nobody asked…

I recently found this attempt at poetry, written during my Junior year in high school. After a bit of cleanup and editing, it seemed a good idea to post it to show that many years ago, I had at least a slight amount of talent. OK, I know. It’s not very good, but it does capture the dark mood of the nuclear stare-down that was going on during the Cold War. Even to a small town teenager, those were scary days, never knowing when we might be blasted from the face of the planet, even before finishing our cherry coke. Come to think of it, there are hints of that in the air these days. It’s not the USSR and it’s not a global superpower, but once you’re vaporized, details don’t matter much…

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When I was a kid growing up, then in college, and later in my adult life, I had many good friends. There have been a few that I would do almost anything for … almost. And at the time, they would have done the same for me. Many of you dear readers also have had such relationships. It must be a wonderful feeling when those close, joined-at-the-character kind of friendships last a lifetime. Unfortunately, the sea changes I have been through in my life have disrupted and effectively ended my closest relationships. We always promise to stay in touch, and may for a while, but lives grow in different directions, each with its own unique set of problems, issues, struggles, and distractions.

But there are a few lucky people out there who by benefit of birthright, resource heritage, or character flaws, remain close and supportive of each other as asshole buddies for life. Perhaps one of the most distinguishing characteristics of these symbiotic relationships is the willingness to make sacrifices, one for the other. That includes taking a fall to cover up errors and omissions by the other; power, ability, and willingness to bail the other out of trouble, whenever and wherever it may strike; and telling the world very loudly, even wearing a red sign around the neck proclaiming, F you, to all who venture too close. If I had the luxury and comfort of such friendship, and if I had the power, my buddy would likely become cocky and arrogant from my assurances that he would never be in any trouble that I could not pardon and extricate him from.

It’s probably too late for me to know such feelings on a forever basis, but hey, a boy can dream, can’t he?

[Head nod and a lift of the paper cup to Think Progress for the classic photo.]

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Nothin’ like a little Rickie Lee Jones to get my blood pump primed on a cold and wintry morn…

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Funny how there are so many things in life that we never stop to think about but just take for granted as being part of our environment, part of the background noise. Like air. And why are stop signs red and octagonal? Why do men torture themselves by wearing neckties? And the origin and meaning of the peace symbol.

It had never occurred to me that something like the peace symbol might have a birthday. But thanks to Crooks & Liars, I now know that this universally recognized icon was born 50 years ago. Developed in 1958 by a British textile designer and conscientious objector named Gerald Holtom, the symbol combined the graphics for the semaphore letters N and D, for nuclear disarmament. On Feb. 21, 1958 the symbol was adopted by the Direct Action Committee Against Nuclear War. The symbol soon began to be used in anti-nuclear protests across Britain and then spread around the globe. Over the years, the meaning has broadened to become a general symbol for pursuit of peace.

Some of us remember the nuclear threats of the Cold War days in the 1950s and ’60s, the period that spawned the peace symbol. We remember the peace symbol becoming an instantly recognizable emblem defiantly worn and displayed by those who objected to an ill-conceived and ill-fated war in Vietnam. Today, a majority of Americans object to another ill-conceived and ill-fated war in Iraq. A war defined as a fight against an enemy we cannot see, have not found, and do not understand. A war fought for reasons never understood and long ago forgotten. A war that continues for reasons not apparent to rational men and women.

Symbols and protests do not end wars or redirect our misguided politicians. However, there is ample evidence that in the Vietnam War and in the struggle for Civil Rights, symbols and protests by those who had deep convictions definitely helped this nation to focus more clearly on the issues. Where are today’s hippies and protestors wearing the peace symbol, marching in the streets, demanding an end to the atrocities? Where are the taxpayers, who should be protesting the continued drain of their pockets to finance this war to the tune of $275 Million each day, mortgaging America’s present and future? Is there no visible protest because there is no threat of a draft? If there was a draft, is the Canadian border still open to young Americans fleeing to avoid the war? How have we as a people become so blind and stupid and complacent that something like this can happen? And keep on happening?

