September 8th, 2014
Dear Corporate Robots,
First of all, please allow me to congratulate you on your genius of the music you play while your robotic answering service places me on “Hold” because “All our representatives are serving other customers. Your call is important to us.”
The music was HORRENDOUS!! For fifteen minutes and 27-seconds my brain and aesthetic senses were bludgeoned with the harsh, poor quality tones of some irritating Kenny G wannabe muzak. Kenny G is bad enough but this is worse. It makes fingernails on the blackboard seem soothing by comparison.
I realize that in this age of technology, no one would ever even try to play this kind of stuff outside a padded cell in the back ward of the funny farm. It was created by some computer geek with a warped sense of humor or a passive-aggressive personality profile.
This muzak made the grade school filmstrip music of my youth sound like Debussy in comparison. During this irritating hold noise, I could imagine a voice-over saying, “and so…the double breasted Mulusks of the Trobajalad Islands in the remote Pacific atolls lead a happy, productive life amid the native peoples who leave them alone except for the brief hunting season when their tail feathers are favored to adorn stone platforms for their fertility celebrations.”
…and as soon as “fertility celebrations” was said, all the boys awakend from their slumbers by instinct and began to punch each other in the shoulder and the girls blushed and ran off in mass to the girl’s room.
It was THAT kind of music.
It is music designed to make one want to hang up or puke or both.
It was the kind of music to make me want to rip out my hearing aids and take a vow of silence. (I am a senior citizen).
It is music designed to pay an unwarranted bill just to shut it off.
It is music designed to make it unnecessary to for them hire enough “representatives” to work their phone banks so the corporate head decision makers can earn bigger bonuses for saving the company capital expenses of equipment and personnel.
Congratulations for a job well done!
July 25th, 2014
It’s been a whirlwind of a summer and the coming fall will offer no change of pace. I love retirement. I was born for retirement! Many with whom I worked would find it easy to agree with that and were thrilled when it finally happened.
But even with our active retirement schedule of enjoying plays, concerts, visits with friends, grandkid visits, lifelong learning activities, poking around the house and waiting in line for prescription refills (not to mention the monthly free podiatrist clinics at the senior center), it seems we are falling farther and further behind.
I just cannot keep up with the Kardashians and I don’t know what I can do about it.
The amazingly glamorous and exciting life of a celebrity is something to behold and admire. Paparazzo, romances, breakups and being beautiful people requires lots of time and effort – I cannot imagine the time and resources needed for the tucks, tightens, tone-ups, personal trainers, affairs with personal trainers and payments to all those wonderful Hollywood plastic surgeons. Did daddy leave them enough money for all that?
Babies seem to be popping from every imaginable orifice and sired by every upward (or downward) mobile studmuffin with a sleazy agent keeps us in constant suspense.
Who’s talking (and more) with whom, those constant collagen treatments, silicone implants, shopping, vacationing, bickering and just the daily regimen of applying their daily makeup is exhausting! I doubt that the Gabor sisters in their prime would have been able to keep up this wicked pace.
I just watched the 43rd rerun of the episode when Kim hisses at Bruce and he runs off to their mountain retreat in Colorado with the former babysitter. Oh, such drama and glamor! I need a nap.
July 23rd, 2014
Lovie and I have been going to a lot (for us) summer theatre productions this year. Venues range from a local high school to college repertory productions and professional productions at the Shaw Festival of Plays in Ontario, Canada. All have ranged from being enjoyable to really enjoyable. Playbill programs from each level of that hierarchy of gigs bear some striking similarities.
I realize these Playbills are put together to gain advertising revenue to help fund the extraordinary costs associated with live theater. Those costs cover items that range from props, sets, venue costs, performer stipends to script rental and royalties.
To encourage patrons to look through these slick advertising programs is information about the production(s) at hand. Acts, scenes, settings and brief bios about the participants.
In most of these bios is where the superlatives begin. Everyone is either excited, happy, so happy, thrilled or ecstatic to be there. And I guess it is no wonder that they feel that way. Is that where the title of the TV show, “Glee” comes from?
It is tough long journey to being a performer. Live performance requires challenging disciplined work over a long time to gain skills necessary to get to the level of performing in front of people other than at family gatherings. It often begins early in life.
“Hey, Mrs. Jones, can Johnny come out to play?”
“I’m sorry, Georgie, but Johnny is busy practicing his emoting this afternoon. In a few years you can come back and get his autograph.”
Performing can take years of study and practice involving or leading to psychoanalysis to get to a level of competence. Or the ol’ casting couch shortcut can hasten the process but that is like ingesting empty calories.
