When I was in grade school, I had to take swimming lessons at the YMCA. I hated it. The building was old and ramshackle and even at that young age I could tell that it was full of hoosiers. I was scared to death of drowning. (It must have been genetic because apparently my mom almost literally drowned during a swimming lesson at the same Y when the instructor told them to enter the water, and my mom - being the trusting Catholic girl raised on a farm - promptly jumped into the deep end. She sunk like a rock and had to be fished out with that long hooky thing. She was fine, but she never did learn to swim.) Well, I guess she wanted a better, more aquatic life for me, so she insisted on the lessons.
Those lessons ruined many after-school football games on my friend's zoysia; they ruined numerous Saturday morning cartoon fests; they got me sick in the winter when I went home with wet hair on a frigid day; and they made me hate that building to this day!
But there was one positive about all those lessons (ok, ok, besides the fact that I actually learned how to swim passingly.) I carry a memory and a love from the drives to the lessons. I can picture a sunny Saturday morning, begrudgingly sitting in the front seat of the 74 Chevy Nova, the silver bomb. The A.M. radio was tuned to 63 KXOK, home of the hits. And then I heard it. "One of these nights. One of these crazy, ol' nights." Oh my. I loved that song. To this day I love that song. Something clicked. Something emotional, primal, musical, whatever. But I remember, all those years ago, hearing that song for the first time and loving every moment of it.
That was the first time I ever heard the Eagles. Well, I found out they were all over those A.M. airwaves, and I searched them out. As I got into late grade school and high school, I listened endlessly for them. I loved the Eagles. The guitars, the bass, the solos, the musicianship, and the tight vocals. I loved everything I heard from them.
And I still do.
But, though I went to a preponderance of concerts during my youth, I never saw them live. What a shame. As I hit adulthood and, later, middle age, I began to regret my youthful lack of initiative in the pursuit of an Eagles concert. What the hell was wrong with me? Why did I miss my chance? I always loved them. They came to town at least a few times in my concert-going prime. What was I (or more likely wasn't I) thinking?
Like my opportunity to purchase a pet rock, waffle-stomper boots, and a wallet with a chain, I blew it.
In my middle age, I resigned myself to be content with the "Eagles Farewell Tour" on DVD, which with each viewing made me only regret not seeing them all the more. When i found out that the cheap seats went for a hundred and fifty bucks on that tour, I knew I failed my quest. With private school tuition, car insurance, and ever-increasing anti-aging cream budget I was living within, Eagles' tickets were a dream tucked away in the box under the bed that I mostly forgot was there.
So when I saw the advertisement for their summer tour on the bus stop frame, I didn't give it a second thought. Well, actually I did. My first thought was "too expensive," and my second thought was, "why was I such a dumbass when I was younger and didn't have such expensive kids and I still had long hair and could fit in my cool jeans and could have gone and seen them when they were still drinking and had long hair and were really cool?"
At any rate, I never gave it another thought. Then, today at work, almost at the end of the day, I happened to strike up a conversation with a coworker. She's extremely nice, quiet, polite, friendly, and young - like about 30 - and has a little baby that's several months old and cute as a button (even from a crotchety middle aged man's point of view.)
I was making pleasant small talk.
"How's it going?"
"Great."
"How's your cute little one?" As a guy, I'm notoriously horrible at remembering what sex women's baby's are, much less their names or ages. I've given up trying to even pretend I remember those things.
"Well, tonight's her first sleepover with grandma away from me."
"Oh, wow, you must have plans, huh?" At this point, I'm figuring I need to end this conversation, because I'm beginning to lose interest, mostly due to hunger or thirst or both.
"Well, I'm actually going to the Eagles and Dixie Chicks concert tonight."
I must have drooled. I composed myself quickly.
"Really? Wow. I love the Eagles! You're so lucky!" I flashed back to swimming lessons, AM radio, and pocket combs.
"Oh, yeah? Well, I actually have two extra tickets, I think. Do you want them."
And just like that, there it was. A lifetime fulfilled.
"Nah. I don't think so. We've got plans tonight."
"Oh, ok then."
"Thanks anyway." I walked out of her office to the drinking fountain.
I really do believe in God, and I believe He affects our lives directly from time to time. So I think God inserted himself between my ears at that moment and said something to the effect of: "WHAT? Wake up, you freaking idiot! Do I have to strike you down with a lightning bolt? Jesus H. Christ you MORON, I'm practically handing them to you myself!"
Far be it from me to not heed God's calling. I turned on my heels and skulked back into her office.
"Hey, you know, I think we could probably cancel our plans for the night. Could I still have the tickets?"
"Sure!"
And just like that, destiny was fulfilled.
Not only was I going to see the Eagles, but I was going to see the Eagles SCOTT FREE! So Keri and I rushed home. She panicked over her hair and her outfit, as usual; and we paid too much for parking, but who cared? Our seats were ok, way off to the right side of the stage, but who cared? And after all the follicular fussing, Keri pulled her hair into a ponytail once we got to our seats.
The Dixie Chicks were outstanding!
And when the lights went down, and all the smokers ran like hell to get back to their seats on time, and the boys harmonized on "Seven Bridges Road" under a full moon and the soft glow of downtown luminescence, all those swimming lessons were suddenly worth it. Because if it weren't for those stupid lessons, and that one Saturday morning, the Eagles might not have meant so much to me; and I might not have been enjoying the fulfillment of a lifelong dream; and I might not have been yelling the lyrics to "One of These Nights" with Keri; and we might not have held our cell phones up for an encore because we didn't have lighters; and we might not have even cared about being there and went home and walked around the trail instead, as we usually do.
But I took those swimming lessons, dammit. And the Eagles were better than I could have hoped. I would have loved another hour of them on stage, stars shining above, harmonies lilting through the air. But I guess, like me, they've grown older. They probably had to rush backstage and take their prostate medication and blood thinners. But if it keeps them alive for one more round of "Desperado", then keep skipping that second encore boys. I'd like to see you one more time - even if it is on a new concert DVD.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
Let's face it - he's one of us.
