Yes, drummers can be real people. At times. I recently saw a piece on the Interwebs about drummers' dislikes. They were standard fare: the horrors of shlepping drums around, etc.
The following is a handy guide with answers, arcana and other data you might glean from talking to drummers. Now, you don't have to talk to us. Face it, you'd rather spend time with Mr. Fatstrings Multiamp or Ms. Hottie Lungfull. Is this screed full of smartass vitriol? Yepper.
Who's your favorite drummer?
It's gonna be a studio guy—someone you've never heard of. It's not Sluggo Megakit from The Death Vöidz. Here's Hal Blaine. He only has more gold records than anyone, Mr. Megakit included.
What kind of drums do you play?
My favorite kit was made of three (sometimes four) different brands of drums. They were all in varying shades of white, some aged to a dun, nicotine yellow. So I would answer, "White." Truth is: Drums is drums. They're cylinders with a plastic head (NOT a skin) on each end. It's how you tune 'em. And bang 'em. One of my favorite snares had no logo on it all. It cost $70. Truth 2: Players who talk incessantly about their equipment usually suck at playing said gear.
Can you play Wipeout?
Yes, I can. No, I won't. Not without serious financial, food or bourbon blandishment.
What about Neil Peart?
I'm sure he's a swell fellow. But we drummers are sick of hearing about him from civilians. There are plenty of great drummers out there. Mr. Peart can do all this stuff that I can't—nor want—to assay. And I can play shit that would have him scratching his head.
What kind of kit should I buy for my eight-year-old daughter?
None. Get her a rubber pad and a pair of sticks.
My nephew's band made a CD!
That's nice. Anyone with a laptop and some mics can make a CD. I have been given enough of these to top off a Jersey sump. And they're worth even less. One of the biggest pitfalls of today's music is bands who try to record before they know how to play.
Have you ever considered going professional?
I'm not sure what "go professional" means. For me, it's getting paid. I've been doing that since I was fifteen.
Have you seen the video of the kid playing Chicago?
Yes. It's a kid, flailing away on an expensive, factory-tuned drum kit. He is just imitating the drummer on the record. And doing it without subtlety, nuance or feeling. He is developing bad habits that will stick with him as more and more fawning, new-age adults give their approval. By the time he reaches his teens, he will really suck.
Were you ever in a band before?
Somebody actually asked me this about a month ago. Yes. I was.
How fast can you play?
Fast enough. If you think that the best drummers are the fastest, you must like Mariah Carey, because she can sing the highest notes. There are reams of techniques emblematic of master drummers that have nothing to do with speed.
I want more cowbell ...
Cowbells should remain on bovines. Any other use is a felony. Especially by (and I hate to suborn this stereotype) female singers. Would you like someone grabbing the steering wheel as you drive? That's what a cowbell is to drummers.
What's your favorite drum solo?
None. A drum solo is like onanism: Only one person enjoys it. And if you say In-a-Gadda-da-Vida to me, you'd better duck.
What's your favorite song to play on drums?
I can tell you what it is. Gaucho. But I've never really played it, since I don't know any musicians who would want to work hard enough to learn this masterpiece. So I guess I'll have to wait until Steely Dan calls.
Hey, what size sticks do you use? I'll bet you've got a big stick. Can I grab your stick?
I have no words on the inertia I feel when I hear some wiseass make a poorly veiled drumstick/phallic comment. Just stop.
I saw an awesome drummer at a local club last week; it was cool!
That's because he was great. Just because he's playing at P. J. McFuddnuddler's with the The Picking Grinners means nothing. And yes, he is probably better than the guy from The Death Vöidz, whom you paid $125 to see last summer. Drumming isn't like sports. There are stellar, non-famous players everywhere.
Why not support them?
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
Thursday, August 20, 2015
The Best Drum Songs
Blah blah. No drum solos here. Just great tracks by my faves. Sorry, no Neil Peart or Phil Collins. They just don't make the cut. Also, apologies for any shoptalk. You'll figure it out. In no order...
Dave Weckl Band - "Tower '99" - Dave Weckl - A master's master. My favorite "chops" guy. Yes, I am biased because I knew him when he was a student at UB back in the day. I did double drums with him on one tune at a club. I wasn't embarrassed or humiliated. I did attempt to slit my wrists later. Check the song out here.
Lee Michaels - "Do You Know What I mean?" - Bartholomew Eugene Smith-Frost. Yes. Just "Frosty" and Hammond. That's it. And that last fill--one of the best ever. And no toms! Listen here.
The Rascals - "Do You Feel It?" - Dino Danelli - I have written this before, but he was the guy who helped me fall in love with drumming. Check out the snot and swagger. Pundits say Ginger Baker was the first "star" drummer. I say Dino. Period. Nobody played like that back then. Only a handful do now. Listen here
The Fifth Dimension - "Save the Country" - Hal Blaine - Here's the guy who invented the studio drummer. Listen to how he shifts gears (for the whole band) between syncopation and straight time. I know master drummers who can't pull this off. Oh, this tune wasn't a big hit? Try "Bridge over Troubled Waters" or "California Dreamin'". He has more gold records than anybody. Listen here.
Tower of Power - "Squib Cakes" - David Garibaldi - The guy who taught me funk. See the control--how he lariats this big semi and can make it howl or whisper. Plus a great Hammond flight by original ToP member Chester Thompson. Listen here.
Rickie Lee Jones - "Chuck E's in Love" - Steve Gadd - A glorious, swampy half-time shuffle sidles into full-time in the choruses. And that fill after the breakdown? Jaysus. Listen here.
Sting - "Seven Days" - Vinnie Colaiuta - An exquisite foray into 5/4 time. There are many renowned drummers who could never cop this feel. Civilians, get your minds out of the Maidenform; this is music talk. Listen here.
Steely Dan - "Gaucho" - Jeff Porcaro - Just dig the beautiful dovetailing by all players on this track. That breath on the "and" after 1. And the late JP holds it together with consummate technique, style and nuance. Listen here. One of two who are not with us anymore (1992). Yes, and there's also that fabulous half-time shuffle on "Rosanna" by Toto.
Yes - "Roundabout" - Bill Bruford - The pioneer of prog rock drumming ... and still the best. I don't think he hits a tom in the entire song. Tons of bottom-feeding, double-bass, paid-by-the-note drummers couldn't carry his stick bag. A star drummer (who has played on multi-platinum albums) once bragged to me, "I've got a sample of Bill Bruford's snare from 'Roundabout'." Listen here.
Aretha Franklin "Rock Steady" - Bernard "Pretty" Purdie - Oh yes. Pushin', shovin', smokin'. With the inimitable Chuck Rainey on bass. Listen here.
Carly Simon - "Anticipation" - Andy Newmark - A hallmark drummer with tons of credits. And few know his name. Those fills fit the song so well. And no splashy, crashy cymbals, either. Listen here.
The Beatles "With a Little Help from My Friends" - Ringo Starr - Could've gone with "Ticket to Ride," but here's where Mr. Starkey treats the world to their first taste of Pepper Rolls--those wonderfully syncopated, jaggy fills. Easy to duplicate, sure. But he invented them. Listen here.
Rod Stewart - "(I Know I'm) Losing You" - Mickey Waller - Nasty, loose, sloppy shit that works splendidly. Just flips, flops and flies, but the wheels never fall off. RiP, Mr. Waller (2008). Listen here
Honorable mention:
The Police - "Roxanne" - Stewart Copeland
Little Feat - "Dixie Chicken" - Richie Hayward (RiP)
The Jimi Hendrix Experience - "Little Wing" - Mitch Mitchell (RiP)
Paul Simon - "50 Ways To Leave Your Lover" - Steve Gadd
Dave Weckl Band - "Tower '99" - Dave Weckl - A master's master. My favorite "chops" guy. Yes, I am biased because I knew him when he was a student at UB back in the day. I did double drums with him on one tune at a club. I wasn't embarrassed or humiliated. I did attempt to slit my wrists later. Check the song out here.
Lee Michaels - "Do You Know What I mean?" - Bartholomew Eugene Smith-Frost. Yes. Just "Frosty" and Hammond. That's it. And that last fill--one of the best ever. And no toms! Listen here.
The Rascals - "Do You Feel It?" - Dino Danelli - I have written this before, but he was the guy who helped me fall in love with drumming. Check out the snot and swagger. Pundits say Ginger Baker was the first "star" drummer. I say Dino. Period. Nobody played like that back then. Only a handful do now. Listen here
The Fifth Dimension - "Save the Country" - Hal Blaine - Here's the guy who invented the studio drummer. Listen to how he shifts gears (for the whole band) between syncopation and straight time. I know master drummers who can't pull this off. Oh, this tune wasn't a big hit? Try "Bridge over Troubled Waters" or "California Dreamin'". He has more gold records than anybody. Listen here.
Tower of Power - "Squib Cakes" - David Garibaldi - The guy who taught me funk. See the control--how he lariats this big semi and can make it howl or whisper. Plus a great Hammond flight by original ToP member Chester Thompson. Listen here.
Rickie Lee Jones - "Chuck E's in Love" - Steve Gadd - A glorious, swampy half-time shuffle sidles into full-time in the choruses. And that fill after the breakdown? Jaysus. Listen here.
Sting - "Seven Days" - Vinnie Colaiuta - An exquisite foray into 5/4 time. There are many renowned drummers who could never cop this feel. Civilians, get your minds out of the Maidenform; this is music talk. Listen here.
Steely Dan - "Gaucho" - Jeff Porcaro - Just dig the beautiful dovetailing by all players on this track. That breath on the "and" after 1. And the late JP holds it together with consummate technique, style and nuance. Listen here. One of two who are not with us anymore (1992). Yes, and there's also that fabulous half-time shuffle on "Rosanna" by Toto.
Yes - "Roundabout" - Bill Bruford - The pioneer of prog rock drumming ... and still the best. I don't think he hits a tom in the entire song. Tons of bottom-feeding, double-bass, paid-by-the-note drummers couldn't carry his stick bag. A star drummer (who has played on multi-platinum albums) once bragged to me, "I've got a sample of Bill Bruford's snare from 'Roundabout'." Listen here.
Aretha Franklin "Rock Steady" - Bernard "Pretty" Purdie - Oh yes. Pushin', shovin', smokin'. With the inimitable Chuck Rainey on bass. Listen here.
Carly Simon - "Anticipation" - Andy Newmark - A hallmark drummer with tons of credits. And few know his name. Those fills fit the song so well. And no splashy, crashy cymbals, either. Listen here.
The Beatles "With a Little Help from My Friends" - Ringo Starr - Could've gone with "Ticket to Ride," but here's where Mr. Starkey treats the world to their first taste of Pepper Rolls--those wonderfully syncopated, jaggy fills. Easy to duplicate, sure. But he invented them. Listen here.
Rod Stewart - "(I Know I'm) Losing You" - Mickey Waller - Nasty, loose, sloppy shit that works splendidly. Just flips, flops and flies, but the wheels never fall off. RiP, Mr. Waller (2008). Listen here
Honorable mention:
The Police - "Roxanne" - Stewart Copeland
Little Feat - "Dixie Chicken" - Richie Hayward (RiP)
The Jimi Hendrix Experience - "Little Wing" - Mitch Mitchell (RiP)
Paul Simon - "50 Ways To Leave Your Lover" - Steve Gadd
Friday, August 14, 2015
(More) New Rules
Yes, I have checked in on this before. Felt like a revisit.
