"Peace in 1944": Our high school production of "Diary" takes the cake

It's funny how listening to the on again, off again sound of rain falling on the house puts me in the mood to sit back in my office chair, upholstered by yours truly in the army olive drab WWII U.S. Army surplus wool blanket, and think back in retrospect to those days in high school when I performed in various school plays and musicals.  Rainy weather also puts me in the mood to lean forward in said chair and scroll through the social network of choice to see who else has so little to do this holiday season that they are also signed into the network.
And last, but not least, rainy weather puts me in the mood to write.
So, combine old high school memories, seeing friends from the high school years on line, and the rain induced urge to write, and you have this latest story.
Those friends from high school will take note that I avoided using the phrase "old high school friends".  You're welcome.
(Rain also has a more, shall we say, physical affect on me, but fortunately I took care of that shortly after dinner).

I briefly chatted with one member of our high school theatrical clan this evening and the memory of a specific play popped into my head. Memories, for me anyway, come up in clusters, like a key word search engine.  First there's the play, then the funny stories or pranks that occurred in that play's rehearsal or performance. Then the memory jumps to a vacation years later.
As I have stated in a past blog, allow me to 'splain myself.

The person whose digital persona that graced my laptop screen this evening portrayed Mrs. Frank in the play "The Diary of Anne Frank".  I (as many of my friends will hopefully remember) played Peter Van Daan, the character of a 16 year old boy who was also hiding with his family in the multi-level building during the Nazi occupation of Holland.
The scene we performed that comes to my mind out of the entire production is a scene in which the entire cast is gathered around the kitchen table to celebrate the New Year holiday.  Anyone who either acted in this play or has seen the old movie of the production will remember that someone brings in a cake and sets it on the table. One of the characters (I don't recall which one) verbalizes they remember each year how the character that baked the cake would write on the icing of the cake "Peace in 19... blank blank" (whatever year that was being celebrated). "Peace in 1942, Peace in 1943", et cetera.
So the character quoting their line reads out loud what is purported to be on this cake, with its white icing, sitting on the set's kitchen table: "Peace in 1944".
Only it didn't really read "Peace in 1944".

It read "Piss in 1944".

There was always someone on the stage crew who apparently felt we actors needed to repeatedly test our ability to stay in character regardless of the form of distraction.  Sometimes they felt that these "tests" should take place in a real performance.

Fortunately, handwritten red icing on an 8 inch diameter white cake can't easily be read by audience members sitting several yards away in a huge high school auditorium, most of whom are at eye level with the floor of the stage. There was, I'm sure, a lot of lip biting going on during that scene by most of us surrounding that table. The audience probably thought we were accurately depicting the emotions of those characters, locked away for years, hiding from the evil oppressors, wondering if peace would ever come.

Nope, we were just a small troupe of high school actors valiantly maintaining control and trying not to...peace on ourselves in laughter.

As for the vacation part of the memory, this little stunt came back to mind while my wife and I visited the Anne Frank House Museum in Amsterdam, The Netherlands a few years ago. While the multiple floors and rooms obviously differed somewhat from the set structure I recall from my Thespian days, the actual kitchen layout was exactly as it was on our high school set.  The various beds and curtains set up in the museum were replicas of the ones actually used back in the 1940's, but the museum building was the actual business and home of the Franks and this museum kitchen counter was the actual counter used by the Franks and their Jewish guests who hid along with them from the German Nazis.  The humanity of their plight hit me like - well, the rain currently hitting my own roof - when I saw the worn area where they must have used the kitchen knife to cut up the evening meal's meager vegetables and occasional meat that Miep would sneak into their humble hideout under the suspicious eyes of the Gestapo.

That was a very strange sensation, the hilarity of the high school play prank memories mixed in with the historic reality I was seeing and touching in front of me.  The fact that a young boy, who was the same age that I was when I played his character, experienced a much different reality than I did as a young teenager, and spent what was to be his last few years sitting in this very room, eating food prepared on this very wood kitchen counter, smuggled past the tormentors who would eventually be the actors in his undoing.

Incidentally I also learned that my character's actual name was Peter van Pels.  Anne apparently was known to use pseudonyms in her diary for some of the other family members that stayed in the house.

