Signs o' the Times?

What idiot at the station thought that made any sense?

Mewonders why TV exists. Mewonders why I pay for cable.

Time Future and Time Past

Time present and time past

Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.

Don't worry if you avoid contact with me at the grocery store.
I am trying to avoid you too. It ain't personal.

Grocery stores are interesting places sometimes, especially around the holidays. The holidays seem to be a rather brutal time of year no matter what horror or ongoing mess is happening. I suppose we think that we get some divine pass because it's Turkey or Santa time. The holidays only serve to underscore the messes that are our lives. C'est la vie.

First, I passed a friend's wife. She did the double-take and then smiled. I know about some of her personal problems she's been suffering through, so I left the exchange at that. The next time I passed her, I guess we skipped the hellos and decided not to recognize one another. The mask was gone-the smile was replaced by an aged, haunted look. Age she no doubt saw on my face as well.Worries are demons we carry on our backs, silently trying to kill us if we let them. Experiencing some rather intense ones of my own, I recognized the pain. Best to respect it with distance.

Then, making my usual backtracking for a forgotten item, I saw a guy that used to sing at the church where once I worked. I did avoid him. So sorry. He's the nicest guy you'd ever meet, but I didn't feel like going through the exchange.

Then I ran into an old junior high friend. People do that natural double-take when they recognize you, but not sure if taking the time to chat with you is worth it. Confession: I have avoided some really nice people because I want to get the hell out of the store as quickly as possible.

I saw my old friend, Donny. I went to school with him in junior high and at that time, we were inseparable mates. He did that "friend or foe?" double-take. I get to talk to him so rarely that I never do a true avoid with him.

We exchanged the usual pleasantries-which seems to me to be a test of residual friendliness and compatibility. A kind of tolerance test for future exchanges.

"I thought about you the other day, " I told him, "I remember how my step-dad and your dad used to drive us to school. I remember shivering those cold mornings." His dad worked at a Cadillac dealership and those leather seats were like trying to snuggle an ice block. Both of us have since lost those important figures in our life. He smiled widely. Like I said, we were once thick as thieves.

"I thought about you the other day," he countered. "A friend of mine recently closed out an estate of one of your neighbors. Remember Mrs. __ and how we used to torture her?" Indeed I do. "She recently died at the age of 90. She had one niece and she left her two million dollars. Two million dollars!" We both marveled at that. She lived almost nun-like: frugal, quiet, never loud or ostentatious. Who knew she was loaded?

One memory serves up another. They are, after all, chain links in a fence. She was our neighbor directly across from us. One curious summer, we noticed a man in a brown car circling around and around the block. He'd turn on his dome light and wave at her upper bedroom window. Not very subtle if you're going to have an affair and especially if you don't want monstrous adolescents taking a great interest in your love life.

 Which we did. Big time.

We even went up to her door and sincerely told her that there was man circling the block, looking at her house each time. She stumbled to find the right words the insincere concerns of these callous youths and then it came, "He won't harm anyone. He's alright." Screw that, lady. We want to know all about your love life. We are the white devils with little or no moral compass. God help us.

Ions have passed since Donny and I spent those unburdened days as school lads where our greatest concern was the lunch time race to get in line at Burger Chef or Long John Silvers before our hungry classmates. Or whether or not a girl might like us.

So, if you see me in the grocery store, I might do an avoid. Don't take it personal. Alright?

A History of Love, Pt. 1

Pre-ramble
Why do certain memories stay fixed in the mind and others fade as quickly as dusk? Answer: their importance.

A friend of mine recently said that, in the end, the only really strong memories we have are our interaction with the opposite sex.

The dude has a point.

I'm going to say the third grade was when I became aware of those most curious creatures. I wouldn't take that time as as accurate at all, but it's as close as I can come to pinpointing the time when I was aware of girls.

By aware, I mean they made me nervous. I would twitch and go silent. In high school, my friend started calling me "Silent Sam" because I would go mute around the pretty ones. Not just those, but all of them mystified me. One thing though: I liked what I saw.

Who's On First?

Where do we start? Belle Vernon, Pennsylvania in the year of our Lord 196x. Hell, I can't remember.

I remember going over to some girl's house and standing outside and talking to her for what seemed a long time. She was really cute, but her name is lost to time now. I do remember a Carol Ferguson- a blond whom all the boys had their eyes on. Her family ran the local funeral home. The same place where they would later display my grandfather, father and then grandmother. Carol was just a distant dream-unobtainable.