Restaurants will now show actual food as prepared by local employees. Wanna see that Subway sandwich again? I'll bet you don't. Ditto the "sizzling" hot bacon perched on tongs. Nope. Now you have to show Joey Pimply Minimumwage putting the par-cooked "bacon" into the "magic oven."
Ditto Taco Bell. No more flaming grill with a piece of prime steerflesh being tossed on it. Face it, would you ever want to see a TB employee anywhere near an open flame?
On America's Got No Voice Talent (and all its cousins), one judge must actually speak the truth: "Well, Cheyenne, your intonation, in a word, sucks. You're oversinging. Too many notes per syllable. We already have one Mariah Carey, and she sounds like a Manx in a microwave." In fact, get those smug douchenozzles from cooking contests to judge second-rate wedding-band singers. They don't like anything.
In the NFL, if you score a touchdown and decide to execute a cute little "I'm special" gavotte, the other team should be able to pummel you until you stop prancing. Add NFL: ban all cheerleaders. They: a) do not lead cheers; b) dress like saucy tarts; c) objectify and marginalize women of substance; d) use the oxygen of others. Do I need to mention the half-century-old, Lada Edmund Jr. go-go boots?
In the last month of the NBA season, when a team (home or visitor) sits down a non-injured starter, subtract a dollar from the price of beers for that game.
The following songs are now banned forever. Original artists must ask for permission:
Cowbells, unless strung around the necks of bovines, should be buried in the Enrico Fermi memorial landfill.
Any use of "uber." Especially without the umlaut. Want more?
BY THE WAY, PANINI IS PLURAL. ONE EATS A PANINO! YOU ARE AN ALUMNUS OR ALUMNA, NOT AN ALUMNI! LEARN ITALIAN PLURALS!
Ban all trophies, ribbons and awards for people under 18. No names on the backs of youth sports unis. And no "Tawnee's Mom" t-shirts allowed for spectating parents. No travel teams for kids. Just let them play.
Sargento cheese. French's mustard. Old El Paso anything. Miracle Whip. To that point, Kraft anything, as well. "Gourmet" pet food. Beer with fruit flavors. Any pizza with the word "stuffed" in the menu description. Ragu. Wine that tastes like Hi-C. I could go on.
Awards shows: Oscar, Emmy, Grammy, Tony. All others: burned like a Salem wiccan.
TV chefs must not use the word "clean" ever again. Unless they are referring to dirty serving tools. What is "clean" flavor? Something sans botulism?
No more TV series for Emeril. Until his head size goes below 8½. Guy Fieri, just stop, will you?
Okay, I'm done for now. Gonna taste a raviolo.
Restaurants will now show actual food as prepared by local employees. Wanna see that Subway sandwich again? I'll bet you don't. Ditto the "sizzling" hot bacon perched on tongs. Nope. Now you have to show Joey Pimply Minimumwage putting the par-cooked "bacon" into the "magic oven."
Ditto Taco Bell. No more flaming grill with a piece of prime steerflesh being tossed on it. Face it, would you ever want to see a TB employee anywhere near an open flame?
On America's Got No Voice Talent (and all its cousins), one judge must actually speak the truth: "Well, Cheyenne, your intonation, in a word, sucks. You're oversinging. Too many notes per syllable. We already have one Mariah Carey, and she sounds like a Manx in a microwave." In fact, get those smug douchenozzles from cooking contests to judge second-rate wedding-band singers. They don't like anything.
 |
| Really? |
In the last month of the NBA season, when a team (home or visitor) sits down a non-injured starter, subtract a dollar from the price of beers for that game.
The following songs are now banned forever. Original artists must ask for permission:
- Wagon Wheel
- Mustang Sally
- Stairway to Heaven
- Sweet Home Alabama
- Wipeout
- Can't You See
- Free Bird
- Anything by Rush
Cowbells, unless strung around the necks of bovines, should be buried in the Enrico Fermi memorial landfill.
Any use of "uber." Especially without the umlaut. Want more?
- eye test
- talking point
- cognitive dissonance
- resonate
- optics
BY THE WAY, PANINI IS PLURAL. ONE EATS A PANINO! YOU ARE AN ALUMNUS OR ALUMNA, NOT AN ALUMNI! LEARN ITALIAN PLURALS!
 |
| Enough. |
Sargento cheese. French's mustard. Old El Paso anything. Miracle Whip. To that point, Kraft anything, as well. "Gourmet" pet food. Beer with fruit flavors. Any pizza with the word "stuffed" in the menu description. Ragu. Wine that tastes like Hi-C. I could go on.
Awards shows: Oscar, Emmy, Grammy, Tony. All others: burned like a Salem wiccan.
TV chefs must not use the word "clean" ever again. Unless they are referring to dirty serving tools. What is "clean" flavor? Something sans botulism?
No more TV series for Emeril. Until his head size goes below 8½. Guy Fieri, just stop, will you?
Okay, I'm done for now. Gonna taste a raviolo.
Thursday, August 13, 2015
The Polka Fight
The scene was unpretentious: the Holiday Inn, Bethlehem, PA. Specifically, the bar. Caz, Flyjuice and I were off on a drum corps weekend in Allentown. The Eastern Regionals. Yes, it's a very big deal to fans of this sport.
Germane? Fer sure. On the Friday afternoon before lid-lifter of a two-night gala, corps fans filled the bar, getting in a little pre-game to prep for the alcohol-free competition to follow. Shop talk ruled. As a writer for Drum Corps World, I was approached by various alumni and faithful, all wanting to know my take on the current season. In my role, I was supposed to be objective. Flyjuice held forth to a clot of faithful. He knew little about drum corps, but with some key phrases (supplied by me), he bullshat his way fluently. Then again, Juice could have broken Fedders sales records in Sitka—he was that artful in building edifices out of pure fiction.
Behind the bar, an earnest, youngish man was on the stick. It was evident that he was not accustomed to a full house on an weekday in midafternoon. Nonetheless, he tried, sliding massive cocktails between benign debaters.
A newcomer wedged himself into the conversation. He identified himself as Frank. Short, fortyish, a bit hydrant-y, with muttonchop sideburns and a hint of pompadour.
"Hey, you guys talkin' about drumming? I'm a drummer," said Frank. "I play with the Stash Yankoski Polkabration." Caveat lector: No, I can't remember the exact name of the band, but this is fairly close.
Most of the faithful turned away to hide giggles. People edged away. I felt sorry for the guy.
I explained, "Well, this kind of drumming is quite a bit different than what you're used to." The others returned to a polemic over whether the Chicago Cavaliers would beat Phantom Regiment that evening.
Frank looked puzzled. "How so?"
I said, "These corps are like high-end marching bands. Drum sections can be thirty strong, with snares, multi-toms, tympani, marimbas ..." I trailed off as Frank's brow terraced.
"Do they ever play polkas?"
"Never."
"Oh."
Frank asked, "Do you play drums? Gotta trap set?"
Trap set. Oh boy. Why didn't he ask if I drove a Studebaker? Trust me: polka is the slug of the evolutionary drumming-chain. Give me an afternoon, and I can make a polka drummer out of you.
I tried to divert the topic. Nope. Frank held forth on the groupies he had picked up over the years. Mental images of this induced shudders.
Then, he started in on his own band. As luck would have it, the bartender hovered nearby.
Frank orated, "Stash Yankoski is one of the best. Tellya what, HE HAS THE BEST POLKA BAND EAST A YOUNGSTOWN!"
WHACK!
That sound came from the bartender. In actuality, his bar mop being thwacked, with not insubstantial vigor, on the Formica. All conversation stopped.
The kid's eyes turned to evil slits. His look was feral. And the voice that uttered the next six words was a piercing, malevolent hiss: "He ain't no Jolly Joe Timmer."
Whoa. The silence was thunderous.
The assailants leaned forward, noses scant inches apart. The barkeep parried: "Jolly Joe has his own grove."
I couldn't exactly fathom what freight this last statement carried, but it caused Frank to back down. Head drooping, he shuffled off sulkily.
As a sigh of relief escaped, we wisely decided, in concert, not to laugh. The bartender went about his business, muttering to himself. The corps chat returned, ramping back to its former level in a gradual crescendo.
Flyjuice couldn't resist. "So Jolly Joe is the man?" he asked the barkeep.
"Yes he is. He's got his own radio station, plus a TV show. My folks were on it." His voice was almost pleading. Juice and I nodded in agreement, which seemed to mollify our server a tad.
He went on. "The Chicago bands are good. You got your Eddie Blazonczyk and the Versatones. They're great. But east of Youngstown? Stash Yankoski? No way. Stanky and the Coal Miners? Not bad. That guy better'd not show his face in here again. Stash Yankoski indeed." He spit out the last words as if they were curses.
In early evening, as we left for the show, we spotted Frank and his bandmates loading up for their gig. A station wagon towed a gaudy trailer. The group wore matching, sad, aquamarine tuxedos the color of a tinkle-infested pool. Cufflinks the size of golf balls. And shirts with enough ruffles to give Jerry Lewis pause. Droopy velour bowties were concealed by hefty jowls.
Frank looked at us furtively. Caz, Juice and I ignored him. "He dissed Jolly Joe," said Flyjuice. We stayed the weekend, never seeing the nervy drummer again.
Jolly Joe Timmer, aged 85, died two weeks ago. But his legend lives on.
Germane? Fer sure. On the Friday afternoon before lid-lifter of a two-night gala, corps fans filled the bar, getting in a little pre-game to prep for the alcohol-free competition to follow. Shop talk ruled. As a writer for Drum Corps World, I was approached by various alumni and faithful, all wanting to know my take on the current season. In my role, I was supposed to be objective. Flyjuice held forth to a clot of faithful. He knew little about drum corps, but with some key phrases (supplied by me), he bullshat his way fluently. Then again, Juice could have broken Fedders sales records in Sitka—he was that artful in building edifices out of pure fiction.
Behind the bar, an earnest, youngish man was on the stick. It was evident that he was not accustomed to a full house on an weekday in midafternoon. Nonetheless, he tried, sliding massive cocktails between benign debaters.
A newcomer wedged himself into the conversation. He identified himself as Frank. Short, fortyish, a bit hydrant-y, with muttonchop sideburns and a hint of pompadour.
"Hey, you guys talkin' about drumming? I'm a drummer," said Frank. "I play with the Stash Yankoski Polkabration." Caveat lector: No, I can't remember the exact name of the band, but this is fairly close.
Most of the faithful turned away to hide giggles. People edged away. I felt sorry for the guy.
I explained, "Well, this kind of drumming is quite a bit different than what you're used to." The others returned to a polemic over whether the Chicago Cavaliers would beat Phantom Regiment that evening.
Frank looked puzzled. "How so?"
I said, "These corps are like high-end marching bands. Drum sections can be thirty strong, with snares, multi-toms, tympani, marimbas ..." I trailed off as Frank's brow terraced.
"Do they ever play polkas?"
"Never."
"Oh."
Frank asked, "Do you play drums? Gotta trap set?"
Trap set. Oh boy. Why didn't he ask if I drove a Studebaker? Trust me: polka is the slug of the evolutionary drumming-chain. Give me an afternoon, and I can make a polka drummer out of you.