I was in one other play and a number of musicals during my high school educational experience.  I have some golden memories from those productions as well.  One evening I chased one of my fellow cast members of our high school production of "M*A*S*H" around the high school parking lot near the fine arts wing a few minutes before a performance while we clowned around. I think it was in retaliation for some wisecrack or prank he pulled on me.  What I didn't know is that he had, just before, taken a Valium to ease his nerves a bit.

As always, I will leave out the specific name of said individual.  There were a few of his lines that night that suffered a sort of dyslexia, an unfortunate side affect of the drug being pumped a bit more quickly through his veins than was originally intended by its pharmaceutical designer.
Example: Instead of hearing him speak his line "I received the call from General Hammond" it came out "I received the hall from General Cammond".
No one in the audience seemed to notice.  Somewhat like no one noticed the cake inscription in our production of "Diary".

Ahhh, those high school theatrical productions. Whether or not the play prop list included any baked desserts, they always did take the cake.

Thanksgiving Abroad: Days following "Over the river and through the woods"

It's 5:00 o'clock PM.
I know this without looking at an actual clock because I have an old cheapie wrist watch apparently given to me by a former co-worker that has an alarm which is set to go off at this time. Well, it's actually set to go off at 18:00, which is 6:00pm on the 24 hour clock, but this watch has not been reset for Daylight Savings Time. The reason the alarm has not been deactivated and the time has not been reset is because the instruction booklet for the watch was not included when this little timepiece was left on my desk following the former co-worker's exit from the company.  (Incidentally, she left of her own accord, a career change choice).
The reason I have a watch that I don't know how to operate? Hey, it was free.  And it's the only one out of four watches I own that the battery hasn't run down and that the wrist band hasn't recently broken.
Okay, so the primary reason is I procrastinate when it comes to buying watch batteries and similar small tasks.
But as I stated, it's five o'clock in the evening on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving.  And my throat is a little scratchy. Since we are staying with good lifetime friends who don't have the days off leading up to this wonderful holiday to otherwise entertain us, I have had a little idle time to speculate if the source of this esophageal annoyance was from various co-workers (still present at work) who had coughs and sniffles the week prior to my departure, or if the house dust cleaning completed the day before we left town infected me, or if the germs are from my lovely spouse who recently mentioned her own throat related symptoms revealing themselves to her a couple of days before our jaunt across two mid sized states.
After some careful thought, I'm going with a combination of all three. It was a multi-tiered attack.
On a tangent, does anyone else wonder how the advertising staff that wrote and filmed the latest Santa's workshop themed ad for T-Mobile could have missed the fact that the hot pink wigged elves singing the lyrics "something in a 4G wonderland" sounds like "something in an orgy wonderland"? No, I don't have a dirty mind. It just sounded that way the very first time I overheard it playing on the TV and it makes me chuckle now every time it comes on.
I blame the above digression on the nine hour and twenty minute drive. Yes, I've had an entire day to recover from that little trek, but as stated before, we're all somewhat waiting on the holiday to arrive. So the mind wanders aimlessly.

This trip has taught me a few things which I will now share with my readers.  To practice for the upcoming List of All For Which I Am Thankful, I will share these "few things" in classic "list" fashion:
(1) The instrument panel - also commonly known as the dashboard - of the current model Volkswagen Beetle makes a top notch eating tray as you drive down the highway after making a fast food stop.
(2) You will never see deer in the "Deer Crossing" zones that are dutifully advertised by those bright yellow diamond shaped signs.  You will see them, however, running along the entrance ramp to the freeway in a large metropolitan industrial area long after the "zone" warning has expired.
(3) Remember to dress for your destination when you leave your house, particularly if you live in a warmer climate and are driving Northbound. (Now the shorts do come in handy for comfortable clothing to wear around the house. They aren't so good when you have to move your car out of the driveway for someone to leave the house).
(4) Nothing makes you realize just how much too long it has been since you have last visited your friends than their children being able to practically look you level in the eye without standing so much as on tippy-toe. (To do so the last time we were here would have required standing on a chair).
(5) Never forget any of your prescriptions when you travel. I was almost driven to request a new prescription to alleviate stress suffered from trying to arrange for a short 6 day script to be filled at a pharmacy local to where we are staying.

Now that my typing fingers are warmed up, I can proceed on to the personal Thanksgiving List.  This must be done now since the next few days will be spent preparing for The Meal, The Game, The Post Meal Nap, The Biggest (Biggest...biggest) Shopping Day Of The Year (the second two "biggest"s were tractor pull-esque announcement echoes) and The Return Drive.  These items are not in any certain order.

