Remotes

They are all over the house. They are everywhere. They seem attached to everything.

Everywhere I go I see them. Piles of them on tables and sofas. They are almost as bad as cell phones.

They cause panic when they don't work.

But what are all these remotes for?

To make OUR lives easier. Turn it on, change it, fine tune it, turn it off. So easy, if it is the right one.

Did we always have these electronic creatures in our lives? NO!!

Before we used to get our duff off the couch and walk two step to turn a nob or flip a switch, then stand there until we decided to stay on one of the three channels before turning around and sitting our big fat butt back on the couch.

And, of course, we would have to get back up to adjust the rabbit ears.

B O O !

Ah, the seasons of the holidays is here.

Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years.

Ahhh, time for family, food, fun and friends. Gatherings bring on winter, giving excuses to pack up the car and travel to eat, drink and be marry with family members we have forgotten about over the summer.

We dress up the children to present them to grand parents and aunts and uncles who they don't recognize. The kids hang around their cousins and play stupid games while the adults drink with reminiscence over previous holidays.

But the holidays have been slurred by the commercial economy forcing families to travel further, buy more, stress out and drink too much.

When did Halloween change from a cute holiday where children could dress up and go to neighbors houses for a candy bar at night. Treats didn't have to be tested and the decorations only conjured up wide eyes and happy screams of frighting fear.

So the next three months will have piles of items we must consume to update our holiday looks. Decorations will be brought down from the attics, dusted off and added to. There will be too much food and drink and in the end, another resolution to not do it next year, but that resolution will never be able to compete with the holiday insanity that overcomes us.

So now Halloween fright has become bloody gore. Thanksgiving blessing for the harvest bounty has become overwhelming sports on every channel. Christmas has been made into a competition of consumerism for another electronic device neither needed or wanted, but forced to be given. The celebration of the new year putting aside the past and looking forward to possibilities is nothing but glitter and light and sound.

Sure, I'm cynical about these days even though I made a living promoting them. But for those who are not traveling and cooking and eating and watching the celebration programming, it becomes overwhelming to watch. The stores are filled with scary rubber mask that look like my face the day after July 4th. And next to them are the pumpkins and brown leaves next to the pine trees and tinsel. So I don't decorate How many of those who sleep under bridges will celebrate?

And is it wrong for children to dress up like this the zombie walk?

Why not try something different this year? Instead of trick or treat.... how about "Treat or Trick"? (It's a habit started in high school and still going on). Enjoy the blood soaked children scrambling for more and more while taking a bag of candy and handing to the people at the door. The idea is instead of taking, you are giving.

It will make you happier and it is less filling.

B O O !

Autographs

It's a funny thing. You learn to write so you can have a signature.

A group of letters put together in a certain way to define who you are.

And through the years, your signature, like your life, changes.

More than anything else, including your social security number or driver's license, the written words stating your name is your statement to the world.

You sign contracts with it, pay bills with it, even become famous with it.

But what captures this individual aspect of your life.

I remember having an autograph book in elementary school and getting all the kids to sign it. Later I noticed photographs that were of famous people placed on a wall with brief statements and their signatures. Then there was memorabilia, like baseballs or programs, which we begged the stars of the time to scribble their names on.

I notice it today. People who the media say we should admire are swamped with fans wanting their autograph, as if having a quick stroke smear will somehow encompass their fame onto us.

I found this page of autographs from my elementary school photos. I recognize some of the names, then noticed I had my parents and relatives to sign the page. I guess I just wanted to fill the space.

A parent's signature indicated they had seen the report card which was returned to the teacher. I'm sure my parents were surprised on teacher conference night to see what my REAL grades were, since I had artfully learned to duplicate the way they wrote their names.

Then I remembered the high school yearbooks. We would pass them around and have everyone within reach to sign them. If you still have yours, take a look.

Most comments are as bland as Facebook comments. "See you in school next year" or "Hope you have a great summer" were the majority of the autographs from people you have long forgotten. A few were meaningful and some even surprising in what they revealed.

Of course, some kids wrote crazy stuff and will be remembered for it.

But the one thing no one else can have is your signature. It states you believe in the fact or agree to the manner of living.