Anti-war does not mean anti-US. I am against the war in Iraq, but I love my country, and I fully support our military men and women assigned to Iraq. They should be supported with the best and enough of everything they need to ensure their safety and well being. But the greatest support we could give them would be to bring them home safely and quickly. Don’t believe me? Ask them…

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My recent mockery of the extreme winter weather we have experienced in the Nashville area this year got me thinking about origami, Gruyere cheese production in Switzerland, and global warming. Now before you Bush zealots get your panties in a wad, let me assure you that I have heard your Fuhrer’s proclamation that made global warming illegal, scientifically impossible, religiously immoral, and socially unacceptable. Fine. If you are so shallow as to need the likes of him defining your lives and what you are allowed to believe, then you probably get what you deserve — screwed along with the rest of us who do not fall all over ourselves to get a glimpse of the hem of his garment. Some of us prefer to continue thinking for ourselves and acting for the common good.

When I returned to Tennessee in 1986 after about 20 years in captivity up North, the weather was about what I remembered from growing up in West Tennessee. Distinct seasons. Hot and dry in the summer. Cold and snowy winters, with white blankets 2 to 6 inches deep coming a couple of times per winter. There was the occasional flurry that barely coated the ground, and the occasional blizzard that would bury us under 12 inches or more. Each year since the great ice storm of 1994, the winters have gotten milder, the snow less, and the Yankee immigrant population on the rise as they flee the frozen tundras of the North for the delightful spring-like winters of Tennessee.

I cannot remember a snow more than a flurry over the last several years. Certainly no accumulations to cause safety concerns. Schools are still cancelled if there is even a hint of the “S” word being used. That seems to be a habit the school officials cannot break. As I understand it, they allocate a certain number of days as snow days, and plan the beginning and end of the school year around that. If some magic number of snow days have not been used up by certain calendar dates, they decide to have a snow day because… because it’s Friday, perhaps, or the Principal wants a day off to play golf, or whatever. We’ve had a couple of quite cold days this year, but most of our winter has seen shirt-sleeve temperatures. Short-term or long-term trend? Ask me again in 100 years.

Some sociologist or social psychologist could spend a lifetime (some probably already have) studying the odd social behavior of Southern humans when reacting to a whisper of the dreaded “S” word. If schools have not already taken the day off, they dismiss in the middle of the day. Local telephone circuits and cellular systems become overloaded with the onslaught of thousands of calls to parents to come retrieve their spawn, and many of those parents calling the other parent or a neighbor or relative to pickup the little darlings. Businesses close early so their employees can make an early claim to their own personal place in the traffic snarl that has gripped the city in deadly gridlock since 11:00 AM when rumors of the “S” word first leaked out. Lines at grocery stores and convenience stores swell and morph into panicking, angry mobs, raiding for every gallon of milk, loaf of bread, bottle of water, and 6-pack of beer available.

My years of commuting from the suburbs to work in downtown Pittsburgh taught me a valuable survival lesson. Walk, don’t run, to the nearest pub, have a few pops, and wait it out. This avoids the rush, adds pleasure to the end of the work day, and usually gets one home at about the same time as if hitting the gridlock with everyone else several hours earlier.

One other observation and I’ll quit — promise. People in Tennessee know jack-shit about driving in snow. If it was not so scary and dangerous, their behavior would be downright comical. Some develop catatonic rigidity for hours at a time if faced with the prospects of driving in a flurry. They usually stay home, or are pried from their death grip on the steering wheel in the mall parking lot the next day. Some actually believe that if they speed up they won’t get trapped with wheels spinning in a snow bank. These unfortunate souls almost always end up getting trapped with wheels spinning in a snow bank. Still others believe that if they crawl along at 5 mph that they will avoid getting trapped with wheels spinning in a snow bank. These unfortunate souls almost always end up getting trapped with wheels spinning in a snow bank. The speeders and crawlers alike are also usually involved in fender benders, most often being the cause and not the victim. The biggest challenge I face when driving home later is dodging all of the abandoned vehicles left at odd angles and positions where they became trapped with wheels spinning in a snow bank.