I am thankful...

(1)...for the physical, mental, and financial ability to be able to write this list in this fashion.  This means having my hands and eyes and intact thought processes, the education to utilize them, and the income to afford the tools and the electricity to power said tools.
(2)...for the vehicle that brought us here and the safe journey to get here. Hey, if there is anything I have learned in my line of work, it is that a lot of people do not have comfortable or even reliable transportation to get from A to B.
(3)...for the other person in the aforementioned "us".  That would be my wife.
(4)...for the friends who now host us in their home.
(5)...for the other friends who are also visiting with us.
(6)...for the children of our friends.  They give me real hope for the future of our society, our nation and our planet.
(7)...for the steady employment that provides the income I earn and the health insurance that helps keep me moving.  Without the income....well, I try not to think about that.  Too many people have to live with that these days. Or I guess I should say withOUT that.
(8)...for those who are working in far flung parts of the globe in uniform, away from their families, and who have more to worry about when they drive on the road than whether or not they'll hit a deer. Here's a big "Hooah" to your coming home soon, mission accomplished.
(9)...for the food, of course, that we enjoy; not just on Thanksgiving Day, but every meal we have, regardless of whether we consume it from the dashboard of a Beetle, a shiny restaurant booth or at the family table complete with the additional leaf installed.
(10)...for the past memories we will share, the fellowship we will enjoy, and the new memories we will create with our dearest, longtime friends on this Holiday. And if our friends manage to find the time to read this entry between the soccer games, the homework, the turkey basting and the channel surfing, they will see this heartfelt "thank you" for putting us up and for...

...well, for being our friends.

My (belated) personal homage to Veterans Day

Count on me to be a day late with my own personal take in remembering the first Veterans Day in a hundred years to have the date 11/11/11.

As with any speech or presentation, one starts with the "thank yous" to the individuals responsible for one's being in the position to give said speech or presentation. So here goes.

First, I'd like to thank my Dad.  If it wasn't for him, I truly wouldn't be here. (That goes double for my Mom, but since I'm writing about veterans, I'll have to save thanking Mom for Mothers Day).

Dad joined the Army Air Corps in WWII and served as a Mechanic, working on B-29 Stratofortresses.
He probably got a nice tan on Guam, which was a major base of operations in the Pacific for the long range bombers my Dad kept in the air.

Next in line are my uncles.  My uncle Norman, one of my Dad's older brothers, served in the United States Army and fought at the Battle of the Bulge, if my childhood story memory is correct.

My uncle Joe served in the U.S. Navy in WWII as well.  He worked in the morgue, if memory serves, preparing those who sacrificed everything for their last trip back home.  He was one of my Mother's older brothers.  My Uncle John, my Mother's oldest brother, served in the U.S. Army as well in WWII.  He was a cook.  When he came home on leave he would bring home gifts like sugar and flour, which were greatly appreciated since much was given up on the home front for the war effort in those days.
We must count our blessings that we give up very little for a war effort nowadays, except for those who have family in harm's way.  No gas lines or rationing of basic supplies here any more.

My Uncle Gerald, who married my Dad's only sister, also served in the Army in WWII.

Another brother of my Mother was too young for WWII but served in Korea in the U.S. Air Force.  Thank you, Uncle Frank.

My Father in-law, also named Frank, also served in the Air Force between Korea and Vietnam.  It was the beginning of the Cold War years.  A few of the peace time stories he has told also spoke of some cold weather in remote mid west air bases!  Thanks for keeping guard, Frank.

Then in my generation there was my older sister, Pam.  She joined the U.S. Marines right out of high school.  This decision was right out of left field for my parents.  She re-upped after getting out for a few months following her first hitch.  I think the first hitch was four years and the second six, or vice versa.  I was only around 12 years old so I don't recall.
Then she got hitched to another Marine.  The Marines look for a few good men. She found hers.
Which brings me to another same generation veteran, my brother in law Paul.  Thank you, Paul, for your service.

One of my cousins had a stint in the Marines, also.  Thank you, David, for your time in the uniform.
And Tommy, I appreciate your service in the Air Force.

I have a number of current and former co-workers who have served.  Brooks Rose, my thanks go out to you, Marine. Hooah.
Josh Lehmann, I don't know what you did to talk the Army into taking you, you crazy Cajun, but thanks to you as well. Capt. Theresa Sommers, U.S. Army, (and your husband as well), I appreciate your service to our country, doing multiple tours abroad, particularly these days.

