Everyone kvetches. "A zillion channels, but nothing worth watching."
Heck I can fix that. Below, some modest proposals for shows and networks, all doable.
The Pink Floyd Channel - Can't get to sleep? I know the feeling. 24/7 Floyd vids. Commercials by ZZZquil, Ambien and Tylenol PM. Guaranteed: no tempi over 72 beats per minute. Nighty-night!
Grammarian Sports - All your favorite sports talking heads ... plus athletes! Here's the nifty catch. Each time someone abuses the language, a stern, prim schoolmarm (armed with a Taser) corrects these gaffes, and the speaker cannot proceed until s/he corrects the error. Add in a smart electric zapadoo for every "y'know."
The Little Rascals Channel - Just think, your favorite classics at your disposal. Unexpurgated too, no matter what Cosby says. I can hear that cake go "Weep ... Wow" already. Hey goat hold it, there's a baby throwing money out the window! O-tay!
The Free Bird Channel - Perfect for frat hazing, annoyance or just plain torture, this network would offer continuous Skynyrd covers by a melange of garage (and garbage!) bands.
The Deadliest Hunters - A savvy group of camo guys, all outfitted with the latest kit, track animals using high-tech appurtenances and manly ordnance. BUT, in the same woods are Jimmy Ed Tarbox and his mouth-breathing clan, banged-up on moonshine and loaded for bear ... and hunters encroaching on their property.
Emeril Returns - Our fave Mass-Cajun chef tries a new tack: This time around, his army of minions backstage perfecting the "heroes" are nowhere to be found. Ergo, he's actually cooking. Don't miss the Rachael Ray swimsuit episode. BAM!
Morgan Freeman Phone Messages - Just send in your personalized greeting and The Voice of God will read it on the air, enabling your IDroid to resonate with magic and importance.
Transgender Sumo - Self explanatory.
The No-Tune Network - Your fave music vids—all with the AutoTune stripped from vocals. Amuse your friends! Here's what Adele and Taylor really sound like.
The Non-Harmon Channel - A lively gallimaufry of tube fun and adventure. Plus—believe it or not—not one show includes Mark Harmon!
The Deadliest Ketch - The trials and tribs of the well-bred, nasal yacht set in Newport, RI. Duly soapy brine. What are Courtwright's TopSiders doing under Agnetha's bed? Tune in to find out. Racy, indeed.
I'm watching, DVR at the ready. Check your leastings.
Wednesday, May 11, 2016
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
26 Minutes Redux
I first attempted this exercise in Febraury of '15. I wanted to write a (very) short story ... just to see how long it took. I didn't write with undue alacrity. I just sat and wrote until I was happy. It took 26 minutes. In the mood for another story, I plan on writing for 26 minutes, then stopping wherever I am. So, bear with me, all of my dozen fans. The neighborhood of Park Terrace is chronicled in one of my ever-growing trove of unpublished novels, Slow Dancin'. You can read the other scribblings here.
May 10, 2016, 4:00pm
Tales from Park Terrace
The New Kid
Since few people moved in and out of Park Terrace, a new kid at school was huge news. The girls of St. Dymphna's, daintily jumpered and saddle-shod, would start the whispering. The guys would eventually come around. This all happened just before Christmastime. I was in the sixth.
The kid's name was Dickie. A little taller than I (well, everyone was, even the girls), but gangly. A walking pantograph, if you will. He seemed to amble about the playground in multiple directions, as if avoiding an unlucky straight line. Maggot Nimmets challenged him to a race. This was an early testosterone test among the kids of Park Terrace. We ran everywhere.
Dickie managed to fold his arms about his corpus. He replied in a calm, almost aristocratic voice, "I'd rather not." Maggot launched a few choice words in the new kid's direction, none of which ruffled Dickie.
Dickie was a bit of a towhead. but it wasn't the color of his hair that we noticed. It was his coif's lack of direction. His hair spiked crazily away from his head—amazingly mimicking his limbs. Sister Hugo even took after him with a comb, brush and Vitalis that first day. She was a stickler for neatness. Dickie protested mildly, "This will have no effect, Sister. I am not debonair."
He was right. Big Fun Laughlin pegged it, "Kid has mental hair, Nipper," he said to me.
One of the girls asked where Dickie lived. He turned his head—but his hair seemed to turn in an opposite direction—and said, "I reside on Barkentine Lane."
Uh, oh. This road was on Seeman's Hill, the small enclave in Park Terrace reserved for the moneyed few who still lived in the city. The automatic attachment: Here's a snotty rich kid. Most Hill kids attended fancypants private schools in the 'burbs that encased our crumbling city.
As a matter of course, Dark Mark Longeuil challenged Dickie to a fight a few days after his arrival. For Mark, tussling was a hobby. Some kids built car models. Mark fought. He wasn't the toughest kid, but he was the most fearless.