It's funny how we become entangled in the way we live our lives. I was watching a community of groundhogs (that's the same thing as a gopher, ya know) pop in and out of their holes and realized how much like my bucktoothed rodent friends I have become. I pop off the couch at various times during the day, graze around the kitchen or maybe the living room coffee table, nibble on some chips, then dive back on the couch when there's any sign of danger - danger being the likelihood that someone is about to steal my place on the couch.
And so it goes - jobs, hobbies, patterns, ruts, and habits lead us down their familiar paths and lock us in.
But every once in a while you do something that jolts you, that changes things up- for better or worse - and starts rewriting the pages of the life you weren't even thinking about editing because you weren't paying attention. That decision was made for our family by my beautiful wife this February. You have to understand one important attribute of my wife to appreciate her fully: she always gets what she wants, even if she doesn't want it. The most recent and significant realization of this occurred when she went on a three-month spousal barrage in which she requested, whined, researched, eye-batted, and pouted her way into a cute little puppy for a Valentine's Day present. I had to hand it to her. We got a Puggle for free. She went online and found a lady in a town an hour and a half away who was giving one away. Of course, she didn't supply us with a picture because she had "too much else goin' on to be postin' pitchers up on the intranet."
The ride there was hysterical. We didn't tell the kids what we were doing, just in case. We laughed through our apprehensions about the whole thing:
"What if it's only got three legs or a third eye or something?"
"She doesn't even know our names. We'll just ask where the bathroom is and get outta there."
But of course he was precious and perfect, and my wonderful wife came out smelling like roses (and Puggle after the hour and a half ride home with it on her lap.)
Preston Pugglesworth III joined our family that day. He was that spontaneous jolt of life-altering, rut-eliminating energy that started a new chapter in our family novel. In fact, he re-wrote it single-pawedly. He was cute beyond belief and so tiny you could hold him in the palm of your hand. My wife had me in the palm of her hand, and now she had a puppy there too.
But then the chapter took an interesting turn; the plot thickened; the main character began revealing his inner self to the audience.
Preston started growing up.
His cute little puppy yelps turned into obnoxious Beagle howls at the unsuspecting neighbors. His puddles and piles began popping up all over the house. His midnight pouncings totally rearranged our sleep habits. And he ate his poop.
Coprophagia is not, contrary to popular belief, an island resort off the coast of Italy. It's the scientific term for canine poop-eating; and what began as a cute little puppy exploring the makings of his little innards turned into a daily nightmare of a larger dog scarfing down his turds almost as they came out his rear end. It was quite disgusting. Cutest dog ever. Grossest, most disgusting dog ever. Yes, the reality of dog ownership was taking over.
Several months later, I sit here alone on the couch while Preston spends the night at the animal hospital, recovering from the neutering he received today. Snipped and clipped, he'll return home tomorrow. But tonight we had a taste of the old life, the pre-Preston life of luxury and ease, clean carpets and full nights of sleep.
I can't help but miss the little guy, though. Yes, we have to shy away from his cute little puppy kisses to the face, for fear of getting "the hook" (our euphamistic way of announcing to others that hookworm has already been successfully vanquished once in our household.) Yes, we have to smell some of the grossest, most disgusting farts we've ever smelled as he falls asleep on the ottoman and his bowels relax. Yes, we have to shield all garbage in triple-secure, NASA-grade trash containers. Yes, we have to follow him outside at 5am with a hand shovel to pick up his poop as it hits the ground so he won't eat it immediately. Yes, we have to listen to roll his water dish around when he's thirsty. And yes, come tomorrow, I'm sure we'll be watching him bang into the furniture with a cone around his neck because he refuses to leave his stitches alone.
He's a humongous pain in the neck. But he's our pain in the neck. I miss his little paws stretching out to touch my leg, just to make sure I'm still there. I miss watching him crawl under the bed to go night-night. He's disgusting, gross, and incredibly high maintenance. But he's cute, loveable, and flawed; and let's face it- he's one of us.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
On surviving teenagers.
Upon marrying my second wife, I found myself in charge of - at one time - four teenagers, three boys and one of the other ones. As I write this, one has turned 21, and I can't legitimately claim him as a teenager any longer. I can, however, claim expertise in the area of not only raising teenagers, but surviving the ordeal. Doesn't it seem backwards to say it like that? Shouldn't I have said "not only surviving the, but successfully raising them and sending them to adulthood?" Yeah, whatever.
Ever try to live with a teenager, much less two, three, or four of them? Well, the 'raising' part is a cakewalk. They raise themselves. In fact, the growing up part seems to never end. You say goodnight to one about 10:30pm when you're too exhausted to outlast him, and he greets you about 12:15pm the next day, 6 inches taller and eating the entire box of Frosted Flakes right out of the box with a spoon. "Hey, pop, I need new shoes," suffices for the cute "g'morning" you used to hear before the evilness of puberty latched on to him and drew him down into a life of endless showers and money leeching.
Teenagehood is relentless. Typical days for parents of teenagers consist of waking up before them, starving for the omellette you were dreaming about, then finding the refrigerator cleaned out sometime after you went to bed. The sink is full of a conglomeration of dirty skillets, spatulas, napkins, half-eaten yogurt cups, and a sock. Of course there's only one egg left, so you make your toast and drink it with a nice cup of coffee. Coffee is an adult luxury that you can rely on, since it involves several steps and takes longer than a microsecond to make, both qualities that teenagers will never possess. If you don't drink coffee, then you learn to love ice water, because every other beverage in the fridge was also inhaled after you fell asleep.
You head off to work, and then wait unconsciously on the job for your cell phone to ring. You answer it expectantly and are greeted with, "Hey, dad, are you gonna go grocery shopping tonight cuz we're out of milk? Oh, and could you pick up some more of those frozen pizzas cuz the guys are comin over tonight? Oh, yeah, and could you spot me some gas money; I'm about on E." Good morning to you, too. Yes, my day is fine, thanks for asking. Of course you can have a friend over later. Why, thanks so much for doing those extra chores for the gas money. So after a hard day at work, you stop by the store on the way home, spending the last of your unspent money on frozen food that probably won't make it out of the grocery bag before it's inhaled.
