With so many pundits voicing so many opinions about why Obama beat Romney in the election last week, I had every intention of keeping my mouth shut. For one thing, I can't analyze demographics and numbers and lots of dry, meaningful data without getting bored halfway through and going out for ice cream. For another, I was pretty certain that nothing I could say would have much value. I'm really not much good at arguing politics; I mostly try to avoid it because once I'm in the middle of a discussion (usually with my sister), I tend to lose. I think it's because our discussions usually go something like this:
Barbara: Okay, here's why you need to hang onto your money: The world is going into the shitter because, according to Dr. Blahson from the University of Blah, that poser in the White House is advocating for blah blah blah while blahtity-blah percent of the current population is on food stamps, which our economy can't sustain. Furthermore, factity fact arguments suggest that fact number of people are blah blah fact fact and, of course, totally wrong. So ... even though I don't like Romney, I'm still voting for him.
Me: I don't like Romney because I think he's a big poo-poo head. (This point in the discussion is when I usually start thinking about strawberry or mint chocolate chip, and whether I seriously need the nuts and whipped cream.)
Frankly, I think the analysts need to talk to more people like me if they want to know why Romney lost. Sure, what I just said sounds simplistic, shallow and just plain stupid. But when it comes to politics, I think most of those "s" words do apply to most of our ignorant, uninformed population. It's not because all of us are idiots ... it's because the topic of politics makes us all idiots. Why? It's just plain boring. If I write the words, "coalition," "lobbyists," "sequestration" and "fiscal cliff," I'm betting at least half of you out there will start glazing over. It's really not your fault; political science can be dull, dry and depressing. So, desperate to not appear to be as stupid as we are, we turn to mass media and cling to whatever talking points people like Rush Limbaugh and Rachel Maddow hammer into our heads. What other course of action is there? Must we do actual research on the Internet? I'm sorry, but I only have so much Internet time at my disposal, and "Words With Friends" eats up a large chunk of it.
But politically speaking, most of us don't have a clue what we're really talking about. And we're the ones who were out there voting last Tuesday. So, when some brilliant person like George Will wants to analyze election results, he needs to stop thinking that we all make predictable, semi-rational decisions based on hard facts. Human beings are, as a group, pretty irrational and messed up much of the time. My friends and I tend to make our decisions based on hormone levels, the Magic 8 Ball and whether the Planet Mercury's in retrograde. I have no clue why members of my family make the decisions they do...the other day I watched my mother put strawberry jelly on a burrito. So, when someone like Karl Rove or Peggy Noonan suggests that Obama won because he appealed to more Hispanics, or won more young adults, or ran a better ground game, they're dead wrong. Why? Because those conclusions sorta make sense, and we, as a species, never do.
So, here's my not-so-brilliant analysis, based on all the shallowness, simplicity and stupidity I can muster: Romney lost because he didn't have the "X factor", and most of us couldn't stand the thought of watching him on TV for the next four years. That's it. And, let's face it, that Great Glowing Screen in the living room pretty much dictates everything we think and do. It tells us we're too fat, what to wear, where to stare and whether or not we have good hair.* With Obama, we either liked him and welcomed his almost-constant presence in our faces or, if we couldn't stand the guy, we quickly learned to tune him out. But Romney wasn't really all that lovable, even to his own party. I would have considered voting for a charismatic, good-looking Republican who would interrupt my prime-time television viewing without my wanting to blow an artery, but it definitely was not Mitt. I was too aware of his money; too annoyed by his gleaming family (all of whom looked like they were birthed from a loaf of Wonder Bread); and, seriously, I didn't like his smug little mouth and his beady little eyes. I wouldn't have wanted to buy a car from him, much less entrust the future of the free world to a guy whose own cars get to ride in elevators.
And, before all you Romney-lovers get on my case, let me just say that Obama often annoys the stuffing out of me too, especially when he's campaigning. His voice gets all churchy and he delivers every line with the grandeur of MLK's "I have a dream" speech. And, frankly, I was disappointed with his first four years. I was one of those people who expected him to magically fix everything wrong with the country; I was willfully oblivious to the reality that no president has that kind of magic. And this whole Benghazi/Petraeus mess has me more than a little wondering if some folks in his administration may not have been entirely honest with us. Worst of all, though, I sure wish modern science could do something about his Alfred E. Neuman ears. When he's on TV, I can't stop staring at them. The entire time he talks, I'm sitting on my couch thinking, "My, what big ears you have, Obama." They're very distracting. Maybe he could tape 'em against his head or something, I don't know.
So...now that everybody's mad at me, I'll continue with my original point.
People make friends with people they like; they hire people they like; they buy crap from people they like, and date and marry people they like. That's just how we're wired. We bond with other human beings because of gut feelings and brain chemistry and then later invent reasons for feeling the way we do. Furthermore, the Great Glowing Screen That Rules Us All lets us participate in popularity contests such as "X Factor" and "American Idol," where we get to vote every week! Do we always choose the most talented contestants? Nope. We vote for the ones we love. We vote for singers like Scotty McCreery because yeah, he's a good singer, but awww, isn't he just the sweetest boy, playing baseball and workin' in the grocery store after school? You can bet he loves his mother and goes to church. Even with those big ears, isn't he just so cute you wanna squeeze his widdle face? Much of America fell in love with him and that's why he won. With American Idol winner Phillip Phillips, it was a little different. The guy was talented, but he made people like him because he was able to project irresistible self-confidence even while his clothes looked like they just tumbled out of the dryer. Gruffy, scruffy people-you-can-share-a-beer-with are often perceived as charming and quite easy to love.
So, if the Republicans want to take back the White House in 2016, it's really easy: Pick out several guys or gals who exhibit more personality than an ear of corn, parade 'em in front of Simon Cowell and let him pick out the star. The winner will be someone who can turn on the ol' razzle dazzle, put on a good show and leave the audience begging for more. Look at the last two popular Republican presidents ... one was an adorable old geezer who used to be an actor ... the other a make-believe rootin' tootin' cowboy who liked to invent words like "stratergize."** Yeah, maybe some of us made fun of George because he sounded kind of stupid when he said that, but secretly we loved it. And in the voting booth, the love is all that matters.
*Speaking of not having good hair ... can somebody out there please beg Hillary to cut hers if she wants to run in 2016? Flippy hair only looks good on 20-something, Marlo Thomas "that girls" from 1970.
**At first I loved going around saying "stratergize" just to mock George Bush, but the last laugh's on me because now the word pops out of my mouth when I least expect it and makes me look like an idiot... as if I needed any help. Thank you, Mr. President.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Monday, November 5, 2012
Housebroken
I went to Lowe's to buy new window blinds the other day, and I picked out some Levolors for my Mom's bedroom and my new guest room (so ... sorry, old friends, no "old" guests are allowed - ha ha). It occurred to me that most people choose something as boring as window blinds because of their color ... their quality ... their design ... their price ... stuff like that. And while I did consider all those factors, I had one huge factor that out-factored all the rest.
I needed to find some blinds my Mom couldn't break.
Now, I love my mother. She's 81 (turning 82 this month) and she's been living with me ever since Dad passed. I really do love her. A lot. Really... bunches and bunches. Yesiree, I sure do love my Mom.
And yes, there's a reason I keep stressing the "L" word, here ... because, after you read this entry, I sincerely don't want you to think of me as that Evil Blogger Who Bad-Mouthed The Woman Who Gave Her Life. Consider this, if you will (or won't ... doesn't matter, I won't shut up either way) as that Poor, Demented Blogger Who Desperately Needed Cheap Therapy. This blog is my therapy, and you, dear reader, are my therapist. I recommend that you simply accept your new, thankless role in my life.
Where was I? Oh ...
My issues with Mom.
Now, let me just say we all have issues with our aging parents and, inevitably, we ourselves will become somebody else's Big Issues. All things considered, my Mom isn't doing too badly. But if I someday reach my 80s (and I like to spend my delusional moments believing I will), I know I'm going to be a real pain in the ass to society. I'm certain I'm going to be that crazy old lunatic nobody wants to sit next to on the bus...you know, the one who can't remember to bathe, but who can remember (and loudly) all the words to "Copacabana." Some folks really do well in their 80s and 90s ... they jog, they swim, they perform surgery, they have wild sex... heck, some even run for Congress. I'm 50, and I don't do any of those things, so I quite naturally and forgiveably hate those people.
