Bummer

This very silly, but I'm bummed that the KC Blockbuster is closing.

Part of my joy is to run in the store, before the Kroger jaunt, and see if there's anything that might be worth renting.

Say goodbye to that convenience now. I had a pass that only cost me $15 a month. No due dates, no hassles, no pay for individual rentals- it was all cool.

I brought home many a really bad horror film, but never had to to feel the sting of the $5 or whatever rental fee hit me in the ass.

Blockbuster made some major fuckups along the way and eventually Dish TV bought them. Their selection changed somewhat as I noticed that the more out-of-the-way titles seemed to no longer be offered.

Where will we end up? Netflix? Amazon? Not sure.

I will not pay 7 or 8 bucks to rent a movie.

Maybe I can catch up on my reading.

Sigh.

I Watch Too Much TV

TV is a big part of what I do. TV has the best writing now and probably has had for some time.

1. Breaking Bad. This badass and truly sick (Thank you, Uncle Bill) series is a drama masterpiece. Consistently high quality episodes with several "WTF" moments. It burns with a light that blinds. If you've missed out, there's time to catch up before some blogger spoils it for you.

"The Swede" on Hell on Wheels.
Watch out. This is one crazy and plotting son-of-a-bitch.
Brilliant acting by Christopher Heyerdahl.

2. Hell on Wheels. The first season was good, but season two has found it's engine. There wasn't a single misstep this whole season and the finale was jaw-dropping (literally). Heyerdahl should win an Emmy, hands-down. Anything less is treason.
3. Dexter. There has not been a bad season of this series. That says a lot about this show because even The Sopranos had some lame seasons.
Gore and dark humor abound, but it's the characters and story lines that keep me coming back.

4. The Walking Dead. After season two's glacial pace, the noted exception being the last "barn burning" episode, this zombie series may finally become the horrifying, flesh-eating goodness that it should. Every episode of a great series has to have "wtf" moments. Fingers crossed that this season will surprise, delight and freak out. I have a feeling we won't be disappointed.

5. Inspector Lewis. Lewis may be a less educated man than his predecessor, but his relative simplicity is reflected in this "hold the pomp, bring on the murders" PBS favorite. Call it the thinking person's detective series.

"Slow the cray cray roll, Ms. Conspiracy Theory."

6. Homeland. Well done first season with plenty of twists. Hell, it's got Damian Lewis (Band of Brothers) in it and Claire Danes as every cray cray girlfriend you ever had, minus the Lithium. Both Lewis and Danes took the Emmy.

7. Boardwalk Empire. Total kickass show. Shut the hell up and start watching.

8. The Borgias. Jeremy Irons is a total hoot as a most unsaintly pope with a keen knowledge of how to win wars, keep kingdoms and bed hot women. Great supporting cast as well.

9. Falling Skies. This show seemed to be stuck looking at its own reflection with delusions of a gritty, dystopian tale of the last fighting survivors in a post alien takeover. What's there is weak and repetitive dialogue (Can someone please just shoot the captain so we can get out of the faux tough soldier shit?), predictable characters and metal robots that look like plastic toys. I don't even like the look of the show.
10. Game of Thrones. Me likey, but I sometimes wonder why the story seems to be a little more convoluted than it should be.

11. Nurse Jackie. Drug addicted nurse Jackie used to have her dirty little secret under control and now the havoc of her addiction has poisoned every aspect of her life. Good casting and colorful characters make this watchable.

12. Weeds. The season finale was done right, albeit with some ridiculous contrivances and story lines that went nowhere. Compared to last season, which was an epic fail, this funny, this sexy stoner series went off to DVD land with a decent ending.

The Wedding Not

My poor old guitar has seen the best and worst of me.
We are one in the same. We both are tired of weddings.

My first "real" gig was a wedding, but it was very unsatisfying.

More than slightly champagne buzzed, I hurled my electric guitar into the back of the car. Angry and disappointed that no one had listened, I wasn't happy. My keyboard playing friend had a good time. You see, he's free of any ego. He doesn't even see himself as a musician sometimes, so he's free of expectations. I wanted attention and compliments- at a wedding.

How foolish and naive.

To the "civilians" out there, the wedding gig is certainly one of the best paying gigs in the working musician's jobs. They come in two distinct categories: really easy and nightmarish.

Why such a dichotomy? Good question.

"What do you mean it's going to be cloudy?!"

1. Bridezillas and/or monster-in-laws make for very tense events.
The tone is set by the bride, the mother and/or the mother-in-law. Period.

The struggles of an ever-demanding bride and her struggle with her mother (or mother-in-law or both) can make the whole day TENSE for everyone. Though the bridesmaids are happy to be all dolled up and the groomsmen are setting their marks on the bridesmaids and the father is rendered perfunctory, it is the women who must muss, fuss and sputter over every mind-bending detail. All to make this day so special, so extraordinary, soooo unique and everyone miserable.

The groom is merely along for the ride. This is not his show, not matter his level of alpha male in his social group. He is essentially, for lack of a better metaphor, castrated until the big day is over.



2. Weather and other unforeseen, uncontrollable forces. God has his little moments. Oh yes indeed. Go ahead, make plans. God smirks at planners.

Here's an example: As the rain swirled around us, we nervously played under a tent. We and everyone else had just dashed from a golf course where hand-of-God lightning bolts were flashing all around. Loud thunder, wind, rain, but the guitar-flute duo played on. Good times. Wet, miserable and playing bossa novas. This is the life. The dream.

Another:  This place was remote, one of those "Where in the hell are we?" West Virginia residences. I remember driving on this dirt road and wondering when we would see a house, any house. There appeared, propped up on hill, was one of those fancy get-away-from-it-all-but-let's-have-it-all kind of homes.

The guests were seated outdoors to watch the sunset as the wedding ceremony was to unfold. Great concept, but rife with problems. Several nightmares: the evening sun was still in blinding and burning mode all the while legions of ladybugs and bees hovered and swarmed. On cue, we began the processional, but not a bridesmaid in sight. When the first bridesmaid appeared, she walked an absolute lethargic pace, taking a good ten minutes. The gap between the bridesmaids was another ten minutes and so forth.

Meanwhile the guitar-flute duo was in sheer agony as we played Pachelbel's Canon until my left hand went numb and her lip deadened. Watching the well-dressed people, already sweltering and sun blind, swatting at the massive insect cloud above them was surely not what the glorious "ah" moment the wedding planners had envisioned. It was Dali meets David Lynch on a codeine jag.

