When “Moby Dick” sank me.

I take a back seat to no former English major when it comes to confidently talking about literature that I’ve largely forgotten. Thus it was that at a pre-Chistmas gathering of my wife’s family year before last that I trotted out one of my stock comments. We all have them, stock comments, waiting for the perfect moment. But sometimes the moment lies in wait with ambush on its mind. (Yes it’s true: a noun that means a brief period of time can lose its grammatical way and become a sentient entity with dastardly intent. In such cases, a pronoun rescues the situation by taking over the noun’s shirked duties.)

We were sitting at this long table enjoying our meal of casseroles of a similar hue, i.e., beige, when the subject of Moby Dick came up. My stock-comment switch flipped and I said, “What I want to know is this: What makes ‘Call me Ishmael’ such a great opening sentence to a novel?”

As good as one’s memory might be of Gregory Peck’s 1956 performance as Ahab, it does not serve the onetime English major when crossing literary swords with a newly minted one.

“I can tell you,” said a lovely English accent to my left.

The speaker was Nishani Rose Anam Cadwallender, my wife’s nephew’s girlfriend, who goes by the nickname Shani. (The entire family is grateful.) She and said nephew Thomas CHEWNING Jones (capitalization penance for getting his middle name wrong once) were visiting from England. Shani was a recent graduate of Cambridge University. She has that refined English accent that American ears perk up at. That can make one feel his stock comment landed in the stockyard next to the slaughterhouse.

“You can, huh?” I might have said with bravado, had I not left it at home. Who needs bravado at a family gathering? I’ve never felt the need.

“Oh?” I said. Adding “shit” would’ve been inappropriate; we were eating.

A brief American Lit seminar followed on how the opening sentence to Moby Dick was endowed with a peculiarly American sense of self-determination and confidence. Ishmael was an old name laden with connotations. As Shani ran through them, I tried to recall what I’d learned about the novel decades before. My brain offered up the cover of the comic book of the 1956 movie with Gregory Peck as Ahab. Ahab then morphed into Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird. There was a lot of turkey in the turkey tetrazzini, and all that sleep-enducing tryptophan was probably getting a carbohydrate boost from the noodles.

George R. would ask little boys if they’d like to see a spider and then show them the spider-shaped scar on his chest from a bullet wound at the battle of Chancellorsville. I got my sense of humor from him.

I’m not the first man in my family to have said something that got him in trouble. Even keeping one’s mouth shut has been known to cause a Tisdale man problems. Take great grandfather George Renison Tisdale of the 21st Virginia Infantry, for whom the unfortunate term “The Tisdale Temper” may have been coined. George R. had a obstinate streak as wide as a country road of his time. At the surrender of Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia at Appomattox Courthouse, George R. simply refused to take the oath of allegiance to the United States. (I would’ve sung it a cappella if they’d asked.) Some Union officer must have said, “Fine. We’ll let you think on it,” and off George R. went to The Prison for Hardheaded Confederates, which may have had a different name, but I know for certain was in Norfolk. Six months later he said, “You win!” as if he were an approval-board of one certifying the war’s outcome, said the oath, and set off on his hundred-plus mile hike home. If there had been walkathons in 1865, George R. might have raised some serious money.

Henceforth, I’m going to be a bit more circumspect about whipping out stock phrases. Besides, I’m a writer. I should whip out a diminutive Moleskine notebook and pen something original on the spot.

 

12 Replies

Tweet! Tweet! Twit! Or how to make a Twitter faux pas in 10 tweets or less.

The Book Lady Rebecca Schinsky and I were sitting in Urban Farmhouse Market & Café in Shockhoe Slip. It’s her default answer to “Where would you like to meet?” (There could be some kickbacks involved.) I was getting novelist-to-be advice, taking notes, and out of the blue Rebecca said something extremely unpleasant.

Don't let Rebecca's cute, perky persona fool you. She brooks no silliness. (And I'm capable of a lot.)

“You’ll need to be on Twitter.”

Hah ha, what a foolish woman this was, albeit one who’d made that statement with admirable, matter-of-fact composure.

“Nah, Twitter’s not for me.” Simple. To the point. No mistaking what I’d said.

“It’s an intrinsic part of your online presence in conjunction with your blog. They work hand in hand.”

“No.” More direct. More emphatic. Maybe she had a hearing problem. ”How’s your brownie?”

“I’ll get you 50 followers so you’ll be following people and they’ll be following you right from the start.”

“Not doing Twitter. What else would you like to talk about?”

Though we did have further “Twitter discussions,” honestly, none deserve a blow-by-blow recounting of here. Let’s just say I was no pushover for Ms. Rebecca Joines Schnisky.

Now it was several weeks later. Rebecca’s online. I’m online. I’m about to make my first public tweet.

Hold that thought. FYI, my Myers-Brigg personality type is INTJ, which in plain language means I’m an introvert. At social events, I stand off to myself avoiding contact. Contact ups the possibility of an awkward moment. And what is Twitter? Twitter is a virtual social event. Back to my poised, trembling fingers.

“What should I tweet?” I said to Rebecca via DPM (direct pathetic message).

“Say hello or something.”

Tweet #1 – “Feeling first-tweet jitters, I dip my toe into the Twitter pool. (Dip.) Ooo, cold. Very cold.”

Hey, not bad.