Mark batted Dickie about the shoulders a few times, "C'mon kid, let's go."
Dickie's disposition stayed waveless, a tranquil pond. "I shall not go anywhere with you. And I abhor fighting."
I decided to step in and offer to walk home for a bit with Dickie. My home on Midfield was on the way.
Dickie shed the slightest tear. He said little. I tried to calm with stories of guys who had bested ("taken") Dark Mark.
Soon after that, most of us left Dickie alone. He was a superlative student, but slings of "brown nose" gave him little pause.
When spring rolled around, he found himself on Ballard's Field, home of the PT Little League. He was picked for the Green Sox, my team. Coach Ziggy Toth, an evil, tobacco-spewing martinet, eyed Dickie cautiously.
In the third game of the season, Ziggy took a chance and used Dickie to pinch hit. We were down to the Panthers by ten runs. Dickie calmly strode to the plate. His elbows seemed to extend into the opposite batter's box.
He took three balls and two strikes. Ziggy cursed under his breath. On the sixth pitch, Dickie swung. His limbs (and hair) flailed in the spring sunset. Ash met horsehide with a feral crack.
And the ball flew off his bat. And flew and flew and flew into the industrial waste site, way over the fence.
Dickie set new league records that year, both for strikeouts and homers. He seemed to effect only those two modes of at-bats. He shunned any praise. His father would drive him home in a leviathan of a Cadillac.
We won the league championship. Dickie refused to play for the All-Star team, saying, "I would rather end my sport season here."
When school began in September. Dickie wasn't there.
I forget his last name.
4:26 pm
May 10, 2016, 4:00pm
Tales from Park Terrace
The New Kid
Since few people moved in and out of Park Terrace, a new kid at school was huge news. The girls of St. Dymphna's, daintily jumpered and saddle-shod, would start the whispering. The guys would eventually come around. This all happened just before Christmastime. I was in the sixth.
The kid's name was Dickie. A little taller than I (well, everyone was, even the girls), but gangly. A walking pantograph, if you will. He seemed to amble about the playground in multiple directions, as if avoiding an unlucky straight line. Maggot Nimmets challenged him to a race. This was an early testosterone test among the kids of Park Terrace. We ran everywhere.
Dickie managed to fold his arms about his corpus. He replied in a calm, almost aristocratic voice, "I'd rather not." Maggot launched a few choice words in the new kid's direction, none of which ruffled Dickie.
Dickie was a bit of a towhead. but it wasn't the color of his hair that we noticed. It was his coif's lack of direction. His hair spiked crazily away from his head—amazingly mimicking his limbs. Sister Hugo even took after him with a comb, brush and Vitalis that first day. She was a stickler for neatness. Dickie protested mildly, "This will have no effect, Sister. I am not debonair."
He was right. Big Fun Laughlin pegged it, "Kid has mental hair, Nipper," he said to me.
One of the girls asked where Dickie lived. He turned his head—but his hair seemed to turn in an opposite direction—and said, "I reside on Barkentine Lane."
Uh, oh. This road was on Seeman's Hill, the small enclave in Park Terrace reserved for the moneyed few who still lived in the city. The automatic attachment: Here's a snotty rich kid. Most Hill kids attended fancypants private schools in the 'burbs that encased our crumbling city.
As a matter of course, Dark Mark Longeuil challenged Dickie to a fight a few days after his arrival. For Mark, tussling was a hobby. Some kids built car models. Mark fought. He wasn't the toughest kid, but he was the most fearless.
Mark batted Dickie about the shoulders a few times, "C'mon kid, let's go."
Dickie's disposition stayed waveless, a tranquil pond. "I shall not go anywhere with you. And I abhor fighting."
I decided to step in and offer to walk home for a bit with Dickie. My home on Midfield was on the way.
Dickie shed the slightest tear. He said little. I tried to calm with stories of guys who had bested ("taken") Dark Mark.
Soon after that, most of us left Dickie alone. He was a superlative student, but slings of "brown nose" gave him little pause.
When spring rolled around, he found himself on Ballard's Field, home of the PT Little League. He was picked for the Green Sox, my team. Coach Ziggy Toth, an evil, tobacco-spewing martinet, eyed Dickie cautiously.
In the third game of the season, Ziggy took a chance and used Dickie to pinch hit. We were down to the Panthers by ten runs. Dickie calmly strode to the plate. His elbows seemed to extend into the opposite batter's box.
He took three balls and two strikes. Ziggy cursed under his breath. On the sixth pitch, Dickie swung. His limbs (and hair) flailed in the spring sunset. Ash met horsehide with a feral crack.
And the ball flew off his bat. And flew and flew and flew into the industrial waste site, way over the fence.
