Incompetent Abroad: L’envoi (not to be confused with Lawnboy)

Had you been loitering along a certain Manhattan pier on the rainswept morning of May 17, 2011, you might have espied three lithe specimens of American manhood striding confidently down the gangplank of the hulking Queen Mary 2, each with a spring in his step and a glint in his all-encompassing eye.  That was not us. We were the three portly pilgrims off to the right, gasping for breath and tripping over our shoelaces as we dragged our bulging luggage into a protective semicircle to await the arrival of Calvin, our speed demon chauffeur who had delivered us to this very vessel 22 days ago. In our state of exhaustion, it seemed more like three weeks.

Yes, dear reader, our fearful trip is through.  The three Morris Brothers have returned home, there to visit their corrosive personalities and dyspeptic observations on their individual families instead of each other.

Over the span of eight contentious days, we cut a swath through Wales and southern England, the likes of which has not been seen since the last fly-through of Monarch butterflies.  In our wake swirled the debris of outraged innkeepers, overtaxed bartenders and a string of social faux pas we trust the State Department will smooth over before they reach the attention of the World Court.  Is there any wonder the royal wedding vanished so quickly from the headlines?

If you have been following these blogs (and where is your sense of values if you have?), you can tip your hat to Bridgette Borst, the intrepid intermediary at our alma mater, the University of Charleston.  It took courage—not to say an astounding degree of recklessness—to post these wild dispatches under the college logo, and we join in wishing Bridgette the best in her search for new employment.

If you want to read the funniest travel account ever written—and the one that echoed in my head as I compiled this series—I urge you to seek out a copy of S. J. Perelman’s classic Westward Ha!, with illustrations by Al Hirschfeld.   Everything I learned about humor, I learned from Perelman, and I can only apologize to his survivors that I didn’t learn better.

Permit me these concluding remarks:

  ON TRAVELING WITH MY BROTHERS:  This is the most time I’ve spent with David and Roger since I left home in 1958 to attend graduate school at Ohio University.  Contrary to all predictions, we have survived this odyssey with only superficial cuts and bruises. Would I do it again? Only if I were reincarnated as a viper.  I will concede, though, that Roger is the best organizer and steadiest hand at the throat I’ve ever encountered and that David has been a welcome and reliable peacemaker despite the cauldron of rage that forever boils within him.  Without David and Roger’s rough affection, persistent encouragement and inexhaustible line of credit, I would never have made this wonderful journey. I am awash with gratitude for their generosity.

VIVA, ALMA MATER:  Morris Harvey College, which now resides in the Federal Witness Protection Program under the name “University of Charleston,” will be precious in my memory as long as I have a memory.  It did everything for me that a college should, from chipping away at my thick encrustation of provincialism (obviously they didn’t get it all) to plunging me into a four-year reading binge that gave me both wings and a profession that has enabled me to avoid working in direct sunlight.  It also brought me three classmates whose companionship and insane humor enriched me until the days they died: Bill Holfinger, Bob Barron and Bob Rickard. Salutes as well to my Kappa Sigma Kappa bros John Atkinson and John Hughes. Your spirit lives wherever Animal House is shown.

ETERNAL VIGILANCE:  On the Thursday before our departure from the ship, Roger and I went to a program that promised a conversation with The Who’s Roger Daltrey.  We got more than that. After some reminiscing about his growing up in London and forming the band, Daltrey strapped on an acoustic guitar and regaled the audience with a long string of Johnny Cash songs.  I may have failed to mention it, but when I’m not depleting my brothers’ coffers, I report on country music for the Viacom website www.CMT.com.  That being the case, I hastened from the theater as soon as the show was over, wrote up the news of Daltrey’s performance and e-mailed it to my editor.  Within a couple of hours CMT.com had posted the story and, soon after, news outlets around the world—literally—were re-running it. I earned my tuition for three years by editing the college weekly, then called The Comet.  No speedy Internet back then, folks, just manual typewriters and clanking linotype machines.  But the thrill of having a story out first is still exactly the same.  

A PARTING THOUGHT:  I’ve lived on this luxury liner longer than I’ve held most jobs.  

Adieu, all.