I am really missing you especially bad today. I hope things are going well; that the shingles have faded from your body (but why is it too much to ask from memory as well --Please God?!) I’ve never actually met a person from the God-Awful Shingle Alumni who doesn’t get a pissed-off look when you so much as even utter a word that even sort of rhymes with the word shingle.
While on the way to a concert last night (6-24), Uncle Ken and Aunt Don called to get an updated ETA for the 4th of July festivities. They are excited. You know, talking over each other, but worrying about and saying the exact same things at the exact same time. Hehe. They, of course, want us to be there by 4:00 or 4:30 on Saturday, because everything starts at 7:00, then we are all expected to be down at the river by 8:30 a.m. the next morning to float. (wha?!) They both pass along their love and greetings (and sad headshakes and shoulder shrugs) to you.
Moving along…before I tell you who my husband and I went to see in concert last night, I will drop you a few smart-ass hints, but it won‘t help you a bit, I'm pretty sure…
1.) I’ve never seen so many sensible shoes in one gathering… in my entire life. (EZ Spirit, Rockport, New Balance, Hushpuppy, SAS)
2.) I kept overhearing snatches of conversations such as… “You ever heard of The Electric Light Orchestra? Man, I’d love to see them guys in concert.”
3.) It is possible that some of this crowd probably attended Woodstock -- naked, covered in mud and feces -- but it is also now a pretty sure bet that some of those same people now own gas-sipping hybrids, have paid off their mortgages and are about to dip into their decently funded 401(k) accounts.
4.) Sprinkled among the masses (approximately 10%) would be the S-Class-crowd; those fortunate enough to have far exceeded the $15K Maximum Contribution Rule. In spite of their pressed slacks, Cole Hahn loafers, Tommy Bahama shirts and expensive Blackberries (set to silent page mode) vague little indicators stick out…perhaps their hair is a tad bit too long, some even have pony tails, or maybe it is that faraway look of Aquarius in their eyes…
5.) At least 5% of these people are mild-mannered nonconformists (pre-hippies) outfitted in Birkenstock earth shoes, cushy calf-length socks and t-shirts with motifs of sea turtles, Alaskan grey wolves and other endangered wonders.
And now to the “Mystery Dude”. This performer definitely belongs to our (Warren) tribe: Ergo, he looks like he could be Grandmother Warren’s twin brother; he looks like Uncle Ken’s older brother; he looks exactly like…Papa Ro. I’m not exaggerating one…single…bit. Nope.
At certain points in the evening I had to turn around in my seat and shoot my best Death Stare at a few (but only a very few) ignorant assholes and assholettes who were making remarks such as, “wow, he really sounds bad…” “he’s really aged, hasn‘t he…” “maybe it’s the acoustics….” OR the most insulting: “It’s a good thing we came to see him now, Roger…look how frail he’s looking.”
Well, excuse me, Joan, but he is a 70-something-year-old icon….. Roger, shut your bitch up, please.
And now to the dead giveaway… Let me drop more than a few solid lyrics for you…
*(The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald)…
The legend lives on from the chippewa on down
Of the big lake they called gitche gumee
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of november turn gloomy
With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more
Than the edmund fitzgerald weighed empty.
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
When the gales of november came early.
The ship was the pride of the american side
Coming back from some mill in wisconsin
As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most
With a crew and good captain well seasoned
Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
When they left fully loaded for cleveland
And later that night when the ships bell rang
Could it be the north wind theyd been feelin?
The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound
And a wave broke over the railing
And every man knew, as the captain did too,
Twas the witch of november come stealin.
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
When the gales of november came slashin.
When afternoon came it was freezin rain
In the face of a hurricane west wind.
When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck sayin.
Fellas, its too rough to feed ya.
At seven p.m. a main hatchway caved in, he said
Fellas, its been good tknow ya
The captain wired in he had water comin in
And the good ship and crew was in peril.
And later that night when his lights went outta sight
Came the wreck of the edmund fitzgerald.
Does any one know where the love of God goes
When the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searches all say theyd have made whitefish bay
If theyd put fifteen more miles behind her.
They might have split up or they might have capsized;
May have broke deep and took water.
And all that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters.
Lake huron rolls, superior sings
In the rooms of her ice-water mansion.
Old michigan steams like a young mans dreams;
The islands and bays are for sportsmen.
And farther below lake ontario
Takes in what lake erie can send her,
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
With the gales of november remembered.
In a musty old hall in detroit they prayed,
In the maritime sailors cathedral.
The church bell chimed till it rang twenty-nine times
For each man on the edmund fitzgerald.
The legend lives on from the chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call gitche gumee.
Superior, they said, never gives up her dead
When the gales of november come early!
Got it? If not, I’m saddened by this. Try this one.