Why then thy glum face over the latest gig?

FYI: Our bride was laid-back, casual and sweet.

In a nutshell, this is what happened:

My partner, the flutist, days from hand surgery, had just taken off her cast. She was very nervous and had some worries about playing and the gig in general. She was right.

My amp had gone south about two weeks before, so we had to use her amp. Two instruments and one amp isn't ideal for clarity.
Despite my casual attire of no tie or jacket ( I hate suit jackets), sweat was pouring from my head.
Giant mosquitoes moved about, looking for victims.
Soon after we got the hardware in place, she discovered that the pickup had broken. I called for Super Glue and a Glue Stick was delivered.
I used it before realizing how ridiculous and fruitless it would be to glue metal to metal with a fucking Glue Stick.
Scotch tape was used in order to "reattach" the flute pickup to make the playing time of 5:30. This caused a terrible hum in the amp.
Of course, since we are the entertainment, most people take a glance at us (some choose to stare-they nothing better to do), but when the entertainment are obviously having problems, it feels a bit like being in a play when things are going terribly, terribly wrong.
All the while, I sense my partner is getting a little close to hitting the panic button. I was irritated, but panic was not going to come. I wouldn't allow it. This is a wedding-one of countless. No need for anxiety.

Experience tempers the temptation to panic. Plus, the musical duo is so much better doing a solo act because we serve as reality check and emotional support for each other. We have to have each other's backs.

Proof positive that guitarists do show up at weddings.

Sidebar: Musicians are invisible are these functions. Li-Li has to sidestep the constant threat of having her flute smashed into her mouth. Guitar playing also involves the ability to dodge the herds, to keep the neck from being stumbled into, and keep playing. I have actually been accused (via a threatening letter by a lawyer) of not showing up at a wedding. Yes, that's how much I matter at a wedding.

Tuning was a real issue as flutes go sharp in heat and strings tend to destabilize. Luckily, my tuner  helped to keep the guitar from sounding like a watery turd. But despite this, Li'Li's flute declined to be pulled out any further and so we couldn't agree on tuning. Nice.

To conclude:

After all that hassle, I suggested, "That was enough ass kicking for one day." Two ice-cold Blue Moons were slipped out in a purse and two sweaty, beaten musicians drank them with gratitude. Hooray for cold beer. The cheap panacea for badly beaten musicians.
What comment is it when a cold beer is the best part of the day?

I confessed to L that quitting weddings altogether had crossed my mind. They are handy for some gas money or a nice meal, but they have become so soulless that it is merely a professional, robotic act. Giving a damn left me a long time ago. I mean, I would never deliberately play poorly at a job, but that's what it is-a job and nothing more.

Will I simply say "no" and stop playing them altogether? Or will I be like Rumpole of the Bailey when Rumpole declares that he's quitting the bar, due to some financial windfall, but despite all of his noble sounding words, returns to chambers the next day looking for the dreary dog-ends of a case in magistrate court?

It isn't as dramatic as all that. I am at a very different stage in my "career" now. Play for the sake of playing-that's my credo. No slogging out the hits for the sweaty loud bar crowd. No late night jam sessions at open mike nights. I leave that to the young and hungry go-getters. God love them, they deserve a chance.

 Not quite at the point of dismissing all these soul-sucking gigs, I'd rather concentrate on writing music and gigs that reward the artistic, not the commerce side.

For now, I will grumble, but will not abandon the possibility. The fee should be set at a rate where, should all chaos break loose, we can walk away with a decent bit of change for our hassle.

Time to think about a new amp.

A History of Love, Part 9

"We'll get so high and get nowhere
We'll have to change our jaded ways
But I've loved these days"

Don't put her on a pedestal, buddy.

"Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know
What life is, you who hold it in your hands";
(Slowly twisting the lilac stalks)
"You let it flow from you, you let it flow,
And youth is cruel, and has no remorse
And smiles at situations which it cannot see."

It's completely dishonest to say that all love was betrayal and brutal to the emotions. Sometimes love comes and we do not give it the respect it deserves. Sometimes we just want a good lay. Sometimes a mediocre one will do.

Backdrop:

In the WLSC music department, friendships came easily. Music people bond just like any other department. The bonding was enhanced by the "us versus them" mentality of the times, the roaming frat herds and the dictum held by all non-music majors on campus: music and theater majors were gay. Therefore, gays should be killed. At the very least, they should be beaten or verbally harassed. This was a universally held belief.  Hard to believe? Such were the good old days (I might add that, in some places, very little has changed.).

Certainly in the 70's, the WLSC student body seemed to be dominated by sports frat boys who looked upon the fine arts department as some type of nesting place for all homosexuals. When the "normal" students would pass our hallowed halls to attend music appreciation, they would look at us as if we were living in a leper colony. Looks of curiosity (Is this where the faggots bugger one another?) and looks of hostility (Don't try that shit on me motherfucker, I'll smash your face.) - that's what we got.

I remember one flute major girl, who had a "civilian"boyfriend, who tried to explain to him why someone would stand with a flute and watch themselves in a mirror. The look of absolute bewilderment and disgust was priceless.
When we stood outside the music department for smoke breaks, we would hear the cordial and friendly cries of TKEs who called us all manner of names. TKEs began to symbolize the hostility and ignorance of the masses. When the new TKE pledges were going through the cruelty of pledge week, I never had sympathy for them. If you were going to join an organization that was filled with so much prejudice and ignorance and be humiliated while doing it, you were outright stupid. Word was, they were abused in many unsavory ways and there was an old house somewhere where this abuse took place. More on this later.
But I digress.

Amidst this obsession by the mob mindset, the music major was isolated. The art students were just thought of as weird, so they were allies. In short, you had to look close "to home," so to speak, for a "friend."

The V Conundrum

Ok kids, this is the part of the story where things get sticky. What happens when someone nice, reasonable, cute and compatible comes along?

You fuck it up like everything else in your life. "I am a nice guy," you tell yourself this lie. "I am different than those neanderthal, football bearing fratholes." Perhaps in truth, I was separated only by a thin line of curiosity about artistic and philosophical matters and a better command of the English language. Human nature abides in all, even the social outcast dope smoking musos. I was no genius, no prodigy and my wings never flew above the fray and the squalor. I just resorted to the same mind and soul numbing agents as the frat boys did. I just did it with more class. At least that's what I told myself.

But I digress.