Second, once a certain level of skill has been achieved, finding a place and an acceptance where those skills can actually be employed is another challenge. This frustration results in the adage, “Don’t give up your day job.” It’s not always what you know but also who you know.
The performing arts needs people to perform. (duh!) It chews them up and spits them out with regularity. Age and other forms of discrimination are rampant so there is a constant flow of turnover. Movie stardom is like the Book of the Month Club. Only a few achieve wealth and celebrity. The remaining ones struggle. Without aspiring entertainers, there would be fewer restaurant servers, cab drivers, teachers, birthday party clowns (scary characters), bartenders and Herbalife Salespersons.
So, perhaps my cynical view of the use of superlatives in Playbill bios is uncalled for. Once success is achieved, it is quite understandable that a performer is (the following list comes from a playbill of the Grand Rapids Civic Theater) “excited”, “ecstatic”, “so pleased”, “pleased”, “thrilled”, “not shy”, “proud”, “delighted”, “pumped” and “energized” to “blast onto the stage”, “jump into the scene”, or “explode onto the scene”.
Yet it’s that last one especially that makes me want to avoid the first few rows when given a choice of seating. It could happen for real.
June 23rd, 2014
It was nearly noon and I asked, “Hey, do you want a hard boiled egg?” I had carefully researched the recipe and prepared a few.
I gently put an egg for each of us onto a plate. Our little salt and pepper shakers were nearby and a bowl for the shells was arranged in the shared space between us. I poured some OJ and Lovie carried over her latte from our leftover morning brew. Ready for lunch.
We sat down and I started to peel. “Don’t eat it all at once,” Lovie joked – or at least I thought she was joking. I gave a respectful snicker and continued peeling.
Lovie arose from her chair and got a knife and fork. “Do you want any silverware?” she asked.
“No thanks, I’m good.” Knife? Fork? It’s a hard-boiled egg! – I kept that thought to myself.
I resumed peeling teeny bits of shell off the egg.
Lovie popped up again and retrieved the egg slicer from the drawer next to the sink and sat back down. She sliced the egg and spread the pieces artistically across her dish as if for a magazine photo while I bit the top off my now half-peeled egg. I continued peeling its bottom half.
Lovie jumped up again and ran out into the yard. Trying to keep up with her, my neck was getting stiff. She came back inside, over to the sink and rinsed off the greenery she’d gathered. She sprinkled fresh-picked dill onto her egg.
Through the final bite of my egg, I uttered a muffled, “Whatta ya doin’?”
“I’m making a feast!” she declared.
As she finally began to eat, I was gathering up my stuff to take it to the sink.
I looked up and, alas and alack, I was the recipient of the stink-eye. Well versed in the protocol for this look, I sheepishly sat back down.
Lovie smiled, took a leisurely sip of her latte and I slugged the final gulp of my OJ.
I waited…I fidgeted, my eyes darted around the room…I waited some more. What now and when?
Lessons learned? Perhaps I need to have more respect for the chicken’s contribution to this scene before I so frivolously dispatched it. I guess it is also important to know there is more to sharing a meal than just the eating part. They don’t teach you this in Guy School class 101.
The tension was broken with an electronic chime alerting Lovie to a text message on her iPad.
Thank goodness for technology!!
June 22nd, 2014
For the past month or so, I have been thinking about washing the kitchen floor. This is NOT a condemnation of Lovie’s housekeeping…it is an admission that I, too, must share in the responsibility. But my testosterone fed brain has been telling me to not jump right into such an activity or set of activities. I must study the situation and make sure I am not over-committing to more than I can, or am willing to, handle. Sometimes the best of intentions become overwhelming as they snowball into an epic daylong drama that interferes with the ballgame scheduled at 1 P.M. I have to remain steadfast in my vigilance to guard against such things. The Tigers have won three in a row and I must watch – they and their beer sponsors need my support.
Our kitchen floor is covered with what they call laminate, “wormy chestnut” pattern so it is a pretty good stain hider. But certain times of day, when the sun travels across the sky, light reflections reveal little blotches that were not in the original pattern. “Oh, that’s where that glob of yogurt landed the other day!” I had lost track of it after it fell from the spoon and gave up on finding it after an exhaustive search that lasted actual seconds.
More than a year has passed since we got our amazing Shark steam cleaner mop thinggie. The novelty of it had me trying it out right away and I was “completely satisfied” so I did not have to go get my guaranteed money back.
Happily, and generously I turned the joy of its use over to Lovie. Even if I must say so myself, I’m really good at unselfishly sharing these kinds of life’s pleasures with her. The aura of this new device had worn off (quickly) and I’ve forgotten even where Lovie has kept it since then.
