Days Are Days. New Hobbies. Souvenirs.

The April morning wind sent a chill up my thigh and shooting up my spine just as I pressed the coffee mug against my pursed lips. The hum of Dwight Yoakam’s “Close Up The Honky Tonks” was just leaving my mouth. Hot coffee instantly sprayed across my laptop. I suppose humming old country tunes in 45-degree weather at 8 o’clock in the morning, clad in nothing but a Cubs hoodie and boxers, isn’t the wisest fashion idea I’ve ever had. It could have been Monday morning. Or maybe it was Sunday? Today? I’m not sure anymore.

So that is where we will start with this entry. No, not with my general lack of forethought about how to dress appropriately for the weather, but rather with the decaying sense of time during this quarantine. For those of us not deemed essential, days are no longer specific. There is no weekend, no mid-week. Mondays and Fridays are the same. Sundays and Wednesdays share no dissimilarities. There are just days. Time is a flat circle.

My overall lack of plans and social interaction have slowly started to chip away at my psyche. I’ve resorted to half-baked social experiments for my entertainment. Last week, after cleaning 80-percent of the condo myself, I left the vacuum cleaner plugged into the living room wall to see if one of my roommates would catch the net and decide to make themselves semi-useful. Perhaps one of them would notice that the living room floor could use a quick push and pull with the Orek. Hell, I wasn’t sure if my roommates even knew we that owned a vacuum cleaner. 

For seventy-two hours the vacuum stood at attention against the living room wall, ignored by both of my cohabitants. SEVENTY. TWO. HOURS. And still, the floor went untouched. However, the vacuum did eventually find its way back to its rightful home in our laundry room. Small victory, I suppose.

Isolation has also lead me to believe that I can pick up new hobbies. For the first time in almost a decade, I started guitar lessons. Since signing up for classes a week ago, I have tuned my instrument and can name all five — wait, six — there are six strings. At this rate I’ll be shredding Stevie Ray Vaughan riffs by the time the next global pandemic rolls around. 

I also thought that I could use my downtime to earn my barber’s license. This of course means I decided to cut — well, buzz — my own head. Do I have experience cutting my own hair? No, not really. Does it matter? Nah. Not in this quarantine, at least. 

All in all, I think I’ve been taking this separation from society in stride. Cooking most of my meals, running, and working out have kept the dopamine flowing. I’m as physically healthy as I’ve been since I was 19-years old, which either says very much or very little about how I’ve treated my body for the last decade-plus. The weather has been nice enough to start my days with coffee on the porch and end them with a bourbon in the same spot. I’ll even catch a tan and read a book in the sun. Phone calls, FaceTime, and texting with friends and family every day have at least quasi-filled the void of human connection. All things considered, we’re getting by just fine over here on Lone Oak Road. 

But two weeks ago, I admit, I hit an unexpected snag. The death of singer-songwriter John Prine blindsided me. Prine, 73, died on Tuesday, April 7, at Nashville’s Vanderbilt University Medical Center from compilations of COVID-19. The world had known that he was in rough shape when his wife Fiona announced that he was moved to the ICU and put on a ventilator the week prior. So it wasn’t necessarily him passing away that was surprising, especially considering his already touch-and-go health. I guess it was just the nature of how it happened. 

A novel virus? John Prine? Who’s the hack that wrote this shit?! That wasn’t in the script!

Prine just seemed so damn invincible, like a never aging cartoon character. He had already beaten cancer twice, as well as major surgeries to his tongue, vocal chords and lungs, and yet he was still so prolific and engaging as a person and entertainer. His trademark graveled voice and hanging head became souvenirs of his ailments and he owned them as if they were blessings. They became part of his folksy charm. 

Prine was admitted to the hospital on March 26, the same day that I was celebrating the anniversary of my move to Nashville seven years prior. His passing came a week before what would have been my late Grandma Sue’s 79th birthday on April 13. 