Youth has a special brand of callousness (And youth is cruel, and has no remorse).Why? Is it the rational acknowledgment of the superior powers of life within the body? Is it the sheer arrogance of inexperience? I don't have the words to define it. I just know that the only value to outgrowing your youth is that some small mercy of understanding comes with age. With old man's eyes, I would never behave the way I did back in those chaotic college years.

V was a very sweet natured local girl who was a voice major. Voice majors generally tend to have a rather high opinion of themselves and generally being a very fussy lot, but V was different. She was earthy without a hint of diva. A sweet smile, she was cute and so easy to make conversation with her.

What was the problem then?

Perhaps her attraction to me was felt too easily. Maybe I was part of my own frat that included my music  major friends and I wanted to show off for them. Certainly, I was not willing to show an emotional vulnerability. Call it bad timing or immaturity, I'll agree to them all.

After a party, she and I found ourselves alone, listening to the soft folkie music of Michael Johnson. This was nice-no desperation of trying to impress her, just easy conversation. She was definitely a "what you see is what you get" personality. No head games.

V and I had some tender moments together (including a special one involving an unlikely discussion of the Bible), but I never pursued her as a steady girlfriend. All was undefined. I was afraid of commitment for sure. Typical young male stuff.

While I was under the impression that she wanted to be more than a causal hookup, perhaps she realized that I was not good boyfriend material. Perhaps, all the while, was she held the reins.

I did my usual: strutted, puffed out my chest and dicked around until the bridge was burned.

There's More?

Kim was a freshman percussion major. She was someone who appeared during my senior year.

Again, cute, nice disposition, not demanding. Why didn't I pursue seriously? Hell, she played marimba like a whiz. I loved (still do) marimba. Maybe that's what started us talking.

She even chose me as a person to interview for one of her classes. Out into some field we went and she listened as I prated on and on about half-baked ideas of ecology, the meaning of life and how great music is compared to blah blah blah. The conversation certainly would have a major cringe factor now. If she has a cassette tape of that, it's be a great laugh.
The teacher didn't think that I was so interesting either as Kim told me that she didn't get a very good grade. That should have been the first clue that I was clueless. While I honor the intention, clearly there was nothing but nonsense and contradiction coming out of my 9 volt mind.

The Kimster had more morals than myself and we soon were at odds about how far the physical aspect of our friend-relation-whatever should go. You can guess what my vote was.

Sad to say this, but I have no recollection of how things ended. It probably just died of attrition.

The Reality of Part-timers (Re:the Dreams of Academics)

Folks,


We are cancelling part-time faculty orientation due to low participation. Of 34 PT faculty, only 7 have indicated they will attend.
(They list those who confirmed attendance and one "maybe." Is this a list of the honorable part-timers? Does this imply a list of shame for those not on the list? Perhaps.)
We appreciate the enthusiasm demonstrated by those who responded.

Part-time Faculty Manuals will be left at the Mailroom.

    ****

You make me feel like a beggar then want me to feel
guilt as well?

When you disregard the basic wish of a teacher to want to make a living by teaching by holding them as a part-timer ad infinitum, wiping out the very department that they work in, and pay zero benefits with no mention of a pay raise since the 1980's, what enthusiasm do you expect from them?

The Dreams of Academics

9:00 a.m. – Coffee – Frankenberger


(If needed, use this time to get an ID card – Student Solutions Center, Riggleman Hall)

9:30 a.m.

• Welcome—President Welch and Dr. Zook, Provost and Dean of the Faculty

• Practical information – Donna Lewis, Assistant Dean for Assessment

• Feedback from PT Faculty: “What joys and challenges, if any, have you faced as a part time faculty at UC?”

• Liberal Learning Outcomes and You – Dr. Barbara Wright, Dean of the School of Arts & Sciences and Associate Dean for Curriculum

• Assessment / Using rubrics

10:30 Technology Training / Updates – Library Classroom

12:00 p.m. – Lunch and conversation: Frankenberger Art Gallery

Dark Eyes - Bob Dylan

Oh, the gentlemen are talking and the midnight moon is on the riverside


They’re drinking up and walking and it is time for me to slide

I live in another world where life and death are memorized

Where the earth is strung with lovers’ pearls and all I see are dark eyes



A cock is crowing far away and another soldier’s deep in prayer

Some mother’s child has gone astray, she can’t find him anywhere

But I can hear another drum beating for the dead that rise

Whom nature’s beast fears as they come and all I see are dark eyes



They tell me to be discreet for all intended purposes,

They tell me revenge is sweet and from where they stand, I’m sure it is.

But I feel nothing for their game where beauty goes unrecognized,

All I feel is heat and flame and all I see are dark eyes.



Oh, the French girl, she’s in paradise and a drunken man is at the wheel

Hunger pays a heavy price to the falling gods of speed and steel

Oh, time is short and the days are sweet and passion rules the arrow that flies

A million faces at my feet but all I see are dark eyes



Copyright © 1985 by Special Rider Music

A History of Love, Part 8

The life lessons that love provides are the only ones probably worth telling because they are so real. They make us real. They transform our lives.

Remember the end of The Name of the Rose?

"And yet, now that I am an old, old man, I must confess that of all the faces that appear to me out of the past, the one I see most clearly is that of the girl of whom I've never ceased to dream these many long years."

Those not guilty, please move along.
I thought so.

We are the guilty, after all

I do not want to give readers the impression that I was a sincere, honest, loving, fully mature guy who just had problems picking the right girl. I don't think I knew what I wanted or maybe what I did was pure fantasy. Like most men, the physical attraction is the prime directive. Based on this, you're looking at trouble, buddy, but I stumbled along, making huge mistakes.

One of the big ones I made was to tango with my friend's girlfriend. Yikes!

Everything about Miss T was attractive to me. She was wild, crazy funny and liked crazy humor (my speciality). She was a free, Irish spirit and my friend had discovered her first. Of course, I coveted her.

My friend, the king of ambiguity in all matters, seemed to dating her, but then again it's not like she was his Yoko Ono shadow either. In my greed, I justified my asking her out.

I thought we were great together and certainly we had a great time, but the axe had to drop sometime. And one evening at my friend's house, standing around in the kitchen, he came right out with it.

The topic suddenly took the sharp bend: "...kinda like sleeping with someone's girlfriend?" Direct stare. He was pissed.

I plead nolo contendre. I can't remember, but there was a period of chilling off between us for a while. Eventually, time and tide made us friends again.

There went my chance for a future stained glass window portrait.