Evenings are a flurry of cooking, straightening up, throwing laundry in some sort of machine that always seems to break or leak or both, pulling laundry out of a dryer, sorting through piles of clothes that you had folded and sorted yesterday, but have since been demolished and reorganized somehow on the floor or the top of the dryer, and driving teenagers places.
Let's talk about the driving. It NEVER ends. The amount of driving you do with teenagers is unfathomable. It requires its own scientific formula to appropriately demonstrate the disproportionate amount of driving to the hours in an evening. In fact, I believe wholeheartedly that the amount of driving a parent of one teenager does is scientifically impossible. I think the time spent driving a teenager around is actually GREATER than the amount of actual time present that evening. Add extra teenagers and the issue becomes a conundrum wrapped in an enigma sheathed in a perplexity. How is it possible? I'd love some Theoretical Physics major to tackle that one, please.
Ultimately there's the money lending. I 'use' lending loosely. Lending is something libraries do, with the expectation they'll be getting their books back. What parents of teenagers do is more akin to what Jesse James did to banks and trains. "Hey dad, how's about spotting me a Hamilton?" really translates to: "If you don't loan me twenty dollars, I'll park in front of your spot in the garage so you can't get out, invite Smelly Melly over for dinner every night this week, grow my hair over my eyes, turn my amp up two numbers when I'm 'practicing', and mess with the internet so only those of us under 25 will know how to get online." Here, take the twenty and leave everything else alone, for God's sake!
I know all this sounds like a lot of gloom and doom. But please remember that all of that just concerns raising teenagers. That stuff happens all over the country, every day of the year. Poor parents are succumbing to the onslaught of teenage-dom even as I write! So what's the answer? How do you SURVIVE teenagehood?
Easy. The answer is FOOD MAINTENANCE. Yes, you'll have to spend most of your second mortgage on frozen and carbonated food and drink items. That's been clearly delineated earlier. But I'm not talking about food maintenance for your teenagers. The secret to surviving life with your teenagers is taking control of your own food maintenance. I have discovered the secret, the Fountain of Eternal Parental Happiness. YOU MUST CHOOSE FOODS TO EAT THAT YOU AND ONLY YOU COULD EVER POSSIBLY ENJOY! Stop buying Frosted Flakes and expecting to ever eat a bowl of them. Think 'BRAN'. Teenagers are allergic to it; and with enough sugar (that you'll have to hide in your sock drawer) even bran is edible. I hope you've given up your youthful desires for pizzas containing typical pizza toppings like pepperoni, sausage, and extra cheese. Those delicacies will never make it past the gluttonous, ever-chomping jowels of your 14 year old. Choose instead those toppings despised by anyone under middle age, or perhaps vegans: artichokes, capers, leeks, and goat cheese. With enough practice and Beano, you'll learn to love those toppings that you once thought inedible. And finally, forget about ever making it to the fridge and finding a Hunt's Snack Pack of chocolate pudding for yourself. Tapioca is the key! Those little pearls of adult goodness send teenagers running for the Quick Trip.
So, hold your heads high, parents of teenagers. The secret is revealed: Dogs love it! They'll eat anything. And so can you.
Ever try to live with a teenager, much less two, three, or four of them? Well, the 'raising' part is a cakewalk. They raise themselves. In fact, the growing up part seems to never end. You say goodnight to one about 10:30pm when you're too exhausted to outlast him, and he greets you about 12:15pm the next day, 6 inches taller and eating the entire box of Frosted Flakes right out of the box with a spoon. "Hey, pop, I need new shoes," suffices for the cute "g'morning" you used to hear before the evilness of puberty latched on to him and drew him down into a life of endless showers and money leeching.
Teenagehood is relentless. Typical days for parents of teenagers consist of waking up before them, starving for the omellette you were dreaming about, then finding the refrigerator cleaned out sometime after you went to bed. The sink is full of a conglomeration of dirty skillets, spatulas, napkins, half-eaten yogurt cups, and a sock. Of course there's only one egg left, so you make your toast and drink it with a nice cup of coffee. Coffee is an adult luxury that you can rely on, since it involves several steps and takes longer than a microsecond to make, both qualities that teenagers will never possess. If you don't drink coffee, then you learn to love ice water, because every other beverage in the fridge was also inhaled after you fell asleep.
You head off to work, and then wait unconsciously on the job for your cell phone to ring. You answer it expectantly and are greeted with, "Hey, dad, are you gonna go grocery shopping tonight cuz we're out of milk? Oh, and could you pick up some more of those frozen pizzas cuz the guys are comin over tonight? Oh, yeah, and could you spot me some gas money; I'm about on E." Good morning to you, too. Yes, my day is fine, thanks for asking. Of course you can have a friend over later. Why, thanks so much for doing those extra chores for the gas money. So after a hard day at work, you stop by the store on the way home, spending the last of your unspent money on frozen food that probably won't make it out of the grocery bag before it's inhaled.
Evenings are a flurry of cooking, straightening up, throwing laundry in some sort of machine that always seems to break or leak or both, pulling laundry out of a dryer, sorting through piles of clothes that you had folded and sorted yesterday, but have since been demolished and reorganized somehow on the floor or the top of the dryer, and driving teenagers places.
Let's talk about the driving. It NEVER ends. The amount of driving you do with teenagers is unfathomable. It requires its own scientific formula to appropriately demonstrate the disproportionate amount of driving to the hours in an evening. In fact, I believe wholeheartedly that the amount of driving a parent of one teenager does is scientifically impossible. I think the time spent driving a teenager around is actually GREATER than the amount of actual time present that evening. Add extra teenagers and the issue becomes a conundrum wrapped in an enigma sheathed in a perplexity. How is it possible? I'd love some Theoretical Physics major to tackle that one, please.
