That distinctive intro blasts
from the ballroom doors, strings hopping
over syncopated electric bass, rock drums
in a simple progression, echoing off convention
center walls and wildly colored hotel carpets
to lodge in my chest with that tender ache, nostalgia.
I always hated dances. Avoided them usually, sweated
through them when I had a date to put my arms
around, hand on the bare skin between shoulder blades
in that shuffling teenage sea of angst, fear (loneliness),
naivete, insecurity, and desire.
Through the doors I glimpse the ladies, forty-somethings,
decked out, gabbing loudly and trotting out decades-old
dances, drawing open that window to feel again
what once they felt so electrically that it has been forever
burned into their being.
They will never be old. We
will never be old. The melody of youth
will remain etched in our essence, reminding us
of that intense rawness that fades, but not beyond
occasional temporary rekindling.
6/29/2013
6/20/2013
grinchiness
The first thing my speakers blasted out at me as I backed out of the driveway this morning was the punk cover of Sweet Caroline by Me First and the Gimme Gimmes, a reminder of my efforts to entertain and impress the 14-to-16-year-old scouts I had driven home from our bowling trip the night before. I must have been about that same age when I first heard Doug Bosted playing the band's punk versions of familiar Broadway songs in the church parking lot. Fitting as it had felt last night, I only tolerated the raucousness a few minutes before reaching down and switching my stereo from CD to my more mature radio selection, specifically NPR.
If I hadn't left later than usual for work, this would have held me, but it was after 9 and Diane Rehm only had a few seconds of airplay before I decided I wasn't going to put up with her. On the freeway on-ramp I switched stations again. Number 2 was an independent radio station characterized by their commitment to local and independent musicians. Their selections were often hit or miss for me and this morning was a real miss.
The next station promised a bland contemporary hit that I couldn't stomach; the station after that apparently had changed its programming from oldies to heavy metal in the year since I had resorted to tuning to it for a feel-good fix. I hit the final station preset on my radio, an FM newsradio show just breaking for commercial. After catching myself involuntarily singing along to the Nate Wade Subaru commercial, I broke off mid-jingle and exclaimed "NOISE!", simultaneously powering the radio off a mile and a half from work.
The first exclamation of "noise" immediately triggered memories of Mt Crumpet's irascible inhabitant, and, in his honor, I carried through the remainder of his grumble, "Noise, noise, NOISE!" Though he's not the good guy, I felt a kinship to that character in that moment. Driving generally puts me on the side of Ebeneezer Scrooge, that musical misanthropist that sang "I hate people" in one of my favorite film adaptations of Dickens' Christmas Carol. But this morning's irritation had less to do with the other drivers as with the entire Who village inhabiting my car's stereo radio and broadcasting uninterrupted clamor up through the speakers at me.
The Grinch's aggravation apparently arose from a single day's disturbance, but it is year round on this mountaintop. I have access to a stream of noise so incessant that it would drive the Grinch out of his skull in seconds. Worse still, there's no heart-enlarging epiphany awaiting one willing to endure the drivel; it's much more likely to achieve the opposite.
Lucky for me, there's also a power button.
If I hadn't left later than usual for work, this would have held me, but it was after 9 and Diane Rehm only had a few seconds of airplay before I decided I wasn't going to put up with her. On the freeway on-ramp I switched stations again. Number 2 was an independent radio station characterized by their commitment to local and independent musicians. Their selections were often hit or miss for me and this morning was a real miss.
The next station promised a bland contemporary hit that I couldn't stomach; the station after that apparently had changed its programming from oldies to heavy metal in the year since I had resorted to tuning to it for a feel-good fix. I hit the final station preset on my radio, an FM newsradio show just breaking for commercial. After catching myself involuntarily singing along to the Nate Wade Subaru commercial, I broke off mid-jingle and exclaimed "NOISE!", simultaneously powering the radio off a mile and a half from work.
