Day 19 Memories of Lady Gaga and Preacher Man

Friday, March 19: Ran 5.4 miles/ Total so far - 48.4 / Miles to go - 951.6

Was feeling very strong after work and so I ran 5.4 miles in one hour. Went back to LA Fitness Richardson. Saturday my free pass will expire. I have to admit I will miss the place. I actually like working out both close to my house and away from school. It is nice to be anonymous. At the SMU gym, chances are I will run into students, former students or other faculty or staff. Most of the time that is great. Being the social animal that I am, I usually love to stop and talk. But sometimes, in the immortal words of actress Gretta Garbo, "I want to be left alone."

Thinking of solitude reminded me of a story about a time I wanted to be "left alone" to my thoughts. I had just returned to Dallas from Tyler where I had spent the weekend with my youngest son, Haydon, at the home of Mrs. Savage, Pat we call her, who is a wonderful Mom to me and my family. I am sure you will read more about her in later posts. The purpose of the weekend, three years ago, had been to discuss College options. I had fantasized about Haydon joining his sister Leigh at SMU as an undergrad. His brother, Eric, was already a student at SMU law school. It would be so nice for all of us to be together in Dallas.

But alas, it was not to be. Haydon had other ideas and a scholarship to support them. On Pat's patio he had informed me that he was going to the University of New Orleans and studying psychology. He is a really good blues guitar player/singer and the fit was natural. The scholarship overcame any financial objection I could make. The logic I could not assail. In the words my other son Eric once spoke to me when I had explained why we had to move to Kuwait right as he was starting junior high school which he had informed me would ruin his life (more on that story also later) "I can understand it, but that doesn't mean I have to like it." I was actually happy for Haydon and proud that he had the presence of self to know what he wanted and to go for it. But I was still sad for me and all my projecting about what the next year would have been. Of course, these musing did begin to be tempered somewhat by thoughts of trips to visit him in the Crescent City...trips which have subsequently been realized with a lot of joy, laughter and French Quater madness.

When I returned to Dallas I decided I needed a strong drink and, while I wanted to drink alone, I did not want to be alone. I wanted the noise of people but to not engage; to observe while I sipped a Grey Goose Martini, shaken, not stirred, and very, very cold with just a twist of lemon. If I could not make my fantasy of all three kids attending SMU at the same time a reality, I could at least achieve the perfect martini experience. And I knew where I wanted to drink. There was a Russian bar, aptly named Nikita's, in West Village which was only one DART light rail stop from where I was then living, Mockingbird Station (more on that Mockingbird Station Loft Life later). I decided to take the train to West Village to avoid driving and drinking, just in case the situation ended up calling for more than one perfect martini.

As soon as I boarded the train I could tell it was not going to be the quiet ride I had expected. There was a black lady in the back in a skin tight body suit which looked about two sizes too small. Her hair resembled Jason's coat of many colors. The fingernails matched the hair. It was certainly a "look." I wondered if people dress like that to get stares or if she just felt all "Wizard of Oz Rainbow like" that day. She was talking in a very loud voice and not making a lot of sense. A black gentleman, who looked to be about 60, dressed conservatively with nice grey slacks and a long sleeve white shirt, was also in the back of the train. The small black leather book he carried I suspected was his pocket Bible. He had that air of calm that sometimes emanates from men of the cloth.

Preacher Man approached the Lady Gaga (my new names for my train mates) and asked her in a smooth, melodious voice that I am sure he had perfected to consol sinners at the alter or greiving relatives after a funeral, "Why you has to be so loud?" I could tell from her body language that Ms. Gaga did not want to be approached and certainly not by this pious Preacher Man. I also wondered if his comment was meant to refer to her voice or her clothes or both?

Lady Gaga turned and rendered a soliloquy that is indelibly etched in my brain. She walked up to Preacher Man and got right in his face, within spittle distance. Then she began in a low tone that rose in both volume and pitch with each statement, ending in a crescendo uttered at the top of her lungs. "Listen. I'm black. And I'm loud. And I'm proud. And I'm ghetto and all that shit. That's right. I'm just a country Nig___ from New Orleans. I just got out of jail and you'd best not F___ with me."