Ultimately there's the money lending. I 'use' lending loosely. Lending is something libraries do, with the expectation they'll be getting their books back. What parents of teenagers do is more akin to what Jesse James did to banks and trains. "Hey dad, how's about spotting me a Hamilton?" really translates to: "If you don't loan me twenty dollars, I'll park in front of your spot in the garage so you can't get out, invite Smelly Melly over for dinner every night this week, grow my hair over my eyes, turn my amp up two numbers when I'm 'practicing', and mess with the internet so only those of us under 25 will know how to get online." Here, take the twenty and leave everything else alone, for God's sake!
I know all this sounds like a lot of gloom and doom. But please remember that all of that just concerns raising teenagers. That stuff happens all over the country, every day of the year. Poor parents are succumbing to the onslaught of teenage-dom even as I write! So what's the answer? How do you SURVIVE teenagehood?
Easy. The answer is FOOD MAINTENANCE. Yes, you'll have to spend most of your second mortgage on frozen and carbonated food and drink items. That's been clearly delineated earlier. But I'm not talking about food maintenance for your teenagers. The secret to surviving life with your teenagers is taking control of your own food maintenance. I have discovered the secret, the Fountain of Eternal Parental Happiness. YOU MUST CHOOSE FOODS TO EAT THAT YOU AND ONLY YOU COULD EVER POSSIBLY ENJOY! Stop buying Frosted Flakes and expecting to ever eat a bowl of them. Think 'BRAN'. Teenagers are allergic to it; and with enough sugar (that you'll have to hide in your sock drawer) even bran is edible. I hope you've given up your youthful desires for pizzas containing typical pizza toppings like pepperoni, sausage, and extra cheese. Those delicacies will never make it past the gluttonous, ever-chomping jowels of your 14 year old. Choose instead those toppings despised by anyone under middle age, or perhaps vegans: artichokes, capers, leeks, and goat cheese. With enough practice and Beano, you'll learn to love those toppings that you once thought inedible. And finally, forget about ever making it to the fridge and finding a Hunt's Snack Pack of chocolate pudding for yourself. Tapioca is the key! Those little pearls of adult goodness send teenagers running for the Quick Trip.
So, hold your heads high, parents of teenagers. The secret is revealed: Dogs love it! They'll eat anything. And so can you.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Ode to Prairie Rehab
I always thought it would be a great gig to work for the highway department. I have an ultra-high-stress job, and I've always wondered what it would be like to be able to make good money and hold a sign with "STOP" on one side and "SLOW" on the other. I marveled at the amount of brainpower it must take and the stress level one must endure to avoid turning the sign at the wrong time and causing a devastating collision. What would happen if you inadvertently lost track of which side was which? Traffic bedlam and anarchy would ensue! But seriously, lots of days as I pass them on my way home from work, nails bitten to the quick and intestines tightened from another daily bout of IBS, I would trade with them in a heartbeat.
But my admiration for the highway department reached its pinnacle years ago when I began noticing the "Prairie Rehab" signs posted in the 'grassy' cloverleaf loops of the local interstates. Genius! I'm sure the heads of the highway department had a series of closed-door meetings to discuss the serious nature of how to best use the no-man's land in the middle of all those onramps. The conversations probably went something like this:
Head Honcho: What do we do with all the crap left over from the last highway expansion?
Lackey: What crap do you mean?
HH: You know, the left over gravel, rubble, tire shreds, bulldozer treads, two-sided signs, cones, and that seat that fell off the Bobcat.
Lackey: Oh that. I dunno.
HH: Hey, I've got it! Let's dump it all in the middle of that crappy area between the cloverleafs off the interstate.
Lackey: And bury it there?
HH: Bury it hell! We'll just dump it there.
Lackey: But people will complain. Won't it be unsightly?
HH: Unsightly hell! We'll let the grass grow around it. No one will see it!
Lackey: But there's no grass there.
HH: Grass. Weeds. What's the difference?
Lackey: But the taxpayers won't stand for overgrown weeds in the middle of their cloverleafs!
HH: Weeds-schmeeds. We'll slap a big metal sign on the edge of it that says "Prairie Rehab". Those tree-hugging suburban do-gooders will eat it up! Pretty soon, they'll be stopping their cars on the shoulder to look for wildlife! And you know what the best part is?
Lackey: No...
HH: We never have to mow it again! It's a "Prairie Rehab"! God forbid we mow through the natural flora!
Lackey: Genius!
Genius indeed. I'm so jealous of not thinking of that on my own. I am, however, not opposed to borrowing the idea for my own front yard. Think of the possibilities. Just slap a metal sign next to the curb that says "Prairie Rehab." The neighbors will think I'm a complete environmentalist. I'll never have to mow again! Folks can bring their kids to walk through a real prairie, just like Laura Ingalls! I could stand outside in overalls and pick a weed and stick it in my mouth, looking very nostalgic, while I DON'T mow my lawn. Dogs can mark that prairie all they want. I won't see it. I won't care! Even the rednecks on the block would appreciate it. ("Hey Ma! That wacky enviro-mental guy's a'lettin his grass grow. Now's the time to get rid of that old Ford in the driveway. We can just dump it in that there prairie!") If I push hard enough, perhaps I can gain status as a State Park and charge for parking along the curb. The possibilities are appearing astronomical...
Genius indeed. Thanks highway department. I might not ever experience the challenges of operating the two-sided sign, but I can still bask in the grandeur of your "Prairie Rehab" ingenuity.
But my admiration for the highway department reached its pinnacle years ago when I began noticing the "Prairie Rehab" signs posted in the 'grassy' cloverleaf loops of the local interstates. Genius! I'm sure the heads of the highway department had a series of closed-door meetings to discuss the serious nature of how to best use the no-man's land in the middle of all those onramps. The conversations probably went something like this:
Head Honcho: What do we do with all the crap left over from the last highway expansion?
Lackey: What crap do you mean?
HH: You know, the left over gravel, rubble, tire shreds, bulldozer treads, two-sided signs, cones, and that seat that fell off the Bobcat.