Perhaps it is the arrival of the summer solstice, but the floor is looking pretty gamy with the daylight patterns of the new season. So this morning I became self-righteously cavalier announcing, “Today is a great day for I, the man of the house, shall clean the kitchen floor.” It was as sincere as a congressman announcing in a press conference that he actually cares about something other than his re-election.
Lovie took me up on the offer. Now what am I gonna do? I have to deliver the goods. Now, where is that thing?
June 21st, 2014
Today, Saturday June 21, is a big day! Summer solstice begins and what better way to usher in this wonderful season of planetary balance in the northern hemisphere is a barbecue.
All peoples of the western world love to celebrate and small town America is no exception. We’ve seen wine festivals in Germany, cheese fests in Switzerland and at Green Bay Packer games, our own Tulip Time in Holland (MI) and now it is topped by another.
Celebrating 110 years in business, a celebration is occurring in Brookfield (home of the Zoo) Illinois.
Imagine! In these days of the volatile world of business, one in particular has survived through four generations of family ownership, threats of corporate takeovers and fluctuations in the marketplace and it continues to go strong.
So CONGRATULATIONS go out to the Hitzeman Funeral Home on 31st Street in that fair burg.
To celebrate this amazing feat, Hitzeman’s is holding a highly publicized Open House – no invitations necessary – casual dress a must – with barbecue, live (for now) music and a magician!
You can probably figure out the potential this information contains.
I’m intentionally avoiding discussion about the barbecue – but the magician? That’s another story.
Hmm – let’s think about some of the standard tricks of magicians. Forget the doves and bunnies in top hats – all too lame for this one. Sawing a person in half? No problem here! Running swords through a person in a box? Same deal, no problem. Making a person disappear? By golly, that is what they’ve been doing for over a century so what’s all the hoopla about? When volunteers are requested from those present, failure to respond might be considered as a default affirmative.
I hope they got the magician for half price – it’ll be the easiest gig he’s ever had.
June 17th, 2014
You can comb it (if you got it) but you cannot hide it.
Been losing it lately in more ways than one. But I’ll only relate about my hair and Lovie’s too.
Mine? Not much to say…more skin, less hair. I refuse to go the comb-over route. I used to go to a boutique kind of joint, with black drapes over my shoulder, cool jazz on the intercom and “hair stylists” named, Mr. Cleo or Miss Conception at the helms of their cubicles and for $45.00 I got a haircut done to make it look like I didn’t get a haircut. But at least Mr. Cleo had something to work with then.
But alas and alack, the ravages of time and circumstance have taken their tolls on my pate. Half a hundred (including tip) is a bit much of a fuss to invest in nothing much. It’d be as silly as living alone and still closing the bathroom door, as in, “What’s the point?”
I switched to the cookie-cutter discount franchise in the strip mall near Walgreen’s. Even there, I had to re-direct the cutters to not leave the four hairs near my male-pattern baldness longer in an attempt to cover the emerging shininess. My formula there had to do with numbers. Number 5 on top and number two on the sides with a rounded neckline – all for the senior discount rate of $8.00. The numbers, I finally learned, had to do with measurements of hair length in eighths of an inch.
Thrown-in for good measure was the haircutter chit-chat litany of, “So, what are your plans for today?” (That’s from the first ten minutes of their intensive two-hour complete haircutter training correspondence course titled, “Chairside manner”). My usual response is equally inane, “This is the highlight of my day! It’s all downhill from here.” It kills. Sad truth is that most days it is true.
Emboldened by friend Juan’s shaved head, I have taken another step toward practicality. No, not shaved (yet). I actually think my shaved pink pate would resemble a certain male bodily part after a Bris. So I told the cutter, “Number 2 on top and all around.” I like it and it seems to be fine for me. Peach fuzz, hat required – even inside. I am on to something for sure. Got a Stetson floppy newsboy cap and now I know that “the moment is right” for me.
Now to Lovie. Blue hair. I never thought I’d see the day but I am married to a blue-haired grandma. But wait! There’s more. It’s not your basic old-lady blue, it is wacky, “I’m following the Grateful Dead, got any weed?” electric-blue, with streaks of purple and shocking pink tossed-in.
Even though margarita season is in full swing, no alcohol or green leafy substances legal in Colorado were involved in this process – just some fun friends in the north woods of Michigan getting together.
Lovie has been spending a lot of time trying to re-arrange things up top and no matter what she does, it shines through!! To ease the stress of it all, in the evenings, we sit quietly with some vintage Pink Floyd on the stereo and sip our margaritas.
Ready for the Senior’s Center? Perhaps.