Well, Mom has a little dementia goin' on. I could tell you that she constantly obsesses about our money and finances ... which wouldn't be too bad, except that she doesn't understand money and finances. My Dad took care of the checkbook. I wish I had a dollar for every time I patiently tried to explain to Mom why a "money market" isn't something she can lose in the "stock market" ... or why a debit card isn't the same as a credit card ... or why nobody will arrest her and throw her in jail because I still use Dad's Giant Eagle Advantage Card at the grocery store.*
Or, I could also tell you that she has a problem with her memory, and sometimes I wish I didn't have to repeat everything I just said 12 more times. Or, I could tell you she has a problem with her hearing, and sometimes I wish I didn't have to scream everything I just said 12 more times. However, let it be noted that I do feel guilty talking about her memory issues because, honestly, I can't remember squat anymore, and I don't have the "too bad I'm 81" excuse. (And when I instead try using the "Too bad, I'm menopausal" excuse, people don't pat me on the shoulder and say, "Awww, Brenda, that's okay, I understand." They just step back three feet and try not to look scared.)
Or, I could tell you that Mom has a food problem ... namely, that Mom doesn't choose to eat food. She chooses to eat garbage. True, most of us would rather eat garbage as well, but we try not to do that because it's bad for us. And yes ... I'm using the word "garbage" metaphorically to actually mean, "sweets, fried foods and anything else that's tasty and waiting to kill me." (Of course, if I ever tell you my brother eats garbage, please feel free to take that literally.**) I don't doubt that somebody out there is reading this and thinking, "Well, gosh, Brenda, why do you keep garbage in your house if you don't want her to eat it?" If that somebody IS you, I would like to respectfully suggest that you pause for a few minutes to yank a pacifier out of a screaming baby's mouth, or rip a soup bone out of the jaws of a starving rottweiler. Please do either of those and then get back to me when you've regained consciousness.
ANYWAY ...
I can live with all of this, truly I can. But the one thing she does that drives me bonkers is this: She manages to somehow ruin anything mechanical she dares to touch. She'll break it if she can. If she can't, she will - at the very least - hurt it and make it cry.***
Sometimes, sadly, this crying leads to suicide. There's a back burner on a gas stove I bought two years ago that finally gave up the ghost because Mom kept trying to blow up the house with it. If you've ever used a gas stove, you know the routine: you push in the dial, slightly turn it, hear a couple of clicks and then, like magic, a flame pops up. But when Mom would heat up her coffee water, I'd be sitting in the living room doing something terribly important (like watching TV) and eventually I'd hear "Click click click click click click click click click click click." After glancing at my sleeping cat to make sure she was still breathing, I'd run into the kitchen to find out why Mom was trying to gas us all. What's worse...Mom was convinced that neither I nor my 61-year-old sister knew how to work the stove properly. In her mind, of course, we were still kids. I can still remember one time my sister was visiting us from California; Barb had turned on the stove to heat up her tea water. (We all like to heat things up, but try to avoid cooking whenever possible.) Anyway, Mom - who's usually deafer than dirt - heard that first "click" and sprang into action. As soon as my sister had wandered back into the living room, Mom speed-shuffled into the kitchen to turn off the stove my sister had recklessly turned on without her supervision. This was then followed by the ever-too-familiar "Click click click click click click click click click click click" and Barb screaming, "WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN THERE?" In Mom's defense, she was only trying to help my out-of-town sister follow the proper protocol one uses to blow up one's house in Willowick (and, on a good day, the entire neighborhood).
After that, I begged Mom's doctor to tell Mom she was never to touch the stove again. Happily, Mom listened. Unless her doctor utters a sentence that includes the words, "Don't eat sweets, Betty," Mom is pretty attentive about listening to physicians...which is good, because she needs to listen to somebody. She never listens to me or my sister; we're just a couple of drooling lunatics who can barely tie our own shoes. But, interestingly, she WILL listen to our brother. Bill's a nutcase, but he's always a respected source of knowledge because he owns a penis.
Mom has, throughout the years, broken many things around the house. She's bullied our washer, disabled our dryer, and has committed unspeakable atrocities upon various microwaves and toasters we've owned throughout the years. Too often I've come home from work to find Mom sitting in her rocker staring at nothing on TV because she pressed the same wrong button on the remote again. "I broke the remote," she'd say forlornly, and then I'd fix it and she'd be all happy again, finally able to watch yet another movie about some woman murdering her husband on Lifetime Movie Network. I don't think Mom's not bright; I think she just got into the habit of believing she couldn't do much of anything on her own. But I really can't think of anything mechanical inside our house that Mom didn't somehow screw up. At night I can still hear the mournful whispers from the ghost of our dead dishwasher; I don't know exactly how she killed it, but I am certain it was a slow and painful death.
But the blinds are the worst. We have full-length vertical blinds in the front room window and on the back patio door. I'm not sure why Dad had them installed; it is entirely possible he did it just to torture Mom. The notion that one cord operates the slats while the other cord draws the blinds is one she could never fully grasp, so she pretty much just pulls on stuff until something happens. Once in awhile, she gets it right. But most of the time our blinds end up hopelessly mangled, with the cord up near the ceiling so that she can no longer reach it. This is always fun, because then I have the joy of coming home from work in the dark, pulling into my driveway, and then seeing Mom in her nightgown, prancing around our well-lit living room in full view of the neighbors. She can't close the blinds... and then she seems to forget that they're even open.
As for the patio door blinds ... I despise them; I curse them every time I have to fight my way through that plastic jungle just to go outside (Mom constantly keeps them drawn so the deer and squirrels won't spy on her when she's in the kitchen). I don't know why they're necessary and have, repeatedly, threatened to rip them down entirely. I'm thinking of buying a dog and secretly training it to pee on them.
So ... as I'm standing in the aisle at Lowe's, these are the thoughts that haunt me and taunt me. Maybe I'm blind to think there are blinds in this world she cannot destroy. I think we may need to go back to curtains ... or take out the windows entirely, I don't know. Maybe we could take out the windows and put in skylights? The birds won't care if Mom puts on a show, and I doubt the astronauts will either.
*Uh oh ... I think I hear the Giant Eagle Fuel Perks Patrol pounding on my door.
**Believe me when I tell you there's a depressed, weeping dumpster out behind the Wendy's off Route 60 in Vero Beach, Florida, that still wonders why Bill doesn't come around anymore.
***In my universe, everything cries.
I needed to find some blinds my Mom couldn't break.
Now, I love my mother. She's 81 (turning 82 this month) and she's been living with me ever since Dad passed. I really do love her. A lot. Really... bunches and bunches. Yesiree, I sure do love my Mom.
And yes, there's a reason I keep stressing the "L" word, here ... because, after you read this entry, I sincerely don't want you to think of me as that Evil Blogger Who Bad-Mouthed The Woman Who Gave Her Life. Consider this, if you will (or won't ... doesn't matter, I won't shut up either way) as that Poor, Demented Blogger Who Desperately Needed Cheap Therapy. This blog is my therapy, and you, dear reader, are my therapist. I recommend that you simply accept your new, thankless role in my life.
Where was I? Oh ...
My issues with Mom.
Now, let me just say we all have issues with our aging parents and, inevitably, we ourselves will become somebody else's Big Issues. All things considered, my Mom isn't doing too badly. But if I someday reach my 80s (and I like to spend my delusional moments believing I will), I know I'm going to be a real pain in the ass to society. I'm certain I'm going to be that crazy old lunatic nobody wants to sit next to on the bus...you know, the one who can't remember to bathe, but who can remember (and loudly) all the words to "Copacabana." Some folks really do well in their 80s and 90s ... they jog, they swim, they perform surgery, they have wild sex... heck, some even run for Congress. I'm 50, and I don't do any of those things, so I quite naturally and forgiveably hate those people.
Well, Mom has a little dementia goin' on. I could tell you that she constantly obsesses about our money and finances ... which wouldn't be too bad, except that she doesn't understand money and finances. My Dad took care of the checkbook. I wish I had a dollar for every time I patiently tried to explain to Mom why a "money market" isn't something she can lose in the "stock market" ... or why a debit card isn't the same as a credit card ... or why nobody will arrest her and throw her in jail because I still use Dad's Giant Eagle Advantage Card at the grocery store.*
Or, I could also tell you that she has a problem with her memory, and sometimes I wish I didn't have to repeat everything I just said 12 more times. Or, I could tell you she has a problem with her hearing, and sometimes I wish I didn't have to scream everything I just said 12 more times. However, let it be noted that I do feel guilty talking about her memory issues because, honestly, I can't remember squat anymore, and I don't have the "too bad I'm 81" excuse. (And when I instead try using the "Too bad, I'm menopausal" excuse, people don't pat me on the shoulder and say, "Awww, Brenda, that's okay, I understand." They just step back three feet and try not to look scared.)