Lackey: Oh that. I dunno.
HH: Hey, I've got it! Let's dump it all in the middle of that crappy area between the cloverleafs off the interstate.
Lackey: And bury it there?
HH: Bury it hell! We'll just dump it there.
Lackey: But people will complain. Won't it be unsightly?
HH: Unsightly hell! We'll let the grass grow around it. No one will see it!
Lackey: But there's no grass there.
HH: Grass. Weeds. What's the difference?
Lackey: But the taxpayers won't stand for overgrown weeds in the middle of their cloverleafs!
HH: Weeds-schmeeds. We'll slap a big metal sign on the edge of it that says "Prairie Rehab". Those tree-hugging suburban do-gooders will eat it up! Pretty soon, they'll be stopping their cars on the shoulder to look for wildlife! And you know what the best part is?
Lackey: No...
HH: We never have to mow it again! It's a "Prairie Rehab"! God forbid we mow through the natural flora!
Lackey: Genius!
Genius indeed. I'm so jealous of not thinking of that on my own. I am, however, not opposed to borrowing the idea for my own front yard. Think of the possibilities. Just slap a metal sign next to the curb that says "Prairie Rehab." The neighbors will think I'm a complete environmentalist. I'll never have to mow again! Folks can bring their kids to walk through a real prairie, just like Laura Ingalls! I could stand outside in overalls and pick a weed and stick it in my mouth, looking very nostalgic, while I DON'T mow my lawn. Dogs can mark that prairie all they want. I won't see it. I won't care! Even the rednecks on the block would appreciate it. ("Hey Ma! That wacky enviro-mental guy's a'lettin his grass grow. Now's the time to get rid of that old Ford in the driveway. We can just dump it in that there prairie!") If I push hard enough, perhaps I can gain status as a State Park and charge for parking along the curb. The possibilities are appearing astronomical...
Genius indeed. Thanks highway department. I might not ever experience the challenges of operating the two-sided sign, but I can still bask in the grandeur of your "Prairie Rehab" ingenuity.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Like watching your favorite uncle grow old...
I discovered Jason and the Scorchers in the mid-eighties. I was a guitar-playing college student with thick brown hair perfectly parted down the middle and feathered on the sides. I heard "White Lies" on KSHE 95 on a beautiful summer evening and heard the dj announce that they were actually in concert in town THAT NIGHT! Fortuitousness prevailed throughout my youth, and that night was no exception. My cousin was dating the owner of the bar they were playing. One call to her, and I was on the guest list. None of my friends were available, so I went by myself. I stood in the back, leaning against the divider of the under-21 section, and just like that my life changed.
We stroll, amble, peruse, stumble, trip, stagger, and run headlong through our own odysseys and things smack us along the way. Some we seek. Some seek us. Some occur through pure happenstance, but are none the less significant. Such was my experience that night.
That night I was absorbed into an unintentional musical phenomenon. Jason and the Scorchers rocked my world, while rocking the entire crowd at Mississippi Nights. They were loud, exciting, musical, and TALENTED. Hearing Jason's voice was akin to drinking your first beer. "I'm not sure I like this, but wait, maybe after another swig... yes, it's not so bad" and then, several Busch's later - ahhh. Not too shabby. Perry's drumming was hyperactivity without the Ritalin. Arms and legs flailing, tongue wagging, and vocals blending perfectly with Jason's. Jeff was the stalwart, iconic, solid-as-his-steel-strings bass player, stage right. But Warner, oh Warner, on the guitar- was the stamp without which the letter home could never be mailed.
Warner Hodges was (and still is!) the guitar-player's guitar player. Licks aplenty. Obnoxious skill and energy. A tone to die far. And showmanship that would make Hendrix arise and take notice. Cigarette hanging from his lip; long, black hair framing a face that mirrored the occasion of the music- serious as a Harvest Moon or playful as a bird out on a wire. He owned stage left. He prowled; he scowled; he laughed; he whirled with his guitar held parallel to the ground in a kind of ax-dervish; and he raised his eyebrows as he picked out an audience member, hit an open string,let it ring, and spun the guitar on its strap over his left should, past his right armpit, and back into his left hand, which picked up the run without missing a beat. And in case you didn't know he was no-bullshit, he wore SPURS on his boots. Nuff said. I was hooked.
I bought every record (yes, record) I could find of Jason and the Scorchers, of which there were dismally few. There's still not enough. Critics always loved them. They all seemed to think, "right band; wrong time." My opinion: there was never a wrong time for them. When I'd catch them in concert on each of the many passes through town, that confident feeling that they WERE the right band was always reinforced. Their shows were energetic, positive, affirming EXPERIENCES. How much could a bunch of young mostly white folks jump, sway, bump, high-five, backslap, sweat, and sing communally at maximum volume? A LOT! I always got there early. I always stood close to stage left. And I got their autographs on a concert jersey.
I haven't fit into that jersey in years. But I still have it.
And last night I thought of putting it on one more time. My wife, wonderful beyond belief, got me two tickets to their show when my free sources (like so many other things in life) dried up. It was an early Father's Day gift. And I'm not even her father!
I called Tom, my best friend of 30 years and fellow Scorcher-phile from the great ol' days. Tom, alas, has aged as I have. Seems his daughter had a birthday party. Priorities change as we get old. There was a time when we'd have ditched our girlfriends for a Scorchers show, but those days are long gone. So Keri, loving soulmate that she is, said she'd love to go with me. Now, please keep in mind that I've tried to Scorcherize Keri several times since I've known her. She's never been able to make it past the yodeling twang of one song before she excuses herself with the 'thanks but no thanks' smile. But she committed, and we planned it.
