Tony Peeks Under His Own Hood

Sometimes I wish I'd studied something in college a little more practical than English. Like physics, or some short-bus version of engineering, or biology. Although, I doubt I could biologize, or physicize or even engineer as easily and readily as I can write. Maybe it's not such a big deal that I don't write as much as I think I should. What do physics majors do with their free time? I'd probably juggle a lot, to admire gravity. Or shoot a hose at a high arc, google-eyed and slouch-jawed about the molecular structure of water, which really is probably the most pleasurable thing I can think to watch.

Or maybe another language, studied in detail, till the point of fluency. I speak French pretty well, and I have enough interest in it that I know I'll speak it pretty well for a long time after I'm done using it in Africa. Honestly, I'll probably speak better French when I leave here. I try to read novels in French sometimes, and I get them, I understand them for the most part, but I never get that suck-in-your-breath feeling like when I read DFW or Jonathon Safran Foer or Saul Bellow. But I'd like to, you see.

And then there's all the kinds of handy skills I wish I knew. Horse-shoeing, metal-working, complex carpentry, even plumbing or being an electrician. And what about brick masonry?

I feel like if I were younger, still influenced by the Romantics, still taking myself way too seriously (it's actually pretty embarassing how seriously I took myself from, like, 10-16; it got better after that, but I'm still a bit of a self-important weirdo), I'd consider all these desires as an indication of the question, "Who am I?" But, you know, I feel pretty comfortable with who I am. I've got a good grasp on that, like an old woman gripping her morning mug. I just want to make the me that's here and now a better person for whatever might come up in the future.

Also, I'd like to be the kind of guy who can reference a funny anecdote whenever the occasion calls. Like when people interviewed Kurt Vonnegut, and instead of responding directly to their questions he'd say, "Well, you've heard about the man who fell off a cliff, right...?" Or something like that.

You want to know how to tell if a friend of yours is a genuine person? Feed them a Sloppy Joe. The cleaner their hands at the end of the meal, the less you can trust them. That's a fact. Like, right now, I'm eating a sandwich while typing this, and let me tell you, it's hard to see my shirt through the breadcrumbs. I'm a man who keeps his word.

Speaking of Kurt Vonnegut interviews, I just read an old one I found on McSweeney's, and the interviewer mentioned a movie in which the afterlife was individualized, with every person reliving one memory, just one, for the rest of eternity. Vonnegut said his would be this:

"I think it would be the moment where I was doing everything right, where I was beyond criticism. It was back in World War II. It was snowing, but everything was black. The trucks were rolling in. I was surrounded by my buddies. And my rifle was between my knees, my helmet on my head. I was ready for anything. And I was right where I belonged. That would be the moment. It would have to be the moment."

What would my moment be, if I had to choose right now? I can't think of a specific year, but it would have to be one of the many Fourth of July corn roasts at the Lake. What would yours be?