I suppose Susan Reilly (Spelling a guess, but her name was pronounced as "really") was the first girl I had contact with and my crush was bad. This was third grade and for some reason, I was the new kid. She sat behind me and I liked that-a lot, but a kick below the belt came one day when she told me, "We were in the bathroom and I said to my friends, 'I hope I don't have to help that new kid because he's so ugly.'" Sweet, yes?

You might as well have thrown me out a window. Looking on it now, we know young people play games with words and ignoring someone is a way of not letting your friends you think the new guy is cute. Whatever her meaning, I took the meaning literally and it knocked me sideways for many years.

Third grade went, but Susan and I had classes together and despite her basically calling me the Hunchback of Notre Dame, we were friends. I still had it bad for her. That never changed. One time and this was around Valentine's Day, I had bought her a box of Russell Stover chocolates. For a reason which I cannot now recall, I got really angry with her. Lord help me, I withheld my chocolates and she started crying. I remember her sitting there pissed and hurt, combing her hair, with red eyes. Not my finest moment, but I do recall realizing that Susan knew that I was her puppet. Maybe I just got tired of that role.
Now, before you call me a monster, I will tell you about what one of her friends did to me during Mrs. Smith's class years later. I sitting in the back row, chatting to this girl, so much so that Mrs. Smith warned me about talking.
The girl said, "Look at my shoe." Dumb as an ox, I did and she promptly kicked me in the face.

It is a wonder that I'm not a serial killer.

She laughed, I was stunned, but it wasn't over for me. Mrs. Smith came back and gave me several light shots with her fist to my nose. Yes, teachers hit students back then.

Imagine what I was learning: girls are devious, well ahead and smarter than boys and what they do to you gets you punishment from authority figures.

That was rough, but not the end of the lessons I was to learn about love in all of its thorny glory.

I did learn one thing about myself even at that age: I could get laughs. I don't know why, but being funny or stupid was both a means of getting attention and diverting the anxiety I felt around girls.

One fond memory I have is at a dance. Now, dances are normally traumatizing events where the socially awkward realize with even further clarity their alienation, but this one was part of Phys Ed. As my partner and I twirled about, I made her laugh with, "I'm going to vomit." I wanted this magical moment to be repeated when class came again, but it didn't happen. It occurred to me that moments like that cannot be recreated. They are spontaneous.

****

Later, I remember developing a friendship with a girl who was very sweet to me. Once I got over my initial shyness (Yes, once I was shy.), talking was a lot easier. I wish I could remember her name dammit.

She even flirted with me. "When a girl does this," she said while scratching the palm of my hand, "it means she wants you to [insert needed]." I honestly don't remember what sexual thing she was describing. Sorry to disappoint, but that has flown with time as well. I remember it because she was so nice to me.

I do remember having a long conversation with her over the phone. This was progress. Girls don't have to kick you in the face nor call you names.

OK, I'll stick with this.

We Are Not Nitpicking

As a Bass Trombonist I must take issue with the Toronto Symphony version of the Polevetsian Dances you played in the previous hour. In the 3/4 section the Bass Trombone down beats were obliterated by the timpani.

Several possibilities come to mind:

The Bass Trombonist was either absent or incompetent

The conductor was at fault allowing the Timpanist to overpower the Bass Trombone

The recording engineer did not place the mikes properly

You have other recordings which are correct in the balance between the Timpani and the Bass Trombone. In the future please play one of those rather than the Toronto. Thank you.

The Walking Dud

More of these, please.

AMC's The Walking Dead is pissing me off.

Well, come to think of it, I'm really not that passionate about it all. I find my mind drifting off during the dull "character developing" yak sessions. Lori and Rick having a dramatic moment! The love triangle with Shane! And all these merry survivors are getting along just peachy and care about one another. It's dull and heavy handed, quite frankly.

It's as if Walking Dead's writers are writing in neon: See? We're not just a shallow series with grisly canabalism or glorious Pekinpah head shots! We have story.

We can learn about charcters through their actions, not just meandering and dull dialogue. The bible of all zombie movies, Romero's Dawn of the Dead has four very vivid characters, all with distinct personalities (and issues), and when there's dialogue, it's not forced as it is in this series. Argh!

Less of this, please.

Rev it up or ratings will drop.