Or, I could tell you that Mom has a food problem ... namely, that Mom doesn't choose to eat food. She chooses to eat garbage. True, most of us would rather eat garbage as well, but we try not to do that because it's bad for us. And yes ... I'm using the word "garbage" metaphorically to actually mean, "sweets, fried foods and anything else that's tasty and waiting to kill me." (Of course, if I ever tell you my brother eats garbage, please feel free to take that literally.**) I don't doubt that somebody out there is reading this and thinking, "Well, gosh, Brenda, why do you keep garbage in your house if you don't want her to eat it?" If that somebody IS you, I would like to respectfully suggest that you pause for a few minutes to yank a pacifier out of a screaming baby's mouth, or rip a soup bone out of the jaws of a starving rottweiler. Please do either of those and then get back to me when you've regained consciousness.
ANYWAY ...
I can live with all of this, truly I can. But the one thing she does that drives me bonkers is this: She manages to somehow ruin anything mechanical she dares to touch. She'll break it if she can. If she can't, she will - at the very least - hurt it and make it cry.***
Sometimes, sadly, this crying leads to suicide. There's a back burner on a gas stove I bought two years ago that finally gave up the ghost because Mom kept trying to blow up the house with it. If you've ever used a gas stove, you know the routine: you push in the dial, slightly turn it, hear a couple of clicks and then, like magic, a flame pops up. But when Mom would heat up her coffee water, I'd be sitting in the living room doing something terribly important (like watching TV) and eventually I'd hear "Click click click click click click click click click click click." After glancing at my sleeping cat to make sure she was still breathing, I'd run into the kitchen to find out why Mom was trying to gas us all. What's worse...Mom was convinced that neither I nor my 61-year-old sister knew how to work the stove properly. In her mind, of course, we were still kids. I can still remember one time my sister was visiting us from California; Barb had turned on the stove to heat up her tea water. (We all like to heat things up, but try to avoid cooking whenever possible.) Anyway, Mom - who's usually deafer than dirt - heard that first "click" and sprang into action. As soon as my sister had wandered back into the living room, Mom speed-shuffled into the kitchen to turn off the stove my sister had recklessly turned on without her supervision. This was then followed by the ever-too-familiar "Click click click click click click click click click click click" and Barb screaming, "WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN THERE?" In Mom's defense, she was only trying to help my out-of-town sister follow the proper protocol one uses to blow up one's house in Willowick (and, on a good day, the entire neighborhood).
After that, I begged Mom's doctor to tell Mom she was never to touch the stove again. Happily, Mom listened. Unless her doctor utters a sentence that includes the words, "Don't eat sweets, Betty," Mom is pretty attentive about listening to physicians...which is good, because she needs to listen to somebody. She never listens to me or my sister; we're just a couple of drooling lunatics who can barely tie our own shoes. But, interestingly, she WILL listen to our brother. Bill's a nutcase, but he's always a respected source of knowledge because he owns a penis.
Mom has, throughout the years, broken many things around the house. She's bullied our washer, disabled our dryer, and has committed unspeakable atrocities upon various microwaves and toasters we've owned throughout the years. Too often I've come home from work to find Mom sitting in her rocker staring at nothing on TV because she pressed the same wrong button on the remote again. "I broke the remote," she'd say forlornly, and then I'd fix it and she'd be all happy again, finally able to watch yet another movie about some woman murdering her husband on Lifetime Movie Network. I don't think Mom's not bright; I think she just got into the habit of believing she couldn't do much of anything on her own. But I really can't think of anything mechanical inside our house that Mom didn't somehow screw up. At night I can still hear the mournful whispers from the ghost of our dead dishwasher; I don't know exactly how she killed it, but I am certain it was a slow and painful death.
But the blinds are the worst. We have full-length vertical blinds in the front room window and on the back patio door. I'm not sure why Dad had them installed; it is entirely possible he did it just to torture Mom. The notion that one cord operates the slats while the other cord draws the blinds is one she could never fully grasp, so she pretty much just pulls on stuff until something happens. Once in awhile, she gets it right. But most of the time our blinds end up hopelessly mangled, with the cord up near the ceiling so that she can no longer reach it. This is always fun, because then I have the joy of coming home from work in the dark, pulling into my driveway, and then seeing Mom in her nightgown, prancing around our well-lit living room in full view of the neighbors. She can't close the blinds... and then she seems to forget that they're even open.
As for the patio door blinds ... I despise them; I curse them every time I have to fight my way through that plastic jungle just to go outside (Mom constantly keeps them drawn so the deer and squirrels won't spy on her when she's in the kitchen). I don't know why they're necessary and have, repeatedly, threatened to rip them down entirely. I'm thinking of buying a dog and secretly training it to pee on them.
So ... as I'm standing in the aisle at Lowe's, these are the thoughts that haunt me and taunt me. Maybe I'm blind to think there are blinds in this world she cannot destroy. I think we may need to go back to curtains ... or take out the windows entirely, I don't know. Maybe we could take out the windows and put in skylights? The birds won't care if Mom puts on a show, and I doubt the astronauts will either.
*Uh oh ... I think I hear the Giant Eagle Fuel Perks Patrol pounding on my door.
**Believe me when I tell you there's a depressed, weeping dumpster out behind the Wendy's off Route 60 in Vero Beach, Florida, that still wonders why Bill doesn't come around anymore.
***In my universe, everything cries.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Trick or Treat!
Well, what a bummer ... Halloween neighborhood festivities have been pushed back to Sunday here in Willowick, so I guess I'll have to wait a few more days before I get to give all the kids diabetes. Don't get me wrong - I'm glad the little monsters don't have to go freeloading in the rain, but it's a little weird that I'm going to be handing out Hershey bars* two days before Election Day (which is essentially trick-or-treating for grown-ups, only we don't get to find out which candidate is which until it's way too late).
But I love Halloween. I especially love how I'm part of an entire generation that decided to turn Halloween into a much bigger production so we could avoid growing up. Halloween, when I was a kid, was an oh-by-the-way-it's-Halloween-again holiday, barely registering above Groundhog Day on the anticipation scale. Yeah, we all loved running around the block in our quest for free candy, but a whole lot of thought didn't go into the execution of this quest. Every year, about a week before the not-so-big day, Dad would drive us to a lot with pumpkins for sale. I'd pick one out, and Dad would carve it. (Kids couldn't carve pumpkins back then, because there were no cute plastic kiddie carving tools at that time ... all we Neanderthals had to work with were very sharp knives.) Some of the neighborhood Moms would turn the pumpkin guts into a tasty pie or two, garnished with a side of healthy, toasty pumpkin seed treats, but my mother wasn't quite that Martha Stewartish....so, we'd just toss the great ball of seedy orange innards into the garbage and put our pumpkin's sad, dead shell in our front room window, pretty much leaving it there until it started to stink.
Then, of course, the next big step in my Halloween routine was the annual trip to Woolworth's to pick out whatever cheap-ass princess costume I was going to wear under my winter coat that year. Mom (who was not terribly talented at home economics, in case you forgot I told you) didn't sew costumes like some of the other kids' Moms (lucky bastards), so the rest of us were forced to wear shiny, polyester nightmares that came out of flat, flimsy boxes costing $4.95. They did come with masks, though. All the dime store costumes had masks made out of the same thin plastic that I believe holds today's Lean Cuisines. This ghastly piece of petroleum was attached to the child's head by a rubber band guaranteed to break by the fifth house. This was actually a good thing, because I'm convinced any kid wearing that hot, sweaty torture device for more than two hours would end up with either terminal cooties or the crawling gleep (that is, if the hot, sweaty child didn't first blindly tumble down somebody's concrete steps and break something important).
Truly, Halloween was dangerous and, sure, it still is... a bit. Every time some kid older than 13 rings my bell, I hand him a Three Musketeers and pray he goes away without robbing me. But when we were kids, it really was hazardous. For one thing, there were absolutely no safety concerns for kids (this was before criminals started putting needles into popcorn balls). We didn't have pre-established trick-or-treating times ... basically, we left the house when it got dark and got back just as our dads would start calling the police. Sometimes parents** went with us, but sometimes not ... I think it depended on what was on TV (if "Gunsmoke" or "Bonanza" was on, we were usually on our own). We tripped over lawns, scraped our knees on sidewalks and sent our Smarties soaring when the handles on our plastic pumpkin pails broke. Still, propelled by our stupidity and untiring greed, we pressed on, knowing that we were in a mad race against time to annoy as many homeowners as possible. The darkness was full of barking dogs, thugs toting pillowcases and those old neighborhood cranks who would turn off their lights and pretend to not be home (until they screamed death threats out their windows when we short-cutted across their lawns).