I showered at 5:30. She was already doing her hair and getting ready. "Why?" I asked, knowing that a Scorchers show is a dress-down affair. I knew her look, so I just cranked my Scorchers mix disc (I know, I know. Even CD's are outdated now.) I had a beer in the shower. Why not. It was almost show time! That's when I thought about my autographed jersey. It was a brief fleeting thought, extinguished by the grim reality that - like records and now CD's - my youth was also a thing of the past. Who was I kidding? I couldn't squeeze into that thing any more than the pair of stonewashed jeans I have snugged away somewhere. (Just kidding, honey.) So, with a sigh and another preparatory beer, I slipped into my relaxed fit jeans, button down wrinkly shirt, and my Scorcher-approved cowboy boots. I triple-checked the tickets. Keri triple-checked her hair. We said farewell to the kids and all other domestic obligations and headed to the show.
Two opening acts and a couple equipment fixes later, the Scorchers took the stage. Perry and Jeff were long gone. The band had been through intoxication, rehab, breakup and God-sworn dismemberment. But here they were, at least Jason and Warner. They were loud and they were proud.
But they weren't the Scorchers of old.
And it made me think of my Uncle Frank. My Uncle Frank taught me how to fly fish when I was ten years old. He taught me to tie my own flies and showed me the joy of catching a trout on a self-tied fly while laughing at those that didn't! He had several new jokes every time I saw him. He played guitar and owned a reel-to-reel tape recorder and would let me make chipmunk recordings on it by recording it slow and playing it regular tempo. He was a walking mailman and had fantastic dog stories about his routes. He was in the army when he was younger. He played stickball. He played tennis and golf and even made his own plastic worms for bass fishing! He owned the first trolling motor I ever saw. He taught me the first verse of The Jabberwock. He constantly made me laugh. And his car was always impeccably neat and air conditioned. But I got married, had kids, and saw less and less of Uncle Frank. Then one day several years ago, Uncle Frank had a stroke. He's been in a wheelchair ever since and has been in and out of nursing homes during that time. The fishing, the excitement, the neverending jokes, the external fires are gone. I'll love him forever; but things will never be like they once were.
The Scorchers were like my Uncle Frank. They had grown old. They could still rock hard, but the experience was much, much different. I loved every minute of it, but it was not like the Scorchers of the 80's. The volume was bearable (I didn't even pull the tissue out of my pocket.) They played an overabundance of songs from their new album, which is always disappointing live, as the sing-along effect is minimized. And they left out an enormous amount of classic Scorchers concert essentials. The show was great. But it was old. I wasn't sweaty, hoarse, or tired (unless you count the normal everyday fatigue I felt since it was 1 am, and my prostate was pushing me in the direction of the nearest urinal.) But i was satisfied.
And Warner, oh Warner, was just as good as ever. He whirled, he twirled, he owned, he ripped, and he wore his spurs.
Keri (as expected), hated it. But smiled and watched the whole show. (But she is the newest fan of Warner Hodges!) She was glad I had a great time. Of course I did. I love seeing my Uncle Frank. I always will. And I'll always love seeing Jason and the Scorchers, even if I'm not sweaty and can still talk afterwards.
We stroll, amble, peruse, stumble, trip, stagger, and run headlong through our own odysseys and things smack us along the way. Some we seek. Some seek us. Some occur through pure happenstance, but are none the less significant. Such was my experience that night.
That night I was absorbed into an unintentional musical phenomenon. Jason and the Scorchers rocked my world, while rocking the entire crowd at Mississippi Nights. They were loud, exciting, musical, and TALENTED. Hearing Jason's voice was akin to drinking your first beer. "I'm not sure I like this, but wait, maybe after another swig... yes, it's not so bad" and then, several Busch's later - ahhh. Not too shabby. Perry's drumming was hyperactivity without the Ritalin. Arms and legs flailing, tongue wagging, and vocals blending perfectly with Jason's. Jeff was the stalwart, iconic, solid-as-his-steel-strings bass player, stage right. But Warner, oh Warner, on the guitar- was the stamp without which the letter home could never be mailed.
Warner Hodges was (and still is!) the guitar-player's guitar player. Licks aplenty. Obnoxious skill and energy. A tone to die far. And showmanship that would make Hendrix arise and take notice. Cigarette hanging from his lip; long, black hair framing a face that mirrored the occasion of the music- serious as a Harvest Moon or playful as a bird out on a wire. He owned stage left. He prowled; he scowled; he laughed; he whirled with his guitar held parallel to the ground in a kind of ax-dervish; and he raised his eyebrows as he picked out an audience member, hit an open string,let it ring, and spun the guitar on its strap over his left should, past his right armpit, and back into his left hand, which picked up the run without missing a beat. And in case you didn't know he was no-bullshit, he wore SPURS on his boots. Nuff said. I was hooked.
I bought every record (yes, record) I could find of Jason and the Scorchers, of which there were dismally few. There's still not enough. Critics always loved them. They all seemed to think, "right band; wrong time." My opinion: there was never a wrong time for them. When I'd catch them in concert on each of the many passes through town, that confident feeling that they WERE the right band was always reinforced. Their shows were energetic, positive, affirming EXPERIENCES. How much could a bunch of young mostly white folks jump, sway, bump, high-five, backslap, sweat, and sing communally at maximum volume? A LOT! I always got there early. I always stood close to stage left. And I got their autographs on a concert jersey.
I haven't fit into that jersey in years. But I still have it.
And last night I thought of putting it on one more time. My wife, wonderful beyond belief, got me two tickets to their show when my free sources (like so many other things in life) dried up. It was an early Father's Day gift. And I'm not even her father!
I called Tom, my best friend of 30 years and fellow Scorcher-phile from the great ol' days. Tom, alas, has aged as I have. Seems his daughter had a birthday party. Priorities change as we get old. There was a time when we'd have ditched our girlfriends for a Scorchers show, but those days are long gone. So Keri, loving soulmate that she is, said she'd love to go with me. Now, please keep in mind that I've tried to Scorcherize Keri several times since I've known her. She's never been able to make it past the yodeling twang of one song before she excuses herself with the 'thanks but no thanks' smile. But she committed, and we planned it.