On the 13th, I decided to sort through the shoebox of memories that I keep in my closet. The box was overfilled with tokens from nearly every notable life event since I moved to Nashville. Birthday and Christmas cards, weddings and graduation invites, the invite to your kid’s first birthday party I blew off, concert and sporting event tickets, media credentials from TV broadcasts, college graduation cards, thank you notes, and even an unopened love letter I sent to the wrong address were in this one UnderArmor shoebox. They are the souvenirs to my life since moving to Nashville.

Mix in the fact that I had just started watching Ken Burns’ “Country Music” documentary series on PBS, and I was, as the youth would say, feeling some sort of way.

Perhaps it was the cabin fever and relative isolation playing tricks on my heart and my mind. Maybe it was the perfect little storm that brewed up a wicked cup of nostalgia. Or maybe it was just the heart’s natural ebb and flow of life’s emotions, followed with a shot of contemplation at just the right time. Whatever it was, it had me in my feelings, wistful and reflective on my time in Nashville over the last seven years. What I’ve done right. What I’ve done wrong. How I’ve grown up. How I’ve changed. Where I go next. 

Before I moved here seven years ago, I knew next to nothing about him; but it seemed that every other car around town had a “John Prine is pretty good” bumper sticker emblazoned on the back window or trunk. I learned pretty quickly, even without exploring his music, that Prine was part of the Music City ethos. He was Nashville’s unofficial grandfather. He was your favorite songwriter’s favorite songwriter.

I really didn’t start listening to Prine’s music in depth until the last year or so, at the behest of my friends from work. I’m almost ashamed for wasting such precious time listening to anyone else. Every second wasted listening to Blake Shelton or Luke Bryan songs in college (the first time) could have been spent tuning in to “In Spite of Ourselves,” “Spanish Pipe Dream,” or “Bear Creek Blues.” We all live and learn, I suppose. 

For me, Prine’s music came as a gift at the perfect time. I can say without hesitation that 2019 was the most odd, and most emotionally draining year of my life. Odd, because I was coming off the high of what felt like the best year ever in 2018, I had never been happier. Draining, because I wore myself out to the point of literal physical and mental exhaustion. 

From April until the start of November I averaged no more than two-and-a-half hours of sleep per night, and never were those hours ever strung together consecutively. By the end of summer I would go days without sleeping at all. My mind was constantly racing laps as I laid in bed and no at-home remedy was helping. I was showing up to work looking and feeling like an extra on The Walking Dead. 

By May, I had started to develop noticeable issues with my digestive system that I said and did nothing about. As the summer flipped to fall, my stomach issues had become unbearable — cramps, bloating, constipation, sharp pains, intolerance to certain foods, and a bevy of other ailments that, to put mildly, were gross and embarrassing. By August, I had lost my appetite. Food had largely lost it’s taste and my body wasn’t properly processing the nutrients from the food that I was able to tolerate. Physically, I started to become very weak.

By September, my long-time girlfriend had finally decided that she was done. My beloved Buick, Doris, had become unreliable, always in and out of the shop and draining my bank account. And after a work trip to Seattle at the end of the month, I finally hit a wall. At that point  the only thing keeping me hanging on was broadcasting football games. 

In October, the wheels finally fell off. I broke down. Panic attacks became a normal thing. I couldn’t act out my anger the way I wanted, so I took it out on others. My heart rate and blood pressure skyrocketed, regularly reaching 120 beats per minute, double my normal rhythm. Going to work was pure hell. When I thought co-workers weren’t around or listening, I’d spin my office chair around and dry heave into my trash can until I finally threw something up. I’d spend my lunch breaks walking the streets of Nashville, sunglasses on to hide the tears that were forming behind them. On one of my walks, I was so weak and exhausted that I stumbled and needed help from a stranger in getting back up. 

I had completely lost my…ness. My Jake-ness, if you will. 

Here, I’ll let Owen Wilson explain…

Finally, at the behest of my friends, I sought help. 

Dr. B. didn’t mince her words. 

“You look like shit.” 

“Did you hear me? You look rough.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Dr. B. set me up an appointment with a gastrointestinal specialist the next day. The gastroenterologist scheduled me for a colonoscopy the next week. 

In the mean time, I did what you should never, ever, ever, ever do in the midst of medical uncertainty. I Googled my symptoms. I prowled endlessly for information on WedMd. This was a far dumber thing to do than wearing boxers on the porch in 45-degree weather. The internet had me convinced that I had Crohn’s Disease or cancer.