The first exclamation of "noise" immediately triggered memories of Mt Crumpet's irascible inhabitant, and, in his honor, I carried through the remainder of his grumble, "Noise, noise, NOISE!" Though he's not the good guy, I felt a kinship to that character in that moment. Driving generally puts me on the side of Ebeneezer Scrooge, that musical misanthropist that sang "I hate people" in one of my favorite film adaptations of Dickens' Christmas Carol. But this morning's irritation had less to do with the other drivers as with the entire Who village inhabiting my car's stereo radio and broadcasting uninterrupted clamor up through the speakers at me.
The Grinch's aggravation apparently arose from a single day's disturbance, but it is year round on this mountaintop. I have access to a stream of noise so incessant that it would drive the Grinch out of his skull in seconds. Worse still, there's no heart-enlarging epiphany awaiting one willing to endure the drivel; it's much more likely to achieve the opposite.
Lucky for me, there's also a power button.
6/12/2013
...or not to shave
You don't grow a beard all at once. It takes time.
For some, it might be a long-term commitment to a single decision they made; it's been that way for me in the past, where I've had a beginning and end date and carefully monitored the progress all along.
But more common for me are the beards that grow not out of one decision to purposefully cultivate my facial hair, but out of initial laziness, and a daily lack of commitment to a clean shaved look. This kind usually never spawns a firm commitment or decision. Each day a question mark surfaces in the mirror - to shave or not to shave? The beard survives as long as my will to shave wanes.
You may argue that the decision to clean up neck and cheeks every few days when things get too scruffy constitutes commitment, but I experience it more as a bare minimum effort to remain presentable. Even as the razor hums over my exposed neck, chin tilted high, the option to continue up along the jaw-line and chin often presents itself, but is typically overruled by apathy and procrastination. No, not today, I tell myself, just let it be.
One day, my whim will blow the other way and the beard will be the victim. But it's no loss. Something so carelessly acquired is as carelessly destroyed. Though the shave is a much more abrupt change to the mutable landscape of my face, it is no more deliberate or well-reasoned. Sometimes "because I felt like it" really is the only reason a person has to give. The weeks of not shaving are not the accomplishment of dedication or work - but almost the exact opposite.
The beard grows under either circumstance. If I stop shaving, the end result will eventually be the same whether I chose to be bearded or took a shaving vacation. Sometimes you make a decision, and sometimes decisions make themselves if you stall on them long enough. Unlike my beard, you can't always count on the end result being the same.
For some, it might be a long-term commitment to a single decision they made; it's been that way for me in the past, where I've had a beginning and end date and carefully monitored the progress all along.
But more common for me are the beards that grow not out of one decision to purposefully cultivate my facial hair, but out of initial laziness, and a daily lack of commitment to a clean shaved look. This kind usually never spawns a firm commitment or decision. Each day a question mark surfaces in the mirror - to shave or not to shave? The beard survives as long as my will to shave wanes.
You may argue that the decision to clean up neck and cheeks every few days when things get too scruffy constitutes commitment, but I experience it more as a bare minimum effort to remain presentable. Even as the razor hums over my exposed neck, chin tilted high, the option to continue up along the jaw-line and chin often presents itself, but is typically overruled by apathy and procrastination. No, not today, I tell myself, just let it be.
One day, my whim will blow the other way and the beard will be the victim. But it's no loss. Something so carelessly acquired is as carelessly destroyed. Though the shave is a much more abrupt change to the mutable landscape of my face, it is no more deliberate or well-reasoned. Sometimes "because I felt like it" really is the only reason a person has to give. The weeks of not shaving are not the accomplishment of dedication or work - but almost the exact opposite.
The beard grows under either circumstance. If I stop shaving, the end result will eventually be the same whether I chose to be bearded or took a shaving vacation. Sometimes you make a decision, and sometimes decisions make themselves if you stall on them long enough. Unlike my beard, you can't always count on the end result being the same.
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