No More Mentat

            Science fiction fans will be familiar with the word “mentat.” With the release of the latest movie version of Frank Herbert’s Dune it may have become a tad more mainstream but I’m guessing it’s still pretty esoteric. In that far future story, computers have been largely replaced by human versions called mentats. If you needed a real-life exemplar, probably Ken Jennings would be as close as we can get. On a more commonplace level, you almost certainly know someone who would fit the description.

            Before everyone carried a phone that connected them instantly (more or less) to the mighty internet, people with excellent memories who were well-read and well-informed (think someone who not only watched the news but read newspapers [hard copies that once contained currents events] and magazines) served a similar function. Sometimes they specialized, say for example, in popular music or film or finance. Other times they were true generalists with a wide-ranging knowledge. These were people who were forced into handicaps or banished from Trivial Pursuit.

            What has become of this segment of society? Where they were once revered as oracles and seers, now any yo-yo with a phone can retrieve the name of the drummer from Vanilla Fudge (it’s Carmine Appice), who Crispus Attucks was (first American killed in the Revolution) or some such trivia. It has been a serious and demeaning demotion to the ranks of the every day. I think this has played mightily to the high rates of depression in Boomers. It’s a loss of a sense of worth. In the quiet circles of folks you may know there could be festering cliques of neo-Luddites, nursing a resentment of that world wide web of interlopers.

            Still, the popularity of Jeopardy and Trivia Nights speaks to our continued admiration of “mentats.” Your phone may be a great equalizer, but we’d best remember- the Geek shall inherit the earth.

Walk

            I like to walk. Not the forced march with arms pumping you see those smiling people on tv ads enjoying. I do walk for exercise too, but what I really like is just a casual walking pace. There are a lot of things I like about walking. First off, it gets you out. One of my favorite sayings is that if you don’t get out, you don’t see anything. Walking is an interesting blend of inclusion and exclusion. Most people don’t do much walking other than from their car to the house or the convenience store, so right away by walking it separates you from the societal norm. At the same time, it brings you closer to what’s going on, regardless of whether your walk takes you along a city street or into the deep woods. You’re on a more intimate contact with your surroundings.

                Depending on my particular walk, I like to fancy myself as a latter-day Hemingway or Thoreau. If I’m on the streets I can conjure a connection with Papa, strolling about in the Moveable Feast, observing the oblivious bustle about him. If I’m in the woods I try to channel Thoreau’s appreciation of the natural world in its various seasons and moods. Of course this is sheer affectation on my part but I enjoy the pretension.

            I live near a lake resort town. It’s one of my favorite walks in any season and any time of day. I think anyone who spends much time around a large body of water will tell you that it’s different every day. Even the most subtle change of wind or cloud will give it another feel. One of my most-favored times is Friday morning, especially during the main season. I like daybreak (how come we never say nightbreak?) Mornings are, for me, a time of optimism. The day’s travails haven’t yet taken their toll, anything is possible. The shopkeepers (don’t you love that term?) are up early, sweeping or spraying their sidewalks (These days it’s often a leaf blower rather than a broom. I don’t see the advantage; they’re ungodly noisy, use up costly energy in one form or another and you still have the disposition issue). Their anticipation for the influx of the coming weekend is palpable. Pickup trucks beat a steady pulse in and out of the “bun and run” fueling their masters with coffee or cola. That’s true of every day of course, but on Friday you can feel the week-weary workers taking that last breath before the stretch. The air is ripe with the smell of not just donuts or eggs, but Possibility.

            Moving along, I pass the various “breakfast clubs” at the bistros or convenience stores. Like me, these patrons are mostly Gray Panthers (I’ve always gotten a kick out of that term, even before it applied to me.). Along the canal the early risers are moving in their moored boats, some of them really more like floating RVs than traditional boats. For whatever reason, these folks always seem a bit bleary-eyed to me. Maybe it’s late nights on the wharf, but I’ve always suspected that the sleeping conditions are not as charming as they may appear. I’ll probably never know for sure, anyone who’s made that kind of investment is unlikely to tell you any negatives.

            Down at the water, even the breeze seems to be just waking up. It’s a novelty to see the lake calm at any other time of day. Not that I don’t enjoy the wind and waves, I do. My other favorite time to walk here is just before a storm with that wind prefacing what is to come whipping up whitecaps. If I walk the beach the seagulls and terns grudgingly give me ground just as I must yield to the beach groomer on his shoreline version of a Zamboni. If I decide to wade, denizens of the shallows swirl about my feet.

            Arriving at the access path that will take me back to Restaurant Row and the Souvenir Shops, I usually take a long look out at the lake. I’m always hoping to see an osprey or bald eagle glide over before I start to dodge traffic. But even if my last glimpse is a dead carp washed up overnight and beginning to attract the gulls, it’s a good start to the day. I’ve been out in the world, I’ve seen something, I’ve been given a little burst of optimism. Now, to keep it.