I showered at 5:30. She was already doing her hair and getting ready. "Why?" I asked, knowing that a Scorchers show is a dress-down affair. I knew her look, so I just cranked my Scorchers mix disc (I know, I know. Even CD's are outdated now.) I had a beer in the shower. Why not. It was almost show time! That's when I thought about my autographed jersey. It was a brief fleeting thought, extinguished by the grim reality that - like records and now CD's - my youth was also a thing of the past. Who was I kidding? I couldn't squeeze into that thing any more than the pair of stonewashed jeans I have snugged away somewhere. (Just kidding, honey.) So, with a sigh and another preparatory beer, I slipped into my relaxed fit jeans, button down wrinkly shirt, and my Scorcher-approved cowboy boots. I triple-checked the tickets. Keri triple-checked her hair. We said farewell to the kids and all other domestic obligations and headed to the show.
Two opening acts and a couple equipment fixes later, the Scorchers took the stage. Perry and Jeff were long gone. The band had been through intoxication, rehab, breakup and God-sworn dismemberment. But here they were, at least Jason and Warner. They were loud and they were proud.
But they weren't the Scorchers of old.
And it made me think of my Uncle Frank. My Uncle Frank taught me how to fly fish when I was ten years old. He taught me to tie my own flies and showed me the joy of catching a trout on a self-tied fly while laughing at those that didn't! He had several new jokes every time I saw him. He played guitar and owned a reel-to-reel tape recorder and would let me make chipmunk recordings on it by recording it slow and playing it regular tempo. He was a walking mailman and had fantastic dog stories about his routes. He was in the army when he was younger. He played stickball. He played tennis and golf and even made his own plastic worms for bass fishing! He owned the first trolling motor I ever saw. He taught me the first verse of The Jabberwock. He constantly made me laugh. And his car was always impeccably neat and air conditioned. But I got married, had kids, and saw less and less of Uncle Frank. Then one day several years ago, Uncle Frank had a stroke. He's been in a wheelchair ever since and has been in and out of nursing homes during that time. The fishing, the excitement, the neverending jokes, the external fires are gone. I'll love him forever; but things will never be like they once were.
The Scorchers were like my Uncle Frank. They had grown old. They could still rock hard, but the experience was much, much different. I loved every minute of it, but it was not like the Scorchers of the 80's. The volume was bearable (I didn't even pull the tissue out of my pocket.) They played an overabundance of songs from their new album, which is always disappointing live, as the sing-along effect is minimized. And they left out an enormous amount of classic Scorchers concert essentials. The show was great. But it was old. I wasn't sweaty, hoarse, or tired (unless you count the normal everyday fatigue I felt since it was 1 am, and my prostate was pushing me in the direction of the nearest urinal.) But i was satisfied.
And Warner, oh Warner, was just as good as ever. He whirled, he twirled, he owned, he ripped, and he wore his spurs.
Keri (as expected), hated it. But smiled and watched the whole show. (But she is the newest fan of Warner Hodges!) She was glad I had a great time. Of course I did. I love seeing my Uncle Frank. I always will. And I'll always love seeing Jason and the Scorchers, even if I'm not sweaty and can still talk afterwards.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Time to go home.
I live in the suburbs. I always have. But I have roots in the country. I'm kind of half-and-half. My mom was a poor country girl. My dad was a poor city boy. What better place for me than the suburbs - that hodgepodge of identity crisis whose battles consist of Sam's vs CostCo and Zoysia vs a hearty Rye blend. Not having the balls to commit to either the relaxed pace of the Ozark hills or the frantic, eye-twitching sleeplessness of bullet-ridden nights has landed me comfortably amid mega-malls and neatly manicured summer lawns. Genetic practicality has afforded me an ever-increasing skillset, including the ability to edge my lawn with a weed whacker rather than investing in an actual edger.
But I love to stick my toes into the waters of the extremes. I can't wait to go out to eat at an adventurous ethnic restaurant in the city, some place where the food contains ingredients I've never heard of and is cooked by people who don't live down the street from me and are maybe from a different country even. And I love to take trips to the country. I love to fool myself into thinking that I belong there, with the smell of cow manure and roadkill passing briefly through my open car windows, just long enough to remind me that I like the smell of smoke from the flame grill at Burger King a little more.
So I relished the opportunity to go train for my company in Small Town, Missouri for two days this week. Yes, back to the country for me. Earlier this week, I went downtown to a Cardinal's game and saw people working in the parking lot and concession stands that probably lived in the city. My urban fix was secure. So, I packed light - the camera, the book I secured from (where else?) Borders, and a Nutrigrain bar for the road - and I was off to educate our country cousins for a couple of days.
I was excited on the ride there. Company car, free gas and meals, and a free night at the Days' Inn. Hmmmm. The Days' Inn. I hoped it was up to my high motel standards. I'm used to the Holiday Inn Express, after all, with pillows labeled 'Firm' and 'Soft' and bathroom fixtures that they will actually sell you online. Now that's a premium on comfort, by God. I actually asked people at work if they'd ever stayed at the Days' Inn before I left. I didn't understand their lack of interest.
I arrived at the training facility, which was actually moved from the training room to a different building that housed a room attached to an actual horse arena, complete with obstacles for the horse (or whoever) to jump over. The smell was, well, equestrian. The sun was up, the day was hot, and the air conditioner was set to 78 degrees, which was about 8 degrees above the tolerable temperature in that particular room. So, with festering nostrils and sweating forehead, I trained the locals on our way of business.
I noticed during the training that eyeballs frequently darted from my presentation to the arena window. During a break I realized that there was a girl all decked out in horse riding garb atop a sleek-looking black horse of some kind. She had the funny hat, high boots, white pants, red jacket, and whip thing in her hand. The horse had white tape on both front shins. They looked fantastic. I watched as she led the horse gracefully to the obstacles, all of which the horse knocked down without ever leaving the ground. Wow. I leaned over to an observing trainee, who in hindsight was probably the girl's mother, and mentioned jokingly, "I don't know much about horses, but isn't the object to jump over those poles?" She wasn't amused. Maybe it was my suburban accent.