When I managed to make it home alive, I'd dump my bucket full of crap onto my bedspread and try to find something I could eat. There wasn't much. Unfortunately, I was a child of the 70s, when half of all candy doubled as hardware store adhesive...and the other half doubled as rocks. I'd search through a pile of depressing Jawbreakers, Jolly Ranchers, Bit o' Honeys, Licorice, Tootsie Rolls, Charleston Chews, Mary Janes, Boston Baked Beans, Jujubes, Good 'n Plenties, Mike 'n Ikes and Now 'n Laters*** just to find one or two blessed Snickers bars. Oh ... I almost forgot about the Sugar Daddy ... a gooey, chocolate glob that was not only adhesive, but came on a stick. So, if you didn't injure yourself by involuntarily extracting a couple of your back molars, you could give yourself brain damage by harpooning the roof of your mouth. (Fortunately, after sucking down enough Red Hots, Lemonheads and Atomic Fireballs, your mouth wouldn't feel it.) And I haven't even mentioned Pop Rocks, which came along right after I stopped trick-or-treating. The candy of my day was clearly designed to be used as a tool to further all that population control the hippies told us we needed.
So ... I'd carefully pick out the good stuff (aka: "chocolate"), some Sweetarts and, of course, what money got thrown in there and let the rest fossilize on my dresser until Christmas. Fortunately, my brother (who trick-or-treated until he was, oh, twenty-five), would always wander in the door around midnight dragging a pillowcase holding his loot and heaven knows who else's. My brother might have been... well ... a thug ... but he wasn't exactly picky about what he ate. If I stole some Milky Ways out of his stash, he'd never even notice. We're talking about a boy whose favorite dinner was "bread and milk tore up" ... which is a dish that came about when my folks were really broke. Unfortunately, he continued to eat this stuff even when Mom and Dad had some money. He'd take a half a loaf of bread, rip it up in a mixing bowl, dump half a quart of milk on it, cover the whole mess with sugar and then he'd sit at the kitchen table and shovel it in with the biggest spoon he could find. He'd glaze over with this spooky (yet serene) expression on his face while he ate, milk dripping from his slack-jawed bliss, which creeped me out even more than the slop he was eating. I am truly hopeful the nightmares will someday stop.
So ... you like that? Now you get to be creeped out too. No amount of Laffy Taffy will ever pull that image out of your brain.
It is true that Halloween is a bigger deal these days. People put up lights, shop in Halloween-themed stores, decorate their lawns with inflatable gargoyles and put way too much thought into sophisticated, high-tech costumes. But it was a lot scarier when I was a kid... and, I think, a lot more fun. Heck, a few of us even survived it.
So, when I see the way some parents coddle their kids the way they do today, I do pity those kids. How are they ever going to find out how tough they really are?
But Halloween is no time to be deep and philosophical or hell, even halfway intelligent. It's a time to celebrate the innocent joy of childhood and the unbridled stupidity of adulthood. So, truly, I want to wish a Happy Halloween to all, and to all a fun night, even if you do have to wait 'til November this year. I hope you all have a blast scaring and getting scared.
And, if you're not scared enough, just think about my brother and his bowl of bread.****
*And yes, of course I give out full-sized candy bars. Someday - when I rise to power - I plan to execute the idiot who invented the so-called "fun" size.
**Actually, Dad preferred to stay back at the house and hand out candy so he could sing "Trick or treat-smell my feet-give me something good to eat" to every single child who climbed up our steps.
***I'll bet your teeth hurt right now, don't they?
****Okay, maybe it's not exactly "scary" ... but sickening is a KIND of scary, isn't it?
But I love Halloween. I especially love how I'm part of an entire generation that decided to turn Halloween into a much bigger production so we could avoid growing up. Halloween, when I was a kid, was an oh-by-the-way-it's-Halloween-again holiday, barely registering above Groundhog Day on the anticipation scale. Yeah, we all loved running around the block in our quest for free candy, but a whole lot of thought didn't go into the execution of this quest. Every year, about a week before the not-so-big day, Dad would drive us to a lot with pumpkins for sale. I'd pick one out, and Dad would carve it. (Kids couldn't carve pumpkins back then, because there were no cute plastic kiddie carving tools at that time ... all we Neanderthals had to work with were very sharp knives.) Some of the neighborhood Moms would turn the pumpkin guts into a tasty pie or two, garnished with a side of healthy, toasty pumpkin seed treats, but my mother wasn't quite that Martha Stewartish....so, we'd just toss the great ball of seedy orange innards into the garbage and put our pumpkin's sad, dead shell in our front room window, pretty much leaving it there until it started to stink.
Then, of course, the next big step in my Halloween routine was the annual trip to Woolworth's to pick out whatever cheap-ass princess costume I was going to wear under my winter coat that year. Mom (who was not terribly talented at home economics, in case you forgot I told you) didn't sew costumes like some of the other kids' Moms (lucky bastards), so the rest of us were forced to wear shiny, polyester nightmares that came out of flat, flimsy boxes costing $4.95. They did come with masks, though. All the dime store costumes had masks made out of the same thin plastic that I believe holds today's Lean Cuisines. This ghastly piece of petroleum was attached to the child's head by a rubber band guaranteed to break by the fifth house. This was actually a good thing, because I'm convinced any kid wearing that hot, sweaty torture device for more than two hours would end up with either terminal cooties or the crawling gleep (that is, if the hot, sweaty child didn't first blindly tumble down somebody's concrete steps and break something important).
Truly, Halloween was dangerous and, sure, it still is... a bit. Every time some kid older than 13 rings my bell, I hand him a Three Musketeers and pray he goes away without robbing me. But when we were kids, it really was hazardous. For one thing, there were absolutely no safety concerns for kids (this was before criminals started putting needles into popcorn balls). We didn't have pre-established trick-or-treating times ... basically, we left the house when it got dark and got back just as our dads would start calling the police. Sometimes parents** went with us, but sometimes not ... I think it depended on what was on TV (if "Gunsmoke" or "Bonanza" was on, we were usually on our own). We tripped over lawns, scraped our knees on sidewalks and sent our Smarties soaring when the handles on our plastic pumpkin pails broke. Still, propelled by our stupidity and untiring greed, we pressed on, knowing that we were in a mad race against time to annoy as many homeowners as possible. The darkness was full of barking dogs, thugs toting pillowcases and those old neighborhood cranks who would turn off their lights and pretend to not be home (until they screamed death threats out their windows when we short-cutted across their lawns).
When I managed to make it home alive, I'd dump my bucket full of crap onto my bedspread and try to find something I could eat. There wasn't much. Unfortunately, I was a child of the 70s, when half of all candy doubled as hardware store adhesive...and the other half doubled as rocks. I'd search through a pile of depressing Jawbreakers, Jolly Ranchers, Bit o' Honeys, Licorice, Tootsie Rolls, Charleston Chews, Mary Janes, Boston Baked Beans, Jujubes, Good 'n Plenties, Mike 'n Ikes and Now 'n Laters*** just to find one or two blessed Snickers bars. Oh ... I almost forgot about the Sugar Daddy ... a gooey, chocolate glob that was not only adhesive, but came on a stick. So, if you didn't injure yourself by involuntarily extracting a couple of your back molars, you could give yourself brain damage by harpooning the roof of your mouth. (Fortunately, after sucking down enough Red Hots, Lemonheads and Atomic Fireballs, your mouth wouldn't feel it.) And I haven't even mentioned Pop Rocks, which came along right after I stopped trick-or-treating. The candy of my day was clearly designed to be used as a tool to further all that population control the hippies told us we needed.
So ... I'd carefully pick out the good stuff (aka: "chocolate"), some Sweetarts and, of course, what money got thrown in there and let the rest fossilize on my dresser until Christmas. Fortunately, my brother (who trick-or-treated until he was, oh, twenty-five), would always wander in the door around midnight dragging a pillowcase holding his loot and heaven knows who else's. My brother might have been... well ... a thug ... but he wasn't exactly picky about what he ate. If I stole some Milky Ways out of his stash, he'd never even notice. We're talking about a boy whose favorite dinner was "bread and milk tore up" ... which is a dish that came about when my folks were really broke. Unfortunately, he continued to eat this stuff even when Mom and Dad had some money. He'd take a half a loaf of bread, rip it up in a mixing bowl, dump half a quart of milk on it, cover the whole mess with sugar and then he'd sit at the kitchen table and shovel it in with the biggest spoon he could find. He'd glaze over with this spooky (yet serene) expression on his face while he ate, milk dripping from his slack-jawed bliss, which creeped me out even more than the slop he was eating. I am truly hopeful the nightmares will someday stop.