Global warming or not, human cause or not, I for one am thankful that snow is less and winter is milder around here. My old bones can’t take it like earlier years. Maybe by the time all the coastal areas are under water, people will have learned to steer a boat more safely than they drive a car. But I doubt it…

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After reading my earlier post wherein I talked about cousins and geezers, my Welsh friend Liz sent this, saying that when she saw it she thought of me. I complained to Liz, letting her know that I am NOT slow. Nor do I use a cane. Yet.

In fact at the last geezer speed trials, I placed 37th out of a field of 85 entrants, earning the distinction of being classified high-normal, or slightly above normal, whatever the hell normal is defined to be at any given moment by any particular group.

With a hearty thank you to Liz, but with apologies to SLOW Geezers everywhere, this obviously contrived and staged photo is laugh-out-loud funny. If we’re allowed to live to that age, and still be in a vertical orientation, there we all go…

[A few folks out there who have lost their sense of humor and humanity will undoubtedly take offense at this, loudly decrying that this is somehow offensive to elders. Those are the same few folks who have lost touch with reality and object to everything that is not in sync with their narrowly channeled thinking. I do not apologize to them. My wish for them is that they get a life…before it is too late…]

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Circa 1975. Neil Young called Tonight’s the Night, his tribute to two close friends taken down by drug overdoses, the closest he ever came to art. The dark tone, punctuated by the deep bluesy riffs, bind it to and separate it from his mainstream work of the era. Sit back, close your eyes, and sink into the raw emotion…

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Saturday night was Geezer Night. We get together several times each year for dinner out or at one of our homes with everybody bringing a dish. Good food and drinks are not the focal point of these get togethers, rather they are celebrations of each other, of lives started together, gone off in diverse directions, and now merged anew as we found each other again.

Sometimes there are four of us, usually six, occasionally eight. By some definitions, we are all seniors, ranging in age from mid-fifties to mid-sixties. We prefer the label of Geezers, said, of course, with tongue firmly planted in cheek, as we are all quite healthy, vital, and viral. Or maybe that’s virile? Healthy means we are all ambulatory, can sit up and take sustenance on our own. Vital refers to the fact that we can all articulate our well thought out and stubbornly unchangeable opinions on important aspects of life, politics, government, religion, and the side effects of various blood pressure medications. We still matter in a world gone nuts. And virile — I forgot what that means; let me check with some of the others and get back to you if any of them have any ideas.

Jim and Cousin Gloria (a couple) and I were in the same high school class. Cousin Linda and Cousin Glenn were a bit younger. Linda’s husband, John, is a native of Nashville. Glenn’s wife, Alacia, is from back home. And Roomie calls Cleveland, MS, home. Our home town in West Tennessee was and is quite small, the kind of place where everybody knows your name … and your business and every time you sneeze. Growing up together in one huge extended family with more cousins than we could count, Gloria, Linda, Glenn and I were naturally very close. We were back and forth to each other’s homes constantly.

On graduation from high school, we all went away to college, after which we all pursued and achieved some level of success in our chosen fields. The group includes present or former dentist, high school football coach with multiple state championships, big national retail store manager turned banker, Fortune 50 corporate executive, a couple or three educators, a published author, and an entrepreneur. After many years and many miles with little or no contact, we all ended up in the Nashville area. As we sought each other out, we began to understand that we were re-creating something very special that had been lost for so long. The spouses have also become as integral to the whole as are the cousins.