Rainy Day People…
Rainy day people always seem to know when its time to call
Rainy day people dont talk, they just listen till theyve heard it all
Rainy day lovers dont lie when they tell ya theyve been down like you
Rainy day people dont mind if youre cryin a tear or two
If you get lonely, all you really need is that rainy day love
Rainy day people all know theres no sorrow they cant rise above
Rainy day lovers dont love any others, that would not be kind
Rainy day people all know how it hangs on a piece of mind
Rainy day lovers dont lie when they tell you, theyve been down there too
Rainy day people dont mind if youre cryin a tear or two.
Rainy day people always seem to know when youre feeling blue
High stepping strutters who land in the gutters sometimes need one too
Take it or leave it, or try to believe it
If youve been down too long
Rainy day lovers dont hide love inside they just pass it on
Rainy day lovers dont hide love inside they just pass it on
Sun Down…
I can see her lyin back in her satin dress
In a room where ya do what ya dont confess
Sundown ya better take care
If I find you been creepin round my back stairs
Sundown ya better take care
If I find you been creepin round my back stairs
Shes been lookin like a queen in a sailors dream
And she dont always say what she really means
Sometimes I think its a shame
When I get feelin better when Im feelin no pain
Sometimes I think its a shame
When I get feelin better when Im feelin no pain
I can picture every move that a man could make
Getting lost in her lovin is your first mistake
Sundown ya better take care
If I find you been creepin round my back stairs
Sometimes I think its a sin
When I feel like Im winnin when Im losin again
I can see her lookin fast in her faded jeans
Shes a hard lovin woman, got me feelin mean
Sometimes I think its a shame
When I get feelin better when Im feelin no pain
Sundown ya better take care
If I find you been creepin round my back stairs
Sundown ya better take care
If I find you been creepin round my back stairs
Sometimes I think its a sin
When I feel like Im winnin when Im losin again
Gordon Lightfoot…an absolute…iconic deity to me. I cannot explain how this fellow moves me. My tribe. I know him, somehow. Even though I don’t personally know him. Whatever chemical my brain releases, that sloshes around in my meager gray matter and makes me “feel for Gordon” must be that same chemical that stalkers have in aces, because I felt this irrational urge to wait out by his bus just to hug him and have my picture taken with him. I just don’t know about that, because I didn’t even feel that way when I saw Aerosmith or even Steely Dan… but whatever “it” is, “it” feels irrationally wonderful and so right-on, man. I just love that old fella. You will never hear a stronger, more compelling, simpler bard than he.
He is also not much for chatting up the crowd, but he does interject occasional, funny remarks (serious to him) such as “This one’s a toe-tapper (in a Fargo-ish brogue) and then he busts out with an oldy but goody like “Cotton Jenny.” He did tell an entertaining story about the “breach birth” of one song in particular. The famous “Canadian Railroad Trilogy” was written by Gordon on commission. A song for Canada’s televised Centennial celebration. The end result was “The Canadial Railroad Trilogy.“ The funny thing about that is, Gordon wrote it not in a fervor of patriotism to his country but under duress, simply out of need, because he was in serious debt. Heroic. Essentially, it’s one of those songs that makes you feel your country is superior, just because you are born in it. Haha, good stuff.
Well, if I’m a stalker, it quickly became evident that I sat among even more enthusiastic stalkers than I. As I glanced around in the dark, mood-enhancing pulses and hypnotizing waves of synchronized light effects, I noticed that women were crying and men were swaying and singing along, word-for-word, murmuring, “thank you for coming to Houston, brother…”
…Thus I quickly lost sight of my goal of one good picture and a hug from Mr. Lightfoot. (Sigh)
To recap, the whole affair started out uncomfortably. The band takes the stage, and then a small version of “The Man” takes the stage. He is acknowledged by polite, unsure applause and a few gasps. He is a much, much older gentleman now. (hello?) Some just aren’t prepared for this reality. Remember that this theater is packed with an uncomfortable gaggle of older, mostly working-class people who have braved the rain on a Sunday night -- no small feat, since major highways seem to all be under heavy construction in Houston starting Sunday evening. In other words, this is a big damn occasion for some of these folks.
This scrappy old son of a sailor, early-60’s icon, Canadian (born in Orillia, Ontario, Canada)….is performing Live in Houston, Texas, and it’s been 14 years since Houston’s last seen Lightfoot.
In short order -- and after a very early intermission -- the old crowd has loosened up a bit and has begun sipping wine and beer. Suddenly, everybody seems to remember -- and perhaps the old man has taken a few swigs of whiskey to fortify his vocal chords -- and the whole damned thing turns magical.