So ... you like that? Now you get to be creeped out too. No amount of Laffy Taffy will ever pull that image out of your brain.
It is true that Halloween is a bigger deal these days. People put up lights, shop in Halloween-themed stores, decorate their lawns with inflatable gargoyles and put way too much thought into sophisticated, high-tech costumes. But it was a lot scarier when I was a kid... and, I think, a lot more fun. Heck, a few of us even survived it.
So, when I see the way some parents coddle their kids the way they do today, I do pity those kids. How are they ever going to find out how tough they really are?
But Halloween is no time to be deep and philosophical or hell, even halfway intelligent. It's a time to celebrate the innocent joy of childhood and the unbridled stupidity of adulthood. So, truly, I want to wish a Happy Halloween to all, and to all a fun night, even if you do have to wait 'til November this year. I hope you all have a blast scaring and getting scared.
And, if you're not scared enough, just think about my brother and his bowl of bread.****
*And yes, of course I give out full-sized candy bars. Someday - when I rise to power - I plan to execute the idiot who invented the so-called "fun" size.
**Actually, Dad preferred to stay back at the house and hand out candy so he could sing "Trick or treat-smell my feet-give me something good to eat" to every single child who climbed up our steps.
***I'll bet your teeth hurt right now, don't they?
****Okay, maybe it's not exactly "scary" ... but sickening is a KIND of scary, isn't it?
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Brenda's Buckeye Blues
My father used to tell the same four or five jokes, over and over, and even though his kids could easily recite them from memory by the time we were six, we’d still laugh at his punchlines just so we wouldn’t hurt his feelings. Anyway, one of the lamest jokes he ever told was about Ohio… it went something like,
“Do you know how ‘Ohio’ got its name? Well, one Indian* was taking a walk one day when he bumped into another Indian. He was surprised, and said, “Oh!” And the other Indian said, “Hi!” Finally, the first Indian said “Oh!” and kept on walking.
I said they were jokes.
I never said they were good jokes.
The reason I bring this up is because I want to talk about Ohio, who we are, lots of deep stuff like that. This is a great state. I grew up here. And, every four years, the United States cares what we do on Election Day. But … I’ve often wondered … when someone says, “Ohio” to a person from another state, what do they immediately think?
Here’s what I’m talking about …
If you say “Florida” to me, I get a mental picture of alligators, oranges, old people and Mickey Mouse.
If you say “California,” I think of the Hollywood sign, earthquakes, mudslides and the cover of the National Enquirer.
Iowa … cornfields.
Alaska… polar bears, glaciers and Sarah Palin.
Texas … cowboys, armadillos and line dancing.
Hawaii… pineapples and Jack Lord.
Vermont … maple syrup and skiing lunatics.
You get the idea. But I really do wonder what out-of-staters immediately picture when someone says “Ohio.” Now, I’m not talking about Cleveland … at least when someone living in Wyoming hears “Cleveland,” he or she might think, “Oh yeah! Rock and roll and sports teams that always lose.” But c’mon … say “Ohio,” and what you’ve got is a blurry mental picture of nothing special. Unfortunately, I think this wonderful state I live in has always suffered from something of an identity crisis. We share our state bird, the cardinal, with six other states. Our state flower is a red carnation (a sad little flower that always makes me wonder who died). Our state fruit is a tomato (which, I’m sorry, is just wrong) and our state gemstone is “Ohio flint” (you know, so you won’t confuse it with “Illinois flint” or “Massachusetts flint"). Oh no ... forget diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and all those other gemstones. The man of my dreams will be getting down on one knee and handing me a ring made out of FLINT. (And if I’m lucky, maybe he’ll buy me a pair of gravel earrings to go with it.) I mean … flint? Okay, if THAT’S where the bar** is, then I would like to propose we change our state flower to “Ohio Dandelion” (because we don’t want anyone confusing our dandelions with those crappy weeds growing across the border in Indiana.)***
This lack of having something unique that makes us stand apart from our 49 sister states is, I believe, the reason why we’ve almost always had ugly and/or boring license plates, and I’m not talking about those attractive special plates we pay extra for, like the ones with the kitties and doggies. I’m talking about our standard-issue license plates that most of us end up with…it's almost always red, white and blue, has no picture on it, and says something like, “Birthplace of Aviation” because the rest of the U.S. probably wouldn’t know that unless we decided to constantly remind them.**** Of course, then … would they really care? Would we really care if they did care? Who cares?
This is the plate that's currently on my car:
(No, these aren't the real letters/numbers on MY car. Sorry.)
Out of curiosity I decided to go over to the Ohio BMV website to see what exciting new design they’re offering for 2013. Here it comes, baby…
(Wow! What a difference!)
But to give those folks in Columbus a break, there’s just not a whole lot they can put on there. Our state tree is a buckeye, but when you say “buckeye” to somebody from Nebraska they think, “Oh… yeah … right … football.”**** Nobody thinks of a goofy tree with useless nuts hanging off of it, but hey, that’s our state tree because it’s the best we’ve got, apparently.
Beautiful Ohio… it’s just a really nice state that just doesn’t exude a whole lot of personality. If all 50 states were girls who got invited to a dance, ours would be the pleasant, round-faced girl with glasses in the corner serving up the punch and cookies … but only until the presidential election rolls around, of course. Then her fairy godmother shows up, waves a magic wand and turns Dowdy Miss Ohio into the loose-legged prom queen who’s holding the winning lottery ticket. EVERYBODY wants her. At first she’s flattered and giddy from all of the sudden attention, but by the end of the evening she’s begging the class president and the head of the football team to go away and leave her the hell alone. “You’re suffocating me! I’m sick to death of you! Can’t you two please go annoy some other girl?” They do go away … but in five minutes they’re both back for one more “why you should sleep with me instead of that other jerk” spiel.
So, while I know a lot of you feel the way I do – sick of all the political ads, tired of the name-calling and just wanting the whole tiresome evening to be over … don’t wish it away too quickly, fellow Ohioans. Once that clock hits midnight on November 6th, we turn back into pumpkins.
But at least that’s better than being a tomato or a nut.
*I know this is politically incorrect ... I'm supposed to say “Native American” (my apologies to all Native Americans reading this), but my Dad didn’t know the meaning of “politically correct.” Hell, nobody from his generation did.
**The closest bar to me is at 305th and Lakeshore. Just in case you needed to know that.
*** For a list of all our state symbols, songs, etc., go to http://www.netstate.com/states/symb/oh_symb.htm
****Actually, there is a rather pretty (albeit boring) "Beautiful Ohio" plate that eventually became a no-cost alternative to the yawner hanging off the back end of my car, but by then I was stuck with ol' red, white and snooze. Figures.
***** Go Bucks! Thank goodness you guys are winning, because in Cleveland you’re all we’ve got and you don’t even play here.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Fat Stance
Sorry I haven’t posted in awhile; I’ve been plagued by serious self-esteem issues. It seems that along with having a weight problem (something I’ve struggled with my entire life), my pounds -- along with those of an American two-thirds majority -- are now a “national security threat.” Well, at least that’s what First lady Michelle Obama says. ("If you want me to vote for your husband, Michelle, that's NOT the way to get on my good side.")
Now, I’m not writing a political blog here … these days, I spend most of my waking hours trying to avoid politics by shutting off the television and unfriending Facebook buddies who post anti-Obama or anti-Romney tirades. I’m sick to death of all this negativity. And now, on top of it all, Michelle is telling everybody and their kids that we're too fat.
Well, duh, of course we are. I think the two-thirds of Americans who are currently overweight have a clue that we are, in fact, overweight. We own mirrors; we try on clothes at Walmart; we join gyms and then not go. Do our elected officials and their wives seriously need to point out our physical failings? Why stop there? Maybe Mrs. Romney can jump on board and tell us that along with being fat, our raging acne, sagging chins and bulging skin tags are causing a national insecurity epidemic. Then again, why shouldn’t politicians harp about our weight … should the media have all the fun? Here’s a new one:
So… according to this article, half of all Americans in several states are going to be obese by 2030 – not overweight – but OBESE (a word that doesn’t get any uglier unless one puts “morbidly” in front of it). My theory is that the problem is only going to get worse because all this constant nagging about our fatness will stress us out and make us want to eat more. Or, worse, we’ll all just give up and decide to party like it’s 1999 because we’re going to drop dead from raging type 2 diabetes and heart disease any second now.