Life’s bumps and bruises and twists and turns have tempered each of us differently. Though we emerged from a common background, there is a rich diversity that now distinguishes each of us from the others. I proudly anchor the left end of that spectrum. Some of the others eye me suspiciously, while at the same time giving me a warm and sincere smile. If we would allow it, out differences could get in the way, but we are too tightly bound by our similarities and our common ancestry to let that happen.

Whether we all live for only one more celebration, or another 25 years of enjoying each others’ company, I believe they are as happy as I am that we roamed the earth until we found each other again. We embrace. We clasp hands. We kiss. We say I Love You.

Yes, cousins … Geezers … I love all of you! Thanks for enriching my life … again!

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One of the worst snowstorms ever to hit the South was in early 1951. I was a wee lad living with my family in Meridian, MS, where it never snowed. Nobody had winter gear. Sleds were unheard of. No one had ever seen a pair of skis except in the movies (TV was not yet available to the local populace). But in 1951 it snowed. And snowed. And snowed. The memories of wee lads tend to grow along with wee lads, so I don’t really know how much snow accumulation there was, but it had to be several feet deep… Well, OK, probably a couple of inches. But to wee lads who had never seen snow, that was a blizzard, the storm of the century.

A family had recently moved in next door. They came from Maryland, wherever that was, and their son Dickie had a sled! He was a few years older and quite possessive of his sled, not wanting it wrecked or damaged by an incompetent wee lad who had never seen one. Mama felt sorry for my younger brother and me, not being able to sled down the steep driveway. We might never see another snow and she didn’t want us to miss the experience. So out she comes with a very large, old enameled steel dishpan for me and a big cookie sheet for little brother, David.

That day I did some serious sledding panning down that driveway, off the end of it and on down the hill in the back yard. As for little bro’ who was only about four years old, he mostly just sat on the cookie sheet at the bottom of the driveway, watched me zoom down and trudge back up, and yelled and waved his arms a lot. The zooming and trudging lasted until afternoon when the snow began melting, the dishpan started kicking up sparks from contact with the concrete driveway, and a hole was worn through the enamel and steel. But for those few hours on that one day, yes sir, I was King of the Slopes!

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Understand the motivation of the liar and you will recognize and understand the lie.

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Most advertising is wasted on me. If I remain in my seat while the next 10 minutes is filled with inane crapola, 20 ads for 20 products or services that I either already know about, don’t use, or don’t want, I have my brain trained to wander off and process other things during commercial breaks. As often as not, I’m up and away for those few minutes, getting something to drink or nibble on, or making proper disposal of the consumables from previous breaks.

There are exceptions — commercials that are so well done or so clever that they command attention. Budweiser’s Clydesdale commercials, Hallmark’s warm and fuzzy spots, some — but not all — of the ads unleashed during the Super Bowl each year, any commercial involving the herding of cats. Those are a few that come to mind. But please spare me from suffering one more locally produced spot featuring the head dude or dudess droning on about their finest used cars, unmatched insurance offerings, spectacular pools and spas, or the best damn muffler shop in the state. Who gives a rat’s ass?

However, even I, the crusty old veteran of commercial avoidance maneuvers, recognize a good hook line when I hear it. I’m talking about the few brief, simple words spoken by an appealing and trustworthy voice. These slogans or hook lines, or simply hooks, when well done, have exactly the intended effect — they quickly become such natural parts of the lexicon that we take them for granted as nuggets of truth we have always known. These lines frequently speak to us as individuals, complementing the strengths and interests we have or offering to bolster our weaknesses without calling them weaknesses.

Some of the most effective ones at present are:

• You can do it. We can help. — Home Depot
• Are you in good hands? — Allstate (the guy with the rich creamy voice)
• Can you hear me now? — Verizon (see previous post)
• Don’t just buy stuff. Do stuff. — Radio Shack

There are others, both past and present. Do you have a favorite hook line?

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You have seen him hundreds of times on television, in magazines and newspapers, and on billboards and smaller signage. But you don’t know his name.

You know exactly what his message is. But you have never heard him speak but six words — the same six words, over and over.

