The Adventures of Oil Dale: Wedding plans down the drain, with the brains

* single-song soundtrack to the following short story
It Only Hurts when I Cry
Dr BLT copyright 1996, 2010

It Only Hurts When I Cry 

It was a foggy, groggy Saturday morning, January 16. 

Oil Dale was sitting on his fiancé  Ellie’s couch watching pre-taped episodes of My Redneck Wedding to get ideas for their own wedding set for February 30, 2010.  They were of course, assuming that such a date existed.  Ellie, rather roughly, yanked Oil Dale’s old, over-sized 1980s set of headphones off his head, grabbed his cassette player and smashed it on the floor.

“What the hell are you listening too?  You’re supposed to be paying attention.  Don’t you care about our wedding?” she screamed in that distinct, all-to-familiar edgy tone Dale had become accustomed to over the nearly two weeks that had been together. 

“What did you do that for? That’s Dr BLT’s song about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.,, the one called It Only Hurts When I Cry.  You get the day off just like I do, don’t you appreciate the significance of that day?” he replied in a gradually increasingly confident tone. 

“How can you get the day off when you don’t have a job, Dale?” Ellie had cooled off a little, and though her tone remained harsh, it was decidedly less shrill.  “And besides, don’t you know what town you’re in?  You could get beat up for listening to that.”

“I plan to take the day off by letting the garbage sit an extra day.  What do you mean don’t I know what town I’m in?  I ain’t stupid, but you are obviously ignorant.  Times have changed.  African-Americans now walk down the streets of Oildale with their heads held high. Why they frequently enter Trout’s without fear, even participate in Karaoke Night without as much as a cold stare aimed at them.  You’re the prejudice one now, stereotyping Oildale folks with your overly developed occipital lobe.”  Dale seemed almost cocky and smug this time around.   Ellie walked to the kitchen and grabbed a frying pan.  Then she put it down slowly.

She had entertained the thought of striking him but then hesitated, remembering that this was the behavior of a crack head and her, now two-week, clean and sober time had been earned by the sweat of her brow, and with every ounce of determination inside of her.  

She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then replied, “The occipital lobe is involved in bilateral and contralateral vision, Dale, haven’t you been paying attention in Dr. BLT’s class?  If you’re going to put me down, at least have your knowledge about the brain physiologically correct.  Stereotypes are based on primitive emotional reactions, relatively un-modulated by higher-order brain centers.  They stem, no pun intended, from the limbic system, involving the regulation of pleasure and pain.  So go ahead, say I have an overly developed limbic system, or hypothalamus, which governs emotional behavior such as anger and sexual activity.  But don’t say I have an overly developed occipital lobe. That would only help me to see things more clearly.”  Ellie now joined Dale on the couch, gently stroking his hat-matted hair.  I just want you to use your head when you speak, she said, half-jokingly, but none-the-less condescendingly. 

“Ain’t nothin’ inferior about emotion.  It Only Hurts When I Cry is obviously centered on emotion, but Dr BLT is no dummy and the song is not designed for idiots.  It is intelligently written and it has historic as well as cultural value.  Haven’t you ever heard of emotional intelligence?  It’s not just for troglodytes you know.   What good is a brain if you can only think, not feel?  How much compassion would you have for your fellow Oildale neighbors?”  Dale felt quite good for defending himself. 

Ellie pulled back, and had a hard time concealing her frustration and dismay.  “What would you know about emotional intelligence, or intelligence of any kind for that matter?

The reason you can never seem to make rational decisions and the reason you are always seeking instant gratification is that your brain, especially your prefrontal cortex, is always numb from alcohol.  As such, it can’t possibly perform its ability to slow down your need for instant gratification, to introduce rational thoughts, is impaired.  How rational is it, after all to believe in space cowboys? Ellie added.

“What?  What the heck are you talking about?”  Dale shifted sheepishly in his chair.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she replied with marked frustration.

You even going to submit a copy of your cover of Dr BLT’s song If You Want to Be the Next Buck Owens to the radio show, Bakersfield and Beyond, but stopped, thinking that so-called sighting was a sign that the contest, and the contestants were would-be victims of some sort of alien cowboy conspiracy or something.” 

“If you’re referring to that so-called sighting, involving the two so-called alien-carpenters-dressed-as-antediluvian-cowboys hitchhiking on the freeway exit off Buck Owens Blvd. I always thought that was a joke.  I didn’t believe it for a moment,” Dale replied with ersatz dismay. 

“Okay, that’s it! I’ve had enough of your lies and prevarications, Dale!” 

Ellie stormed out of the door.  Dale sat helplessly on the edge of the couch with his head in his hands.  This time he did not run after her and beg for her return.  It was a break from his typical alcohol-fueled ritual.  This time, he had been sober for over 4 hours, and his prefrontal cortex was in rare form.  He wouldn’t stay rational for very long, but in his life, any moment of clear thinking was a godsend, not only for Oil Dale, but for everybody who had any sort of relationship with him.