It is a shame, with all the electronic devices, that the simple art of writing your name is fading away.

I'll take mine with me.

Just sign here:______________________________________

Big Bertha Is Gone

She's gone.

That might not mean much to you, but she was a landmark.

A great tree spreading across the street. She had been there since I had grown up. She was there when I carried a paper route. She was there during the deepest snows and the hottest summers. She braved the hurricanes and came back strong.

I never paid much attention to her when I was young, but in the past few years, I would ride under her outstretched fingers every day, amazed at her breadth and the strength she symbolized. Neither traffic or construction or even the sidewalk could hold her back. She dominated the corner with a massive limb reaching across my path that I could rest in her shade.

Then this summer, during a storm, two of her branches fell. They were as large as most trees on the block and were stacked next to the curb. It was not a good sign.

A few days later, Bertha was marked. An orange X was sprayed on her trunk with a sign stating she would be removed.

A month passed and every day I would ride under her like a tollgate measuring my distance. Other trees had fallen or been removed over the past year and each was like a familiar friend, but Bertha was different.

I had seen several branches, limbs and even whole trees crash to the ground during my travels and I figured if one of those branches had my name on it, it would be Bertha's giant arms that would be my final.

So as I pass by her remains, I think of the others that went before her, to become the floors or framework of the homes for the returning army.

Perhaps she will become fine furniture or a child's swing set or a window to peer out on the flattened land.

Some day we will all be marked with an orange X.

Until then, stand tall and proud. and appreciate the sunshine and the rain, the chatter of the creatures who will outlast us all, and those who surround you every day.

My First Apartment

The summer of 1971, there were a lot of changes in my life.

Graduating from college (a miracle in itself), getting a REAL employment (thanks to a strike) after working at a train station cleaning vending machines and the city library making posters , and getting married (another miracle) were all in the works, so I had to find a place to start this new life.
I don't remember how I found this place. The second floor of a row building on Floyd Avenue just east of the Boulevard.

The area was clean, safe for the Fan and it was convenient to bus stops. It was close enough to work to walk or ride my bike and still close enough to my parents' house that my new wife and I could visit regularly to be fed (very convenient since I had just left their house after moving back in in 1968).
No, that is not our car out front. We did buy an Opel (the only motor vehicle I ever bought) but it had a black top.


There were lots of steps to take to carry our "stuff" up, but we didn't have a lot of "stuff" and we were young, so it only took a short while to set up the new living arrangements.


Music was important staple of our lives back then. This was my third turntable on our "entertainment" center. I would use the headphones so I wouldn't bother my wife as she read. Above the black and white spray painting by Art (I think my wife took that one?) There is a Popeye wooden carved statue net to the turntable given to me by Bill Nelson. It was a sailor thing at the time. I think I passed it on to another sailor. On the mantle was one of many pipe racks. I had been a smoker since 1966. Also on the mantle next to the books were my baritone ukulele and a dulcimer.




The black jar on the mantle (which was probably filled with some sort of illegal substance) was a gift from my grandmother from one of her trips overseas. The photo was either a print my wife made or a photo from her college friend's boyfriend. The fireplace must have been used at some point, because that is a bayonet laying in front of it to stir the coals. The broken rocker was part of the furniture set left by the previous occupant. I kept trying to fix that thing, but as you can see, without very good results. The little blue 8" black and white television had been carried around for years. Grainy pictures of election nights, news coverage and whatever we watched in the early 70's. (PS. No DVDs, VHS, cassette, MP3s, CDs, Tivo or other electronic stimulants were present or even invented) The pile of cushions were a gift from my parents. It helped to seat others when the occasion arose. They were slick vinyl and uncomfortable, so people didn't stay long.

Sparse living.


The first air conditioner I had ever had, but it came with the apartment. Guitar cases are stacked in the corner underneath. The blue and white afghan crocheted by my grandmother and old army foot locker I still have. The lamp came from my father's work place. The sofa and chair were uncomfortable, but they were better than nothing.

The nice wallpaper had to stay due to a clause we could not paint over it. Don't know where the rug came from.