Must there be betrayal?

Yes, there must.

I betray, she betrays, we all betray.

St. Jean, patron saint of the gut wrenching
effects of love. 

There is one last lesson that I learned during the college years and Jean taught me a truly real lesson.

I suppose men and women go through stages where, if they have the options, they seek companionship as needed. Away at college? Get a boy toy.

 Jean was truly beautiful. A natural blond, she had the blue eyes set on stun, a flawless complexion and all the luxury amenities you could ask for.

Why did she pick me after one very drunken music major party?

Because I was there.

Even thought I sensed a distance to her, we seemed like we were dating or least I thought we were headed that way. She bought me some Black Velvet (fitting, yes?) for my 21st birthday.

Then, like an idiot, I fucked up. I wrote her a letter telling her about how I felt about her. She sat on my lap, reading it because I did not have to courage to say those words to her. The "l" word was used and that was the beginning of the end.

Soon after that, a distinct chill was between us. Finally, I cornered her as we were leaving the cafeteria. She told me that she hadn't been honest with me and that she had a boyfriend at home. For her, seeing the word "love" scared her and she couldn't deal with that.

If that wasn't enough of a blow, I saw her out very soon after that helping some guy wash his Corvette. That was my first experience with the horrors of rejection that I felt physically. My gut felt like I had swallowed heavy lead and then been punched.

I didn't know what to do, so I sought out my roommate Dan and told him what had happened. His solution was to go to the Short Creek Social Club ( truly a redneck hell hole by anyone's standard) and start drinking as soon as possible. The alcohol helped, but the feeling didn't go away for quite a while.

That which comes, goes.

Years later, I told that story to a good friend. He said, "He said you're lucky she didn't continue a relationship with you."

"Why not?"

"Just think of how many guys she fooled around on since then."

The mind boggles.

A few months after she graduated, I called her. She was friendly, but even Mr. Dim Witted Hope-Against-Hope could sense a brushoff. I was hoping one last hope. "Hope is unreasonable," as Mr. Fripp says.

The feeling of letdown afterwards made me pick up a guitar begin to immediately try to musically medicate myself. It worked and out came, "call me tonight," an instrumental that I have quite a bit of affection for some thirty years later.

Much more than I do for the inspiration.

a place of my own

Every musician dreams of "making their own album." Hell, I'm no different.

Now that I'm older and very realistic about what I can accomplish, I finally feel ready to commit to a serious recording. Not a seriou$ recording, but something that won't make me cringe when I put it on for friends.

I have mountains of live recordings and home demos, probably 99% of which I would severe fault with and would not release publicly.

You see, even though I have been playing for about 41 years, began making "tape pieces" even before that, and began composing during my college years, I have had a most debilitating attitude towards my playing and my work. Funny, isn't it? It's kind of cruelly ironic. It reminds me of Sting's song:

I must love what I destroy

And destroy the thing I love.

Ultimately, we must climb out of the cocoon
of solitary writing and let the music comes to
life with the help of other musicians.

While I have no issues playing live, my own music or other, it is the dreaded recording that haunts me. No matter how the gig felt, the recording reveals the truth. That solo goes off course, that vocal needs pitch help and wouldn't be nice if everyone agreed on the form of the piece?

The question becomes: why do people like me, who dream, think, breath, study strenuously, focus upon, have oodles of discipline-thought-approaches, tend to hide our work? What is the malfunction?

Two demons sit and whisper:

You can do better.

It just isn't good enough.

I have ended this invisible battle with myself and have taken a bit more kinder and gentler approach with the blades of criticism. It's about damn time.

The source of my inspiration is a bit too personal to discuss, but let's just say that I wasn't aware why until way after the fact. One of those "points of seeing," I suppose. The penny dropped and I saw where all this was coming from.

The piece that began this project was an old sketch called "Night in St. Cloud," a Edvard Munch painting inspired piece that I started years ago. Unlike then, I have the unflinching determination to finish any piece now. I am not constantly distracted by new and exciting array of fresh ideas, but am now willing to take an idea, lower my head and plow forward until something is completed.

I still like the Munch painting, but don't feel such a strong emotional connection to it. What matters is that the piece works on every level, especially structural, thematic and rhythmic levels. And if we are lucky, maybe we can be exciting as well.

Here's the floor plan:

Night in St. Cloud - guitar duet

Note: there is some material from the sketches that even suggests another piece could be written just around those ideas. Odd how that works.

distant bells - voice and electronics. The very Enoesque piece was inspired by the Bloom app. So far, the only vocal piece.

no one is watching - guitar duet or ensemble. Not quite sure about this one. It might benefit by making the A section a little simpler. Sometimes the ego and the mind conspire to make everything complicated.

dance of the sun king - just finished the form and melody of this one. An ensemble run-through last Staurday was really positive. It sounded even better than I thought. The group seemed to like it as well.

forgiveness - this might have to be a guitar duet or just me overdubbing. The mood is very delicate and one false move or attempt to add too much will kill it. I hear classical and steel string guitars on this. A viola or a cello might be the magic later.

Possible add-ons:

Aguinaldo Jibaro - this is a Puerto Rican Christmas song that I arranged (and had help arranging) for the ensemble. It gets the King Crimson treatment, but retains the Latin flavor. A friend of mine said it sounded South American. I'll go with that.

don't need a jacket - This is very new and hasn't been field tested yet. You have to run these pieces a few times live to even know what the piece really needs. It's an ensemble piece.

call me tonight - I wrote this instrumental some thirty years ago. A friend of mine reminded me of it with a comment on FaceBook. It was a jolt to the memory cells. Wrote this about the end of love affair. It's swirling guitar heaven and most likely an ensemble piece.

I am very partial to woodcuts, particularly medieval ones.
The artwork will be simple.

That's 8 tracks, just shy of the requisite 10 track album I see popular today.

None of this is going to make me rich, famous or younger, but I hope I can feel a sense of accomplishment when it's over.

I may not even produce a physical copy, but rather leave it all to PayPal and the "internets." I have heard about people spending lots of money and having a thousand copies of their CD sitting around in boxes.

 No, thanks.




 

A History of Love, Part 7

The year and a half at Staunton Military School has been written about extensively in this blog and needless to say, it was major dude world and another sore reminder that women were from another planet. One that had its own language, code and ways that were a complete mystery to me.

My brother had his girlfriends, "Kim" and his "Maggie." But what I saw about how men and women fought (especially them) did very little to further any understanding. Again, mystery.