It is ironic that I saw the VERY small advertisement in last week’s Saturday edition. I have been telling my husband for years…you’d better fly me “Up North” to see him before he dies. And I meant it too! Imagine my gratitude upon finding out that he would be performing live, in the Verizon Wireless venue, in Houston?!!!
I will never forget this concert, Shane. Perhaps it will be my favorite of all time. I was there simply to experience the man, not to hear what I already posses on his Greatest Hits CD. His voice was the same, yet only a small shadow, and sometimes yet just a whisper, of what he used to be -- Ceste’ la vie -- which makes it even sweeter, to me. He is 70 years old, and I love him. What an honor.
As I watched this “son of a sailor” hahumph and hayah into requiems sometimes so familiar to my heart, I sat, mesmerized. I’m not sure if I understand the feeling, or why, but I know my heart does. That’s always been good enough for me. Gordon Lightfoot is “My People.“ I’m so glad that I got to be with such a sage, frail master before his time here is done. Absolute gold.
He may well have been my father, my brother, my lover -- I’m not sure. I felt not one bit younger nor one bit older than him last night. As I have said to you before, time is the greatest mystery in life to me, Brother.
(Now on to more dog stories)
Moving on…Dakota is the equivalent of a 2-year-old now. She is insane. I am having a tough time deciding upon how to discipline her (and not that I want to either) since she settles in my lap every morning as I enjoy my coffee and newspaper. She isn’t the least bit afraid of that same newspaper when I roll it up to give her a corrective whap upside the head. To say the least…she also wakes up every morning about 2 a.m. in the laundry room and pisses on same said newspaper, so why should she be afraid? Riveting, I know.
Have you seen “Ice Age?” If you have, (forgive me) were you sober? If you have seen “Ice Age”, and you were sober, then you will definitely remember the main character: That Squirrel. That is what Dakota is, to a tee. She keeps us in stitches around here.
For my daughter's graduation Mom and Dad presented her with an oversized card and a hundred dollar bill. They hugged her, she thanked them profusely, they then strongly admonished her to * please* spend the money wisely, on something that meant a great deal to her…
She reciprocated by promptly piercing her nose and purchasing a book at Barnes & Noble entitled “Cunt.”
(Sigh) Really, it’s not what you are thinking. It is a forward-thinking account of progressive, earth-friendly women who wear Birkenstocks, are Vegan, and use sea sponges in lieu of tampons, etc. Dear God…pray.
I had an interesting day today. I captioned my shift, downed a couple of Advils, showered, put on a pot of coffee, cleaned the kitchen, put on 3-Dog Night‘s “Joy To The World” at full blast and watched my son stagger down the stairs, wearing a confused expression -- as if a 9.0 on the Richter scale had just rocked our house. (Huh?)
Let me back up a bit. I got a call last week from his summer school teacher, informing me that my son was : Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah….
In short order, my son is much too social and demanding (and beautiful) for a fast-paced, algebraic-concentrated summer school hell environment.
Well…that’s my boy. And I’m on his side, so I immediately withdrew him in order to recoup the funds expended to put him through summer hell. He and I decided to plug it back into electric guitar lessons instead. Nice save, huh?
I am now his MOST favorite person in the world. I have been taking advantage of my newfound hero-ism by dragging his bottom out bed earlier than he would like and doing “fun stuff. “ Such as going to Barnes & Noble, selecting a book from his “Summer Reading List” -- which concept he also detests.
To be honest, he would prefer to sleep in until 2 p.m., drag-ass downstairs, heat up a frozen burrito, drag-ass back upstairs and spend the remainder of the day on the Xbox and texting his friends.
His spelling sucks. Let’s face it. He’s going into the 8th grade and he still has 2nd grade handwriting and writes abominable sentences.
(sigh) And I just can’t have that, can I? I have Googled the 5th grade TAKS spelling list so that he can not only practice his spelling but his grammar and HANDWRITING! Well, excuse me!
And now he is ding-donging me about needing to go to the fireworks warehouse for his big 4th of July show. Remember how exciting that was as kids? I remember how hacked off Mom would get, because we’d get new Christmas coats every year (?!?), then promptly burn holes in them with the fireworks that Papa Souter bought for us. I also remember the older cousins chasing us around with assorted pyrotechnics and dropping them into the hoods of our new jackets. I also remember Folger’s cans being a part of the terrifying repertoire. Toads also. Bottle rocket wars, Roman candles, etc...
Fortunately, we are all responsible adults now and aren’t going to stand by for that craziness. (Yes, I have taken a child to the emergency room in Hot Springs on the 4th of July -- Kris's broken leg the first year we took the Yam's.) Yeee-fukkin‘-haw…. Never again. I will take my child to the local Caddo Gap veterinarian before I go to the Hot Springs emergency room again. Aunt Don actually went to the hospital director a few weeks later and “ripped him a new asshole” over that “situation” ... We now have a name to drop in case of another similar situation.