My colonoscopy results came back negative, meaning they didn’t find anything physically wrong with my guts. This was great news, however this was also a very expensive way to tell me my wounds were mostly emotional. 

(Author’s note: I highly recommend you do not get a colonoscopy until you reach the age of needing one. 31-years old is not that age. While the procedure itself is quite minor, the day before prep is…well, uh… not good, Bob.)

On Oct. 31, after another half dozen doctor’s visits and tests, I was finally diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder that also manifested itself as Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I was prescribed a daily anti-anxiety medicine, a non-habit forming sleeping pill, as well as a special probiotic. 

The first step in the road back to finding my ness — sleep. The body can’t and won’t function if it can’t properly rest. The sleeping pill instantly worked and I was back to getting at least seven hours of sleep within the first week. But I was also forced to take a look in the mirror and realize that I needed to change a lot of my own habits and own up to my erratic and sometimes hurtful behavior. 

Coffee, fast food, booze, candy, and late night snacking were eradicated. I started going to yoga on Monday and Friday mornings before work. I spent most nights and weekends at the gym retraining myself to run on the treadmill and lifting weights. I would journal about my thoughts and feelings twice a day. I would meditate at lunch and before bed to help clear my mind. I became brutally honest with myself and to those around me about what I was going through and how I had been feeling. And perhaps most importantly, I started going to therapy. 

Perhaps the best thing that I’ve learned from therapy so far is how to better slow things down in my life. I’m starting to look at things from a more open-minded view and less of an all-or-nothing angle. I’m learning to pause, to take deep breaths, and remind myself that I’m okay and loved. I’m learning that healing isn’t linear and it doesn’t happen all at once. I’m learning that I can’t control everything, especially people that I love. I’m learning that we all live, learn, and grow in our own ways — that there is no “right” way to do this.

It was around the time I started going to therapy, back in early December, that I really started hearing, not listening, to John Prine. There is a difference between the two.

“Long Monday” and “All The Best” helped me heal through my breakup. Those songs let me know its okay to feel angry and to feel sad, but that it’s also okay to still want your former significant other to find happiness.

“Hello In There” told me that assisted living facilities really suck, to make sure to call my grandparents every week, and to make sure to visit them every time I’m back in Indy. 

“That’s the Way The World Goes ‘Round,” “Illegal Smile,” and “When I Get to Heaven” were charming tokens to not take life so seriously, even when it felt as if the universe was out to get me. 

“Souvenirs” was a reminder to better appreciate the small things in life that connect us to the people we love the most.  

Losing John Prine made this pandemic finally feel all-too real for a guy who is sitting at home trying to find silly ways to entertain his friends on Instagram and pass the time. Just three weeks ago I jokingly described this quarantine as an adult Spring Break. But somehow, the death of someone I had only seen and smiled to at Kroger once seemed like a brick to the face. 

But as I was going through that shoebox of memories, thinking about all those weddings and birthdays, and remembering my Grandma Sue, I was also finally able to gather myself to reflect on the last year and my struggles with anxiety. It was in that moment that I realized just how far I had come since reaching rock bottom last fall. In a way, that moment kind of felt like something John Prine might write a melody and lyrics to. My own souvenirs telling me, “Hey, man. You’re doing alright." 

Laced with wit, mischief and sarcasm, Prine's songs explored the human experience better than anyone else. His words could seem so elementary. But the lyrics tackled serious matters like heartbreak, addiction, and death with the voice of a friend. His ability to tell someone else’s life story, to create a character he had no earthly connection to, was poetic. He penned “Angel from Montgomery,” a song about a middle aged woman dreaming of a better life, when he was in his early twenties working as a mail carrier in Chicago. That’s the closest thing to real world magic I’ve ever heard of. And how can you be sad about magic? 

In a 2013 interview, Prine said, “I guess what I find funny is the human condition. There is a certain comedy and pathos to trouble and accidents.” 