I tried to divert the topic. Nope. Frank held forth on the groupies he had picked up over the years. Mental images of this induced shudders.
Then, he started in on his own band. As luck would have it, the bartender hovered nearby.
Frank orated, "Stash Yankoski is one of the best. Tellya what, HE HAS THE BEST POLKA BAND EAST A YOUNGSTOWN!"
WHACK!
That sound came from the bartender. In actuality, his bar mop being thwacked, with not insubstantial vigor, on the Formica. All conversation stopped.
The kid's eyes turned to evil slits. His look was feral. And the voice that uttered the next six words was a piercing, malevolent hiss: "He ain't no Jolly Joe Timmer."
 |
| The Man |
The assailants leaned forward, noses scant inches apart. The barkeep parried: "Jolly Joe has his own grove."
I couldn't exactly fathom what freight this last statement carried, but it caused Frank to back down. Head drooping, he shuffled off sulkily.
As a sigh of relief escaped, we wisely decided, in concert, not to laugh. The bartender went about his business, muttering to himself. The corps chat returned, ramping back to its former level in a gradual crescendo.
Flyjuice couldn't resist. "So Jolly Joe is the man?" he asked the barkeep.
"Yes he is. He's got his own radio station, plus a TV show. My folks were on it." His voice was almost pleading. Juice and I nodded in agreement, which seemed to mollify our server a tad.
 |
| Eddie Blazonczyk |
In early evening, as we left for the show, we spotted Frank and his bandmates loading up for their gig. A station wagon towed a gaudy trailer. The group wore matching, sad, aquamarine tuxedos the color of a tinkle-infested pool. Cufflinks the size of golf balls. And shirts with enough ruffles to give Jerry Lewis pause. Droopy velour bowties were concealed by hefty jowls.
Frank looked at us furtively. Caz, Juice and I ignored him. "He dissed Jolly Joe," said Flyjuice. We stayed the weekend, never seeing the nervy drummer again.
Jolly Joe Timmer, aged 85, died two weeks ago. But his legend lives on.
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
I Am a Nazi
"I should of went there alone."
"I could care less."
"I feel nauseous."
"Between you and I, I ain't never eating at Burger Schlock again."
Statements such as these make me cringe. They hurt my ears. Nails on a blackboard; cowbells (especially wielded by female singers, but that is another blog); Helen Reddy.
Yes, according to many, I am a Grammar Nazi. What a terrible appellation. But, since Jerry Seinfeld okayed this n-word, dealing with a portrayal of a nasty Irani soupmaker in Gotham, we take a word from one of the darkest eras of modern history and canonize it.
Fret not, readers. All dozen of you. I will not bring up the myriad errors I hear and read every day. And how to correct them. It's the prevailing attitude toward acceptable English (in America) that irks me.
A real conversation:
Fan: I hear youse guys is making your final debut.
Bandmate: 'Final debut' makes no sense.
Fan: I didn't know we was being so proper.
Language manglers often say, "Well, you know what I mean."
No. I don't know what you mean.
Imagine if we treated other spheres of our lives with such disregard.
Cashier: Lemme see. That's $6.15. Out of ten? Your change is three-somethin'.
Car dealer: That model's gonna run you about 23 grand.
State cop: Lessee, you were doin' around 56 in a 55 zone.
Farmer: That corn? We picked it a couple, two, tree days ago.
Grocer: That mayo's good for a few weeks yet.
Sports: It's second down and four or five yards.
I can tell you firsthand that in Germany, people at the lowest economic stratum speak perfect Deutsch. It is an unpardonable gaffe to err, language-wise. They passed a law (Rechtschreibreform) in 1996 to deal with language inconsistencies.
In France, you've got the Académie française, established in 1635, no less. Ooh, that's right, everything French is wrong (don't get me started on this!). The Real Academia Española governs twenty-one different countries. And don't you dare mess with the Office québécois de la langue française. Those folks are fighting for not just proper language ... but for its preservation.
I recently watched a television program dealing with hobbyists in England. Curious kids flocked to see model trains at an exhibition. Many were interviewed. All of the youngsters had holes in their clothing. They needed grooming, perhaps a good bath. Every one of them spoke exemplary English, with an advanced vocabulary—by American standards, anyway. So there.
No, I don't know how to fix this. I think Trump might opt for a mullet before we start speaking and writing better.
Call me a Nazi if you must. I prefer Language Prescriptor.
That's all's I know.
"I could care less."
"I feel nauseous."
"Between you and I, I ain't never eating at Burger Schlock again."
Statements such as these make me cringe. They hurt my ears. Nails on a blackboard; cowbells (especially wielded by female singers, but that is another blog); Helen Reddy.
Yes, according to many, I am a Grammar Nazi. What a terrible appellation. But, since Jerry Seinfeld okayed this n-word, dealing with a portrayal of a nasty Irani soupmaker in Gotham, we take a word from one of the darkest eras of modern history and canonize it.
Fret not, readers. All dozen of you. I will not bring up the myriad errors I hear and read every day. And how to correct them. It's the prevailing attitude toward acceptable English (in America) that irks me.
A real conversation:
Fan: I hear youse guys is making your final debut.
Bandmate: 'Final debut' makes no sense.
Fan: I didn't know we was being so proper.
Language manglers often say, "Well, you know what I mean."
No. I don't know what you mean.
Imagine if we treated other spheres of our lives with such disregard.
Cashier: Lemme see. That's $6.15. Out of ten? Your change is three-somethin'.
Car dealer: That model's gonna run you about 23 grand.
State cop: Lessee, you were doin' around 56 in a 55 zone.
Farmer: That corn? We picked it a couple, two, tree days ago.
Grocer: That mayo's good for a few weeks yet.
Sports: It's second down and four or five yards.
I can tell you firsthand that in Germany, people at the lowest economic stratum speak perfect Deutsch. It is an unpardonable gaffe to err, language-wise. They passed a law (Rechtschreibreform) in 1996 to deal with language inconsistencies.
In France, you've got the Académie française, established in 1635, no less. Ooh, that's right, everything French is wrong (don't get me started on this!). The Real Academia Española governs twenty-one different countries. And don't you dare mess with the Office québécois de la langue française. Those folks are fighting for not just proper language ... but for its preservation.
I recently watched a television program dealing with hobbyists in England. Curious kids flocked to see model trains at an exhibition. Many were interviewed. All of the youngsters had holes in their clothing. They needed grooming, perhaps a good bath. Every one of them spoke exemplary English, with an advanced vocabulary—by American standards, anyway. So there.
No, I don't know how to fix this. I think Trump might opt for a mullet before we start speaking and writing better.
Call me a Nazi if you must. I prefer Language Prescriptor.
That's all's I know.
Tuesday, August 11, 2015
Sometimes I Don't Know What to Feel
Sometimes I don't know what to feel.
Last night I saw a car crush a little dog under its wheel.
It did not even stop;
It just sped off and out of sight.
-Todd Rundgren
<><><>
Yes, I copped some Todd lyrics for today's rant. They are from his remarkable album, A Wizard, A True Star. To which I still listen. Which record (did I say that?) is 42 years old. And why Mr. Rundgren isn't in the Rock Hall is beyond me ... never mind; I digress.
But sometimes I don't know what to feel.
I know I'm lousy at shared grief. Especially when a celebrity dies. My sole exception is the late Phil Hartman. But he was my friend.
A race-car driver in a fiery demise. A guy on a snowmobile, doing something snowmobiles weren't meant to do. A rock star OD's. Yes, I feel a little down if I liked the music. But, in general, I can't get worked up.
Pets die. Pet owners are devastated. Especially women who own cats. I once had cats. I am not averse to any pet ownership. But when one dies, what? I can express my condolences but little else. Once, I made the mistake of saying to a quasi-girlfriend, "If you were half as nice to me as you are to your dog, I'd be happy." That got me excommunicated.
I don't want or need to own a gun. Most of my friends here in Pennsy have firearms. I don't think they should have to give up their weapons. But when some get offended about any talk of gun control, I stop listening. This doesn't make me dislike them. Now, I once a heard a guy (a non-friend) remark, "President Osama [that's what he said] is coming to take away my guns." I wasn't offended. It just convinced me that the speaker was a mouth-breathing douchebag,
Sometimes I don't know what to feel.
I feel for people who think the singers on American Got Idol Talent are tremendous. I feel for contestants on cooking contests who have to make a meal out of pomegranates, lovage, suet and Reese's Pieces. And I feel nothing but odium for the smug celebrity judges who make said cooks feel like dog-do.
When Ted Cruz, a candidate to run this country, said, "The problem with climate change is there's never been a day in the history of the world in which the climate is not changing," I didn't know what to feel.
When people nowadays say, "I love you," it carries tissue-thin meaning. The phrase is bandied about so much, it has lost its depth.
I know how I feel when I'm drumming. I feel marvelous. There's that.
I don't know I feel about America. I don't think we are necessarily the best country in the world. I realize this is an unpopular statement. But when people say, "You don't like it here? Move somewhere else," that is just moronic.
Then again, if Ted Cruz gets elected ...
Last night I saw a car crush a little dog under its wheel.
It did not even stop;
It just sped off and out of sight.
-Todd Rundgren
<><><>
Yes, I copped some Todd lyrics for today's rant. They are from his remarkable album, A Wizard, A True Star. To which I still listen. Which record (did I say that?) is 42 years old. And why Mr. Rundgren isn't in the Rock Hall is beyond me ... never mind; I digress.
But sometimes I don't know what to feel.
I know I'm lousy at shared grief. Especially when a celebrity dies. My sole exception is the late Phil Hartman. But he was my friend.
A race-car driver in a fiery demise. A guy on a snowmobile, doing something snowmobiles weren't meant to do. A rock star OD's. Yes, I feel a little down if I liked the music. But, in general, I can't get worked up.
Pets die. Pet owners are devastated. Especially women who own cats. I once had cats. I am not averse to any pet ownership. But when one dies, what? I can express my condolences but little else. Once, I made the mistake of saying to a quasi-girlfriend, "If you were half as nice to me as you are to your dog, I'd be happy." That got me excommunicated.
I don't want or need to own a gun. Most of my friends here in Pennsy have firearms. I don't think they should have to give up their weapons. But when some get offended about any talk of gun control, I stop listening. This doesn't make me dislike them. Now, I once a heard a guy (a non-friend) remark, "President Osama [that's what he said] is coming to take away my guns." I wasn't offended. It just convinced me that the speaker was a mouth-breathing douchebag,
Sometimes I don't know what to feel.
I feel for people who think the singers on American Got Idol Talent are tremendous. I feel for contestants on cooking contests who have to make a meal out of pomegranates, lovage, suet and Reese's Pieces. And I feel nothing but odium for the smug celebrity judges who make said cooks feel like dog-do.
When Ted Cruz, a candidate to run this country, said, "The problem with climate change is there's never been a day in the history of the world in which the climate is not changing," I didn't know what to feel.
When people nowadays say, "I love you," it carries tissue-thin meaning. The phrase is bandied about so much, it has lost its depth.
I know how I feel when I'm drumming. I feel marvelous. There's that.
I don't know I feel about America. I don't think we are necessarily the best country in the world. I realize this is an unpopular statement. But when people say, "You don't like it here? Move somewhere else," that is just moronic.
Then again, if Ted Cruz gets elected ...