To my former Team Lead, Gary McDonald.  I might have been too young to really appreciate your service in Vietnam when you were serving, but I certainly do now.  Thank you for coming home safe and being a great boss.

Rick Alvarado, U.S. Army, thank you for your time away from your family and your sacrifice.  I'm glad you came home safe, too.  Rick is married to a former co-worker of mine who, last I knew, was working for Homeland Security.

There may be a few others I haven't mentioned here, but if the lateness of the hour has suppressed my memory of names, forgive me.

As I sit here in my military theme decor home office writing this blog, I look around at the ammo crates I purchased at a local Army/Navy store some years ago that I used to build my desk, shelves and wall cabinets. I gaze at the photos and posters of various military aircraft I have framed and hanging on the wall.  I glance up at the camouflage netting "curtains" draped over an old Army tent pole that is resting on old bayonet handles I've mounted to the wall as if they are stuck in the wall itself.  I look at these things and wonder just how many sons, husbands, daughters and wives carried these pieces of equipment and supplies and speculate who flew those aircraft over the years that I now admire in these frames.  I wonder if they came home to the welcoming arms of their families and spouses or...if they did not. I wonder if any of the ordnance that sat in these wooden crates stopped an advance of an enemy or if they were just used in a training exercise.

I do know one thing. I like Veterans Day.  I like that we set aside a 24 hour period to pause and remember the men and women who have served and continue to serve.  I know in these times I think about them more than just one day a year. Heck, I usually think about them at least a couple times a week.

To all of those whom I have mentioned above,
Thank you.    

Good fences make good times

I didn't always have such a cushy job.

One thing about having to work for a living from the time you could (legally) drive a car is that you learn to appreciate the employment you have as an older adult.  I have had many jobs, the first being the typical paper route type, of which I had two different routes.  Wait, back up a minute. There was that convenience store short, short, short term job I had when I was roughly thirteen before the paper routes.  A school buddy of mine named Ronald, a nice red headed kid, hooked us up with an after school gig where we mopped the floor and stocked a few shelves after the store closed and made a few bucks.  I think that ended when I slipped once and used the term "pissed off" in front of my parents and my Mom got...well, pissed off.  I blurted out that I had heard that term from the store owner when we didn't complete some task as we should have and, well, there went that job.

So, after the store job, I had two paper routes, the larger one fetching enough funds to buy my first ten speed bike and a blue jean jacket, the rave of style in those days.

I looked studly in it.  Does anyone remember the term "studly"?  No? Anyone? Anyone? Okay, so I looked cool in it. On my ten speed.  Which was also blue.

There were a few other pre-college jobs;  The Dallas Morning News, where I worked in "Quality Control".  The title of the department had nothing to do with what we did.  Essentially we filed the ads that they would pull to lay out, shoot the plate for the page to be printed, and then file them back in a large wall of slots.  The coolest part of this coveted position was the ability to read the entire week of newspaper comic strips before they went to press. Well, all but Sunday's comics, or "funny papers".  Those were full color and kept elsewhere.
You wouldn't think a sophomore in high school would find that part of the job so cool.  But we did, because we sat around. A LOT.  Easiest minimum wage ever made.

Then came the summer of 1979, following graduation from dear old Kimball High.

My best friend in life was good friends with a guy whose father owned a fence company.  Being that neither of us were from what you would call rich stock, we had to work for any money to go anywhere or do anything, so this was prime full time employment.  And I didn't even need to drive to work because they would pick me up from home every morning.
Yeah, almost like in the movie Good Will Hunting.  Except we weren't THAT poor, we didn't drive down the street and pick fights at random, and we had Texas twangs instead of "Bah'sten" accents.

These were good times.  Now I don't know if we found so many things amusing about the job because the heat wave of 1981 (my second summer at this job) fried our brains, or because we were early college age guys enjoying the last days of essentially care free work before we joined the rank and file of working stiffs having to make car and house payments with their employment income.  We all still lived at home rent free, our cars were old hunks that were paid for, and our dating lives were...sporadic.  So the money we made either went into the bank to eventually pay for books or it paid for FUN.
Most of the fence we built - in fact, ALL - of the fence we built was galvanized chain link.  We did have one wood privacy fence job fencing around some pool pump equipment for some woman who had sons our age, and this job ended with us borrowing said sons' swim trunks and hitting the pool.