But sometimes the universe is tapping us on the shoulder and we aren't paying attention.

Then there was Karen.

This delightful creature came to my attention in my senior high school year. With Karen, was the ever-present, blond blossoming Afro-ed Frank. Karen and Frank, Frank and Karen. They were glued to each other.

Frank was a "head," meaning he used recreational drugs, but I think his natural state was closer to a redneck than a hippie. Seeing them together, as in many couples, I couldn't figure out what the hell she saw in Frank. He was abrasive at times. I tolerated him because that meant Karen could get into the conversation as well. Men will smile and act buddy-buddy to the boyfriend to get even the smallest of openings to the objects of their desires.

And so Karen and I began a conversation that ended in a classic:

St. Karen: patron saint of the rebound guy.

The Rebound Guy

One of the great graces of getting older is that I see the patterns universal. The Rebound Guy (or girl) is a universal. Everybody knows the pitfalls being this hapless character, right? Not until it bites your ass do you really know it.

Somewhere between the end of high school and freshman year, the Frank-Karen union dissolved. I cannot recall how Karen and I began to go out on a few dates, but fortune sometimes smiles.
She was graceful, beautiful and sweet as Tupelo honey. A few drinks at a bar, a hiking trip and endless conversations on the phone, but it was a weekend invitation to WVU that sealed the deal.

"Going to get you some, huh?" was the query from my Wesleyan friend, Tim. Men are not subtle. I mumbled something about "Just goin' up to see her." This was the truth. I had that little confidence in myself.

I arrived too early at the girl's dorm and her squirrelly roommate had to entertain me while Karen was still in class. Considering the condition I was in, she looked like a cartoon moving in and out of the room while constantly talking nonsense to me. I felt like the only still thing in the universe and she was constantly walking by me and saying, "Karen's going to be here soon, ok?" I didn't babysitting, but sometimes when you have an innocent sort of face, people interpret it as need assistance. Go figure.
Finally, the graceful Miss K arrived and all was bliss.

Instead of concentrating soley on her, I thought of contacting some friends. In my endless ignorance, I called up two buddies-one from SMA and one from my hometown, the latter of which agreed to meet us out on the plaza to drink some beers. Why did I delay? Again, I didn't think the lovely Miss Karen was going to endow me with her graces. I wasn't thinking in those terms.

Finally, after some bliss in her dorm room, she told me that her sister had an apartment and that it was vacant for the weekend and that we should go.

This could be it.

And so it was. At one moment, it dawned on me that I was going to break free of the virgin stigmata and pass into manhood. Elation. But none of that mattered because of Karen. She was a Godsend, pure and simple.

Must there be pain?
Yes, there must.

Beautiful Karen, sweet Karen. Our time continued that fall until around Christmas time when I made a deadly mistake: I wanted to give her a gift. I even went shopping by myself and got her a scarf and hat.

The phone call was the last: "But I told you I didn't want that!" I remember that feeling, sitting at the top of the stairs with the phone cord stretched as far as it would go (no wireless then), feeling like a two-ton weight had just been placed on my heart. She didn't want a "boyfriend," she wanted the all-purpose rebound guy. The guy that helps her through a breakup.

(Sidebar: Men are often vilified with the stigma of duplicity and philandering. Sure enough, we deserve it, but a woman isn't duplicitous as much as much as she is prone to changing her mind without warning. A woman doesn't cheat, she falls in love with another. Truth be told: we are all guilty, all liars, all hypocrites. That's human nature, like it or not.)

The rules are simple: Yes, you may enjoy all the pleasures and privileges of a boyfriend with none of the security or long-term commitment. No spring vacations together, walking hand-in-hand across a desolate beach. No intimate smiles, passionate kisses, or showing off one's girl to the guys. A steady girl meant mean some showing off or cockiness: "Hey fellas. How you doin'? I'm out of Club Dude, eh? Take care now." The rebound guy gets none of this.

That was a tough one to deal with, kids. With great love and elation comes great grief and deflation. This young man was learning all about love for sure.

I'm not sure whatever happened to her. I wish her well. Call me a romantic, but I see these experiences not in a bitter light as I did back then, but rather as beautiful, burning and necessary life lessons. In retrospect, she gave me much more than she ever took.

The Big Wrap-up

Almost everything is pale by comparison to your first love, but passions fade. I never thought that they would, but people come and go in our lives. Some say it all part of a grand purpose. I can't say that I find that to be true. I just know that it is and that's that.

"I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong."


More to come.

A History of Love, Part 6

"I should have been a vampire squid
scuttling across floors of silent seas..."

After the Helen fiasco, life continued on. Young people do not do well with embarrassment and it is quickly forgotten.

I had my friends- all guys who were into music, getting back to nature via hiking-camping, some of them even played guitar. Friends are an anchor, a fortress that tells the world, "See? We're all into this. If that makes us  weird, then weird we shall be."
But one major problem: it's dude city and that fact was a burning reminder of a perceived failure for some in the group, me included. Virgins are losers.
There is no doubt we placed way too much importance on having a girlfriend, being in love and lust, but this was paramount. We were just dumb kids and small matters were vastly important.

The Follies of the Ego

A date with Jackie followed. Not bad, until the questions came: "Why did you pick me?" I had no answers or rather I had no smooth lines to convince her to bestow her graces upon me. When the temperature rose, she asked me point-blank: "Is you were to get a girl pregnant, would you take care of her?"

I was shocked. My interests were selfish. Your welfare? Huh? Besides, the boiler room was in charge at that point. Pregnant? Baby? Take care of...what? The mood was killed and there were no more dates after that.
It is at this point that I might say the obvious, (which is what I'm good at doing,dammit!) If time travel were an option, I might go back and do some serious talking to that young man and state: "You've got plenty of chances for a girlie. What's wrong with her? Or her? You're the one who's holding out for something you cannot have: the ones you really want are beyond your reach." Human nature in action time and again.

St. Catherine, patron saint of the disappointed.

Which leads us to the enigma known as Catherine.

Catherine was the total enigma. She was out of my league. I knew it and so did she. Yet, she let me flirt with her and we even went out on some smoking dates, but always the same message: you may be good for my ego, but I've already got a boyfriend. You are always going to be an option, not a priority.

We were not so different in a socio-economically, it just came down to looks. Her "looks" bracket was much higher than mine.