Monday, August 10, 2015
The Edge
Dear Dozen Readers: I am going to try to post every day I have my son with me. He arrived on Saturday, and we are once again bonded. To celebrate, pithy scribblings every day for the ensuing three weeks. Please check back daily and feel free to chastise me if I err or otherwise offend.
I've been noticing it more often these days. People with The Edge. Self-celebrators, chest thumpers, posters of awards, trophies and gewgaws.
I wish they'd get over it.
It's that too-firm handshake, that self-absorbed grin, that tight look. They say: I'm someone special and you should be glad to bask in my glow.
I encountered this, in memorable fashion, at a drum corps event. It's a very specific sport--an art form really. Sorta like marching bands on steroids. They compete on a football field. I sat near a guy who looked a little bewildered, possibly a first-timer. I politely asked if I could help him, and he posed some cogent questions.
Then I dared posit, "What brought you to drum corps?"
Then he said it. Four simple words. Syllables that carried massive gravitas. Rife with The Edge.
"I work for Disney."
As in: "I work for Disney. And you do not, you limp excuse for a human. You are an inbred, mouth-breathing commoner, unfit to share my planet. Kiss my ring. Now.
I moved my seat before I said, "Whuppty-do, you douchenozzle."
Okay, your kid's an honor student. She made the travel soccer team (don't even get me going on that). Your pets are adorable. I'm glad you clipped your nails. Oh, you're a veteran--swell. Lost eight pounds? You still weigh close to three spins.
It's one thing to say: "I had a great time at Joe's picnic." But, adding The Edge, it comes out more like, "I made the best ribs in the world for Joe's picnic."
People with The Edge are also easily annoyed. They view life as through a backwards telescope. Everything revolves around them, for they are entombed in the rosy amber of their own narrow worldview. The phrase "the common good" is an empty, wan concept.
These are the antithesis of then Nike slogan. They just don't do it. But they talk about it. Ad nauseam.
Their jobs are Very Important. I knew one such Edgy asshat who thought that his executive-type job was akin to that of an omnipotent despot. He once told me how he wished he had a bedchamber at work so that he didn't have to leave. He droned. He had the personality of a toaster. When he finally married, I was astonished. A few months later, I asked him about potential wedded bliss. He said, curtly, "We're focused and motivated."
Whither humility, graciousness, authenticity?
I still haven't found what I'm looking for. But I continue pushing that rock up the hill. It takes The Edges off.
I've been noticing it more often these days. People with The Edge. Self-celebrators, chest thumpers, posters of awards, trophies and gewgaws.
I wish they'd get over it.
It's that too-firm handshake, that self-absorbed grin, that tight look. They say: I'm someone special and you should be glad to bask in my glow.
I encountered this, in memorable fashion, at a drum corps event. It's a very specific sport--an art form really. Sorta like marching bands on steroids. They compete on a football field. I sat near a guy who looked a little bewildered, possibly a first-timer. I politely asked if I could help him, and he posed some cogent questions.
Then I dared posit, "What brought you to drum corps?"
Then he said it. Four simple words. Syllables that carried massive gravitas. Rife with The Edge.
"I work for Disney."
As in: "I work for Disney. And you do not, you limp excuse for a human. You are an inbred, mouth-breathing commoner, unfit to share my planet. Kiss my ring. Now.
I moved my seat before I said, "Whuppty-do, you douchenozzle."
Okay, your kid's an honor student. She made the travel soccer team (don't even get me going on that). Your pets are adorable. I'm glad you clipped your nails. Oh, you're a veteran--swell. Lost eight pounds? You still weigh close to three spins.
It's one thing to say: "I had a great time at Joe's picnic." But, adding The Edge, it comes out more like, "I made the best ribs in the world for Joe's picnic."
People with The Edge are also easily annoyed. They view life as through a backwards telescope. Everything revolves around them, for they are entombed in the rosy amber of their own narrow worldview. The phrase "the common good" is an empty, wan concept.
These are the antithesis of then Nike slogan. They just don't do it. But they talk about it. Ad nauseam.
Their jobs are Very Important. I knew one such Edgy asshat who thought that his executive-type job was akin to that of an omnipotent despot. He once told me how he wished he had a bedchamber at work so that he didn't have to leave. He droned. He had the personality of a toaster. When he finally married, I was astonished. A few months later, I asked him about potential wedded bliss. He said, curtly, "We're focused and motivated."
Whither humility, graciousness, authenticity?
I still haven't found what I'm looking for. But I continue pushing that rock up the hill. It takes The Edges off.
Saturday, July 4, 2015
Bus Stop
I was thankful that the air conditioning on the coach was functioning in grand fashion as I escaped the wet, weighty heat of Tulsa. The bus had a cranky suspension; its seats were covered in faded blue cloth hopscotched with a jumble of rectangles. But the mechanical plant seemed staunch as we tumbled past Okie City and into the Texas panhandle.
The chill air carried a faint, sweet-sour scent as it bullied its way through the vehicle. There were precious few passengers. I stretched out, read Rand and contemplated the virtue of selfishness. I was at that age.
Our driver was a talky, mustachioed fellow, his uniform very kempt, his hat at a jaunty angle. He would chat with whatever riders would sit near the front. These people seemed to change in shifts: first a shaven serviceman, then a woman in a loud, plaid dress who snorted when she laughed. I couldn't hear any of the conversations, only an occasional "heh, heh" from our pilot, who seemed easily amused.
Most noticeable was the large woman who took frequent trips to the tiny convenience at the rear. Her girth prevented her from walking straight up the aisle; she had to sidle. This provided an unusual view, since she had oddly placed bulges that fought with her Spandex below her waist. These sacs gave her an odd symmetry; she seemed to have four buttocks. She wore a worried face and a mohair sweater. I made sure to give her plenty of room, moving my camp to the window as she jounced past me. She smelled like the vents.
We pressed on. The flat, vapid vastness of New Mexico made me wonder how hot it was outside. Tucumcari, Santa Rosa, Puerta de Luna. The afternoon baked on. I closed my eyes for a time.
Finally a stop. The driver stood up and announced, "Clines Corners, folks. Here's where I get off, heh, heh. Farty-five minute layover." I felt the need to give him a crisp salute, which he returned with a wink.
We alit at a small strip mall. The early-evening heat was tolerable. A Subway store beckoned, but did not appeal to me. There was a dry cleaner next to a store that—oddly—sold "Lady's Foundations," Sturdy undergarments on translucent torsos peeked at me bravely behind crackled, yellow plastic sheeting in the windows. A cafe proclaiming "Best Corn Dogs in New Mexico" shooed me away with greasy self-importance.
Somewhere, I could hear kids playing. I hooked behind the stores to see a clutter of adobe homes. Small, barefoot, brown children were kicking a soccer ball down a dusty alley. At its end, one house sported a hesitant neon sign on its lintel. "COMIDA." Sold.
I walked into a home kitchen. Behind a makeshift counter stood a Kenmore fridge and Hotpoint stove. The sink looked like the one in my folks' basement, next to the washer. A small, electric griddle stood on a Formica counter. A smiling Mexican, eager to display her goldish canine, beckoned me to sit.
"You eat," she said, holding up three fingers. "Tree dollah." There was no menu.
There were four small tables behind me. I took a stool, and a sweaty glass of ice water appeared. A lonely fan sat in a corner, its blades indifferently batting at the heat.
First came a sort of chicken soup, with torn tortillas adrift. Then more comida. My hostess hummed a vivid, sprightly tune as she worked. She proudly heralded each small dish with its name as she set it before me, punctuated with a glimmery smile.
"Caldo."
"Flautas."
"Albondigas."
Flavors jostled in my maw. Spice. Meat. Corn. Mystery.
One of the street kids burst in. The proprietress tried to shoo him away. He smiled at me. "You like the food? Aunt Rosa makes the best in town. None of the bus people ever stop here."
I said, "This may be the best meal I've had in months. Tell your aunt that my mouth is in heaven."
The boy laughed as he told Rosa, "Su boca está en el cielo." She joined in the laughter as she plated my dessert, an impossibly sweet cake.
Reluctant to leave, I laid ten dollars on the counter. Rosa pinched my cheek as I told her to keep the change. The kids were still playing soccer. I kicked an errant ball back to them. With my toe, like a true gringo.
The twilight was a terrific blue. Jubilant. It smiled on me as I boarded the bus.
The new driver was a silent, balding man. Confusing hair tried to cover a furrowed nape. He was pudgy and hatless.
Right before we left, a stout man hopped on. With plenty of seats open, he chose one right across the aisle from me. And started talking.
"Boy, lemme tell ya, almost didn't make it. Know what I mean?"
I stared straight ahead. My new companion wore beef-roll penny loafers, dun, wooly socks, cuffed jeans and Old Spice. I tired of him almost immediately.
The man launched into a series of monologues. Patty Hearst; The Towering Inferno; the newly minted President Ford; turkey bologna.
I nodded a few times and considered feigning slumber. Finally he said, "And how about those Limplesander horses in Germany? Ain't they somethin'! Know what I mean?"
I finally said, "No."
The man's jaw dropped. "What?"
"I don't know what you mean. I have never heard of such horses, so I don't know what you mean. Now, if you were talking about the LIPIZZANER stallions in VIENNA, AUSTRIA, that's different. Know what I mean?"
His face reddened. He looked ashamed. I kept staring at him until he moved his seat. As I drifted off, I could hear Beefy serenading another busmate. "Now, there's a certain way to train a Weimareinger ..."
I slept through Arizona.
We hit Needles, California at two in the morning. The clock in front of Denny's flashed to the temp. 98. I spotted Beefy, suitcase in hand, walking away. He gave me one last, furtive glance. Still reveling in Rosa's cooking, I opted for Fritos and a Mountain Dew from the 7-Eleven.
Quite a few folks boarded here. A wrinkled whore from Natchitoches, Louisiana took the seat next to me. She imparted her information freely. I found her fascinating off the bat. Then my intrigue waxed. She wrote the name of her hometown on a wrinkled Arby's napkin. I wondered how she got Naggadish out of that.
She wore a leather jacket with withering fringes of varying length. Threadbare jeans. Scuffed cowboy boots. Too-blonde, frayed hair. She shared Chiclets with me.
I heard about her work. The Calgary Stampede. A barmaid in Casper, Wyoming. A failed marriage to a used-car dealer from Oxnard, California, which courtship began in a brothel in Juarez. Pleasuring The Big Bopper backstage just a month before the plane crash. "And he war BIG, too," she added.
Her dozy drawl soothed me. I told her of my destination and plans; she wished me luck. She said she was headed for San Berdoo ("Truckers is good bidness."). Then, somehow we managed to spoon sleepily as our silver stallion hurried through the steamy night.
We had a short layover in San Bernardino. She offered me her favors in the bus-stop restroom, free of charge. I politely declined. She kissed me meekly as we parted. I saw a tear in her eye. Or was it mine?
Her name was Dorlene.
I drifted off again as we shifted off I-40, down 15 and to the ten.
The stop jarred me awake. "Last stop," said the driver. His first words. "Los Angeles." He used a hard g in the name.
As I slung my backpack over my shoulder, I could smell cumin on my hands. In the pack were drumsticks, traveler's checks and Canoe. Retrieving my duffel bag, I thought of Dorlene, carne asada, and the twice-assed lady.
I was ready for America.