My office. And yes, that is an electric typewriter. I wrote a lot of letters and resumes and stories on that typewriter and read a lot of rejections letters there. The desk was the same desk I used in my room during school at home. I kept my pens in a brass cup (forgot what the seal was on it, but it was probably a school). A diploma hung on the wall, proud acknowledge that if you continue to fake it, they will give you paper with your name on it. Since the room was tiny, the only drawing board I had at the time, had to fold up. The black leather swivel chair that was too low for the desk, came from my father's work place. The brass lamp, I still have and don't know what to do with.


Books, records, papers, art supplies were all crammed into this space. This was the "first" Mansland. It was also the hottest room with the giant radiator. In the window was an Richmond Professional Institute ram (lost through the years) and an RPI beanie, recently given to Art.


The kitchen was basic yet plenty big for two people. A small refrigerator kept all the food my parents would give us. There was a small wabbly wooden porch off the back where I would grill on a habachi and we'd wash dishes looking next door to the wall of a bank.


The table and four chairs in the kitchen came from my father's work place. The ceramic salt and pepper shakers were of Williamsburg background and the rubber place mats with funny little animals were picked up from somewhere. And there was always a trivet as we moved hot pots and pans around. Little toaster ovens had just become popular, so we burnt toast there.
And the old Orange Crush clock that got lost along the way.


With a spice rack and a wine rack (although it was usually empty), the little kitchen was clean. A small electric stove made stews and hot water for tea. The bullet trash can came from home and was carried along until a few years ago. It was huge and worked well, but did take up some room. My passion for sharp knives started in this kitchen.

The bedroom was separated into "his" and "her" areas for dressing. I think I was a fireman, because I had the pants at the ready. The black dresser was shared. More pipes including a hookah filled any flat surface along with ceramic owls and frogs (symbols to us at the time). Another fireplace, but this one was never used.

More pipes, the other lamp and a rainbow kite we had flown at the beach (which would become a symbolic habit)

The one closet was jammed full of clothes and whatever stuff we couldn't stack on chair or hang from door nobs. The wire cart was used to walk to the grocery store, which was 8 blocks away, and drag back whatever we could afford. The sewing machine was a fixture in my life but I don't remember anything ever being created on it.

The bed was on the floor (we were young then) and another dresser crammed with underwear , shirts, and whatever we could jam in the drawers. Each dresser had our watches, keys, glasses and other personal items in little piles or boxes. There were more records and a board game and stuffed animals.
And yes, that is a real cat.
And yes, that is a real wife.


The bathroom I remember painting this yellow ocher color. I think that was the color of the time but a gold bathroom? A claw footed bathtub without fixtures for a shower, which I tried to jerrybuilt without much success. It was satisfactory for two.

Behind these fine living arrangements was the banks parking lot, which stood mostly empty.

Even though rent was about $100 a month, it was time to move on.

Parties downstairs started getting out of hand and the parking lot had become a drug selling location, the peace and quiet of fan living had disappeared and we had outgrown this location

Although this was not my real first apartment, it was to be my last.

Socialization Isolation

I: That was an interesting report on the “Today” show yesterday about how Facebook and other social networking sites are keeping people connected in this busy time and day when no one can have face-to-face conversations anymore.

ME: Yes, I know. I was there; remember?

I: But what is so fascinating about this is that people talk about such trivial stuff.

ME: I know, who wants to hear this stuff.

I: Well it seems everyone does.

ME: I understand the posting of photos for family and friends, but so much of this stuff is pure….

I: I know, I know, and now businesses are posting every little event out there, filling up lines of advertising posing as communication.

ME: That also put pressure on employees to post referrals to their companies.

I: What is it about people who cannot just talk to each other? Why does it have to be texting or tweetering or chatting every couple of sections to get an immediate response to what they are eating or doing or watching on television?

ME: You don’t remember high school do you?

I: Oh yeah, staying on the phone for hours asking, “What are you doing?”.

ME: And sometimes just staying connected with nether person responding. It was just knowing he other person was still out there.

I: Well, I guess these electronic communication devices do give access after friends and family have move beyond reach.

