes, Villains, and Lawyers

R. Ross Horton II

R. Ross Horton is a writer, editor, and musician based in Palm Coast, FL. Last year he published his first book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy. At Lovesong.blog, Ross strives to help people find harmony in a chaotic world. Visit this website’s about page to learn more.

lovesong.blog

The post French Quarter – New Orleans Travelogue Part 2 appeared first on Lovesong.Blog - Harmonize Your Life.

Chapter 1. Father and Son

My 69-year-old father and I were sitting outside on the Steamboat Natchez, a New Orleans cruise ship.

“That jazz band is way too white,” I complained.

The group performed in the boat’s main cabin. Speakers carried their music outside. With the Natchez’s big wheel turning, we traveled upstream on the Mississippi River as sunbeams danced beside us on the water.

At the ship’s all-you-can-eat buffet, tourists of all sizes and nationalities stuffed their gullets with gumbo and alligator sausage. There was a bar upstairs, plus a gift shop (of course). The emotionless six-piece jazz band, mentioned above, blew their horns respectfully in the background, allowing the insatiable diners to converse freely.

I couldn’t help but wonder: What would Mark Twain think of all this?

In response to the day’s vapid consumerism and gluttony, the curmudgeon version of Twain would have perhaps invoked this popular line of his: “There are times when one would like to hang the whole human race, and finish the farce.”

On second thought, no. In this hypothetical and preposterous scenario, I believe Twain would have commended our efforts as sightseers and said this instead: “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness.” It’s one of his most famous quotes and a favorite saying of nomads throughout the world.

I boarded the Natchez because I wanted to not merely see the Mississippi from a nondescript shoreline, but rather, I wanted to feel its magnetic and timeless energy pulsating under my feet and into my body. And I suppose, voracious appetites aside, most of my co-passengers boarded the Natchez for reasons similar to mine. The Mississippi’s a river that has captured the imaginations of countless souls through generations. We were all there, alive, and together to experience the river’s majesty firsthand.

My father and I began our pre-plague journey from Washington State to Florida in December of 2019, shortly after my thirty-fifth birthday. By the time we reached New Orleans, our sixteenth stop along the way, we’d been on the road for almost two months. We traveled in a cozy nineteen-foot trailer with my two dogs in tow.

When my father reveals his age, he often shocks people. They want to know his health and beauty secrets (he drinks a lot of beer, doesn’t wear sunscreen, and moisturizes). He’d sold his home in Washington State just prior to our departure. His plan was to retire, most likely in Florida, a plan which ironically and unfortunately involved, as he once put it, “working until I keel over.”

I’d just quit my job and was desperately in search of something, anything—just a pittance from the universe. Over the preceding two years, I’d worked as a security guard at a rural hospital. The job was fine, but it paid nothing. And every now and then, I had to perform absurd and dangerous tasks relative to my wage. For instance, one shift I tackled an ornery heroin addict with open cuts. Another patient I babysat was a violent ex-con who described himself as a “professional meth smoker” with a “Swiss cheese brain.”

On the plus side, I made some new friends for the first time in ages and doubled the size of my comfort zone, which was approximately two inches wide when I started the job. My love affair with songwriting resumed at the hospital, and I completed my first batch of new material in over a decade. I also met Amelia, the beautiful and nomadic nurse who inspired this cross-country expedition and exacerbated my alcoholism.

Aboard the Natchez and throughout the region, it was an unusually cold and bright January morning, with heavy winds swirling in all directions; some of those gusts pierced my ailing body to its core. That afternoon I had a severe headache and several throbbing muscle strains in my shoulder from tackling my chihuahua-pug in Yuma, AZ, a story I’ll address later. I was disenchanted and nauseous, suffering through the second-worst hangover of my thirties.

My worst hangover of the decade—and one of my top five worst hangovers of all time—had occurred on the previous day, courtesy of a tall and buxom bartender. Her voice was almost as deep as mine. And she didn’t skimp on the booze while serving me up one vodka-pineapple cocktail after another. No, that’s not my usual drink.

Next → Chapter 2: French Quarter

R. Ross Horton II

R. Ross Horton is a writer, editor, and musician based in Palm Coast, FL. Last year he published his first book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy. At Lovesong.blog, Ross strives to help people find harmony in a chaotic world. Visit this website’s about page to learn more.

lovesong.blog

The post Hangovers Upon Hangovers – New Orleans Travelogue Part 1 appeared first on Lovesong.Blog - Harmonize Your Life.