The chill air carried a faint, sweet-sour scent as it bullied its way through the vehicle. There were precious few passengers. I stretched out, read Rand and contemplated the virtue of selfishness. I was at that age.
Our driver was a talky, mustachioed fellow, his uniform very kempt, his hat at a jaunty angle. He would chat with whatever riders would sit near the front. These people seemed to change in shifts: first a shaven serviceman, then a woman in a loud, plaid dress who snorted when she laughed. I couldn't hear any of the conversations, only an occasional "heh, heh" from our pilot, who seemed easily amused.
Most noticeable was the large woman who took frequent trips to the tiny convenience at the rear. Her girth prevented her from walking straight up the aisle; she had to sidle. This provided an unusual view, since she had oddly placed bulges that fought with her Spandex below her waist. These sacs gave her an odd symmetry; she seemed to have four buttocks. She wore a worried face and a mohair sweater. I made sure to give her plenty of room, moving my camp to the window as she jounced past me. She smelled like the vents.
We pressed on. The flat, vapid vastness of New Mexico made me wonder how hot it was outside. Tucumcari, Santa Rosa, Puerta de Luna. The afternoon baked on. I closed my eyes for a time.
Finally a stop. The driver stood up and announced, "Clines Corners, folks. Here's where I get off, heh, heh. Farty-five minute layover." I felt the need to give him a crisp salute, which he returned with a wink.
We alit at a small strip mall. The early-evening heat was tolerable. A Subway store beckoned, but did not appeal to me. There was a dry cleaner next to a store that—oddly—sold "Lady's Foundations," Sturdy undergarments on translucent torsos peeked at me bravely behind crackled, yellow plastic sheeting in the windows. A cafe proclaiming "Best Corn Dogs in New Mexico" shooed me away with greasy self-importance.
Somewhere, I could hear kids playing. I hooked behind the stores to see a clutter of adobe homes. Small, barefoot, brown children were kicking a soccer ball down a dusty alley. At its end, one house sported a hesitant neon sign on its lintel. "COMIDA." Sold.
I walked into a home kitchen. Behind a makeshift counter stood a Kenmore fridge and Hotpoint stove. The sink looked like the one in my folks' basement, next to the washer. A small, electric griddle stood on a Formica counter. A smiling Mexican, eager to display her goldish canine, beckoned me to sit.
"You eat," she said, holding up three fingers. "Tree dollah." There was no menu.
There were four small tables behind me. I took a stool, and a sweaty glass of ice water appeared. A lonely fan sat in a corner, its blades indifferently batting at the heat.
First came a sort of chicken soup, with torn tortillas adrift. Then more comida. My hostess hummed a vivid, sprightly tune as she worked. She proudly heralded each small dish with its name as she set it before me, punctuated with a glimmery smile.
"Caldo."
"Flautas."
"Albondigas."
Flavors jostled in my maw. Spice. Meat. Corn. Mystery.
One of the street kids burst in. The proprietress tried to shoo him away. He smiled at me. "You like the food? Aunt Rosa makes the best in town. None of the bus people ever stop here."
I said, "This may be the best meal I've had in months. Tell your aunt that my mouth is in heaven."
The boy laughed as he told Rosa, "Su boca está en el cielo." She joined in the laughter as she plated my dessert, an impossibly sweet cake.
Reluctant to leave, I laid ten dollars on the counter. Rosa pinched my cheek as I told her to keep the change. The kids were still playing soccer. I kicked an errant ball back to them. With my toe, like a true gringo.
The twilight was a terrific blue. Jubilant. It smiled on me as I boarded the bus.
The new driver was a silent, balding man. Confusing hair tried to cover a furrowed nape. He was pudgy and hatless.
Right before we left, a stout man hopped on. With plenty of seats open, he chose one right across the aisle from me. And started talking.
"Boy, lemme tell ya, almost didn't make it. Know what I mean?"
I stared straight ahead. My new companion wore beef-roll penny loafers, dun, wooly socks, cuffed jeans and Old Spice. I tired of him almost immediately.
The man launched into a series of monologues. Patty Hearst; The Towering Inferno; the newly minted President Ford; turkey bologna.
I nodded a few times and considered feigning slumber. Finally he said, "And how about those Limplesander horses in Germany? Ain't they somethin'! Know what I mean?"
I finally said, "No."
The man's jaw dropped. "What?"
"I don't know what you mean. I have never heard of such horses, so I don't know what you mean. Now, if you were talking about the LIPIZZANER stallions in VIENNA, AUSTRIA, that's different. Know what I mean?"
His face reddened. He looked ashamed. I kept staring at him until he moved his seat. As I drifted off, I could hear Beefy serenading another busmate. "Now, there's a certain way to train a Weimareinger ..."
I slept through Arizona.
We hit Needles, California at two in the morning. The clock in front of Denny's flashed to the temp. 98. I spotted Beefy, suitcase in hand, walking away. He gave me one last, furtive glance. Still reveling in Rosa's cooking, I opted for Fritos and a Mountain Dew from the 7-Eleven.
Quite a few folks boarded here. A wrinkled whore from Natchitoches, Louisiana took the seat next to me. She imparted her information freely. I found her fascinating off the bat. Then my intrigue waxed. She wrote the name of her hometown on a wrinkled Arby's napkin. I wondered how she got Naggadish out of that.
She wore a leather jacket with withering fringes of varying length. Threadbare jeans. Scuffed cowboy boots. Too-blonde, frayed hair. She shared Chiclets with me.
I heard about her work. The Calgary Stampede. A barmaid in Casper, Wyoming. A failed marriage to a used-car dealer from Oxnard, California, which courtship began in a brothel in Juarez. Pleasuring The Big Bopper backstage just a month before the plane crash. "And he war BIG, too," she added.
Her dozy drawl soothed me. I told her of my destination and plans; she wished me luck. She said she was headed for San Berdoo ("Truckers is good bidness."). Then, somehow we managed to spoon sleepily as our silver stallion hurried through the steamy night.
We had a short layover in San Bernardino. She offered me her favors in the bus-stop restroom, free of charge. I politely declined. She kissed me meekly as we parted. I saw a tear in her eye. Or was it mine?
Her name was Dorlene.
I drifted off again as we shifted off I-40, down 15 and to the ten.
The stop jarred me awake. "Last stop," said the driver. His first words. "Los Angeles." He used a hard g in the name.
As I slung my backpack over my shoulder, I could smell cumin on my hands. In the pack were drumsticks, traveler's checks and Canoe. Retrieving my duffel bag, I thought of Dorlene, carne asada, and the twice-assed lady.
I was ready for America.
Thursday, June 4, 2015
Life without Tupperware
Yes, I was excited about this. My mom was having a party. On a Tuesday, no less. I didn't know what a Tupperware was, but this would be the theme. "It's plastic bowls 'n stuff, and the ladies sit around and talk and buy things," said Mary Beth Pfister in a confidential playground confab. Could this make me miss "Dobie Gillis"?
My Deep Bowl source added, "When the lady demonstrates the lid, she closes it, then she 'burps' it." What gravitas could this carry? Then again, Mary Beth Pfister's word was gold. She once told me that Pauline Giambalvo liked me, and, true enough, Pauline, a comely Italianate with corrected dentition, had let me hold her hand for a good fifteen seconds in the mummy room at the Peabody Museum. This was the extent of my intergender touching in grade six at St. Dymphna's.
I helped Mom put out pastries and other toothsome dainties for the gals. She said I could sit in on the party. I was gripped by anticipation. Even Aunt Hazel's (who seemingly liked nothing) appearance could do nothing to numb my excitement.
The gals began to arrive. My mom's pinochle pals; some neighbors; a few others. They had dresses on. Heels. Nylons scritched noisily as thighs rubbed. Even Mrs. Tichey from across the street got dolled up. I noted, with dismay, her sausage-colored hose rolled up beneath her knees. My Sin and White Shoulders assailed my nostrils.
The Tupperware Lady herself had me swooning upon exiting her vehicle. The beauteous, busty redhead allowed me to cart boxes in from her Nova (a convertible, no less!). They weighed practically nothing, as was the air I walked on. She wore a clingy emerald shift, sans sleeves. Her arms were not the fleshy, beached-whale, elbow-indented sides of meat like Mrs. Lutz had. Jangly, dangly earrings. When she walked, her hindquarters swayed in a luxuriant ... oh, never mind. I was twelve.
She started placing objets de Tupper on a folding table. A brigade of pastel bowls, containers and other impedimenta soon took over the room. I couldn't take my eyes off the Tupper Queen, even though I had no idea why her wares were so special. As she started her presentation, I noticed two tiny dark crescents limning the armholes of her dress. This deterred me not. She was my auburn paradigm of perfection.
"Now ladies," she said. "Here's what makes Tupperware so special. You just don't close the lid ..." Which she did pertly, with a little flourish of a slender, braceleted wrist. "Then, guess what happens?"
I seized the moment. "YOU BURP IT!" I blurted. Heads spun. My mother's eyes drilled me with palpable heat. Miz Tupper turned abruptly. And beamed at me. American-LaFrance-crimson lips parted, showing pearly whites that no Viceroy had ever sullied.
"THAT'S RIGHT!" she said. "Looks like I have a smart little boyfriend here!" She patted my cheek, which I immediately resolved not to wash. Forever. I conveniently deleted her middle adjective, dwelling on smart and boyfriend. Even Pauline Giambalvo had not let that appellation spring.
Our leader then demonstrated the technique I would perfect over the years. The tiny hiss of escaping effluvia meant that the T-ware's contents were sealed tighter than Sister Hilda's lips when she was ticked off.
The party turned out to be a huge hit. I wasn't even disappointed when I learned that no one would be receiving anything Tupper that evening, that the ladies would order through my mom, who would distribute the plastic pelf.
The Tupper Goddess gave me a little hug as I helped her reload her car. I went back inside, already dreading my next Sacrament of Penance with Father Bundock.
Of course, Aunt Hazel had already convened a chorale of gossipeuse. I heard her whisper, "That lady wasn't clean ..." Someone else said, " ... there was an odor." Fiddlesticks. No odor could dim my ardor.
Tons of boxes arrived in a fortnight. My father turned a blind eye to the fact that my mom used her commission to buy even more T-stuff. I marveled at the Wonderlier bowls and their offspring. Even salt-and-pepper shakers. I lidded, snapped and burped to my heart's content.
My reverie was short-lived. I asked Mom when she was having another party, keeping my motives tacet.
"Oh, we'll have more," she announced. "But I'll be the hostess. I'm a Certified Tupperware Ambassador now. People will buy from me."
Wait. No fair!
And so we became a Tupperware family. Mom trotted them out with reckless abandon. I would still help her put food away, fondling the bowls as if they were ... oh, never mind again.
The piece that stayed with me was the sturdy white mixing bowl. It was made of extra-heavy goods, with a reinforced snapping rim on the bottom. Over the years, my grandmother used it solely for her exotic, exclusive, extra-eggy macaroni salad, which was a huge hit whenever she made it.
As time wore on, the bowl did not wear out. It did turn a wan, nicotine color after repeated lardings of said salad, which tradition my mother continued. And folks continued to lap up the wonderful contents. "The flavor's in the bowl," I bragged.
