hot out here

On Friday I took a long car ride by myself.  I had to represent a client in Hannibal, MO, former home of Mark Twain and current location of one of the four bankruptcy hearing locations in eastern Missouri.  (Others: STL, Wentzville and Cape Girardeau.)  I live about 95 miles south of Hannibal, and the client lives almost as far away, but if you live in one of the designated counties, that’s where you go.  At least my employer paid me for the mileage.

The drive up Route 61 was pretty much what you’d expect: almost completely rural between Wentzville and Hannibal.  Lots of farms, churches, empty land.  It’s been a long time since I’ve had such a drive – probably since 2003, when we were moving from Seattle and drove through a spookily deserted expanse of Wyoming.  I’ve driven to Jefferson City and Chicago, too, but those weren’t the same; this was miles and miles of secondary highway, almost no one else on the road except for trucks and farm vehicles.  I used to wonder what kids did for fun in the small towns along such highways.  I still do, except that I no longer try to graft my own Northeast urban/suburban perspective onto the landscape.

Traveling along such areas always puts me in a strange headspace.  I made sure to bring this week’s The Best Show on WFMU podcast, but ended up mostly listening to R.E.M.  Fables of The Reconstruction, and especially Automatic for The People, made perfect background music for the one-lane service roads and the hastily-constructed white crosses along 61 North.  I’ve been moved by music a lot lately, and “Feeling Gravity’s Pull” and “The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonight” did it for me on this trip.  It doesn’t matter what kind of nonsense Michael Stipe is singing on “Sidewinder;” what matters is that the song feels absolutely majestic.  When you’re the only one on the road and you can see the next several miles unfolding ahead of you, there’s something indelibly moving about the way the strings come in during “Sidewinder”‘s second chorus.

The meeting itself took less than 10 minutes, as such meetings usually do.  If you ever file for bankruptcy and have to appear at a trustee hearing, don’t stress too much.  Keep your cool, don’t overanswer the trustee’s questions, and you’ll be fine.  (And make sure you hire a good bankruptcy lawyer who’s willing to drive halfway across the state to represent you.  Ahem.)

The meeting adjourned, and there I was in Hannibal, quite by accident.  I’d traveled a long way to get there, so I figured I should at least drive around the small downtown area before heading back to work.  I drove away from the bankruptcy court and down Broadway, with its dilapidated resale shops and bars.  I made a left at the river, where most of the Mark Twain historical/touristy stuff is.  I drove up quiet residential streets with cute but aging housing stock.  I loved that the whole town apparently exists on a steep hill.

Now, keep in mind that I’m basing this opinion on about 15 minutes of driving around, but Hannibal felt remote and somewhat downtrodden.  A place that had its history decades ago, and is now capitalizing on it as best as it can.  Lots of businesses with the words “Twain,” “Clement,” “Huckleberry” and “Sawyer” in them.  At least two Twain imitators working in town, according to the Internet.  You know there must be more, just as sure as Memphis is crawling with Elvis imitators.  I’ll have to explore the place next time I have a meeting there.

The ride home was uneventful.  Rides home usually are.  I went back to work, saw a couple of clients, and came home absolutely exhausted.

*  Proof that I’m tired and overwhelmed with the new job: I actually got misty-eyed during the Beastie Boys’ “Stop That Train.”  To me, the subway is a symbol of NYC, and some of my best memories of my trips back East involve long rides to Coney Island or Borough Park or wherever.  When I hear lyrics like “same old people every day/but you don’t know their names,” “now you’re stuck between stations/and it feels like an eternity,” or “sat across from a man reading El Diario,” I hear people who notice the same small details about the subway as I do.  Mind you, most of the song doesn’t apply to me; I’ve never urinated on the third rail, kicked out windows high on cocaine, been asked to “put that crack out.”  But when I hear “Stop That Train,” I can practically feel the rush of cold air as I step into the uptown A/C/E  on a warm summer night.  It’s a nostalgic memory.

*  On the same album, the Beastie Boys boast of having “more suits than Jacoby & Myers.”  Me, I’ve only owned five or six suits in my life – first one was for my bar mitzvah in 1979 – and the last time I bought a new one was in 1999 just before my wedding.  It was a navy blue suit from Men’s Wearhouse, and I’ve certainly gotten my money’s worth out of it.  I got married, went on job interviews, attended innumerable Shabboses, graduated law school and was sworn into the Missouri Bar wearing it.  (To be honest, I’m impressed that I can still fit into it.)  Now that I’m finally working in the legal field, part of my job is to represent clients at creditors’ hearings.  It’s hardly A Civil Action territory, but one must be professionally dressed all the same.  After a decade, my blue suit is looking a bit ragged.  So I took advantage of the Men’s Wearhouse’s recent two-for-one deal and bought two new suits.  I feel like a million bucks wearing them.  Grown up, almost.

*  I’ll be writing some more RFT pieces in the next few weeks.  Stay tuned.

*  Today I spent my leftover Euclid Records credit on the Titan: It’s All Pop! double CD on Numero Group.  I’m looking forward to diving in.  Titan Records was a tiny label from Kansas City; I remember seeing their ads in Trouser Press.   The copious liner notes tell the story of a label desperately trying to release perfect records at the expense of literally everything else – including the home of one of the label heads, who happened to be a married man with kids.  (How he got his wife to go along with this scheme is something I’ll never understand.)   It’s a story of heroes, villians, hope, disappointment, and (inevitably) a guest appearance from Greg Shaw.  It is, indeed, all pop, and I’m not complaining.  It doesn’t appear that St. Louis has a comparable story, but at least we had/have Jordan Oakes and his Yellow Pills fanzine and compilations (also anthologized on Numero Group).

*  Speaking of Yellow Pills: I actually went to law school and studied for the bar with Jordan Oakes’ sister.  I knew her for four years before I realized who her brother was.  She kind of knew about Jordan’s interests, but did not seem to understand he’s legendary among a small group of record collectors.  That’s a typical story, though; talking to my family about my fanzine/blogging exploits is always a bit awkward and confusing.

Today’s Wall Street Journal features a list of the “best and worst jobs in the U.S.”  200 careers are listed.  Check out the top 20.  See number 18?   “Paralegal specialist.”  Now check the master list.  Where is “attorney?”  Down at number 82, behind “stenographer/court reporter” (28) and “federal judge” (69).   At least it’s still in the top half of the listing, and is just narrowly “better” than such prestige jobs as “stockbroker,” “corporate executive,” “author,” “architect” and “dentist.”

Interestingly, “newspaper reporter” is down at #140.  I studied journalism in college and fully expected to pursue this career.  See?  I could have it worse.  (I know several fellow former journalists who switched to law – probably because the investigative skills are transferable, and because there’s never been any money in journalism.)

I’m not so sure about the bottom 20 jobs.  Being an EMT wouldn’t be so bad – saving lives would be rewarding, would it not?  Being an auto mechanic would seem to appeal to those who have a knack for fixing things and solving problems.  I could even handle being a garbage collector if, say, I was a contractor; the money’s probably good.  There definitely seems to be an anti-manual labor bias in this list.