I’m not saying the diseases I’ve mentioned aren’t serious problems – they most certainly are. I’m not mocking these illnesses or the people who have them. I’m mocking those in the media who feel compelled to unnecessarily yammer on about it when this yammering obviously cures nothing. I wish I could see a show of hands from you overweight readers out there who can remember at least one parent harping about your being too fat. How’d that work for you? Did your father joking about your weight inspire you to find some will power and miraculously get skinny? Nagging only reinforces any undesirable behavior; most smart parents know this. So, this “you’re fat you’re fat you’re too fat” mantra coming from our TVs is, I feel, programming Americans to.. well … be fat. The more they nag, the fatter we’ll get. Most of us are, at heart, still rebellious teenagers: “I’ll show you – you think I’m too fat now? I’ll show you what fat is! Just you wait!”
And I, my friends, am a rebel with a cause. It’s bad enough when I have to watch the videos of headless people on CNN while some size-zero bimbo announces a new “why obesity is bad for you” study. (By the way – how is that EVER news? Now if somebody announced that obesity is GOOD for you... that, my friends, would be real news, and news I could use.) It’s tough to be told, over and over, that being fat automatically means we're unhealthy, sexually unattractive, unemployable, a walking liability, weak, lazy, stupid and even immoral. (Of course this is garbage, but because political correctness bans society from criticizing everybody else, the world overcompensates by beating up on us). And while this is tough, I can take it. But I don’t have to take this kind of crap from the airlines. Let me tell you what happened to me last week when I had to fly to D.C. for training.
Now … it had been awhile since I had been on a United Airlines regional jet … aka: “toy plane.” These are not real airplanes; they’re winged torpedoes designed to give the sky-bound that unique “I’m trapped on a submarine and suffocating to death” experience we all secretly crave. On my flight to D.C., I was delighted that I didn’t need the seatbelt extender … but understand that I was probably one Big Mac, one large fry and two Heinz ketchup packets away from needing one. That was disturbing enough. But what really upset me was that my luggage – my tiny carry-on bag – was TOO FAT for the overhead. When did those compartments get so small? My purse would barely fit in there. I bought the bag because the salesperson promised me the thing would fit under any seat or in any overhead and, uh, it did no such thing. And, because I’m fighting with this bag in the middle of this microscopic aisle with other full-sized humans, I can’t lean over without knowing my back-end is in somebody else’s face. (“I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to point this thing at you, I swear.") Finally, I gave up and checked it (the bag, not my rear, although that would have been a nice option), thinking, “Flying shouldn’t be this hard.” I felt bad for my carry-on, though. I know I’m too fat, but it’s hard when the world taunts me about my stuff being obese as well.
And yet, this tale gets worse.
It's a few days later, and I’m flying home from my trip. I get to travel on yet another regional jet. (I really need to talk to my boss about attending training classes on the west coast; at least then I’d get to fly in an actual airplane once in awhile.) I checked my bag ahead of time so I wouldn’t have to subject it to more humiliation. I sat down in 10D and was arranging myself when the young lady in 10C asked me if I would switch with her fiancé, Jason, who was sitting up in the first row. They wanted to sit together. Awww. So ... because I’m both sentimental and stupid, I agreed. I changed seats with the happy bridegroom-to-be and realized too late that the bulkhead seats have no moveable armrests. I squeezed myself in; it was tight, but I made it. And, by some miracle, I didn’t need the seatbelt extender. I sat back and readied myself to suffer through yet one more miserable short flight when the flight attendant made this disturbing announcement:
“We have a couple empty seats in the back, and our pilot has informed us that two of you in the first two rows will have to move back to those seats so that we have proper weight and balance.”
I’ll give you a moment to absorb this.
Now … I want to assure you that I did NOT take this personally. Not at all. As I processed this information, my inner dialogue went something like:
“WHAT? Are you kidding me? Are you freaking kidding me? Now I’m too fat to sit at the front of the plane? What does this thing weigh? How many TONS does this aircraft weigh? And I’m going to upset its delicate balance? Me? I know I’m not Princess Kate, but c’mon, I’m not starring on the Discovery Channel either. And I only moved so that Mr. Oh-So-Happy could sit next to Miss Oh-So-Happy and this is my freaking reward? Well, forget it; I already moved once, I’m not doing it! I’m not going! If you want to get me out of this seat, you’re gonna need a court order and a crowbar!”
Fortunately, the guy sitting next to me must have been reading my mind (I sure hope I didn’t say any of that out loud) and cheerfully volunteered to move back, as did somebody sitting behind me.
So, there you have it … we’re all getting fatter, and the airlines are getting meaner about it. I've included a link that I like … I could relate to the photo of the woman in this one. I know she knows my pain. Fat chance the airlines do.
I’d go on, but I’m depressed and need to go find a cupcake.
P.S. I'm seriously re-thinking trains. They have cabooses; I'll bet they'd understand what it's like to drag one around.
Friday, August 17, 2012
Play Ball. It's Tradition.
My Dad – who grew up loving baseball and was a pretty good pitcher – was on the verge of playing for St. Louis when he was drafted into the army. Dad came out of World War II with a bad shrapnel wound to the head that forever ruined his pitching and, consequently, his dream of playing in the major leagues. But Dad never lost his love for baseball. He also loved watching football. He couldn’t care less about basketball because a) he never went to college and b) he was kind of an Archie Bunker, and there were just too many non-white players in basketball.
Mom, sadly, had no interest in sports. She was clueless. If I had told her the Indians were playing baseball in December and were wearing brown and orange uniforms, she would have believed it. The only time she noticed a televised game was when there something else she wanted to watch on TV; then it was a source of profound irritation. During a football game she’d ask, “How much longer is this going to be on?” and then Dad and I would tell her, “Don’t worry, they just sounded the two-minute warning.” Of course, then we’d laugh like hell when Mom actually thought that meant “two minutes.”
Sadly, not one of his three children inherited Dad’s athleticism. My brother hated all sports; I’m not sure why, but I think it’s because playing in any sport requires some degree of focus in order to not die, and Bill has never had any focus. When he was a child, he would throw objects up into the air and watch them plummet to earth, ultimately landing on top of his skull (maybe could that be considered a legitimate sport? Bonk Ball?). Bill also loved getting wasted (buzz ball?) and finding creative ways to elude law enforcement (fuzz ball?)*. As for my sister – well, she always got bored too quickly. The day I took Dad to a Cubs game at Wrigley Field, Barb spent the afternoon shopping and dining on pancakes. Barb likes to tell me that perhaps she would consider sitting through a game if the players had to juggle knives while running the bases, or if the outfielders had to catch the ball while whistling and hopping on one foot. (Apparently, Barb has no interest in a sporting event unless there’s some element of immediate danger and/or personal humiliation involved.)
Out of the three kids, I came the closest to sharing Dad’s appreciation of our national pastime. I wasn’t athletic enough to be much good at playing softball and baseball (although I enjoyed it – translation - it was one of the few gym activities that didn’t make me puke), but I was a great spectator. I loved watching baseball on TV with my father, and can remember how much fun I had going downtown to the old stadium to see players like Joe Charboneau, Buddy Bell, Andre Thornton and Dennis Eckersley. Oh, and I was totally in love with Duane Kuiper (as were most of the girls at Willowick Junior High), but he ran off and married somebody else, so it’s best we don’t talk about him again.
Now, given this was Cleveland, I probably don’t have to tell you that the Indians sucked back then (for any out-of-towners reading this, it’s safe to assume that if a sports team was in Cleveland, it had way many more bad years than good). It was considered a decent year if we finished in fifth place. Also, the Indians didn’t have the luxury of playing in a park that was intended for baseball, like Jacobs Field (sorry, but I’m not calling it Progressive Field, now or ever, and you can't make me). Back then the Tribe played baseball in a football stadium, so with the exception of Opening Day or the weekend the Yankees were in town, the place was mostly a yawning sea of empty chairs dotted with an occasional cluster of drunken fans. I can remember how easily my friends and I annoyed the crap out of centerfielder Rick Manning because we wouldn’t stop yelling insults from the bleachers. Ah, those were the days. We were young and we stupidly and optimistically believed a losing team could still perform miracles. Also, that’s where and when we finally got to drink beer (which probably accounted for much of the afore-mentioned stupidity/optimism).
Of course, baseball wasn’t always a bust. I did get to see Len Barker’s perfect game on television (and wrote about it in my diary because hey, even back then I knew I’d probably never see another one!). I do recall 1995 and 1997 when the Indians went to the World Series … and even though the Tribe wasn’t victorious, this town finally got to be happy and optimistic (without having the “stupidly” attached to it). Also, the Indians had really memorable, nice-guy players in the 90s: Orel Hershiser, Charlie Nagy, and Omar Vizquel, among others. It was just a fun time to be a fan.