One fateful day, I blandished Mom to make up a batch for a feed at the Sons of Sweden. I put it out on the buffet. Then the seniors attacked like locusts. The bowl, in its dun, maize wonderfulness, was soon deforested. I washed it it, and, making sure I had marked its bottom with our surname Sharpied on masking tape, hid it in the kitchen and repaired to the bar.
After a few conversations with a bottle of B&B, I headed home. Bowl-less. I awoke in a fog the next day and realized my gaffe. I waited at the club for the doors to open and raced to the kitchen. No bowl. I recruited a forensic team of afternoon quaffers to seek and find, to no avail. Everyone sympathized with me, since they were huge fans of the Magic Mac.
That night, I visited Mom and mumbled the news, accompanied by an apology. She shrugged it off, "Oh, that old thing," she said. "Lord, it's no big loss."
But she never made macaroni salad again. I even noted said dish in her obituary.
In the years that followed, I have tried to recreate the culinary nirvana of the two women I loved the most. The results have improved, and, while edible, are a faint tracing of The Real Deal.
Worst of all, try as I may to evoke the recipe, I have nothing in which to put it.
My Deep Bowl source added, "When the lady demonstrates the lid, she closes it, then she 'burps' it." What gravitas could this carry? Then again, Mary Beth Pfister's word was gold. She once told me that Pauline Giambalvo liked me, and, true enough, Pauline, a comely Italianate with corrected dentition, had let me hold her hand for a good fifteen seconds in the mummy room at the Peabody Museum. This was the extent of my intergender touching in grade six at St. Dymphna's.
 |
| The gals go uber-Tupper |
The gals began to arrive. My mom's pinochle pals; some neighbors; a few others. They had dresses on. Heels. Nylons scritched noisily as thighs rubbed. Even Mrs. Tichey from across the street got dolled up. I noted, with dismay, her sausage-colored hose rolled up beneath her knees. My Sin and White Shoulders assailed my nostrils.
The Tupperware Lady herself had me swooning upon exiting her vehicle. The beauteous, busty redhead allowed me to cart boxes in from her Nova (a convertible, no less!). They weighed practically nothing, as was the air I walked on. She wore a clingy emerald shift, sans sleeves. Her arms were not the fleshy, beached-whale, elbow-indented sides of meat like Mrs. Lutz had. Jangly, dangly earrings. When she walked, her hindquarters swayed in a luxuriant ... oh, never mind. I was twelve.
"Now ladies," she said. "Here's what makes Tupperware so special. You just don't close the lid ..." Which she did pertly, with a little flourish of a slender, braceleted wrist. "Then, guess what happens?"
I seized the moment. "YOU BURP IT!" I blurted. Heads spun. My mother's eyes drilled me with palpable heat. Miz Tupper turned abruptly. And beamed at me. American-LaFrance-crimson lips parted, showing pearly whites that no Viceroy had ever sullied.
Our leader then demonstrated the technique I would perfect over the years. The tiny hiss of escaping effluvia meant that the T-ware's contents were sealed tighter than Sister Hilda's lips when she was ticked off.
The party turned out to be a huge hit. I wasn't even disappointed when I learned that no one would be receiving anything Tupper that evening, that the ladies would order through my mom, who would distribute the plastic pelf.
The Tupper Goddess gave me a little hug as I helped her reload her car. I went back inside, already dreading my next Sacrament of Penance with Father Bundock.
Of course, Aunt Hazel had already convened a chorale of gossipeuse. I heard her whisper, "That lady wasn't clean ..." Someone else said, " ... there was an odor." Fiddlesticks. No odor could dim my ardor.
My reverie was short-lived. I asked Mom when she was having another party, keeping my motives tacet.
"Oh, we'll have more," she announced. "But I'll be the hostess. I'm a Certified Tupperware Ambassador now. People will buy from me."
Wait. No fair!
And so we became a Tupperware family. Mom trotted them out with reckless abandon. I would still help her put food away, fondling the bowls as if they were ... oh, never mind again.
 |
| The Magic Mac Bowl |
As time wore on, the bowl did not wear out. It did turn a wan, nicotine color after repeated lardings of said salad, which tradition my mother continued. And folks continued to lap up the wonderful contents. "The flavor's in the bowl," I bragged.
One fateful day, I blandished Mom to make up a batch for a feed at the Sons of Sweden. I put it out on the buffet. Then the seniors attacked like locusts. The bowl, in its dun, maize wonderfulness, was soon deforested. I washed it it, and, making sure I had marked its bottom with our surname Sharpied on masking tape, hid it in the kitchen and repaired to the bar.
After a few conversations with a bottle of B&B, I headed home. Bowl-less. I awoke in a fog the next day and realized my gaffe. I waited at the club for the doors to open and raced to the kitchen. No bowl. I recruited a forensic team of afternoon quaffers to seek and find, to no avail. Everyone sympathized with me, since they were huge fans of the Magic Mac.
That night, I visited Mom and mumbled the news, accompanied by an apology. She shrugged it off, "Oh, that old thing," she said. "Lord, it's no big loss."
But she never made macaroni salad again. I even noted said dish in her obituary.
In the years that followed, I have tried to recreate the culinary nirvana of the two women I loved the most. The results have improved, and, while edible, are a faint tracing of The Real Deal.
Worst of all, try as I may to evoke the recipe, I have nothing in which to put it.
Friday, May 22, 2015
T-Bone and Jilly
I
am turning over this space to one Timothy "T-Bone" Stone.He is my
go-to man on the 88s. He can make a Hammond B-3 beg for mercy ... and
he tells some great war stories. Sure, all musicians have them. But
this is one of my all-time favorites. Here we go, gang.
Late 80s... Atlantic City Trump Plaza... The Lounge Therein...
As the Jay Stollman Orchestra wound up their set in the lounge, a rather burly but well dressed gent approached the stage, adjusted his tie and cleared his throat, then announced brusquely "Mr Jilly Rizzo has invited Jay and his band to Memories in Margate directly following their performance at Trump Lounge for drinks and bracciole."
Puzzled looks ricocheted off the band members faces: Who in hell was Jilly Rizzo? And was Luca Brasi inviting us to dine
or die? This was Jersey after all. Little Nicky Scarfa, bodies in
Brigantine, the real deal!! Jay filled us in with the vital 411: He
got the casino gig thru an AC cop who did security for Ol Blue Eyes
when he rolled thru town. And Jilly was Franks valet/go-to guy for a
gazillion years. If the Old Man wanted Eggs Benny at 4:30 in the
morning in Duluth, Jilly made it so. Guessing Jilly was lonely
that night, heard about the band thru the cop, and needed a party,
hence the invite.
So off we go to Memories in Margate. We arrive to see a replica of the 2001 Odyssey from Saturday Night Fever and a line of perfectly coiffed and garbed Tonys and Darlenes wrapping around the block like a polyester python. Remember this was the LATE 80s; these kids obviously hadn't heard...
Now
by this time the band had reverted to their street dress after the
gig: jeans, tees, etc. which drew jeers and withering Mansonesque
stares from those awaiting entrance. A particularly ominous character
sporting a lime green rayon jumpsuit and Big Boy Burger hair jabbed
me on the arm and growled: "Backadaline, Jerry!" As in Garcia. Hoots and
cackling ensued from his equally synthetic posse.
But wait: a massive
arm shot out from behind the velvet rope, jabbed Lime Green in the
sternum and a stern warning rolled over the crowd: "Shut yer pie
hole, Gino, dissis Mr Rizzos party!" The velvet rope goes up and
in we go, waved in by the same arm that shut Gino's pie hole. How
exciting!! Much grumbling from the line, but hey, we're in with the
Jillster. You folks will just have to wait your turn... It's out to
the VIP pergola for Jay and the boys!
So here is our host dressed more like us than "them": blue satin Frank jacket with Jilly stitched on left breast, Yankees cap, black v-neck tee, sensible khakis and red Nikes, a cigar larger than his head wedged comfortably in his jaw. Big smiles, hugs to Jay, pats on shoulders to the band, sit, eat, drink!! Gotta admit Jilly was a gracious and generous host, to a bunch of Connecticut hairbillies he never met before. The Blue Label flowed like Toms River, and although the bracciole got stuck in traffic, a grand time was had by all.
Best moment: Mr Rizzo pulls me aside (he spoke to every single band member in turn) and regales me with some saucy road tales, Ratpack and Vegas, showgirls et al. Suddenly, his face veiled in melancholy, the man turns to me and speaks softly...
"Y'know sumpin, T-Bird (he never once got my nickname right).... Nobody swings anymore..."
The words hung on the summer night air like the industrial discharge
emanating from the business end of his Macanudo, and a little tear
creeped out of the corner of his eye. I don't think truer words had
ever been offered before or since.
RIP Jilly. Thanks for a great night! It was a privilege and an honor to hang with you and hear the tales of the elders. An era died when you and Frank passed on... You were right; NOBODY swings anymore...
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
Women of Substance
Disclaimer: There are zillions of terabytes of advice for women on this topic, but few for men. Why? Because most males who write on this topic limit their ideas of a fabulous woman to those who like either football, NASCAR or Yuengling. These are the same guys who think the terms "clean hoodie" and "well-dressed" are synonymous. I propose to delve further into this topic. For the gals: Yes, this focuses on men. Feel free to contact me with reams of disapproval.
Telltale signs to detect a Woman of Substance (WoS).
1. She doesn't stick you in Friend Prison. As you get to know her, she'll give you a chance. In her own small way, she'll let you know she'd like to get to know you. And, early on, this is all you can ask for. A WoS does not give away the store. She is too smart for that.
2. When you ask "What's wrong?", she responds. As opposed to ordinary women, who invariably answer, "Nothing." Just be ready for her words. You asked, dintcha?
3. She will never say, "That's not how my father does it." 'Nuff said.
4. You will know when you can ask her out. A WoS will advise you. As in #1, this will be in barely detectable ways.
5. "Drama" refers to an entertainment genre.
6. She will take pride. Especially in her appearance. Early on, when you're thinking of blowing some serious jingle on dinner at Le Château du Boeuf instead of TJ McChiliFries, take note of her. A WoS will take extra care with a coiffure, discreet jewelry, a dress. Perhaps footwear, to boot. She is not trying to look nice just for you but hopes you'll notice. And you had better notice, or else you're a douche.
7. She will adapt. While you're at the bar doing Jäger Bombs with Dirtbag and Sully, she will seek out Sully's girlfriend and say, "I like your sweater." Then she will tolerate you for a time. Make that time brief.
8. Her reports are brief. After a shopping trip, she will show you her purchases. And you will like them all. Then you will say, "You will look so hot in that skirt." But, she won't bore you with every detail of her trek. Instead, she will call her mother and give her a two-hour rundown of the day, including a trip to Cinnabon and why Suzie Fenster shouldn't wear such short skirts because her legs are like fenceposts. Addendum: A true WoS will NOT show you intimate underpinnings out of the box. Rather, she will model them for you. That's when you'll know it's time for some Sealy Calisthenics.
9. She will give you small touches. Especially in public. A brief handhold. A stealth-caress on the back of the neck. A squeeze above the knee to let you know she has to go make water. All of this means she cares about you and wants you to have a good time.
10. Her critiques are quick and to the point. When you mess up (and you will), she will let you know as soon as she can discreetly effect this. Nothing festers. She will not employ personal insults or bring up other, off-topic concerns. But she will let you have it. And you will apologize.