Dickie set new league records that year, both for strikeouts and homers. He seemed to effect only those two modes of at-bats. He shunned any praise. His father would drive him home in a leviathan of a Cadillac.
We won the league championship. Dickie refused to play for the All-Star team, saying, "I would rather end my sport season here."
When school began in September. Dickie wasn't there.
I forget his last name.
4:26 pm
Monday, May 9, 2016
Briefs and Shorts
If I had the chance to address graduates, I would tell them, "Learn when to quit."
The first time I slow-danced, I felt strange things.
Hemingway said that moving does not change what person you are. I disagree with him.
Aside from lounging and sleeping, I am most comfortable behind a drum kit. I feel as if I'm sitting with old friends.
I often look at women's shoes (on people, not in stores). I wonder, "What was she thinking when she bought those?"
Havarti cheese is the bomb.
I like it when I feel pressure from someone else. It makes me feel alive.
Contrary to zillions of memes and greeting cards, I believe it's better to become lovers with a woman first, then work on the friendship. Initial friendship too often closes the door to romance.
I see no reason for the existence of red-beet eggs. It's right up there with ketchup on hot dogs.
I wonder, and admire, how the Brits keep cranking out excellent television. Plus, their actors look like real people, not plastic mannequins.
If you look closely enough, you can see things differently. It takes your eyes time to appreciate much of our planet.
When FBers brag about the same topic again and again, they lose me.
One of the best rock bands I have ever seen was The Kinks.
I could write thousands of these statements about drumming. Worry not, not here.
I enjoy sports, on the field. I care not about players' cars, contracts, ink, drug use or whether they're happy on their teams.
Add looking: I enjoy an occasional Manhattan. This is a drink. I like to eyeball the cocktail for a few moments, in admiration for what I am about to consume.
Imagine if Wendy's put real ghost peppers on their fries. That would be cool. And hot. Fast-food slop is never as piquant as advertised.
The best women I have ever known are experts at passing little clues that they are interested in you. They never come out and say it. But somehow, they let you know. It makes the chase worth it.
I hate joining things. But Dollar Shave Club was a good idea.
I find that nowadays more people than ever approach something new with fear, rather than curiosity.
I have learned, at my ripe age, to celebrate small things. I bought new socks today. Hurrah!
I think it is okay to be a douchebag once in a while. This is better than acting like one.
If Adele sang better songs, I might like her. Every Bruno Mars song I have heard is ripped off from another artist.
People overthink kids' names. This is why babies are no longer dubbed Frank or Rosemary. I wish said parents would put as much thinking into their kids' diets, education and exercise.
A friend asked me the other day about my eldest. "What job is Grace going for after college?" I answered, "None that I know of," with pride.
If a "craft beer" came out with a reasonable price on it, hipsters wouldn't drink it.
Trust me folks, you can drink better wine than that peach-boysenberry "merlot" you get at Costco.
If I had listened to more sensible grownups when I was young, I wouldn't be going to play with some great musicians tonight.
I am suspicious of people who look the same in every picture I see of them.
A gray cubicle is no place for a fertile mind.
I will resume real writing tomorrow. Promise.
The first time I slow-danced, I felt strange things.
Hemingway said that moving does not change what person you are. I disagree with him.
Aside from lounging and sleeping, I am most comfortable behind a drum kit. I feel as if I'm sitting with old friends.
I often look at women's shoes (on people, not in stores). I wonder, "What was she thinking when she bought those?"
Havarti cheese is the bomb.
I like it when I feel pressure from someone else. It makes me feel alive.
Contrary to zillions of memes and greeting cards, I believe it's better to become lovers with a woman first, then work on the friendship. Initial friendship too often closes the door to romance.
I see no reason for the existence of red-beet eggs. It's right up there with ketchup on hot dogs.
I wonder, and admire, how the Brits keep cranking out excellent television. Plus, their actors look like real people, not plastic mannequins.
If you look closely enough, you can see things differently. It takes your eyes time to appreciate much of our planet.
When FBers brag about the same topic again and again, they lose me.
One of the best rock bands I have ever seen was The Kinks.
I could write thousands of these statements about drumming. Worry not, not here.
I enjoy sports, on the field. I care not about players' cars, contracts, ink, drug use or whether they're happy on their teams.
Add looking: I enjoy an occasional Manhattan. This is a drink. I like to eyeball the cocktail for a few moments, in admiration for what I am about to consume.
Imagine if Wendy's put real ghost peppers on their fries. That would be cool. And hot. Fast-food slop is never as piquant as advertised.
The best women I have ever known are experts at passing little clues that they are interested in you. They never come out and say it. But somehow, they let you know. It makes the chase worth it.
I hate joining things. But Dollar Shave Club was a good idea.
I find that nowadays more people than ever approach something new with fear, rather than curiosity.