Training ended for the day, and I discovered to my great delight that my room at the Days' Inn was not only tolerable but downright comfortable. I showered away the arena sweat, grabbed the camera, and headed for the park just outside town to take some pics of the local scenery. The kind lady in the entrance booth informed me it would cost me five bucks to enter the park. What? I think I said that aloud. She smiled and said, "Y'all can turn around right there if you want?" So I (and whoever else made up y'all) turned promptly around and yelled, "Our parks in the suburbs are FREE!" Well, I yelled it in my head anyway. I am from the suburbs.
The next day I got adventurous for lunch and headed to McDonald's. I almost went to the local diner, but figured they didn't take my company American Express card, so I played it safe. You know me. Well, I was heading back down the two lane road to the facility, angus burger digesting pleasantly and the air conditioner maxed, when I saw him. Gross jeans and a grimy tank top with long black greasy hair looking right at me from atop his green riding lawn mower. Now mind you, this man was not sitting on a large tractor. This was just a small riding mower, so small his knees buckled over the edges as he headed down his lawn towards the road. I was driving 55. He was looking right into my windshield. I was driving 55. He was cutting his grass on a small riding mower and approaching the edge of his yard (not lawn) doing about 4, and looking RIGHT AT ME. I was driving 55, but now hitting the brake. He was ENTERING THE HIGHWAY FROM HIS FRONT YARD LOOKING RIGHT AT ME. I was swerving onto the six inch weedy gravel shoulder. He turned the small riding mower towards me, smiling a toothless, meth-infested smile as he caressed the inside of the yellow line while my company car with air conditioning maxed and flowing over my forehead blew past him at almost 55 miles an hour.
I think I laid on my horn when I was past his property line. That's just crazy. People in the suburbs don't play chicken with cars while riding a small riding mower with their knees buckling over the side. Good Lord. It was time to go home.
But I love to stick my toes into the waters of the extremes. I can't wait to go out to eat at an adventurous ethnic restaurant in the city, some place where the food contains ingredients I've never heard of and is cooked by people who don't live down the street from me and are maybe from a different country even. And I love to take trips to the country. I love to fool myself into thinking that I belong there, with the smell of cow manure and roadkill passing briefly through my open car windows, just long enough to remind me that I like the smell of smoke from the flame grill at Burger King a little more.
So I relished the opportunity to go train for my company in Small Town, Missouri for two days this week. Yes, back to the country for me. Earlier this week, I went downtown to a Cardinal's game and saw people working in the parking lot and concession stands that probably lived in the city. My urban fix was secure. So, I packed light - the camera, the book I secured from (where else?) Borders, and a Nutrigrain bar for the road - and I was off to educate our country cousins for a couple of days.
I was excited on the ride there. Company car, free gas and meals, and a free night at the Days' Inn. Hmmmm. The Days' Inn. I hoped it was up to my high motel standards. I'm used to the Holiday Inn Express, after all, with pillows labeled 'Firm' and 'Soft' and bathroom fixtures that they will actually sell you online. Now that's a premium on comfort, by God. I actually asked people at work if they'd ever stayed at the Days' Inn before I left. I didn't understand their lack of interest.
I arrived at the training facility, which was actually moved from the training room to a different building that housed a room attached to an actual horse arena, complete with obstacles for the horse (or whoever) to jump over. The smell was, well, equestrian. The sun was up, the day was hot, and the air conditioner was set to 78 degrees, which was about 8 degrees above the tolerable temperature in that particular room. So, with festering nostrils and sweating forehead, I trained the locals on our way of business.
I noticed during the training that eyeballs frequently darted from my presentation to the arena window. During a break I realized that there was a girl all decked out in horse riding garb atop a sleek-looking black horse of some kind. She had the funny hat, high boots, white pants, red jacket, and whip thing in her hand. The horse had white tape on both front shins. They looked fantastic. I watched as she led the horse gracefully to the obstacles, all of which the horse knocked down without ever leaving the ground. Wow. I leaned over to an observing trainee, who in hindsight was probably the girl's mother, and mentioned jokingly, "I don't know much about horses, but isn't the object to jump over those poles?" She wasn't amused. Maybe it was my suburban accent.
Training ended for the day, and I discovered to my great delight that my room at the Days' Inn was not only tolerable but downright comfortable. I showered away the arena sweat, grabbed the camera, and headed for the park just outside town to take some pics of the local scenery. The kind lady in the entrance booth informed me it would cost me five bucks to enter the park. What? I think I said that aloud. She smiled and said, "Y'all can turn around right there if you want?" So I (and whoever else made up y'all) turned promptly around and yelled, "Our parks in the suburbs are FREE!" Well, I yelled it in my head anyway. I am from the suburbs.
The next day I got adventurous for lunch and headed to McDonald's. I almost went to the local diner, but figured they didn't take my company American Express card, so I played it safe. You know me. Well, I was heading back down the two lane road to the facility, angus burger digesting pleasantly and the air conditioner maxed, when I saw him. Gross jeans and a grimy tank top with long black greasy hair looking right at me from atop his green riding lawn mower. Now mind you, this man was not sitting on a large tractor. This was just a small riding mower, so small his knees buckled over the edges as he headed down his lawn towards the road. I was driving 55. He was looking right into my windshield. I was driving 55. He was cutting his grass on a small riding mower and approaching the edge of his yard (not lawn) doing about 4, and looking RIGHT AT ME. I was driving 55, but now hitting the brake. He was ENTERING THE HIGHWAY FROM HIS FRONT YARD LOOKING RIGHT AT ME. I was swerving onto the six inch weedy gravel shoulder. He turned the small riding mower towards me, smiling a toothless, meth-infested smile as he caressed the inside of the yellow line while my company car with air conditioning maxed and flowing over my forehead blew past him at almost 55 miles an hour.
I think I laid on my horn when I was past his property line. That's just crazy. People in the suburbs don't play chicken with cars while riding a small riding mower with their knees buckling over the side. Good Lord. It was time to go home.
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