11. She knows the right words. She rarely curses coarsely, but can unleash a well-timed blue streak when appropriate. And she will rarely (to keep it special) say a few special words that also may lead to the aforementioned Sealy Calisthenics.
12. She will surprise you. This might be the biggest criterion that separates a WoS from the rest of her gender. It might be a gift. Or not. Or a special event. Or something else (see, special words in #11). Treasure these moments. And her.
... and, most importantly ...
13. She knows the three things you need. And they are simple: compassion, sincerity and tenderness. After decades of unscientific research, I have determined that this trio is all two people need to create a wondermous bond. And she will give them freely. Just make sure to give back, knucklehead.
Telltale signs to detect a Woman of Substance (WoS).
1. She doesn't stick you in Friend Prison. As you get to know her, she'll give you a chance. In her own small way, she'll let you know she'd like to get to know you. And, early on, this is all you can ask for. A WoS does not give away the store. She is too smart for that.
2. When you ask "What's wrong?", she responds. As opposed to ordinary women, who invariably answer, "Nothing." Just be ready for her words. You asked, dintcha?
3. She will never say, "That's not how my father does it." 'Nuff said.
4. You will know when you can ask her out. A WoS will advise you. As in #1, this will be in barely detectable ways.
5. "Drama" refers to an entertainment genre.
6. She will take pride. Especially in her appearance. Early on, when you're thinking of blowing some serious jingle on dinner at Le Château du Boeuf instead of TJ McChiliFries, take note of her. A WoS will take extra care with a coiffure, discreet jewelry, a dress. Perhaps footwear, to boot. She is not trying to look nice just for you but hopes you'll notice. And you had better notice, or else you're a douche.
7. She will adapt. While you're at the bar doing Jäger Bombs with Dirtbag and Sully, she will seek out Sully's girlfriend and say, "I like your sweater." Then she will tolerate you for a time. Make that time brief.
8. Her reports are brief. After a shopping trip, she will show you her purchases. And you will like them all. Then you will say, "You will look so hot in that skirt." But, she won't bore you with every detail of her trek. Instead, she will call her mother and give her a two-hour rundown of the day, including a trip to Cinnabon and why Suzie Fenster shouldn't wear such short skirts because her legs are like fenceposts. Addendum: A true WoS will NOT show you intimate underpinnings out of the box. Rather, she will model them for you. That's when you'll know it's time for some Sealy Calisthenics.
9. She will give you small touches. Especially in public. A brief handhold. A stealth-caress on the back of the neck. A squeeze above the knee to let you know she has to go make water. All of this means she cares about you and wants you to have a good time.
10. Her critiques are quick and to the point. When you mess up (and you will), she will let you know as soon as she can discreetly effect this. Nothing festers. She will not employ personal insults or bring up other, off-topic concerns. But she will let you have it. And you will apologize.
11. She knows the right words. She rarely curses coarsely, but can unleash a well-timed blue streak when appropriate. And she will rarely (to keep it special) say a few special words that also may lead to the aforementioned Sealy Calisthenics.
12. She will surprise you. This might be the biggest criterion that separates a WoS from the rest of her gender. It might be a gift. Or not. Or a special event. Or something else (see, special words in #11). Treasure these moments. And her.
... and, most importantly ...
13. She knows the three things you need. And they are simple: compassion, sincerity and tenderness. After decades of unscientific research, I have determined that this trio is all two people need to create a wondermous bond. And she will give them freely. Just make sure to give back, knucklehead.
Thursday, February 26, 2015
Lucky Guy
I turn 65 today. Bring it on: the codger jokes, Medicare, Viagra, the whole smack. Yes, I have a spray bottle of Formula 401 somewhere.
I tossed about a few ideas for a birthday-selfie blog and rejected them. Then, ruminating last night over a cold mug o' Genny, it hit me.
I am a lucky guy.
One of the luckiest you will ever meet.
To wax on this entails some soap-boxy, self-aggrandizing chest thumping. Meh.
I've been able to do (and experience) things that other people dream about. Name your medium: print, recordings, live music, classrooms (yes, that is performing, too) television, radio, advertising, standup semi-comedy, emceeing, video, advertising, stage, interwebs. No films yet, even though I could assay a damn proper aging street bum right now.
And those silly game shows, which is all everyone seems to remember. How I wish there had been some world dilemma (without injury) that preempted those programs. But I would still get all the "cash and fabulous" prizes, as Jay Stewart pronounced.
What was more important was that while I cavorted on the tube, spewing reams of useless "knowledge," and shitty puns, Tommy Holleran was fighting for his life. My eighteen-month-old nephew lay in Yale-New Haven Hospital while a team of doctors excised an extra chamber from his walnut-sized heart. Nurses (one of whom was an ex-sweetheart) moved a TV in for him to watch Uncle Tim frolic. They told me that he was trying to point to me on the tube, but his arms were strapped to boards to keep his IVs in check.
What matters more?
Yes, it was a thrill to watch SNL 40 and see so many friends appear. Then came the slap of seeing those who have passed.
Ah, music. I remember the thrill of hearing my banging on the radio for the first time. I can listen to almost any station and hear other friends play and sing.
If you read my scribblings and FB effluvia, you know I have rediscovered my love for drumming. I have played huge venues, recorded with amazing people and have a sizable trove of war stories. But the other night in Lewisburg, PA, I played for some of the best few minutes of my life behind the tubs. The front man was the amazing Frank Wicher (who is, far and away, the most powerful and original performer I have met here). The tune was by Waylon Jennings. I am about as country as a bunch of wiseguys eating sfogliatelle at Rao's. Couldn't even name the song. We launched into it, and within eight bars, I was transported. The Groove was locked in. From there the song was bliss.
For me to feel this way, after the thousands of gigs I have played in my checkered career, is just magic.
Did I say, "Lucky?"
I have already heard from a ton of fACEbookers today. Many of these people are my heroes.
Yes, lucky.
I started a new life in Coal Country 2½ years ago. I've made (again) wonderful friends, found new family and am able to celebrate the town where my parents grew up. Yes, I miss real pizza, Portuguese rolls and Saint's.
I've been fairly healthy. My bike gets me around town, as soon as we escape the tundra. I pray for my friends, some of who are battling serious odds. I cannot bring myself to mention those who have gone before me.
But how am I luckiest? Easy, in tripartite fashion.
Monday, February 16, 2015
26 Minutes
An experiment.
4:06pm, February 16, 2015
I didn't see Her right away. The various musicians had been tumbling away for over a half-hour. A folksy duet got up and, alarmingly, assayed Santana's "Oye Como Va." A disaster.
I was told to bring my banjo. A command, really. A going-away party. At a restaurant, for a couple who was moving to New Jersey. Why?
She sat at Bear's table. Bear, all flanneled and matted and barely kempt, making me tell the rest of the table about the Grammy. For the forty-third time, I reminded him that many people appeared on the album, that each player doesn't get a trophy. Bear harrumphed and drank, as if I were lying.
She was at the far corner of the rectangular table, against a window. I spied Her, listening to my war stories. Did She lean Her head inward?
It was the way She sat. Head held proud. Chisled, but less-than-harsh features. Perfect, seamless hair, a longish pageboy. I imagined that she didn't have to style or sculpt--that the hair had its own mind and vigor. It parted itself and hung there by its will, limning the face. My memory tugged at me. Had there been a prior viewing?
I got up and played a couple of tunes. A too-long solo in "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" garnered strong applause. I couldn't see Her from the stage.
A promise-of-snow afternoon gave way to a leaden evening. After I played, I found a spot in a lonely corner of the room.
And looked at Her.
The night, lurking outside the window, outlined Her to better effect. She sat upright, listening intently. Small sips of a drink. She held her pose amazingly, not speaking. I imagined I was the only person to see Her among the hundred or so present. Unhindered, I watched.
I took the stage again a few tunes later, wanting it to be over so that I could return to my post. She hadn't moved. She was regal, perched as if she had a story that no one knew. I imagined Her as a wise, beneficent ruler.
She was my Queen.
Above Her head, silent, padded leviathans mimed their way through a football game. A running back's helmet was jostled fiercely via replay, as if he were tackled by a wall. Some people stopped by to talk to me. Did I really play with...? Yes, I said, I did.
As the set wound down, the songs became angrier, rockier. No need for a banjo. This sat fine with me. I angled closer to Her table. Do I dare approach? Speak? The decision bludgeoned me. She did not turn that fine head. Was that a ring on her left hand? The piece was thin and wiry.
Leaving time. She stood, moving upward with airy grace. Tall, willowy, in stately balance. Demure boots tucked into faded jeans. Not the big, buckly, industrial boots. No, not for her. Her parka boasted a furry trim. I imagined it being that white fur with black dots scampering about. Ermine?
I stood up to make way for Her, a member of Her court. The air became cleaner as She passed by me. She offered me the smallest of nods. I felt as if I should bow.
My eyes followed Her to the door. At the last possible moment, She turned and looked at me. Parentheses appeared at both sides of Her thin, parted lips. I saw her teeth, in proud array.
I think She mouthed something.
Then She was gone.
4:32pm
4:06pm, February 16, 2015
I didn't see Her right away. The various musicians had been tumbling away for over a half-hour. A folksy duet got up and, alarmingly, assayed Santana's "Oye Como Va." A disaster.
I was told to bring my banjo. A command, really. A going-away party. At a restaurant, for a couple who was moving to New Jersey. Why?
She sat at Bear's table. Bear, all flanneled and matted and barely kempt, making me tell the rest of the table about the Grammy. For the forty-third time, I reminded him that many people appeared on the album, that each player doesn't get a trophy. Bear harrumphed and drank, as if I were lying.
She was at the far corner of the rectangular table, against a window. I spied Her, listening to my war stories. Did She lean Her head inward?
It was the way She sat. Head held proud. Chisled, but less-than-harsh features. Perfect, seamless hair, a longish pageboy. I imagined that she didn't have to style or sculpt--that the hair had its own mind and vigor. It parted itself and hung there by its will, limning the face. My memory tugged at me. Had there been a prior viewing?
I got up and played a couple of tunes. A too-long solo in "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" garnered strong applause. I couldn't see Her from the stage.
A promise-of-snow afternoon gave way to a leaden evening. After I played, I found a spot in a lonely corner of the room.
And looked at Her.
The night, lurking outside the window, outlined Her to better effect. She sat upright, listening intently. Small sips of a drink. She held her pose amazingly, not speaking. I imagined I was the only person to see Her among the hundred or so present. Unhindered, I watched.
I took the stage again a few tunes later, wanting it to be over so that I could return to my post. She hadn't moved. She was regal, perched as if she had a story that no one knew. I imagined Her as a wise, beneficent ruler.
She was my Queen.
Above Her head, silent, padded leviathans mimed their way through a football game. A running back's helmet was jostled fiercely via replay, as if he were tackled by a wall. Some people stopped by to talk to me. Did I really play with...? Yes, I said, I did.
As the set wound down, the songs became angrier, rockier. No need for a banjo. This sat fine with me. I angled closer to Her table. Do I dare approach? Speak? The decision bludgeoned me. She did not turn that fine head. Was that a ring on her left hand? The piece was thin and wiry.
Leaving time. She stood, moving upward with airy grace. Tall, willowy, in stately balance. Demure boots tucked into faded jeans. Not the big, buckly, industrial boots. No, not for her. Her parka boasted a furry trim. I imagined it being that white fur with black dots scampering about. Ermine?