Tweet #2 – “Sitting on the Twitter pool edge now, lower legs in, splashing mindlessly.”

So I was beating the swimming metaphor to death. But, with good reason, with good reason: I was taking my time and getting comfortable. I saw a follower tweet about a flock of birds outside his window. An urge to communicate came over me, and I tweeted I had a cat he could borrow for his bird problem. He replied he was a simple man and only understood messages at the stick-figure level. What? That made no sense whatsoever.

But sitcks. I’d just read an article about boys and sticks on Slate.

Tweet #4: Speaking of sticks, this Slate piece explains why boys like them.

I included the link, hit the send button and waited. Nothing. Strange. Then Rebecca sent me a DM: I’d been sending my bird-guy tweets to some non-bird guy who had no idea what I was tweeting him about. He’d dumped me from his follow list.

Waaaaahhh!

Not ten tweets into my first time on Twitter and I’d already been “unfollowed.” I was a Twitter Twerp. And like an awkward moment at a social gathering, I wanted to go home. But I couldn’t. I was home. So I left home for Starbucks.

I took a several-week break from Twitter and followed it with a several-month break from Twitter. I tried Twitter again. I tweeted people I knew. That helped. I followed people; they followed me back. My list of followers grew. I was getting into Twitter.

A New York friend suggested me on Twitter’s “Follow Friday” thread and a West-Coast film writer picked me up. She liked one of my tweets and retweeted it to her over 14,000 followers. It was one of the proudest moments of my life, after my high school graduation, my college graduation, my first job, marriage, buying our first house, my second job, the birth of our first daughter, making a successful go of freelancing, our second daughter’s birth, a few odd advertising awards I’ve won, buying our second house, the time I shot a 76 on the golf course, both daughters’ high school and college graduations, the pride I felt recently at hanging a ceiling fan, and a few dozen other special moments in my life.

I’ve tweeted several hundred times now. I have 200-plus followers. Among them is an actor and film director in London, a white-rhino conservationist in South Africa, a comedian in New York, and a writer in Australia. I have a program that alerts me when people unfollow me – and I unfollow them right back with pleasure.

Twitter is OK. Especially when one gets people’s Twitter handles right.

 

 

 

9 Replies

Private eye for a day

A few years ago, I came home one June day to find a TV news crew two doors away. A neighbor had been arrested on charges of indecent exposure. He’d been luring women to his house by way of Craigslist help-wanted ads, leaving a note on the door saying to come in. What it didn’t say was, “You’ll find me masturbating.” The reporter had knocked on our door; Maria had told her we had no comment.

“Heck, I’ll go talk to her,” I said.

“You will not.”

“Will so.”

We repeated this exchange several times, suggesting one of us was being childish.

I said, “Look, I’ve seen that scumbag at the end of his driveway fetching his mail with only a bath towel around his waist. Now we know why his rear neighbor put up that Berlin Wall of a side fence: He’s like living next door to a live peep show. I’ll just talk to the reporter for a moment.”

“George Tisdale, you will not.”

“Oh yeah, little woman?” I would’ve said if I’d been braver. Instead I opted for, “OK, I won’t talk to the stupid reporter.” Because one, it’s entirely possible a given reporter could be dense, and two, I recalled that when my mother began a comment with my full name it was akin to the sound of a diamondback’s rattle.

An essential tool of the private eye, the magnifying glass can be repurposed at career's end as a handy phone-book-reading aid.

Our pervert-neighbor’s arrest shed a disturbing light on his rental of a room to female tenants. The renter’s car would always be parked on the street by the entrance to his driveway; but after the arrest, no car parked there. Then about a year later, a small, two-door coupe began parking in the spot. One day I saw a woman driving it. God, I thought, she has no idea who she’s living with. He’s probably spying on her through hidden bedroom and bathroom peepholes. What if I were to warn her? The idea gripped me; I had to do it. A copy of a news article on his arrest would do the trick. No need to tell Maria. Obviously.

Days later, we had a moonless night. I folded a print-off of the story into a thick, playing card-sized rectangle, walked to the woman’s car, paused for a 360-scan, and wedged it into the crack between the driver’s door and the panel behind. The good deed was done; and I’d done it.

The next morning, cup of coffee in hand, I assumed the air of taking the air on our wraparound front porch so I could look down the street. The car’s brake lights were on. The woman was inside. She had to be reading—and shocked.

“What are you doing?” Maria said, from behind me, to my flinch.

I divulged all, adding, “She’ll move away now and be safe—thanks to me, your husband the hero.”

“George?”

“Hmm?” I said, my eyes on the street.

“That woman doesn’t live in his house. She lives across the street.”

Had some woman mimicking Maria said that? I looked around. Just the two of us. Unfortunately. Then something struck me: I’d had my fill of the air and it was time to go inside.

“Are you sure?” I said, pausing in our doorway.

“Uh-huh. See for yourself.”

I didn’t exactly feel the need to, but Maria was doing that come-here thing with an index finger. I crept along the wall—I often do that for the sheer fun of it—and stopped where the side porch met the front to peer around the corner. The woman from the car was talking to Mr. Pervert’s across-the-street neighbor. They were walking together to the neighbor’s house where, to my utter surprise, they went in together.

“Oops,” I said.

Not long after, I retired from being a private investigator. I was about halfway to the kitchen at the time.

5 Replies