She was my enigma for most of high school. I sat next to her in typing class and squeezed by with little or no knowledge of typing. She melted me, confused me, burned my circuits and perplexed every rational thought or battle plan I had about how to win her heart. She was in control the entire time: she knew it. I was too stupid to really know it and lacked the experience to do anything about it anyway. I was her monkey, St. Catherine of the cross.

She certainly wasn't dating anyone at the high school. I always imagined that she had some college guy as a boy friend.

Oddly and cruelly, she went to the same college as me. It was both delight and a downer the day we ran into each other and exchanged a vigorous hug. One part of me got that sinking feeling: Can't I escape this torture even at college? I mean, fucking hell!  College with her there was no different: no bounce, no play.

One of my music major colleagues dated her and one day, he rubbed it in my face. I had told him about our past, shabby as it was. Can't say why Mr. Bearded Granola, normally a reasonable guy, drew such a sharp dagger for me, but I write this off as the insanity of jealousy that men display when a threat is perceived. Piss and daggers, piss and daggers.

I believe there was one date we had during this time. She must have been between fabulous bo-friends because Mr. Second Rate got the call. The date was wonderful, but like all the others, but there was no dating me. Some musician said, "You do shitty things until you stop doing shitty things." That pretty much summarizes that experience.

She got married and moved and I went to Baltimore to study music.

The problem though with living in a small town is that even when lots of time passes, houses where people live do not. They can jump out as unexpected reminders- a sudden jolt to the memory. Perhaps because I hate to lose, I will circle by her mom's house around Christmas time to see if I can catch a glimpse of what surely must be a very grey Catherine. How many kids does she have? Does she look like shit? This is not love, but perhaps gloating. To convince myself that I won? I don't know. Maybe I'm just a jerk who masquerades as a nice guy.
Next: Hey dummy, this girl is talking to you.

The Kindness of Strangers

GLASGOW, Mont. (AP) - Officials say a West Virginia man who is hitchhiking across the country and writing a memoir called "The Kindness of America," was injured in a random, drive-by shooting in northeastern Montana. Authorities say 39-year-old Raymond Dolin was sitting on the side of U.S. Highway 2 west of Glasgow about 6 o'clock Saturday night when he was shot. The suspected shooter has been arrested.

Notes from a TV Junkie ( I Like to Bitch)

"I have a life...I have a life...I have a life..."

TV: what do you really offer those sucking at your glass teat?

In short, I watch way too much. I know I'm doing it for one reason: to go into a state where all responsibility is vanquished. A TV coma, if you will. I don't want to do laundry or pay bills or a thousand other things that come before my pleasure. Dern it.

TV is just one element of noise in our world.

A few observations:


1. Masking reality.

 TV is fundamentally noise that keeps us from looking at the bare naked facts of our own lives. The noise level in my home is truly scary sometimes. I keep reaching for the remote to turn up the program and then quickly down when commercials begin their noisy assault on all our senses. It's like eating a fucking Big Mac- you know it's shit that you are eating, but it anesthetizes and dulls the brain. If there is silence, then I might start to think.

2. Everybody must get stoned.

 There were more TVs in the last restaurant I dined in than I could count. Between the conversations at our table and six others, the endless attention needs of my "nephew" who simple must show me every game he plays on his portable noise machine (teaching him social isolation and self-obsession) and the flashing madness of those screens, and the way too loud latino music, it was truly one insane environment. Is it just we Americans who are so in love with noise?

Fripp calls the background music in retail environments "NPUs" or Noise Pollution Units. I have to agree. Bridge Road Deli has the volume way too loud as the endless parade of over compressed hits vomit out of the black, round ceiling speakers. Home Goods had an inappropriately loud selection of contemporary "feel good" tunes while the women wandered about, with some of them looking so smug it was hilarious. (I love it when some haughty bottled blonde makes a passing and very judgmental glance at whomever I happen to be with or at me. Yes, you women do it! Don't try to lie.)

Kroger frequently tortures its customers with Nashville Faux: "extray" crispy ditties that have a hick twang with lyrics so obvious and subject matter that appeals to the everyday folk, surely not fake ass aged hipsters like moi.

 Dear Kroger: Please play anything by Brian Eno. Love you for it.

Ok, this is a bit much. Can I have half?

3. TV brings unrealistic expectations.

 No matter what we say, we have to feel more than a little envy when we see some celeb's crib and all the ridiculous and unnecessary lavishness. "The indoor Koi pond? Oh yes, Michelle so loves her fish that she wanted them near."


4. Reality TV is everything.

 TV brings us raving lunatics that, no matter how much they reveal themselves to be complete idiots, petty adult-children or outright hostile white trash, it doesn't matter because they are on the toob. The Kardashians- I rest my case.

"Then it puts the lotion in the basket."

5. TV creates nostalgia when there is none.

Why is Dee Snider on TV? I can't think of any more talentless Bozo than this musical joke and yet, I heard Gordon Ramsey introduce him as a "heavy metal legend." The man even is a commentator on one of those MTV metal talk shows.

Is there such a vacuum in American culture that we now seek out the opinions of the lead screamer of Twisted Sister?

We have fallen and fucking hard.

6. Thank you: HBO, AMC, Starz, Showtime.

I am engaged and grateful. Stories! Intelligent writing! How did this happen? Why didn't some suit ruin any and all possible chances for good shows to be on zee tube?

Hey PBS: there's a new game. Time to step up and realize that you are not the only choise for viewing with brains. I have enjoyed the Masterpiece Mystery series, but things are a bit lame-o otherwise.

OK, Florida, You Win

"Fuck brains, lemme at the face!"

Methought West Virginia was in the lead for the State with the Most Crazy-ass People, but Florida again "outshines" us with the face eating bath salt guy.

Congrats and keep it coming, Florida!

Gallery of Greats



There's no sense in being subtle.

 My friend Adam turned me on to this delightful and disturbing site of WV's finest criminals.

http://wvjails.info/

I truly don't know if there's anything to add because you can't make this shit up.

Evdiently Missy Ann Morgan is not only "missing" from her
life, but from the jailhouse pic as well. WTF?

create all day



stare at the pretty colors...

 I bought the Bloom, Trope and Air apps for iPhone and I can tell you I'm having a blast with them.

Since Eno's name is on two out of the three and the third is based on his beautiful Music For Airports, I couldn't resist. When you wait to buy an Eno product, shit runs out.

If Eno is someone you have not yet discovered, then my sincerest hope is that you do. If you are of the mindset that hates him because you are a sophisticated muso of the art set, then I suggest you read no further.