I have learned, at my ripe age, to celebrate small things. I bought new socks today. Hurrah!
I think it is okay to be a douchebag once in a while. This is better than acting like one.
If Adele sang better songs, I might like her. Every Bruno Mars song I have heard is ripped off from another artist.
People overthink kids' names. This is why babies are no longer dubbed Frank or Rosemary. I wish said parents would put as much thinking into their kids' diets, education and exercise.
A friend asked me the other day about my eldest. "What job is Grace going for after college?" I answered, "None that I know of," with pride.
If a "craft beer" came out with a reasonable price on it, hipsters wouldn't drink it.
Trust me folks, you can drink better wine than that peach-boysenberry "merlot" you get at Costco.
If I had listened to more sensible grownups when I was young, I wouldn't be going to play with some great musicians tonight.
I am suspicious of people who look the same in every picture I see of them.
A gray cubicle is no place for a fertile mind.
I will resume real writing tomorrow. Promise.
Sunday, May 8, 2016
The Invention of Mothers
Yes, another Mum's Day. And yet another year I didn't visit Zales, Jared or Kay. And no cheap bouquets from various indigenous urbanites under their tents, posies poised.
But in the spirit of May Daze, I celebrate many mothers, especially the strong ones. Names are withdrawn or sufficiently changed so as to avoid any panty-knotting.
I know of a sturdy mother who has lost a husband and four children. She soldiers on, with a terrific sense of humor, lightly lording over her other four hilarious children. When you think you have it tough ...
I admire Patty, who is a former galpal of mine from way back in the day. A single mom, she has raised two wonderful children into adulthood. She is a staunch, sometimes snarly, independent soul. But when she ran into trouble with a douchey boyfriend a few years back, she got on the blower to me and we hashed things out.
I know a woman who broke it off with me to marry another. A few years later, a mother by then, she came up to me and tried to apologize. I politely shut her up. It was one of the most noble acts of kindness I have ever received. I can't imagine the crust and guts it must have taken to approach me. Decades later, I still admire her.
Towser has been my consigliere, confidante, shoulder, rock and tear-dryer for forty years in my life. Also a single mum, she has two brilliant offspring who traipse around the world. She has walked me through too many life-changes (many of them cataclysmic) to enumerate. We talk occasionally. When we do, it's a long dialogue. Ma Bell would have made a mint off of us. I probably owe her a mint in consulting fees. In many ways, she is the smartest woman I have ever met. Check that, smartest person.
I have a small, clandestine group of married moms whom I call my harem. We chat from time to time and do the BookFace thing. They are funny, lovely, charming and can make my day in the tweetest of ways. And yes, I have chaste, totally respectable crushes on all of them. Only one has a jealous blob of a husband who has the personality of a doorstop. I especially think about my Scheherazades in my make-believe seraglio today. 1,001 times.
The strongest woman I have ever met? Easy. The mother of my children. The joy of becoming a father twenty-plus years ago was eclipsed only by the gumption, determination and grit of this woman. Two years later, she bore (get ready to groan, ladies) two 8-plus-pound babies in 27 minutes. With no cutting. And no complaining. She took the news of our son's autism with the same sturdy spine and has continued to provide for him in spectacular fashion. All while mounting a brilliant career path. Although we're apart, I can never thank her enough. And I shudder to think how an ordinary woman could have accomplished all this.
And, finally, must come Maga. Yes, I have written about Mom quite a few times. And could fill a volume with stories. She earned her wings early by bringing up my brother and me. After losing Dad suddenly when she was 54, she bounced back into a new life. Her mac salad and paprikash aside, how many mothers do you know who can get up (at the age of 71) onstage at her son's birthday/roast and deliver a KILLER half-hour of skewering, scathing, gut-busting material that had people gasping for breath, begging her to stop and begging for more?
To sum up Mom, I'll tell you this one. And I must quote her, unexpurgated. When I was 27, I was between gigs and visited her. She always kept a bedroom for me. Over breakfast, she asked me what was next on tap.
I said, "Mom, I think I'm going to move to L. A."
She took a delicate nip of toast and calmly said, "There isn't a fucking thing in the world you or your brother could ever do that would surprise me."
That was Maga.
God bless all you mothers. Everywhere.
But in the spirit of May Daze, I celebrate many mothers, especially the strong ones. Names are withdrawn or sufficiently changed so as to avoid any panty-knotting.
I know of a sturdy mother who has lost a husband and four children. She soldiers on, with a terrific sense of humor, lightly lording over her other four hilarious children. When you think you have it tough ...
I admire Patty, who is a former galpal of mine from way back in the day. A single mom, she has raised two wonderful children into adulthood. She is a staunch, sometimes snarly, independent soul. But when she ran into trouble with a douchey boyfriend a few years back, she got on the blower to me and we hashed things out.