I stood up to make way for Her, a member of Her court. The air became cleaner as She passed by me. She offered me the smallest of nods. I felt as if I should bow.
My eyes followed Her to the door. At the last possible moment, She turned and looked at me. Parentheses appeared at both sides of Her thin, parted lips. I saw her teeth, in proud array.
I think She mouthed something.
Then She was gone.
4:32pm
Saturday, February 14, 2015
My Funny Valentines
This is a first for me—certainly a first on 14 February.
Sure, it's a mass valentine. But it's more. I got the idea after a brief setback in my life yesterday. Then I started making a list of women who have mattered in my life. This august group includes: friends, mates, crushes (many and varied), galpals, girlfriends, lovers (yikes!) and every scenario in between. This list comprises the only humanoids I've asked to view this incredible, gravitas-laden blog post.
We have shared titters, all-out laughter, stories, heartbreak, warmth—and sometimes tenderness, affection and love, in their many different guises. But one thread runs true throughout all of you Women of Substance: Every one of you has—in some way, shape or form—helped me. Pick your adverb: emotionally, financially, intimately, humorously, platonically.
At the onset of this idea, I thought I'd have a handful of gals with whom I wanted to share this. As I write, the total is 80+. And I'm not counting the few who have, sad to say, passed. Plus the ones with whom I've lost touch. Plus a new acquaintance whose location I have yet to track down. My detectives are on the case. Some I've known since childhood; others have only recently walked into my life.
You have been rocks, shoulders, dear hearts, ears, eyes and souls. I can easily pinpoint conversations, dates, drinks and fun with each of you. Some were just evanescent moments, jetting by quickly, but holding Alps of meaning.
What's the upshot? I'm a lucky guy. This exercise exists to thank you.
I hope that those of you with spouses, partners and significant others are cherished by your men, especially today. You are more than deserving. For every guy who fails his mate in this respect today: You are a colossal jerk.
For those you, like me, who are flying solo, I am with you, ready to deliver vicarious candy, flowers and hugs, as needed.
My apologies to those I may have omitted. To guys ready to bust my spheroids with man-card jokes, bugger off. This is between me and my women.
Of course, this is self-serving in that I am eliciting optional responses from all of you. Especially if you want to know why you are on this list. Private, chastely mushy emails can be sent to aceholleran@gmail.com .
To each and every one of you ladies, as the song says, I wish you love.
Sure, it's a mass valentine. But it's more. I got the idea after a brief setback in my life yesterday. Then I started making a list of women who have mattered in my life. This august group includes: friends, mates, crushes (many and varied), galpals, girlfriends, lovers (yikes!) and every scenario in between. This list comprises the only humanoids I've asked to view this incredible, gravitas-laden blog post.
We have shared titters, all-out laughter, stories, heartbreak, warmth—and sometimes tenderness, affection and love, in their many different guises. But one thread runs true throughout all of you Women of Substance: Every one of you has—in some way, shape or form—helped me. Pick your adverb: emotionally, financially, intimately, humorously, platonically.
At the onset of this idea, I thought I'd have a handful of gals with whom I wanted to share this. As I write, the total is 80+. And I'm not counting the few who have, sad to say, passed. Plus the ones with whom I've lost touch. Plus a new acquaintance whose location I have yet to track down. My detectives are on the case. Some I've known since childhood; others have only recently walked into my life.
You have been rocks, shoulders, dear hearts, ears, eyes and souls. I can easily pinpoint conversations, dates, drinks and fun with each of you. Some were just evanescent moments, jetting by quickly, but holding Alps of meaning.
What's the upshot? I'm a lucky guy. This exercise exists to thank you.
I hope that those of you with spouses, partners and significant others are cherished by your men, especially today. You are more than deserving. For every guy who fails his mate in this respect today: You are a colossal jerk.
For those you, like me, who are flying solo, I am with you, ready to deliver vicarious candy, flowers and hugs, as needed.
My apologies to those I may have omitted. To guys ready to bust my spheroids with man-card jokes, bugger off. This is between me and my women.
Of course, this is self-serving in that I am eliciting optional responses from all of you. Especially if you want to know why you are on this list. Private, chastely mushy emails can be sent to aceholleran@gmail.com .
To each and every one of you ladies, as the song says, I wish you love.
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
Overstuffed
I don't know when it hit me. Maybe during the Stupor Bowl. Perhaps at halftime. Or the commercials. Or the game the NFL managed to sandwich in somewhere.
Then I saw a stat that a majority of viewers didn't tune in to see football, but rather to view ad spots and the "musical" halftime, which in itself was like a Hesse nightmare, with added hallucinogens.
Add Ms. Perry: Did anyone notice that the feline contraption on which she entered was actually powered by humans outside the animal on each leg? Oh please, when can we use CGI at halftime so as to lose the leg-bearers?
Face it: We live in a prepackaged, pitch-modulated, sani-wrapped, lip-synched, effects-driven Gehenna. And pretend we like it.
It's Madonna, doing Giles Stoat Boy at the Grammys. It's Brian Williams, now saying he had a petting session with Paulina Porizkova in the basement of Clooney's house on Lake Como. It's whatever Asshat of the Year (Decade?) Kanye West has to sat about anything.
The root of all this fakery? We have too much stuff. Walk with me, folks.
People compare phones the way they once did vehicles. Oh, that's not the 8G, only the 7? You Luddite. How big is your flat screen? How many BTUs is that grill? You're running Windows XP? Oh, the humanity.
We need more amps, watts, pixels and horsepower. A friend once entered my Saturn and blanched. "Roll-up windows?" he exclaimed. It was as if I had asked him to get outside and crank the motor, not the shotgun window.
Our vacuum cleaners don't suck enough. Our houses will smell like a Bumble Bee Factory during a blackout if we don't melt Scentalicious Mossy Grotto wax cubes in every room. Our pets expect tinned foie gras at every meal, perhaps enlivened by a confit of emu once in a while.
Don't buy those cornflakes at Aldi. They're not from Battle Creek, plus they cost $3 less. That's not America. Aldi? That's a German company. All those folks are about is wursts and thirsts. And—horrors!—you have to pay a quarter to use a shopping cart, which you get back at the end. So what if you can save 30% on something you use every day: food.
Haven't tried Old Sockhausen's peach-chutney-basil Olde Pilsner yet? Still drinking Genny Cream? You pinko. It's only $28.00 a six! It's made by unwashed, flannel-shirted millionaires in deepest Vermont. It must be good. It's fucking artisinal!
And yet, we are slaves to advertising—and the mediocrity it shoves down our throats. "Ooh, I wish there was a Papa John's around here. I want some of his plasticene-cum-cardboard product." The guy's last name is Schnatter, fer crissakes. Applebee's, baby. In the neighborhood. What neighborhood? Welcome to the Half-vacant Stripmall section of Everytown, folks. Sandwiched between Dollar Colonel and Nails 'n' Tanz. But we've got reheated nacho-thyme-Elmer's potato skins fer ya ... neighbor.
I'd settle for a pair of boxer briefs that properly ensconces Mr. John Thomas. No one makes those. But Mack Weldon on the Interwebs will sell you a pair for $24.99. At that price, I expect an SI swimsuit model to assist me in donning said skivees.
Yes, Five Guys puts McKingdy's to shame. The Dollar Shave Club is my latest discovery. Buddy up with me, and I will share my cheapo hint for the perfect shave emollient. And it ain't from a can.
All this stuff leads us to buy into the schmaltzerei of awards shows, ersatz news and the inflation of Tom Brady's prophylactics.
Am I advocating moving to Schwabenland and getting free meds, schooling and cannabis? No. But sometimes, I think we are so in love with our stuff that we forget about each other.
However, that's another blog. Gonna try to post anew each Wednesday to help dispel winter doldrums, both mine and yours.
But I must run. Gotta set my DVR to record Swamp Surgeons, Downton Abbey and the special, two-hour Kardashians' Twister Party.
ADDENDUM: Faithful Acerazzi Bill Wilson contributed this tune from the great Delbert McClinton, with help from John Prine and Lyle Lovett.
See and hear, here.
Then I saw a stat that a majority of viewers didn't tune in to see football, but rather to view ad spots and the "musical" halftime, which in itself was like a Hesse nightmare, with added hallucinogens.
Add Ms. Perry: Did anyone notice that the feline contraption on which she entered was actually powered by humans outside the animal on each leg? Oh please, when can we use CGI at halftime so as to lose the leg-bearers?
Face it: We live in a prepackaged, pitch-modulated, sani-wrapped, lip-synched, effects-driven Gehenna. And pretend we like it.
It's Madonna, doing Giles Stoat Boy at the Grammys. It's Brian Williams, now saying he had a petting session with Paulina Porizkova in the basement of Clooney's house on Lake Como. It's whatever Asshat of the Year (Decade?) Kanye West has to sat about anything.
The root of all this fakery? We have too much stuff. Walk with me, folks.
People compare phones the way they once did vehicles. Oh, that's not the 8G, only the 7? You Luddite. How big is your flat screen? How many BTUs is that grill? You're running Windows XP? Oh, the humanity.
We need more amps, watts, pixels and horsepower. A friend once entered my Saturn and blanched. "Roll-up windows?" he exclaimed. It was as if I had asked him to get outside and crank the motor, not the shotgun window.
Our vacuum cleaners don't suck enough. Our houses will smell like a Bumble Bee Factory during a blackout if we don't melt Scentalicious Mossy Grotto wax cubes in every room. Our pets expect tinned foie gras at every meal, perhaps enlivened by a confit of emu once in a while.
Don't buy those cornflakes at Aldi. They're not from Battle Creek, plus they cost $3 less. That's not America. Aldi? That's a German company. All those folks are about is wursts and thirsts. And—horrors!—you have to pay a quarter to use a shopping cart, which you get back at the end. So what if you can save 30% on something you use every day: food.
Haven't tried Old Sockhausen's peach-chutney-basil Olde Pilsner yet? Still drinking Genny Cream? You pinko. It's only $28.00 a six! It's made by unwashed, flannel-shirted millionaires in deepest Vermont. It must be good. It's fucking artisinal!
 |
| Yes, we need all this stuff. |
I'd settle for a pair of boxer briefs that properly ensconces Mr. John Thomas. No one makes those. But Mack Weldon on the Interwebs will sell you a pair for $24.99. At that price, I expect an SI swimsuit model to assist me in donning said skivees.
Yes, Five Guys puts McKingdy's to shame. The Dollar Shave Club is my latest discovery. Buddy up with me, and I will share my cheapo hint for the perfect shave emollient. And it ain't from a can.
All this stuff leads us to buy into the schmaltzerei of awards shows, ersatz news and the inflation of Tom Brady's prophylactics.
Am I advocating moving to Schwabenland and getting free meds, schooling and cannabis? No. But sometimes, I think we are so in love with our stuff that we forget about each other.
However, that's another blog. Gonna try to post anew each Wednesday to help dispel winter doldrums, both mine and yours.
But I must run. Gotta set my DVR to record Swamp Surgeons, Downton Abbey and the special, two-hour Kardashians' Twister Party.
ADDENDUM: Faithful Acerazzi Bill Wilson contributed this tune from the great Delbert McClinton, with help from John Prine and Lyle Lovett.
See and hear, here.
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