I had a funny memory pop up yesterday while in the back yard. A mosquito truck came wheezing by, behind our house. I hastily snatched up my puppy, attempted to cover my mouth and my wine glass at the same time while herding the other two dogs toward the house. Well, while in our youth, I have some vague memory of dancing around under Nanny and PaPa’s light pole in the front yard, whirling and twirling around in all of that lovely, mosquito-killing haze. (?!?) That spurred another memory: Riding along in Papa’s El Camino -- on the LEFT-HAND SIDE of the road! Is my memory failing me or did Papa only move over to the right-hand side of the road when a car was coming the opposite way?? Or remember going to the wonderful Dump? Good times, weren’t they?
People have different visions of Heaven. My vision is a place that allows me to go back and visit certain pieces of the past. We are lucky to have had Nanny, Pappa, Grandmother, Grandaddy, Melvin, Rebecca, etc, etc, in our past. Man, were we ever lucky? God has a pretty enticing bargaining chip, doesn’t he? “Just acknowledge me, and I will make it whole again -- but much, much better.” That simple. Amen. Simple. I don’t understand it, but it doesn’t keep me from believing and having faith.
*** (Buenos Dias, Senior)…
Another day has passed, I’m sitting here having orange juice and rehashing the afternoon prior, after I wrote the first half of this letter to you. Do you remember the conversation between my daughter and the psychiatrist? The one that established how ridiculous I was? Yesterday afternoon she had another appointment with her shrink. Yet I found myself sitting on the good doctor's couch instead. My daughter was a no-show. So I talk about my feelings towards my daughter. The doctor smiles wanly at me, then repeats my conversation back almost verbatim.
Wow, has anyone ever done that to you? I didn’t need that woman to emphasize that my daughter is manipulating me, trashing the few but very important cardinal rules expected of her while she is a very young adult living in our home.
The things the doctor made sure to put a fine point on: My daughter's behavior indicates that she is invincible. Now that she is a bonafide, 18-year-old adult with 2 unpaid traffic tickets, she thinks she is willing to sit in jail a few days to settle the score with Harris County (ahem) instead of paying the fines… She also has an order by her general practitioner to take tuberculosis medication. She and Kris were exposed. Not full-blown diagnosed, but still “at risk.“ In other words, her TB test pops positive. She’s a carrier but not infected. Not sure why I’m explaining this to a former corpsman. She refuses to take the medication, in spite of the risk to herself, her family and her friends (though minimal) because the medication would cramp her social activities. I think this pisses her doctors off more than anything. I can’t cram it down her gullet either.
Remember the pregnant friend who will deliver next month? I have picked up on little pieces of conversation regarding an sharing apartment. Those girls have no clue. I have tried to coordinate with my daughter a time to get with the counselor at the college, to set up her basics, but she is just not making that a priority. She is also considering THE NAVY. Why…why…why do my kids turn away from a firm hand, loving guidance to a total ass-whippin? Can you tell me? Makes absolutely no sense to me whatsoever.
Speaking of ass-whippins….
Yesterday, since the doctor’s luxury office suite is over by Central Market, I decided to take my son. My son decides to take his best friend, Jack. Central Market is like Disney Land of grocery stores, full of all sorts of yummy stuff from every country imaginable. Really. So I give them the usual stern admonitions, warnings, reminders….yeah.
Within 15 long minutes they get bored of filling my buggy with strange energy drinks and foreign candy -- and I lose track of them, at least with my eyes, but I can hear them. They are running around like little sexy action heroes. (the store is chock-ful of young high school and college-aged gals) I eventually catch back up to them in the exotically strange dairy aisle and start speeding toward them -- BUT not before preventing my son from hoisting up and over his head a specialty wheel of imported Parmigianino reggiano (about $350 worth of Parmigianino reggiano ) and almost dropping it onto his toes.
Needless to say, my little sexy action hero almost got his skinny little ass whipped by the “cheese lady”, who had also just arrived on the scene, except about one beat ahead of me. Both of us were pretty pre-clempt about the cheese-wielding incident. So what does Cheese Lady do? Cheese Lady immediately grabs MY arm and and starts preaching to the choir. But while she’s giving me the particulars of what it takes to get this particular wheel of cheese through customs, how much it costs, how delicate the rind is, what could potentially happen if it gets dropped…I am staring deeply into her bleeding eyes and thinking, Daaammnn….iittt….Lady…., just how many martinis a night does it take to get such scary-ass-looking eyes??
Well….the boys learned
Two more years… Thank God you won second place in that gay limbo dancing contest they call the federal court system.
“If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all of my life.”
- Oscar Wilde
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