I know a woman who broke it off with me to marry another. A few years later, a mother by then, she came up to me and tried to apologize. I politely shut her up. It was one of the most noble acts of kindness I have ever received. I can't imagine the crust and guts it must have taken to approach me. Decades later, I still admire her.
Towser has been my consigliere, confidante, shoulder, rock and tear-dryer for forty years in my life. Also a single mum, she has two brilliant offspring who traipse around the world. She has walked me through too many life-changes (many of them cataclysmic) to enumerate. We talk occasionally. When we do, it's a long dialogue. Ma Bell would have made a mint off of us. I probably owe her a mint in consulting fees. In many ways, she is the smartest woman I have ever met. Check that, smartest person.
I have a small, clandestine group of married moms whom I call my harem. We chat from time to time and do the BookFace thing. They are funny, lovely, charming and can make my day in the tweetest of ways. And yes, I have chaste, totally respectable crushes on all of them. Only one has a jealous blob of a husband who has the personality of a doorstop. I especially think about my Scheherazades in my make-believe seraglio today. 1,001 times.
The strongest woman I have ever met? Easy. The mother of my children. The joy of becoming a father twenty-plus years ago was eclipsed only by the gumption, determination and grit of this woman. Two years later, she bore (get ready to groan, ladies) two 8-plus-pound babies in 27 minutes. With no cutting. And no complaining. She took the news of our son's autism with the same sturdy spine and has continued to provide for him in spectacular fashion. All while mounting a brilliant career path. Although we're apart, I can never thank her enough. And I shudder to think how an ordinary woman could have accomplished all this.
To sum up Mom, I'll tell you this one. And I must quote her, unexpurgated. When I was 27, I was between gigs and visited her. She always kept a bedroom for me. Over breakfast, she asked me what was next on tap.
I said, "Mom, I think I'm going to move to L. A."
She took a delicate nip of toast and calmly said, "There isn't a fucking thing in the world you or your brother could ever do that would surprise me."
That was Maga.
God bless all you mothers. Everywhere.
Saturday, May 7, 2016
"What a Stupid I Am!"
Although I am stupid, I cannot take credit for this quote. It was uttered most famously by pro golfer Roberto De Vicenzo. In 1968, he made an error (actually his partner did) on his scoring card. He signed it, thus losing a stroke on 17. Had the right number been entered, RDV would have tied for the lead in the Masters final round, necessitating a playoff the next day. Upon this discovery, the Argentinian said the above quote.
But he was right. I am a stupid.
I thought it would be a wise idea to rub baby powder on my hands before a concert, eons ago. Shoulda seen those sticks fly. Out of my hands.
I'm a Loser
I lost an entire sportcoat once. The last place I wore it was at a private dinner party. I don't think the hosts stole it.
I have lost keys so many times, I should take locksmith training. In my golden years, I have taken to wearing my keys on a lanyard. Lost one of those, too. The whole friggin' thing.
I have lost shoes, too. Not a whole pair, mind you. Just one shoe.
My favorite spatula never left my kitchen. It just vanished.
Girlfriends don't count, right?
Miscellaneous Dumbassedness
Grocery items can also pull the Claude Rains act. Sometimes I discover this as I am three-deep in the glacial checkout line. More often, they disappear between store and my home.
When our eldest, Grace, was an infant, I had the bright idea of strapping a roof rack on our sedan before a road trip. Gracie's stroller was firmly affixed with 38 various bungees, straps and other appurtenances. The affair lasted about fifteen miles. Of course, the whole shebang flew off on 95. I risked life and limb to retrieve the mess. The pram was still anchored to the twisted, useless rack.
I pledged a fraternity in college. Eight weeks of humiliation ensued. Just to hang out with a bunch of guys I didn't really like.
Stairs are my enemy. My right shoulder still aches when I hold it a certain way. This was 43 years ago. I now approach them gingerly. Although I managed to fall up a front stoop not too long ago. My already weathered face looked like a torn softball.
I once told a date, as I picked her up, "Hey hon, that's more makeup then you usually wear." On a hot night, my vehicle needed no conditioned air.
When I was seventeen, I thought it would be cool (at a drive-in movie) to consume an entire quart bottle of Tango, an horrific mix of cheap vodka and orangeade. By midnight, I sat groaning in the backseat as my buddy hosed off the entire side of his dad's car. And what did I have to do (after sleeping in another car) the next morning? Strap on a snare drum and march in a parade.
I thought I had used my turn signal. Honest, officer.
I had lobster in Tulsa, Oklahoma.
At La Luna in NYC's Little Italy, I said, "I thought parmesan cheese came in a green can," as a waiter lovingly grated fresh Reggiano over my bucatini.