Like I said, good times.

The first fence job I worked was a large chain link fence job for a really, REALLY old woman somewhere in North Dallas who wanted to keep "those stupid keeids" out of her yard. That job almost gave the crew supervisor - the owner's son - an early heart attack.  She couldn't hardly be pleased.
We had some close calls with death, too, on this job.  Other than the heat of 1981.  We once had a load of sand in the back of our 8 foot bed 1979 Chevy Cheyenne crew cab pickup and blew a tire while traveling in the middle lane of south bound Interstate 35 near downtown Dallas.  As luck would have it, the tire tread remnants wrapped around the rear axle and clinched the emergency brake cable so tightly against it that it jerked us to a quick stop IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FREEWAY.

I swear that - sounding dangerously close to Rosanna Rosannadanna - I thought I was gonna die.

But we didn't.  Months later, while driving down that stretch of historic road, I used to show friends, with pride, the deep gouge in the concrete running from the center lane of five lanes all the way over to the shoulder that was created by our left rear rim - sans tire - when some good Samaritan helped push our truck over to the side of the freeway.  Amazingly enough, there were no accidents.

We didn't get much fence built that day.

There were also shenanigans that helped pass the time. You know, pranks.
One day I was too slow getting a nut threaded onto a bolt being held by a straining, trembling hand of a co-worker through the hole of a fence bracket that holds the chain link fence against the pole. So, in retaliation, later that day one of the crew laid some of the fence bolt nuts out in the sun for a few minutes and then casually let one of them drop down my "plumber butt crack" whilst I was crouched down working on....something.
I swear I thought they were going to wet themselves watching me move faster than I ever had in my life to shake that red hot nut down my pants leg.  If we hadn't been so dehydrated I think they might actually have stained themselves.

Then once I was pulling up on a wire with my trusty pliers and the pliers slipped off the wire and popped me in the mouth.  That was while installing fence along the roof of one of the utility rooms at the Cotton Bowl at Fair Park. I went into a temper tirade for about 15 seconds, throwing tools, buckets, spools of wire everywhere.  When I played out, I looked around at the other two workers who were staring at me like I'd lost my mind.
Good times.

I'll be seeing the friend who helped me land that job this Thanksgiving.  We'll drive up to see him and his family along with some other friends and we'll probably share other stories that we HAVEN'T heard a hundred times - like these stories - because we've both lived long enough to have experienced just a few more golden moments.

But no story or experience will be about a time where I was so darkly tanned, scratched up from barbed wire, or had fingers (or lips) so bruised up from pliers, pinching brackets, or red hot bolts.

"Good fences make good neighbors"?  Maybe, Mr. Frost.  but they also make great friendships and even better memories.        

The lost TV

When scrolling through the hundreds of satellite channels we have at our disposal on occasion, I am reminded of the choices we had for indoor entertainment when I was but a short first grader with a crew cut and a growing "uni-brow".
The term "disposal" might be a Freudian slip. I seem to recall my Mother saying more than once (a day) that the TV was "trashing" our minds. She also called it the One Eyed god.  In hindsight, I suppose we did look like faithful little disciples, kneeling in front of this object, eyes glazed, stares unbroken for hours. I now also appreciate her disdain for a lot of cartoons if watched for too long since we have installed flat screen televisions at work for the customers. The company purchased only four channels - ESPN, CNN, Disney and Nickelodeon, the last two meant to entertain the children of our customers.  I can see how the noise of Sponge Bob Square Pants can raise the angst of adults if played loud enough and long enough.

See how TV has affected my brain? I'm off the subject. It must be the influence of the TV remote.

Now some of you may be thinking "Oh, boy, another rant about how 'in MY day' he says they had to use pliers to change the channel and that they only had four stations, etc., etc., ramble ramble ramble."

Nay, nay, (a subliminal influence of Mr. Ed) nay.  I assume that most of my audience is my age, so that would be preaching to the choir.  Pay close attention, Wilbur, for this is a story that may explain a lot about yours truly.  For this is the story of how we lost our TV. For a very long time.

It's early morning on a school day back in January of 1968.  How do I remember this when I can't remember why I walk into the kitchen when holding an empty glass?  I remember because I was waiting impatiently for something to happen on TV so I could leave for school.  And also because what occurred was obviously traumatic.  You always remember the traumatic events of your life. I remember when...

Focus, focus.