Not for Dad, of course. Dad didn’t watch sports to have “fun” in the traditional sense … he just loved to bitch, and he found reason to bitch about everybody, no matter how fleetingly fantastic they were. There I’d be, cheering on Jim Thome during a season when he was trying for 50 homeruns, and Dad’s contribution was generally, “He’s too fat - they should get rid of him.” Everybody was “awful,” “terrible,” “sickening,” or “pathetic.” And yet... if a game was on television... he never missed it. I think Dad somehow found tremendous joy in criticizing base-running, crotch-scratching millionaires.
(I, of course, am nothing like him, and I am certainly thankful for that.)
But Dad didn’t confine his rancor to baseball. I watched football games with him as well – well, at least up until halftime. Dad often missed the ends of Browns games because Sam Rutigliano or Bill Belichick or (insert any name of a luckless head coach) was “awful,” “terrible,” “sickening” or “pathetic.” (If those guys had needed to run anywhere, I’m sure “too fat” would have been thrown in there as well.) Usually Dad would fly into a rage over the Browns’ predictable “run-run-pass” offense and, fearing he’d have a heart attack, would spend the second half of the games puttering outside in his garage. Then, when it was all over, he’d wander in and casually ask me who won. If the Browns won, he’d grunt and saunter back outside to rake a leaf, shovel dog poop or avoid my mother. But if the Browns lost, then he’d laugh sadistically and shout, “Good!” “Good for ‘em! That’s good! I hope they lose every game! They’re ______!” (Insert “awful,” “terrible,” “sickening” or “pathetic.”)
And no, football wasn’t always a bust. We never made it to the big show during my conscious lifetime, but we came close. Those were exciting times. Of course, then somebody from another team would intercept the ball in the end zone or drive their offense 98 yards down the field and break our hearts all over again, but it was so much fun thinking “this time” would be different.
I guess I got to thinking about all this today when I was driving to work and heard the latest Indians’ commercial on the radio … it has something to do with “tradition.” I think maybe this marketing move is replacing the “What If?” campaign we heard all summer... at least until it became apparent the end of that sentence was, “the Indians crash and burn again this year?” But seriously – “tradition” – well, I’m kinda thinking they should have thought that one through. Cleveland teams have a tradition of losing, and often losing at the last possible minute. Cleveland fans have a tradition of being amazing resilient and incredibly enthusiastic about mediocre to poor professional teams. We are a people who, in the face of awful, terrible, sickening and pathetic reality, still show up and believe that somehow it’s all going to change one day. As we say goodbye to another disappointing season of baseball and try to believe another new quarterback is going to be the Chosen One who finally lifts our curse, we mentally prepare ourselves for yet more disappointment … because yes, that is our tradition.**
*My apologies to our esteemed law enforcement community. You guys are the greatest, and I’m sorry Bill put you through hell.
**Well, until this year. This year we’re going to win the whole thing. I just know it.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Brenda, Barry and Blossom
"All my dreams are dead."
This was my reaction upon receiving my ticket in the mail to see Barry Manilow at Blossom - a ticket for a last-row seat in the pavilion. I was heart-broken and totally convinced that God hated my guts. Did He not know that Barry was the love of my life? I had posters of this blue-eyed, golden-haired, sequin-suited superstar taped all over my bedroom walls. I played his "Live" album until my parents developed an irrational hatred of the man. (To be fair, how many times can a reasonable person listen to the "You Deserve a Break Today" theme from McDonald's?) And that ticket had cost me a whopping nine bucks...money I had carefully saved up from babysitting my next-door neighbor's kids (one of whom reads this blog, I might add - you know who you are, Lynn!). I had washed dishes for that money, pulled weeds for that money, and endured Dad's endless criticism of my lack of weed-pulling skills for that money. I suffered, man. I suffered for Manilow. And this was my reward? I deserved to sit in the front row. No ... rather ... I deserved to be backstage, groveling at the feet of my first love, because of course nobody in the universe loved him more than I did. Nobody. Not his friends, not his mother, and not the God who created him.
Of course, this was 1978, and I was 15 at the time. I kept a diary back then, and those exact words - "all my dreams are dead" - still haunt me. Why? Well, it's disturbing on way too many levels. For one thing, the writing was so embarrassingly bad. (Oh look, here's another diary entry where I dream of someday growing up and winning "bunches and bunches of Pulitzer Prizes.") For another, the dead dream phrase was not exaggerated. That summer before my very first concert - Barry Manilow at Blossom Music Center - I thought of Barry during every waking moment. I counted the days until the show. When it came to the sum total of every conscious fantasy I had, Barry was the one, the only, the beginning and the end. I was obsessed...consumed...and completely out of my mind.
And, in 1978, no performer was bigger than Barry. He sold out three nights at Blossom - including the lawn - to the tune of 60,000 seats. His songs were all over the radio; his album sales were insane; he even had his own television specials. (Back in the 70s, our "reality" TV was something called the "variety show," during which truly talented people would entertain us. Those were some good days.)
Even at school, Barry was a topic of conversation. He was cool because he was uncool. It's hard to explain, but in that era there seemed to be a backlash to just about everything. If Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd were popular, disco was its opposite, and so disco became popular. And if disco was popular, singer-songwriters like Manilow, John Denver, Neil Diamond and The Carpenters were disco's opposite, and so they became popular. I don't think a lot of people understand how our society's collective mood swings back then contributed to a really interesting decade in music.
Because Barry sang songs that appealed to the vulnerable and insecure, many vulnerable and insecure teenagers loved him. However, many equally vulnerable and insecure teenagers (who were presumably ashamed of these qualities) hated him, so the pro-Barry and no-Barry camps occasionally clashed. My most vivid memory of this particular pimple popping involved a jukebox. At North High, we had a commons area which served as a lunch room. In the mornings, however, this was where the kids met to socialize and frantically copy each other's homework. It was an area that had become increasingly attractive because the school had purchased a couple of arcade games: one was video football, the other Space Invaders. Video games were brand new back then, and students used to get to school extra early just to have a shot at playing them. Consequently, the area was constantly packed with kids pumping quarters into the jukebox that sat nearby. (If there is anyone younger than 40 out there reading this, a "jukebox" was a great big box that contained something called "records" which used to contain actual "songs.")
As for the students, we pretty much fell under one of three labels: jocks, browns or burnouts. Jocks ... well, they were the popular kids, the athletes, the ones everyone else avoided. Browns were the smart/creative kids ... the A students, the band members, the drama crowd, the ones everyone else avoided. And then, finally, there were the burnouts ... the bad kids, the druggies, the ones who were always in trouble, and yes - the ones everyone else avoided.
So ... my friends and I - "browning" our lives away at our usual table by the window - would listen to David Bowie, Boston, and the soundtrack from "Grease" with little complaint, but every morning - EVERY morning - we had to hear Pink Floyd's "Another Brick in the Wall" played with sickening repetition. To hear that thing played six times before the opening bell was not unusual; I think the burnouts (who surprisingly had lots of money) may have been trying to brainwash us. For me, brain-bleeding was more accurate Fortunately, we had successfully petitioned to have Barry Manilow's "Ready To Take A Chance Again" added to the box, so we decided (oh, who am I kidding, I decided), that for every time we had to listen to Floyd, they were going to listen to Manilow. Well ... it didn't quite work out that way. The very first week we tried to do this, the Floyd followers responded by banging the jukebox against the wall, causing Barry's record to skip. Naturally, when Floyd came on, we did the same thing. I vaguely recall this episode escalating into a shouting match with at least six students playing tug-of-war with the jukebox. Sadly - but justifiably - we all got yelled at, and both Barry Manilow and Pink Floyd were forever banned from our listening pleasure. (Sorry, Barry - I meant well.)
At home, my parents just kept telling themselves my Manilow addiction was just some sort of hideous phase that was bound to magically end when I started acting like a normal teenager. I'm not sure what a "normal" teenager would have been to my Mom and Dad, because they were constantly at war with my older brother and sister. I think, though, my parents cherished some sort of twisted fantasy in which I would be this nice, stable kid who got A's, moved out of the house at 18, got married to some equally stable man and had a bunch of stable kids. When all that happened, maybe then I'd finally stop playing the "Live" album.
But my Dad - who knew I was crazy - stupidly offered to drive me and my friends to Blossom to see Barry, which was kind of a big deal because none of us were old enough to drive yet. He even sat in the parking lot during the show and waited for us. I can still remember the sweet sound of Dad cussing non-stop when it took him two hours to get out of the Blossom parking lot, which embarrassed the hell out of me in front of my friends. Dad sure could swear. He died in 2010.