My buddy Davey and I, in our late teens, took out our best gals, who were sisters. New Year's Eve. Reservations at a fancypants seafood restaurant. A big splurge. Both gals ordered steaks, well-done. We had forgotten that their family never ate fishies. Ever. The wizened waitron shot us a withering glance.
On the game show Split Second, after I won, I had to pick one car from a group of five. If it started, I'd get the car. If it didn't, I'd return on the next show, when only four cars remained. And so on. I kept winning and keying the wrong car. On my fifth show, I would receive the car of my choice if I had won the game. Lost. Stupid in front of millions.
Once when I was gigging in Boston, a tall, roosterlike dude approached me. "Hey man," he said,"I like the way you drum. Why don't you join my band, Captain Swing? We're gonna change the name and get a record deal." I asked him to call me. My mom took a message a few days later ("Rick called from Boston," magneted to the Frigidaire), and I replied. We talked money, which wasn't there. Since I would have to move to Beantown, I needed a salary. So no deal.
A couple of years later, I was watching The Midnight Special with my mom. I said, "Mom, see that tall singer? You talked to him on the phone."
"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, TIM! THAT MIGHT BE THE STUPIDEST THING YOU'VE EVER SAID TO ME!" I sat there with a rueful grin as we watched Ric Ocasek and The Cars.
By the by, Roberto De Vicenzo had a storied career as a golfer, winning the Bobby Jones award for sportsmanship.
C'mmhere. Pull my finger.
But he was right. I am a stupid.
I thought it would be a wise idea to rub baby powder on my hands before a concert, eons ago. Shoulda seen those sticks fly. Out of my hands.
I'm a Loser
I lost an entire sportcoat once. The last place I wore it was at a private dinner party. I don't think the hosts stole it.
I have lost keys so many times, I should take locksmith training. In my golden years, I have taken to wearing my keys on a lanyard. Lost one of those, too. The whole friggin' thing.
I have lost shoes, too. Not a whole pair, mind you. Just one shoe.
My favorite spatula never left my kitchen. It just vanished.
Girlfriends don't count, right?
Miscellaneous Dumbassedness
When our eldest, Grace, was an infant, I had the bright idea of strapping a roof rack on our sedan before a road trip. Gracie's stroller was firmly affixed with 38 various bungees, straps and other appurtenances. The affair lasted about fifteen miles. Of course, the whole shebang flew off on 95. I risked life and limb to retrieve the mess. The pram was still anchored to the twisted, useless rack.
I pledged a fraternity in college. Eight weeks of humiliation ensued. Just to hang out with a bunch of guys I didn't really like.
Stairs are my enemy. My right shoulder still aches when I hold it a certain way. This was 43 years ago. I now approach them gingerly. Although I managed to fall up a front stoop not too long ago. My already weathered face looked like a torn softball.
I once told a date, as I picked her up, "Hey hon, that's more makeup then you usually wear." On a hot night, my vehicle needed no conditioned air.
I thought I had used my turn signal. Honest, officer.
I had lobster in Tulsa, Oklahoma.
At La Luna in NYC's Little Italy, I said, "I thought parmesan cheese came in a green can," as a waiter lovingly grated fresh Reggiano over my bucatini.
My buddy Davey and I, in our late teens, took out our best gals, who were sisters. New Year's Eve. Reservations at a fancypants seafood restaurant. A big splurge. Both gals ordered steaks, well-done. We had forgotten that their family never ate fishies. Ever. The wizened waitron shot us a withering glance.
On the game show Split Second, after I won, I had to pick one car from a group of five. If it started, I'd get the car. If it didn't, I'd return on the next show, when only four cars remained. And so on. I kept winning and keying the wrong car. On my fifth show, I would receive the car of my choice if I had won the game. Lost. Stupid in front of millions.
Once when I was gigging in Boston, a tall, roosterlike dude approached me. "Hey man," he said,"I like the way you drum. Why don't you join my band, Captain Swing? We're gonna change the name and get a record deal." I asked him to call me. My mom took a message a few days later ("Rick called from Boston," magneted to the Frigidaire), and I replied. We talked money, which wasn't there. Since I would have to move to Beantown, I needed a salary. So no deal.
A couple of years later, I was watching The Midnight Special with my mom. I said, "Mom, see that tall singer? You talked to him on the phone."
"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, TIM! THAT MIGHT BE THE STUPIDEST THING YOU'VE EVER SAID TO ME!" I sat there with a rueful grin as we watched Ric Ocasek and The Cars.
By the by, Roberto De Vicenzo had a storied career as a golfer, winning the Bobby Jones award for sportsmanship.
C'mmhere. Pull my finger.
Friday, May 6, 2016
De Musica
I was startled, pleased and then elated by a recent video featuring Harry Connick Jr. and several game-show "singers" as they butcher some great American standards.