I was watching my favorite morning show in glistening black and white, framed by a dull 19 inch plastic frame.
Mr. Peppermint. The good thing about black and white TV is that it required imagination. We didn't need color to know those stripes on his jacket were red.  Everyone knew peppermint was red and white.
Mr. Peppermint had numerous characters on his show, one being Mr. Wiggly Worm. This was high tech stuff.  No computer graphics here.  A finger of Mr. Peppermint was poked through a hole in his straw hat. He talked to his finger, essentially. And his finger talked back to him. This was great stuff for the studio, because they were getting two characters for the pay of one actor. And I was enthralled with it. Usually.

but today I was ready to scream at the screen "enough with Mr. Wiggly Worm! Get to the birthday list!!"

Yes, this day was not just any school day.  It was my 7th birthday. And I was going to stay in front of this TV set until my name was read by Mr. Peppermint on TEE VEE.  (I assume, at this point, that my Mom had mailed in a card or called in my name to the station to be read aloud by Mr. P.  I'm sure he wasn't psychic).

As the clock above the set ticked toward departure time for school, I grew more anxious. Hurry up! and PLEASE no commercials right now!!

Then just as Mr. Peppermint was wrapping up the worm show, the screen went black and a puff of smoke akin to the view Oppenheimer must have had those miles way from the first A-bomb test at Los Alamos rose up from the back of the TV set.
No, this is no joke. As God is my witness, the screen went black, and a puff of smoke akin...you get the idea.

I may have blacked out what followed as it was quite literally a shocking moment for this little TV addict, but I may have hit the set and wrangled the knob somewhat in a feeble attempt to get the picture back.

I truly don't recall how the day at school went. Small wonder, no?

I do recall we always took our TV sets to a man called Mr. Spring. Apparently he was not able to save the thing. Mom (who was, and I suppose, still is, a very spiritual person) considered it a sign from God, and she was not joking. As I grew older, I figured out how TV must have been changing and how it probably upset her to have us watching TV.  I also know her eyesight was probably getting to the point watching TV was a bit frustrating, a symptom of diabetes that began to plague her health around that time.  But I think it was mainly the fact that TV had gone from the innocence of Milton Berle and the Dick Van Dyke show to the emergence of Laugh In - off color humor for those days - to the news reels of Vietnam piped into American living rooms. That's one theory, anyway.  She also was the one that had to break up arguments of what show we wanted to watch and who's head was in the way and so forth.  And there was probably the expense of buying another set.

The silver lining of this catastrophic event was we as kids ended up reading more.  I bet you thought I was going to say that we played outside more. Nope, we already did that a LOT.  We had no need for incentive to go outside.  There truly weren't that many shows on TV during those years that interested children.  There was no Cartoon Land  cable on all day.  A short morning show, noon cartoons during the summer, and Saturday morning cartoons that lasted around 2 hours, I think. That was it. And watch the NEWS? No way! I'm going to Charles' house on my bike and playing army, Mom!

So I dog-eared the encyclopedias and encyclopedia Yearbooks we had.  During the summer, we swam at the city park pool and then we went to the library.  I'd check out a stack of books such as Peanuts, Hardy Boys, and others and have them read and back in a week. Give me a tube of saltines, a glass of strawberry Kool-Aid (don't ask me why, it was just really good) and I'd read for hours.

Now there were the weird stares we'd get if we visited someone with a TV, which was pretty much the rest of civilization.  We could be predicted to stop 4.5 feet from wherever the television was located in the house.  How long we stayed there depended on what was on.

So how did we watch history unfold? The first lunar walk by Neil Armstrong? Seven - 11 rental. These were always iffy.  You'd turn it on and get a picture at the store but something would happen in transit and you'd have to stand on your head to get the picture back.  Sometimes we'd have to go to a second or third store to find one available.  One being visible inside the store as you pulled up didn't mean it worked!
The moon walk was in black and white anyway, so there was no loss in renting a B & W for that event. The Dallas Cowboys first Superbowl victory?  Watched it at my Uncle Frank's with my cousin Joe. I still remember seeing him so happy, which was a good thing, since the Cowboys could always produce a red faced "Stupid stupid stupid!" bellowing from my Uncle.  (My mother's people were a fiery lot at times). "Look it that, Joe! Worl' Champions!!"
That was a great Sunday. And it was in color! I'm sure my uncle bought the first color set that hit the shelf.  He did love his TV.
I did finally get a TV set of my own.  A man who was a huge part of my life, Richard S. Bryan, taught choir, Musical Stage performance and, well, life lessons, at my high school.  He was like a second father to me, not that I needed one, of course. I was killing time one summer at his house (you could do that in those days) and we must have been talking about some show that I didn't see and it came up that we didn't have a television in the house.  Not a hardship thing, just had become accustomed to not having it around.  He had an old black and white 13 inch TV he wasn't using and just gave it to me. So I had my own personal set in my room after that. I actually used it to watch the Channel 13 (educational channel) course shows for my freshman college English Reading Comprehension class until I realized that it was better to watch the video tapes at the library during humane hours instead of staying up until 11:00pm or getting up at 7:00am on Saturday to watch them.