Bloom is a really fun app that is tantamount to sheer childish musical play, only the textures and possibilities are very complex. Whatever pattern you touch on the screen, electronic piano sounds appear along with a flow of circles where you touched. If that wasn't cool enough, your music is looped and fades with each reiteration.



wave your fingertips and watch the tracers

 Trope is a little more darker in mood and more complex visually. Lines can be drawn and these go through both visual and musical permutations.

Air is the last, but one that I've haven't explored enough yet.

Applications that do all the work for me? How can that be cool?

You may say that isn't serious enough or that it's too serious. Then my answer is that you're not getting how cool this stuff is or making music is not for you.

Last night, on my way to Kroger, Target AND Wall-de-la Mart, I put on Bloom and made a circular pattern. I listened as the notes repeated and the soft drones of piano-like synth notes gently hovered in the background.

create all day is my philosophy sometimes.

Then, as if I channeled old David Sylvian, a song came to my lips. I wish I was able to record it because it was pretty interesting for an impromptu bit of writing.

Then again, sometimes I think this music is a one time thing, a musical prayer, a self-healing dabble or just to see what comes out without any thought. Sometimes I think that it's an open line to God, but that sounds too self-important. I think it's a way of staying open to your creative life without the world's noisy infringement. To stay honest, to stay real.

All for $ 3.99.

Delete You First

Most of us have some delusions about ourselves,
but some believe the world turns on their existence.

When we revisit an earlier time, particularly one where some negativity is associated, it is important to be objective and not get caught up in anger or feelings of being hurt.

I was talking with someone about a time when I was virtually called a fraud by a young, rapacious journalist who evidently wanted to send me packing in shame because they felt that I wasn't suited for my job. Years later, this person admitted to me that this same journalist had insulted them, in their office, by their agenda-laden questions, which this person dismissed as "bullshit."

If I was as self-possessed as I was when I was younger, this might have hurt, but age has brought me much wisdom. I no longer need to be the center of attention, begging for compliments, and getting depressed when the world didn't seem to be as impressed with me as I was with myself. Goodbye baggage of youth. I rejoice.

This person then told me that they had a theory about who was really behind this. The name that was spoken did not come as a shock to me, rather I felt a bit of pity of what must be an almost unbearable amount of self-loathing. In any case, it's all history.

This brings us to today when I checked my voicemail. If some stranger feels it necessary to whinge on about some point, usually "points" because it is rarely singular, then they have that right.

I also have rights. A right not to be pestered over trivial shit or taken to task for what is a perceived shortcoming on my part. I also have the right not to accept compliments and not to take them seriously either. Of all this chatter, what is real? Almost nothing.

Only the work is real, only our presence is real, only the ones we love and who love us are real. All else is noise and folly. I just don't believe all the posing anymore.

It's called delete and I make use of it constantly.

That Awful Man

from the RF diary:
The music, not the man
:: Posted by JeffTruzzi on April 12, 2012



… The personal judgement I am unqualified to make is based on the day I didn’t meet RF but remained within earshot, at a large recording complex. Two individuals who did attempt casually saying "hello & thanks for the work" were preempted by RF in such a haughty and dismissive fashion that no other appropriately descriptive nomenclature applies. They were crushed like bugs. 

But if that’s what RF must do to make the music he makes, so be it. We may not be pals, but I’ll always love his music. And the music is what counts.

Fripp in Sinatra mode.

the RF response:

And that’s what it is. So, if that’s what RF must have done to make the music he made, he was clearly prepared to suffer public ignominy, criticism and personal attacks to do it. And that’s what it was. Perhaps alternatively expressed: the fashion was peremptory, pre-emptive, self-protective and may have upset those who expected some other response. After years of attempting to engage in a straightforward and human fashion. I can give examples of standing and explaining my position, to no effect other than be insulted. I eventually abandoned reasoned argument, face to face, and moved to another mode; this in response to decades of attention that in some cases was respectful, in some cases amounted to harassment, in nearly all cases where something was wanted from me (acknowledgement and attention in various forms). That Ungrateful Wretch! Clearly, an Awful Man.

Perhaps, Fripp played from a different rule-book and was prepared to accept the consequences? Have we discussed The Awful Encounter subject before?

Criterion for judgment: I was less after the encounter than before. And in these few comments, I am not including stalkers and the mentally disturbed. May we note that 30 years ago stalking was not legally and formally viewed as the dangerous and destructive activity that it is, known as such by those who have been the focus of stalking. It was viewed more as an irritation, to be dealt with in civil courts by anyone who had an endless pocket and faith that a disturbed person was available and open to the feeble restraint then offered by civil law.

Priceless

Nothing says love like a poorly painted commemoration
of the marital sham of Michael Jackson and Lisa Presley.

I am speechless.

The fine brush strokes and attention to detail
reveals the artist's obvious mastery.

Our shadows will remain

I should have been a ragged cephalopod.

The truth is that things have been miserable lately and no one wants to read a downer post written by someone whose heart's not in it anyway.

I have an odd way of dealing with my emotions. They have always gotten the best of me and words, especially spoken ones, feel like trying to cough up bricks. Sometimes I just want to go about my business in silence, speaking only to the people I know really well or I trust. Having a job prevents this sullen and taciturn approach.

Sometimes I get so angry with everything. It sometimes seems like fate likes to take a good piss on me for just the fun of it or some kind of Job testing thing. I'm sure I'm not alone in those thoughts.

In short, kids, it's been a bummer for me, my family and loved ones.

Still, as Gabriel sings, "the warmth flows through me." Somehow I believe. In what, I'm not quite sure. My creative life is very much alive and productive. I think I've been channeling these dark days into music. In fact, after some reflection, it's been the impetus for all the music I've been writing.

Some days are on an even keel. Spring brings forth a sense of hope. I try to appreciate the simple things in life while ignoring the relentless stupidity and inequity around me.

When all is said and certainly done, what shall remain of us?

Push forward. That's it.

A History of Love, Part 5

The years after junior high can be divided into three distinct schools: high school, military school and then back to finish senior year at a Catholic high school.

These were basically desert places.

Why so dour and sour an outlook?

Because none of it added up to the expectations I had. It  confused me. It confounded me. For the most part, it still does. I just accept many things now, happy not to have answers to all my queries.

Prog Rock "Sensitive" Nerds

We all know the great dividing wall in the high school between the haves and have-nots. First is looks and second, but not lesser than, is athletic ability. Have one or the other and no doubt, you are among the elite.