Mr. Connick's point was: You don't have to muck up great songs with vocal fireworks. Those songs have lasted due to their melody and chord structure, and sound great when sung as written. I. e., sing the flippin' melody. See the video here.
I am a huge proponent of beginners learning how to play their instruments properly. If you're thinking, "Ace, waittaminute. You have long been a maverick, a bellwether. You fight in the face of convention. Why be so hidebound?" please follow, dear readers.
I see too many younger musicians who play with too little feel, to put it in terms civilians can latch onto. They may be technically proficient (e. g., speed, high notes, fancy trimmings) but display little technique. Yes, there is a difference.
Some music "schools" concentrate on teaching kids songs, as quickly as possible. This is great, especially when said institutes run concerts, charging twenty bucks a pop to mom, dad, Little Iodine and Aunt Hazel to see young Jehosaphat slam some Zeppelin chords.
In a nutshell, sound, basic principles are falling by the wayside. Kids are not learning (and practicing!) scales, rudiments and etudes. Instead, they want to become performers. And quickly, if Aunt Hazel has a say about it.
There are a few ways to play, say, trumpet with proper technique, breathing and whatnot. And about a gazillion ways to do it wrong. And when you start wrong, you get worse at what you're trying to achieve. You end up practicing mistakes, thus embedding them deeper.
All this slop ends up on YouTube, of course. Isn't little Dweezil great? He can play "Stairway to Heaven". Well, kinda. Plus, playing fast, shredding away, and screaming high notes all sound great to grown-ups. Which is why I avoid being one.
I'm not highly trained musician. But I can drum. Witness cute, li'l Avery. Now most folks will say, "Wow! He's great!" Not. Sure, he knows how to bang on things. But he already has bad habits he may never overcome. Thrashing away on a $2,000 kit. The headphones teach him nothing about playing a groove, about communing with other players. I still practice patterns I learned at age 9. Does Avery?
Nothing beats a great music educator. I am lucky my daughter has received excellent training from grade school through college, all while playing with other humans. Now, she can find her own voice on her instrument. Have some geniuses succeeded without formal training? Sure. And the odds of little Cheyenne being a genius? Like a hot day in Maine.
People rave about Southern-style "showbands" on the gridiron. The trouble is: The players spend so much time dancing and gyrating they become substandard musicians. Noted African-American music educators are up in arms about this. Music majors at such schools have trouble getting teaching jobs after college due to lack of ability on their instruments.
As budgets cut the arts, I fear of a dwindling musician population. Look, Eric Clapton and Jeff Beck are two of the best guitarists in the world. And they're older than I, if that's possible. From where does young talent emanate?
This tired, old writer needs to sign off. I have to practice my alternate sticking on Swiss Army Triplets.
Mr. Connick's point was: You don't have to muck up great songs with vocal fireworks. Those songs have lasted due to their melody and chord structure, and sound great when sung as written. I. e., sing the flippin' melody. See the video here.
I am a huge proponent of beginners learning how to play their instruments properly. If you're thinking, "Ace, waittaminute. You have long been a maverick, a bellwether. You fight in the face of convention. Why be so hidebound?" please follow, dear readers.
I see too many younger musicians who play with too little feel, to put it in terms civilians can latch onto. They may be technically proficient (e. g., speed, high notes, fancy trimmings) but display little technique. Yes, there is a difference.
Some music "schools" concentrate on teaching kids songs, as quickly as possible. This is great, especially when said institutes run concerts, charging twenty bucks a pop to mom, dad, Little Iodine and Aunt Hazel to see young Jehosaphat slam some Zeppelin chords.
In a nutshell, sound, basic principles are falling by the wayside. Kids are not learning (and practicing!) scales, rudiments and etudes. Instead, they want to become performers. And quickly, if Aunt Hazel has a say about it.
There are a few ways to play, say, trumpet with proper technique, breathing and whatnot. And about a gazillion ways to do it wrong. And when you start wrong, you get worse at what you're trying to achieve. You end up practicing mistakes, thus embedding them deeper.
All this slop ends up on YouTube, of course. Isn't little Dweezil great? He can play "Stairway to Heaven". Well, kinda. Plus, playing fast, shredding away, and screaming high notes all sound great to grown-ups. Which is why I avoid being one.
I'm not highly trained musician. But I can drum. Witness cute, li'l Avery. Now most folks will say, "Wow! He's great!" Not. Sure, he knows how to bang on things. But he already has bad habits he may never overcome. Thrashing away on a $2,000 kit. The headphones teach him nothing about playing a groove, about communing with other players. I still practice patterns I learned at age 9. Does Avery?
Nothing beats a great music educator. I am lucky my daughter has received excellent training from grade school through college, all while playing with other humans. Now, she can find her own voice on her instrument. Have some geniuses succeeded without formal training? Sure. And the odds of little Cheyenne being a genius? Like a hot day in Maine.