We definitely find ourselves in troubling times and the fortitude of our human conditions have certainly been tested. But it’s my hope that through this quarantine we are able to remember the little things that made our lives so special before we were locked down, and maybe we can even use this time to make a few more souvenirs for the road ahead.  

I also hope that whatever we are feeling as individuals in this moment of crisis and uncertainty, we realize that we all are in this together and that it’s okay to feel however you feel. There is no wrong answer here — unless you’re still going to the beach and having brunch with your clique every Sunday. YEAH, I’M TALKING TO YOU, GEORGIA!

But if you do find yourself struggling to get through these uneasy times, just know that there’s a John Prine song to help pull you through — and a friend on Lone Oak Road ready to help, too.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some vacuuming to do.

Wash your hands.

WHAT I’M LISTENING TO

Harry …Styles? Yeah. Harry Styles.

I stumbled across the former One Direction frontman’s “Tiny Desk” concert the other day on NPR’s YouTube page and was blown away. I had never heard Styles sing until his surprise appearance at a Kacey Musgraves concert I was at last October. The cameo was brief, no more than one or two songs, but I left thinking that the dude was alright by me. At the urging of my sweet friend Claire P., I finally gave Styles’ second album, Fine Line, a go last night — and I love it. It’s everything a great pop album should be. Take notes, Bieber.

“Tell My Mother I Miss Her So” - Ryan Bingham

The first time I ever saw or heard Ryan Bingham was in 2009’s Crazy Heart, a film in which Jeff Bridges won an Academy Award for Best Actor for his portrayal of an aging and strung-out country star. Bingham’s role was small, but his contribution to the film’s soundtrack would also earn him an Oscar for Best Song Written for a Motion Picture for the tune “The Weary Kind.” Bingham’s 2007 album, Mescalito, was my introduction to Americana as a musical genre and it changed the way I approached my musical tastes forever. It is absolutely in my pantheon of best albums of my lifetime. If you get a chance, check out Bingham’s Instagram and/or Facebook page, where for the last several weeks he’s been performing acoustic versions of his songs (and others) to help raise money for hungry kids in Texas. After you’re done two-steppin’ to this toe-tapper…call your moms and tell ‘em how much you miss them.

“Crying Shame” - The Teskey Brothers

If love is the language that the world understands universally, then the blues are the undeniably sexy accent that draws the world in for a drink, seduces it, then leaves before the morning. In this case, that sexy accent is Australian. Hailing from outside Melbourne, The Teskey Brothers are a sweet mix of blues and old soul with a shot of jazz mixed in, and perhaps the closest thing we’ve got to a modern day Otis Redding sound. With only two albums to date, Run Home Slow and Half Mile Harvest, the quartet’s catalog is easy to breeze through — and you’ll be glad you did.

“Crazy Love” - Irene diaz

I will fully admit, I know nothing about Irene Diaz — other than she has it. The juice. “Crazy Love” popped up on a recommended Spotify playlist sometime back in January and I haven’t stopped listening since. It’s so simple. Irene. Piano. Ukulele. That’s it. And yet, it’s equal parts beautiful and haunting. Diaz starts the video with the intro of another song before breaking into “Crazy Love” at about the 1:00 mark. Stick around for the rest. Diaz doesn’t disappoint.

“Chances Are” - Hayes Carll & Lee Ann Womack

Like so many of the great Texas songwriters, Hayes Carll ropes you in and keeps you tangled up in his lyrics from the very first line of his songs. “Chances Are” is no different.

“Chances are I took the wrong turn, every time I had a turn to take. And I guess I broke my own heart, every time I had a heart to break.”

The song is featured on what is probably Carll’s best album, KMAG YOYO (which lovingly translates to Kiss my Ass Guys, You’re On Your Own). That same album also featured three songs on the Country Strong soundtrack, and helped to create Garrett Hedlund’s character in the film. (I promise, no more Country Strong references. Scouts honor.)

In 2014, Lee Ann Womack went the Americana route and cut her own version of the song for her first album in eight years with The Way I’m Livin’. Her version of “Chances Are” gave the song a more refined sound that you’ll never get from Carll. Either way, it’s good. Damn good.

I included both the original Carll version as well as Womack’s take for your listening pleasure.