By SCOTT SAALMAN
Scaramouch
No matter how hard I tried to get her to admit otherwise, Brynne insisted she was NOT UNHAPPY about a recent impulse buy of mine that arrived two weeks earlier. I had yet to open it.
“You’re mad,” I said, prodding her to really let me have it. I was chumming in shame-infested waters but failed to get a bite. Brynne never belittles me for spending money on myself – which I rarely do. “That’s a lot of money to spend on a $&*%—”
“Dear, I’m not mad,” she said.
I wanted her to be mad.
Every time I buy something for my sole enjoyment, it becomes unenjoyable.
“I’m really glad you ordered it,” she said.
It would be nice to be shamed by someone other than myself for buying something so inessential. Our kitchen cabinet was already overcrowded with—
“Scott, I’m happy you finally treated yourself to something you wanted. I know how much you like Marc.”
Brynne always tells me to be kind TO MYSELF, which is so un-me-like. Last September, the Grateful Dead was in town – well, Dead & Company. We’re not Deadheads by any means, but on the day of the concert, I asked if she’d like to go. Brynne texted that she was too dead tired from work to see the Dead.
I have no qualms over buying concert tickets for both of us, but I find myself in a quandary anytime I consider buying one only for myself. Reading my mind, my wife sent another text: “As we get settled into our routine of living together, please know that I’m OK with you going and doing stuff on your own. I do not expect or want to do everything together. I love you and want you to feel comfortable doing YOUR thing.”
No one is nicer than her. I married a monster!
Brynne didn’t miss much. Dead & Company’s first set seemed like one long song, making me sleepy. I will say this though: There is not a happier, friendlier fan base than Deadheads. The thick cannabis cloud doming the amphitheater likely explained this. An older, bearded, heavy-set gentleman in tie-dye – one of several Garcia ghosts haunting the lawn – nudged me as I napped in my low-rider lawn chair. He held a roll of purple stickers toward me. I felt like Rip Van Winkle awakening to the Summer of Love. Each sticker displayed a smiling, cartoon bear that walked erect. The band was still jamming endlessly, if not aimlessly, through a song started 30 minutes earlier. He tore off a sticker. I cautiously studied it. I had never partaken in hallucinogenic drugs.
Photo provided by Scott Saalman
“Don’t worry, man. It’s only a sticker. It’s not what you think,” he laughed. “If you lick it, it’ll just stick to your tongue.”
He was right.
I left at intermission. I felt guilty about leaving early since I had paid full price, but one Grateful Dead song was enough for one night.
Three months later, buyer’s guilt returned in the form of the purchase alluded to at the start of this column, the one that Brynne seemed not the least bit put off about.
It was a mug!
Not just any mug. A Marc Maron mug. Marc Maron, as in the comedian, actor, and podcast god. His WTF podcast is the most fun a person can have shackled to earbuds. A new WTF episode is the only thing that excites me about waking up on a Monday. I’ve listened to Maron for years.
Before you say, “Geez, really! All this angst over a cup?”, let me add one important detail: The mug cost $80! (No, it wasn’t a Ming Dynasty artifact!) The last time I spent $80 on myself was, well, for Dead & Company.
The mug, handcrafted from earthenware clay by professional potter Brian R. Jones, included images of a goateed-Maron and three felines (part of Maron’s charm is his love of cats; that, and his apparent disdain for Joe Rogan – amen!) POW!! was spelled on its side, an inside joke for WTF fans.
When I first tried ordering one, it was sold out. I was relieved. I had saved $80. Eventually, Maron announced more mugs were available and warned us to act quickly. Again, Jones sold out. Suddenly, I desperately wanted what I apparently couldn’t have. I was determined to get a Maron mug. I became deranged, like Clark Griswold: “This is no longer a mug … it’s a quest! It’s a quest for a mug!” I joined a “semi-secret” rolling waitlist via Jones’ website.
Photo provided by Scott Saalman
Months later, a mug arrived. My cup of culpability.
Only when writing this column did I finally open the Priority Mail package. I freed the mug from its packing peanuts and bubble wrap cocoon. I gripped its handle, beheld its beauty. It was gorgeous. It was not just a mug – it was a work of art! Mine! All mine! Plus, it felt good supporting an artist!
The mug was too pretty to pour coffee into, but I soon got over it. I needed to start getting a return on my investment. I took my first sip of Guatemalan bean from my new Marc Maron mug, the glazed vessel delivering my java jolt. All seemed right then in Scott’s world. Brynne was right. I do need to be kinder to ME. Shamelessly, I refilled the mug for seconds. Sipped. POW!!
Contact Scott at scottsaalman@gmail.com.