The train car was silent. All eyes were on Preacher Man. How would he respond? Battle of the Titans, Good and Evil. Looking right into her eyes and without blinking at her tirade he retorted, "Jesus loves you and we do to!" To which she just laughed, more of a cackle, and said "Shit". The other passengers in the car did not know what to do either. Some giggled. Most just sat staring straight ahead, hoping the battle would subside and they could avoid being collateral damage.

And at just that moment we arrived at the City Place Station where I quickly exited, pondering that scene. I kept thinking to myself. Isn't it nice that Lady Gaga is from New Orleans where my son will soon be going. Part of me wanted to get back on the train. There was a story there. I wanted to play investigative journalist so I could write that Pulitzer prize winning series on the life and times of Lady Gaga. "Ms Gaga, of all the things you chronicled in that last exchange with Preacher Man, of which are you most proud?" I could win her confidence by explaining that my son was living in New Orleans.....But that interview was not to be. The train pulled out of the station and I took the two long escalators and one elevator to the street from the subterranean hole that is City Place Station.

Once in the sunlight again, I walked the three blocks to trendy West Village which is a mixed use development built in the style of 1800s Texas small town downtown with three and four story buildings clothed in artistic brickwork. The first floors are retail with boutique shops and restaurants. The top floors are rental flats for urban professionals willing to put up with the noise of the night life for bragging rights that they live in West Village. Just like Dallas to build something new to look old since there is so little that is old in Dallas.

As I approached Nikita I could tell something was not right. The windows were dark and no one was smoking outside, indoor smoking having been banned by the behavior police the year before. The door did not open. It was then that I saw the closed sign. it was not the typical "closed until we open again" sign. No, it was a "this place was closed by the landlord for failing to pay rent and Nikita's is not going to reopen and you are not going to get your Grey Goose Martini so live with it" sign. It took me a moment to register the reality of that sign. I was still reeling from the Lady Gaga tirade. I began to wonder if, like Alice, I had fallen down a rabbit hole into a parallel universe of clowns and closed Russian Bars.

After a moment or two, I decided to just go down the sidewalk and get a latte at Starbucks and process the day's events, my son's declaration, Lady Gaga and Preacher Man, and no more Nikita's. The Starbucks at West Village had got to be one of the largest in the chain with an even larger outdoor seating area. The spring weather made sitting outside a joy but seating scarce. As luck would have it, however, as I walked out I spied a table at the far corner that had just been vacated. I started to make my beeline towards it, determined to claim it before someone else. I had the zeal of gold prospector who had just arrived in a new territory to stake his claim or one of the boomer sooners who lined up to claim land in the new "vacant" Oklahoma Territory in the rush when the territory was opened to settlement (never mind that people, Indians already inconveniently lived there).

One table from my goal, a law student in shorts and tank top saw me and, with the deftness of a Dallas Cowboy line backer intent of preventing a touchdown run, he stood up, grabbed my arm and said the last two words I wanted to hear at that moment, "Dean Camp!" Don't get me wrong. I love my job and consider it an honor and a privilege to work with students. I know that as Dean of Students an important part of my job is to deal with questions and problems. My father gave wise advice to me when, after once complaining to him about some issue at work, he told me "Be thankful for your problems. They create your job. No problems to solve. What are you needed for?"

But at this moment, on a late Sunday afternoon, I did not want to be Dean Camp. A long conversation about career choices and his girlfriend, who was a dancer on a cruise ship, and what did I think about this and that, and I realized that the latte was gone and the moment of reflection had passed. The table in the corner had been absconded by another prospector/boomer sooner. I politely took my leave, went to another bar and drank a beer, actually probably more than one.

Wow, all this narrative to say that while the Cheers television bar experience, a place "where everyone knows your name" can be wonderful and comforting at times, at other times it is nice to be at LA Fitness Richardson where "no one knows your name." I will miss it. Maybe I need to go one more time Saturday, before the pass expires. Life is Good.