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.