I wonder what ever happened to that set.

So that's the story. Now I think I'll go hit the bed, grab the battery powered "pliers" that allow me to lay unmoved and change the channel, color tint, volume and see what's on without looking for the Sunday paper TV Guide pages, then tilt my adjustable bed to just the right position, and watch the sharpest picture the world has ever seen until I fall asleep.      

I met Willie Nelson...sorta'.

In my line of work I meet a lot of people.

Sometimes they are interesting. Unique, even. This last week was just one of those times.
Now before you start to wonder - those of you who know me, anyway - just how I came to meet Willie Nelson, I must confess that I didn't actually meet him in the flesh, or ponytail, so to speak.

Who I met was, well, his Tribute Band. Or Band guy.

Now this man is a musician who travels around in his van and performs as Willie Nelson. He doesn't sport the ponytail. At least, I don't think he does.  He had a ball cap on so I suppose he could have stuffed it up under his hat, but since where I work doesn't have a customer dress code that would lead him to do so, I figure stuffing said hair under his hat wouldn't make sense, so let's assume that he doesn't.  Doesn't have the ponytail. (Please try to keep up).

Taped neatly inside his vehicle are several photos of his travels and a few of the photos are of him standing with the infamous Mr. Nelson himself.  In our non business related conversation he reveals that he knew someone that knew Willie and that he took up on that friend's offer to meet Willie, being the huge fan that he was. This turned out to be a productive meeting, as he was not only blessed to meet the man but, after singing one of Mr. Nelson's songs for him, obtained his permission, his blessing, and his endorsement to perform as a Willie Nelson tribute performer.

Willie also autographed his guitars. That kind of sealed the deal, I guess.

Apparently Mr. Nelson told my customer that he looked more like Willie Nelson than Willie Nelson. I do have to admit that he (my customer) is about the same height (or so I'm told), tan coloring and hair color as the original. There were no musical samples given during our conversation, so I'll have to take him at his word that he sounds like Willie when singing his songs.
I asked if Willie Nelson is as generous a person as I have heard him to be. All you have to do is be old enough to remember the Farm Aid concerts held at Carl's Corners, Texas down off I-35 to know just how philanthropic Mr. Nelson can be. When he had his own financial troubles, the grass roots fan base held concerts and fundraisers in return.

I catch myself digressing.

My customer launched in response to my question into an answer that could have been a political campaign manager's introductory speech for his candidate. He told me how how Willie Nelson is not only generous, but extremely smart, and how he had written several books in addition to having appeared in several movies. He also will be completely honest with you and will always tell you what he thinks, regardless if he thinks you will like his opinion or not, said my customer.

Well, so much for Mr. Nelson ever successfully running for office. Too honest and too ready to speak his mind. (This fact conflicts with the license plate frame message on the customer's van, which reads "WILLIE NELSON FOR PRESIDENT").

With my line of work also being, at times, a hectic one, we cut short our little friendly sharing of social tidbits and bade each other adieu.

(Record-player-needle-sliding-across-vinyl-sound). Wait a minute. That don't fit. That dog won't hunt.

Since we were starting to get busier than a one legged man in an ass kicking contest, we shook hands and said "have a good one" and he drove off in his van of music and stories, the telephone pole impression still on the spare tire cover mounted on the back.

Now that's more like it. The initial ending of the story within the story. (Please try to keep up).

So since I now know so much about Mr. Nelson, it is kinda like I did meet him. Now if you're wondering why I don't stop being a cheapskate and just buy a ticket to one of his concerts, the reason I don't do so is, well...

I'm more of a Classic Rock guy.

Allow me to 'splain myself.