It's strange ... looking back on it all ... that I don't remember much from the actual show. I'm pretty sure Barry was there - in all his gold-studded, white-jumpsuited glory - but I think the serotonin rush in my brain might have brought on a seizure that would explain the memory loss. My diary entry from the day after isn't much help ... it's mostly incoherent babblings from somebody who might have just experienced the Rapture. But, in the end, all the suffering -- as only a 15-year-old can suffer -- was worth it.
Here in 2012, it's 34 years later and yes, I have a ticket to see Barry Manilow at Blossom Music Center tonight (Aug. 2). I never stopped being a fan ... probably because Barry never stopped performing, and I never stopped enjoying his performances. I'm too old to care if Barry's cool. When it comes to temperature, I only care if I'm cool (especially at an outdoor venue in August). My dreams and Barry have pretty much parted company over these last 34 years. But tonight, when I sit back and listen to "Mandy," "Weekend In New England" and "I Write The Songs" one more time, I can close my eyes and, for a short precious while, pretend it's 1978 when nothing else mattered. I know I'll have plenty of company during my time travel; I think Barry still sells out so many of his tour stops because the world is full of people who need to leave 2012 for awhile. Tonight I'll be surrounded by lots of people who, like me, "deserve a break today." We can all listen to his music and be 15 again.
And maybe tonight I can even pretend that my Dad is still waiting for me in the parking lot.
P.S. Barry is still creating some incredible music. Check out his latest single from "15 Minutes," his latest and greatest CD:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C72-IBJ1oxg
This was my reaction upon receiving my ticket in the mail to see Barry Manilow at Blossom - a ticket for a last-row seat in the pavilion. I was heart-broken and totally convinced that God hated my guts. Did He not know that Barry was the love of my life? I had posters of this blue-eyed, golden-haired, sequin-suited superstar taped all over my bedroom walls. I played his "Live" album until my parents developed an irrational hatred of the man. (To be fair, how many times can a reasonable person listen to the "You Deserve a Break Today" theme from McDonald's?) And that ticket had cost me a whopping nine bucks...money I had carefully saved up from babysitting my next-door neighbor's kids (one of whom reads this blog, I might add - you know who you are, Lynn!). I had washed dishes for that money, pulled weeds for that money, and endured Dad's endless criticism of my lack of weed-pulling skills for that money. I suffered, man. I suffered for Manilow. And this was my reward? I deserved to sit in the front row. No ... rather ... I deserved to be backstage, groveling at the feet of my first love, because of course nobody in the universe loved him more than I did. Nobody. Not his friends, not his mother, and not the God who created him.
Of course, this was 1978, and I was 15 at the time. I kept a diary back then, and those exact words - "all my dreams are dead" - still haunt me. Why? Well, it's disturbing on way too many levels. For one thing, the writing was so embarrassingly bad. (Oh look, here's another diary entry where I dream of someday growing up and winning "bunches and bunches of Pulitzer Prizes.") For another, the dead dream phrase was not exaggerated. That summer before my very first concert - Barry Manilow at Blossom Music Center - I thought of Barry during every waking moment. I counted the days until the show. When it came to the sum total of every conscious fantasy I had, Barry was the one, the only, the beginning and the end. I was obsessed...consumed...and completely out of my mind.
And, in 1978, no performer was bigger than Barry. He sold out three nights at Blossom - including the lawn - to the tune of 60,000 seats. His songs were all over the radio; his album sales were insane; he even had his own television specials. (Back in the 70s, our "reality" TV was something called the "variety show," during which truly talented people would entertain us. Those were some good days.)
Even at school, Barry was a topic of conversation. He was cool because he was uncool. It's hard to explain, but in that era there seemed to be a backlash to just about everything. If Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd were popular, disco was its opposite, and so disco became popular. And if disco was popular, singer-songwriters like Manilow, John Denver, Neil Diamond and The Carpenters were disco's opposite, and so they became popular. I don't think a lot of people understand how our society's collective mood swings back then contributed to a really interesting decade in music.
Because Barry sang songs that appealed to the vulnerable and insecure, many vulnerable and insecure teenagers loved him. However, many equally vulnerable and insecure teenagers (who were presumably ashamed of these qualities) hated him, so the pro-Barry and no-Barry camps occasionally clashed. My most vivid memory of this particular pimple popping involved a jukebox. At North High, we had a commons area which served as a lunch room. In the mornings, however, this was where the kids met to socialize and frantically copy each other's homework. It was an area that had become increasingly attractive because the school had purchased a couple of arcade games: one was video football, the other Space Invaders. Video games were brand new back then, and students used to get to school extra early just to have a shot at playing them. Consequently, the area was constantly packed with kids pumping quarters into the jukebox that sat nearby. (If there is anyone younger than 40 out there reading this, a "jukebox" was a great big box that contained something called "records" which used to contain actual "songs.")
As for the students, we pretty much fell under one of three labels: jocks, browns or burnouts. Jocks ... well, they were the popular kids, the athletes, the ones everyone else avoided. Browns were the smart/creative kids ... the A students, the band members, the drama crowd, the ones everyone else avoided. And then, finally, there were the burnouts ... the bad kids, the druggies, the ones who were always in trouble, and yes - the ones everyone else avoided.
So ... my friends and I - "browning" our lives away at our usual table by the window - would listen to David Bowie, Boston, and the soundtrack from "Grease" with little complaint, but every morning - EVERY morning - we had to hear Pink Floyd's "Another Brick in the Wall" played with sickening repetition. To hear that thing played six times before the opening bell was not unusual; I think the burnouts (who surprisingly had lots of money) may have been trying to brainwash us. For me, brain-bleeding was more accurate Fortunately, we had successfully petitioned to have Barry Manilow's "Ready To Take A Chance Again" added to the box, so we decided (oh, who am I kidding, I decided), that for every time we had to listen to Floyd, they were going to listen to Manilow. Well ... it didn't quite work out that way. The very first week we tried to do this, the Floyd followers responded by banging the jukebox against the wall, causing Barry's record to skip. Naturally, when Floyd came on, we did the same thing. I vaguely recall this episode escalating into a shouting match with at least six students playing tug-of-war with the jukebox. Sadly - but justifiably - we all got yelled at, and both Barry Manilow and Pink Floyd were forever banned from our listening pleasure. (Sorry, Barry - I meant well.)
At home, my parents just kept telling themselves my Manilow addiction was just some sort of hideous phase that was bound to magically end when I started acting like a normal teenager. I'm not sure what a "normal" teenager would have been to my Mom and Dad, because they were constantly at war with my older brother and sister. I think, though, my parents cherished some sort of twisted fantasy in which I would be this nice, stable kid who got A's, moved out of the house at 18, got married to some equally stable man and had a bunch of stable kids. When all that happened, maybe then I'd finally stop playing the "Live" album.
But my Dad - who knew I was crazy - stupidly offered to drive me and my friends to Blossom to see Barry, which was kind of a big deal because none of us were old enough to drive yet. He even sat in the parking lot during the show and waited for us. I can still remember the sweet sound of Dad cussing non-stop when it took him two hours to get out of the Blossom parking lot, which embarrassed the hell out of me in front of my friends. Dad sure could swear. He died in 2010.
It's strange ... looking back on it all ... that I don't remember much from the actual show. I'm pretty sure Barry was there - in all his gold-studded, white-jumpsuited glory - but I think the serotonin rush in my brain might have brought on a seizure that would explain the memory loss. My diary entry from the day after isn't much help ... it's mostly incoherent babblings from somebody who might have just experienced the Rapture. But, in the end, all the suffering -- as only a 15-year-old can suffer -- was worth it.
Here in 2012, it's 34 years later and yes, I have a ticket to see Barry Manilow at Blossom Music Center tonight (Aug. 2). I never stopped being a fan ... probably because Barry never stopped performing, and I never stopped enjoying his performances. I'm too old to care if Barry's cool. When it comes to temperature, I only care if I'm cool (especially at an outdoor venue in August). My dreams and Barry have pretty much parted company over these last 34 years. But tonight, when I sit back and listen to "Mandy," "Weekend In New England" and "I Write The Songs" one more time, I can close my eyes and, for a short precious while, pretend it's 1978 when nothing else mattered. I know I'll have plenty of company during my time travel; I think Barry still sells out so many of his tour stops because the world is full of people who need to leave 2012 for awhile. Tonight I'll be surrounded by lots of people who, like me, "deserve a break today." We can all listen to his music and be 15 again.
And maybe tonight I can even pretend that my Dad is still waiting for me in the parking lot.
P.S. Barry is still creating some incredible music. Check out his latest single from "15 Minutes," his latest and greatest CD:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C72-IBJ1oxg
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