To even suggest that none of us aspired to the upper echelon is a lie we tell ourselves. Then comes the justifications. The smart kids use their intellect as their badge of honor as their superiority to the select social group. The cool kids use their coolness.  Music-heads and would-be players use music and so forth.

This nerdery is not really the cause of being on the bottom of the social ladder, but can become a rallying flag for sustaining it.

It can also become an island, a fortress and a place to name as your own.

Because so little of what was going around me made sense, music (the guitar included) became my island. When things got screwed up or everything felt like chaos, this was my safe place.

You're a Senior, Buddy Boy

After the prison-like atmosphere of military school, I wasn't quite sure how to re-enter a regular high school. I mean, there were real live girls- everywhere. Sweet barbecue Elvis.

Poor Helen. She sat behind me and she seemed almost as shy and awkward as me. She was sweet and easy to talk to. This is important if you "squirm" (an actual term used by a girl in my French class) around the opposite sex.

I used to do strange things like lift her and her chair off the floor with my legs. She would laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of my actions.

So, I decided to ask her out. Oh boy.

What follows has to be one of the worst dates on record. At least, by my counting.

Helen borrowed her Mammoth-Mobile family car and picked me up. We were going to a party. All I remember is hanging out, drinking beer and generally being a stupid teenager. At the party were the usual cast of characters, sans my friends, of course, because I had a date. No one wants to be around their guy world friends on a damn date. That's why we are out - to get the hell away from the monotony of male companionship.

There was a smooth black cat named Johnny who was clearly our school stud or at least in the top five contenders. Johnny had a black Les Paul that made me green with envy. He also dressed like brothers in blaxploitation films, as this was the '70's after all. I mean, silk shirts were the scene, man. Except by the hippie faction, of course, and that was flannel and blue jeans.

Frampton sold bazillions of albums
and then lost all credibility in the halls
of legit musos. His album was everywhere
and on all the time.

The usual party music was playing which was mainly dominated by Peter Frampton's "Comes Alive" album that was hated by our group of musos and lapped up by everybody else.

Somehow, someone (encouraged by me) slipped on Yes. Not exactly par-tay music, but I felt I had to impose my tastes on others. "This isn't music you listen to at a party, " Johnny began. "This is  more like music you listen to while you're on acid." Johnny wasn't being arrogant or hateful, he was stating the truth as he saw it. At that time, I resented the acid=creativity in music that most "heads" of my generation made, but much worse, I hated the dude for being so damn cool and a charmer.

Even Helen squirmed a little around this guy. Time to go. So, what I thought was going to be a most excellent evening with my cute companion turned out to be a bummer upon bummer.

We went to a makeout place that Joe had shown me. It was a dark cul de sac that was perfect. There, in the Mammoth-o-mobile, we lit our first celebratory cigarette together. Things were going well and I was about to make my first move, when a police car came rolling by and began to shine a spot light on the nearby church. Talk about panic in your throat, heart beating like drummer, and the feeling that something terrible was going to happen.

We watched and waited. Helen's face was filled with probably as much fear as mine. This was such a stroke of bad luck that I couldn't believe it. I liked her, but this was not going well.

The cops left, but we were in a heightened paranoid state and decided to leave. As she was pulling out, she didn't quite get the big boat of a car out far enough and scraped her car against a parked car. Oh man. A sickening feeling came with that as-sure-as-shit bumpy  feel and sound of metal on metal. Ugh.

Helen was not going to be kissing on me that night, that's for sure.We decided to end the evening. That killed my chances for that night and any possibility of any other night with Helen.

I think we both somehow felt ashamed at what had happened. I don't know why we felt that way, but that's how it played out. I felt awful at feeling a complete jinx-making our first date a disaster. Fucking up the family car and almost getting busted had to be her reason. She later told me that her dad had been listening on the police scanner and heard the report about a break-in at the church. Whether dad was telling the truth or not, it didn't matter. Done and done.

Not particular to my tale, but Helen eventually married one of her high school friends.

I could totally wrong, but I actually limit my trips down memory lane. I write on these subjects to test my mind to see what's intact, to improve my writing chops and to tell you (whoever you are, I haven't a clue anymore) the true and unexaggerated events in a largely unremarkable and uneventful life.

But, every blue moon, I find myself reminded of that night when I drive past the Italien restaurant that her husband's family owns. I do laugh.

Next: More Awkwardness

Into the Gray

Our actions have consequences. regardless of our intentions.

I couldn't understand that as a kid. A kid can never understand the vagaries of life until experience of such confirms that, indeed, every action we take has both intended and unintended consequences.

Thelma at the door.

Take Thelma for instance.

Thelma was the bright-eyed dog who lived next door. Rambucious to the hilt, she was a loveable maniac who was in that delightful puppy stage where affection slows her down just long enough before she leaps right up to lick your face. Leap, "BLOT" and a huge, wet dog kiss on your face before you can blink.
Of course, I fell instantly in love with her as she frequently was at our door, having broken free of every possible constraint.  For instance, when the fence was extended higher because she could bound right over it, Thelma figured out that she could leap up on it, hold her balance long enough as she bent down the fence, then bound to freedom.

Our neighbors never seemed like they even liked the animals (Thelma had a companion, Louise. Yes, that's right.) nor could they care for them; let alone deal with Thelma's running about.

We chased Thelma about. I petted her and loved her when she showed up at our house. I tried to encourage her to come to me, so that I could always return her safely.

Then neighbors grew tired of the dog wandering about freely. Neighbors grumble, neighbors have a low threshold, neighbors get itchy fingers.

Somebody called animal control. People reported animal abuse. The dogs did seem to be very thin and ravenously hungry. Of course, I fed them everything I could: dog food, bisquits and leftovers. I was not about to let dogs starve that lived right next door!

Then the police came to their door. The dogs vanished shortly after that. I was majorly bummed. My little pal was gone. I had bonded.
It took a while to catch my neighbor and broach the subject. I asked where the dogs had gone.

She told me that they had given the dogs away to a family on a farm. Gee, me thought, does the farm fairy tale really work on middle-aged men?

I can't pretend to understand my neighbor's ways nor their attitudes sometimes. They probably are mystified by us as well, but we would never take on the responsability of a dog (or two) without careful thought of the ramifications. I cannot image them ever reflecting on their lives, let alone their pets.

Thelma escaped because no one cared for her, so why was she ultimately the one punished for seeking out her basic needs?