People rave about Southern-style "showbands" on the gridiron. The trouble is: The players spend so much time dancing and gyrating they become substandard musicians. Noted African-American music educators are up in arms about this. Music majors at such schools have trouble getting teaching jobs after college due to lack of ability on their instruments.
As budgets cut the arts, I fear of a dwindling musician population. Look, Eric Clapton and Jeff Beck are two of the best guitarists in the world. And they're older than I, if that's possible. From where does young talent emanate?
This tired, old writer needs to sign off. I have to practice my alternate sticking on Swiss Army Triplets.
Thursday, May 5, 2016
Things To Remember
Disclaimer: Not all posts this month will be rife with hogsheads of snark, scads of bellylaughs and other such frivolity. Every Thursday, I will effort to post something of a serious (what?!) nature.
Remember teachers. I cannot think of another profession that is less praised and more underpaid. Most teachers I know are intelligent, caring people. On top of that, they help form our lives. Do yourself a favor and get in touch with one.
Which brings me to The Only One Theory. Via my buddy Buc. If you have been a teacher, mentor, coach, etc., if only one student/player/mentee gets back to you with thanks (or something similar), you have done your job well. So why not be the one who is The Only One? Get it? This isn't brain-rocket-crap.
You can change lovers and friends, but not family. Of course, remember them. And remember they are not right all the time. Even on Walton's mountain, families have fucked up. Remember this when your kin ignore your sig other. There is no colder freeze than the one you get from a partner's parents. And siblings. And bratty fucking nieces and nephews. Lord Kelvin was talking through his ass.
Remember your first slow dance with your partner. This may come in handy during spats, omissions and overall asshattedness. And you'd better have a recording of this.
Remember people who have dissed you. Invite them to your next party. This works wonders in eliminating bullshit from your life.
Remember to write down key phone numbers. And NOT on your phone. When you drop your IEar 7.0 attachment object into a public urinal in a pan-gender Target latrine, you will be pissed.
Remember not to buy cheap dishwashing liquid. The stuff at Aldi is great. And remember to shop at Aldi. You will have bucks left over for Cosmos and Jaeger bombs.
Remember to give feedback to artists. If they share their work with you, it is your job to reply. Or tell them from the get-go that you don't have time to explore or ingest. Remember to celebrate these folks in your life. Because creators add spice to your humdrum, gray-cubicle, Velveeta existence.
Men, remember that NOTHING makes your gal look fat. Her new hairdo is awe-inspiring. Her pot roast is elevating. And those shoes? Wonderful.
Remember to appreciate your partner. This goes deeper than fungible romantic statements, flowers or tickets to Springsteen.
Remember your keys.
Remember Mom on Sunday.
And remember to stop back here every day in May, knuckleheads.
Remember teachers. I cannot think of another profession that is less praised and more underpaid. Most teachers I know are intelligent, caring people. On top of that, they help form our lives. Do yourself a favor and get in touch with one.
Which brings me to The Only One Theory. Via my buddy Buc. If you have been a teacher, mentor, coach, etc., if only one student/player/mentee gets back to you with thanks (or something similar), you have done your job well. So why not be the one who is The Only One? Get it? This isn't brain-rocket-crap.
You can change lovers and friends, but not family. Of course, remember them. And remember they are not right all the time. Even on Walton's mountain, families have fucked up. Remember this when your kin ignore your sig other. There is no colder freeze than the one you get from a partner's parents. And siblings. And bratty fucking nieces and nephews. Lord Kelvin was talking through his ass.
Remember your first slow dance with your partner. This may come in handy during spats, omissions and overall asshattedness. And you'd better have a recording of this.
Remember people who have dissed you. Invite them to your next party. This works wonders in eliminating bullshit from your life.
Remember to write down key phone numbers. And NOT on your phone. When you drop your IEar 7.0 attachment object into a public urinal in a pan-gender Target latrine, you will be pissed.
Remember not to buy cheap dishwashing liquid. The stuff at Aldi is great. And remember to shop at Aldi. You will have bucks left over for Cosmos and Jaeger bombs.
Remember to give feedback to artists. If they share their work with you, it is your job to reply. Or tell them from the get-go that you don't have time to explore or ingest. Remember to celebrate these folks in your life. Because creators add spice to your humdrum, gray-cubicle, Velveeta existence.
Men, remember that NOTHING makes your gal look fat. Her new hairdo is awe-inspiring. Her pot roast is elevating. And those shoes? Wonderful.
Remember to appreciate your partner. This goes deeper than fungible romantic statements, flowers or tickets to Springsteen.
Remember your keys.
Remember Mom on Sunday.
And remember to stop back here every day in May, knuckleheads.
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