I do notice a few benefits provided by this electronic medium over the handwritten method of the old journal log. (I was told once that guys keep journals, women keep diaries. I do not recall if it was a woman or a man who told me this).
Being a lefty, there is no blueish black smear of ink on the side of my hand, nor reprints of my writings stamped at odd angles down the length of my sentences.
The editing process is much easier and tree friendly. That is to say, no wadded up balls of paper or the need to neatly rewrite from scrawled notes and scratched out rejected thoughts.
These two (did I say "a few" benefits?) benefits come immediately to mind. If I think of any more, I'll be sure to wake up the chipmunks and fire up the laptop to enlighten all who might be waiting to read just such an entry.
On to explaining why I write. Or type. Write. Yes, write is...correct.

I have always acted on my desire to create or express myself artistically. In the early years  - not counting home movies - church choir was the activity of choice. Fortunately, pretty much everyone in our household could sing in tune and even sound pretty nice doing so. School plays and musicals, ranging from elementary school, through junior high and ultimately high school served to feed the need of being heard and seen. (Before the structured environment of school plays, the classroom desk was the stage, but the performances were not well received, as you might imagine). Visual arts were also a frequently enjoyed activity all during the school years. If you needed a poster drawn, I was your boy. A T-shirt designed? Give me a day. A Banner? Give me a few days more. Tempera paint became an almost common characteristic under my fingernails.

In college, the creative expression tradition continued, both in junior college and the university. In fact, my degree is in Fine Arts, Major in Commercial Art, Minor in Theater. Theater was the original major until I decided I wanted to eat food on a regular basis after graduation and that the late or long hours of the typical working Actor didn't agree with my love of the 9 to 5 concept of working for hire.

I even managed to enjoy working in my chosen field of Art for a couple years after graduation. That is, until the late 1980's hit. For those who are just now leaving the college scene and trying to find a job, I truly can feel your pain. The primary difference between the recession of the '80's and this most recent one is the 1987 crash and years following were much harder on Texas than this one.
But let's not digress into a history of American Economics. Back to the point.
So I found myself out of work in my chosen field and having to find something that could pay the bills.
What to do? Answer: Enter the corporate world, and not in the art department.
Why? Well, other than the economy of the times, the technology of the medium in which I was trained changed dramatically. If you weren't already on the ground floor of computer graphics, you were filing logo art, buddy. Whups, looks like we can now file that on the computer, too. See ya, thanks for playing.
So I enter the corporate world, renting cars for several years, then moving into the damage/loss area of that industry which ultimately led to my current occupation in the auto insurance industry, specifically claims and damage estimating.
I will say this; the photographic skills I acquired in the art field bode me well in the documentation area of claims and the visual training has enhanced my ability to see damages an untrained eye might miss.
The stage acting skills obviously don't hurt when it comes to dealing with the public in what can be a high stress environment. But this daily use of basic visual and communication skills aren't near enough to satisfy the creative urges.
So do I go back to acting? Mmmm, nope. "Why not?", my old - excuse me, my former high school friends inquire. Too much evening time, weekend time, too much physical work for me is my answer. Oh, I could physically do it, but the boundless energy I had in my late 'teens and early 20's headed for the hills about ten years ago and didn't leave a map. In truth, I've been there, done that. Singing? More doable, but the voice takes a lot more work to get back into shape than I want to commit to, and I have learned the hard way that you can't "wing it" if you haven't kept the pipes tuned in a while.
So what's left?
I write. It's not my first time, but it is the first time I have chosen this medium as my primary artistic outlet. A couple of Poetry classes in college whetted my appetite for the creative writing world choices. Words are powerful and moving when chosen with precision and careful thought.
I also express myself visually with my novice gardening and garden related "projects", such as my back yard deck and deck accessories and the green house project near completion. But when it's over 100 degrees or under 35 degrees outside, the blinking cursor is always ready for me, waiting for my fingers to guide it across the white screen and leave little serif footprints in its wake that will, hopefully, make people laugh, cry, think, remember.

See how fun that was?

Oh, and as for my Blog title, I love little play on words phrases, and, like my love for writing good reading and reading good writing, my "signage" allergies have never left me. I find the sound of a voice struggling with a cold or blocked sinuses amusing, at least when it's not my voice. There are a lot of sounds the human body makes that are amusing, come to think of it.
But to continue on down that line of thinking would be low brow humor, and we'll have none of that.

Riiiiiight.

Welcome to my...journal.