He has probably made enough on this one job that he never has to work again unless he wants to. Yet, he is as common and likeable and unlikable as your brother-jn-law or the guy next door.

He is the Unknown Celebrity.

He is the Verizon guy.

Known affectionately at Verizon as Test Man, he is Paul Marcarelli, an actor from New York City. And, yes, those really are his own horn-rimmed glasses.

Verizon is so determined to keep the Test Man in character that it would provide few details about the actor who plays him in the ads. “Our casting specifications called for an everyman with something quirky or memorable about them,” says Marvin Davis, vice president, advertising, Verizon Wireless. “We looked at over 1,000 people.”

Can you hear me now?

Good.

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If Mama had known, my butt would have been grounded until I was 38. But like most 10-year olds, I figured that what Mama don’t know won’t hurt her. I also understood the corollary to that, what Mama did know could hurt the hell out of me.

The shiny new 26 inch Schwinn Hornet bicycle had been my reward for completing third grade with good marks, not getting dismissed for throwing spitballs or pulling that cute little red-headed girl’s pigtails, and avoiding bloody noses from fighting with other budding young Supermen like myself. What a beauty it was — burgundy-red and cream, whitewall tires, and a decorative tank between the horizontal ball-buster bars. The tank had the function of housing the non-functional, button operated, battery powered horn. I accessorized my bike by adding a squeeze-bulb horn clamped onto the handlebar, a basket mounted on the luggage carrier above the rear fender, and tassels streaming from the handlebar grips. And, of course, there was the requisite spring loaded wooden clothes pin for clipping a piece of cardboard in place to clack against the spokes when I was not in stealth mode.

Please understand, this was no flimsy, lightweight, wimp of a bike like the ones made today, but a heavy-duty model built to withstand both the stress of high-speed racing and the tortuous rigors of off-road adventures. There was never any hassle or hesitation for changing gears since this was prior to introduction of gear changers a few years later. And the rugged coaster brakes were far more durable than the delicate and temperamental hand-operated caliper brakes that more expensive models would soon have. This was every boy’s dream in the early 1950s. Unless, of course, your parents could afford the top of the line — the totally awesome Schwinn Black Phantom. It was roughly the same bicycle I had, but with a fancier paint job, chrome fenders, and a name that brought fear, awe, and envy to the neighborhood boys. My parents had to save and scrape to get the Hornet for me, so I was happy.

My parents were confident in my ability and trusted me enough that they allowed me to ride my new bike as far as school, which was a couple of miles away. I knew all the back roads and side streets and had enough sense to avoid the heavy traffic of the main avenues. In time, I reasoned that if going to school was OK then going to visit my friends who lived similar distances from my house would be OK. They lived in several different directions, but nothing was ever said about direction, only distance. So I routinely rode to see my friends Richard and Marcus who live across the street from each other, in the direction of downtown. One day we talked about going downtown, and decided that as long as we were careful, everything would be OK. Since there were no incidents and we were not found out, we decided that it would be OK to do it again. And again. And so we did.

Three 10-year old boys zooming up and down busy city streets, taking wrong-way shortcuts through one-way alleys, avoiding the buildings where two of our dads worked — we were hot snot on a stick. We had this thrilling adventure many times, and somehow our parents never discovered our transgression. It was during that period that I first learned to answer the questions, “Where have you been?” and “What have you been doing?”, with “nowhere” and “nothing”, respectively.

Fifty years later I told my Mom about it, and she scolded me almost as much as she would have if she had caught me in the act. Then she laughed — we laughed — and we agreed that it was a miracle that any of us lived to grow up and tell about it. Great bike, good times, good days, stupid tricks.

[A flip of my Superman cape to Bob Brady who inspired this piece with his recent post of Superheroes at his and Mick’s Blog Brothers site.]

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[Wave of the campaign collection plate to Crooks & Liars for bringing to us this nugget from the collection over at Mock, Paper, Scissors].

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