ME: But so many of the “friends” or “contacts” don’t post any information or respond with any comments.

I: Some of them don’t even upload profile photos.

ME: And what will happen, as we get older and not physically able to get out into social environments to interact with others?

I: You mean like the Folk Festival?

ME: I knew you would bring that up.

I: Well, you thought about going, but listened to it on NPR. Was it to avoid all the people?

ME: Yes, I know. The weather was perfect and several times contemplated the short ride, but….

I: You never were very good around large crowds of people.

ME: I don’t know if it was upbringing or shyness, but for some reason, I don’t like the clutter of large groups of people.

I: But they are fascinating to watch.

ME: Just like all those “friends” on Facebook that we don’t know who the heck they are?

I: It is part of the unknown interesting in others I suppose.

ME: You are a freak. To follow the exploits of some chickie out west or read the constant barrage of thoughts from crazy painter woman or see political connections from people you have no idea who they are, how is that interesting?

I: I guess that is life without being part of it.

ME: So is this it? Is this how we will communicate with anyone out there in the world?

I: Being transportation challenged, if we are to see anyone face-to-face, they will have to come to me.

ME: Don’t blame it on me, it was your choice.

I: Well, at least we do have Facebook.

ME: And if someone wants to express something that is more that stupid.

I: Well….. oh, there is email. That’s kinda private.

ME: You know and I know that anything…..anything you write is public knowledge out there.

I: I guess the old days of writing down your thoughts on paper, mailing it in a sealed envelope only to be opened and read by someone else is over.

ME: So we have to watch what we say and how we say it…. Or text, tweet, or chat it, as the case may be.

I: You know what? I don’t care.

ME: Huh?

I: Why I’ve never used bad language or hurtful remarks, so why can’t I just say what I want to say?

ME: I guess that is freedom of speech.

I: So let’s log on and see what our “friends” are doing. Or at least what they are wasting their time saying. It might be chuckle or two.

ME: You know, when you see how old people, not old like us, really, really old people sit around and wait for “the time” to come, this electronic communication might be a good thing.

I: Yes, even when they are in the room with family, they are placed in a chair and talked about like they are not even there.

ME: And sometimes they are not even there.

I: But will we, as we get older, be able to physically read these glowing screens? Will we have the ability to type? I hands will become too brittle to text on our cell devices, so how will be communicate with others?

ME: Hummmmm?

I: We will be isolated. Social Isolation will take place. We will be alone with our thoughts.

ME: Unless our families put us into an old folks home.

I: Three meals a day and television as I recall. What’s the difference between that and prison?

ME: Well, I…..

I: I think we need to adjust ourselves to the reality that being alone isn’t bad. We need to learn how to entertain ourselves with what we have, appreciate what nature has surrounded us with and be at peace in our own mind.

ME: Like listening to the rain outside?

I: Exactly. It is free entertainment. It is there for all of us, but we are always too busy to enjoy it.

ME: Too busy by texting and chatting and….

I: You got it.

ME: You know. I can remember in the spring when the first rains came and we sat out on the porch and just watched. It was very peaceful.

I: So peaceful we fell asleep until 3 in the morning.

ME: So you still want to log on and see what the rest of the world is doing?

I: No. I’m going to make a sandwich.

ME: Me too.

MY: Word!

Me and My Best Friend

On a rainy cloudy day, and there is nothing on TV, and the air is getting cold, and there is no one around to tell you to wash the dishes or fold and put away the laundry and, well that's enough.

So where do you turn.

You pick up your old friend and hold her close. She is always there. Like a real friend, ready at any time to play with you.

She sits patiently in the corner, waiting. She knows your moods and your tunes reverberate through the house as she responds to your fingers. She expresses your emotions with glee and without restrain.

You caress her body with smooth lines that beg for you to continue. She will continue to play as long as you hold her, but even then, she will be put aside.

This friend is always there, waiting. They will not judge you, they are only here for your pleasure.

Like the little tin solider waiting the child's hand to grab it off the shelf and play again, but alone, covered in dust.

They are scattered around the rooms waiting. Waiting for that moment when they will be held and warmth from the hands make them sing.



They are my best friends and bring me such joy.