RIGHT OF CENTER: SIMPLE PLEASURES SPICE A GOOD LIFE

There are a few periodicals that I am compelled to read cover to cover, among them "National Review." The magazine, published twice monthly, is filled with cutting-edge analyses of politics, literature, the arts and culture.

Rarely do I find fault with any of the fine articles in "National Review," but so it is with a recent issue that described "Pleasure and Its Perils."

It's not that I disagree with the pathway to gratification plotted by the NR writer. It's just that I know little of fine wines and cigars and even less of first-class hotels and restaurants. My problem with the article, then, is that it fails to mention the finer, albeit simpler, pleasures of a poor, working-class stiff from Southeast Missouri.

If I were more of a wordsmith, I could write a book on the profuse satisfaction that a father of three little ones (likely four by the time this column is published) derives from coming home from work to a chorus of squeals -- "Daddy's home, Daddy's home" -- as little ones leap into their father's weary but eager arms. There is the gratification of playing ball with the boys or reading to an enthralled 2-year-old daughter. You don't need a gold card to experience the exceeding joy of standing over a sizzling barbecue grill on a day off from work as the kids bound in and out of their tiny swimming pool.

Us Joe Sixpacks of the world readily relate to the popular beer commercial theme, "It don't git no better'n this," whether we're spending quality and quantity time with the kids or casting for bass in some pastoral site far away from wineries and cities where they build upscale hotels. At such times, thoughts probe inward and, often, heavenward in appreciation for the bountiful and beautiful creation we enjoy. I doubt that such thoughts occupy the minds of the garish folks who identified with the NR article.

The article didn't mention the thrill of rambling down an isolated stretch of concrete astride a motorcycle, unfettered by windows, floorboards and velour, hugging the fuel tank with your knees as you lean into unending curves and basking in the positive and negative G-forces of each rise and fall of the terrain.

Nor did "National Review" explore the worldwide culture of elegant violence, the bruising ballet of rugby. To lace up the boots and head out to the pitch for 80 minutes of the purest form of athletic competition still played is to partake of the ultimate metaphor for human existence. The game embodies the very essence of life's pain and pleasures. Anyone who has endured physical exhaustion to break a tackle at the goal and score the go-ahead try in the waning moments knows there is no greater satisfaction.

And what of the pleasure that millions of Americans derive from Friday night high school football games, July 4 fireworks displays, chewing the fat with the neighbor over the backyard fence and a cold beer? Certainly, many of us value such simple pleasures more than we would the complimentary terry robe and booze provided for guests of the fancy hotel.

Fine cigars and wine? Make mine a Lucky Strike and a Stag. Five-star hotels and restaurants? I'll stay home and grill some butterfly pork chops. Beautiful people in a jet-set nightclub? I would rather forgo the pretention and hang out with my mates at the local watering hole.

The Bible says, "The poor you will have with you always." So too, it seems, must we abide the wealthy. Thank God, he provided abundant pleasures for simple men and women to enjoy without peril.

~Jay Eastlick is the news editor of the Southeast Missourian.