Interlude.

I'm somewhat concerned.

There appeared in the sky this morning a large ball of what looked like fire. It cast a huge, blinding light upon the ground, causing...well....causing shadow effects.

Like the ancestors of old, I am torn between worshipping the ball of fire in the sky, and running in fear toward the shadow effects.

And the last time I was in an uncertain position, I was specifically ordered NOT to go toward the light.

Still.

This chair is comfortable.

So, I think I'll stay here for a bit.

Mah-NOOSH-uh.

We inevitably discover as we get older (and in fact, continue to discover, sometimes to our chagrin at forgetting the original premise) that nothing is permanent.

Except for the mouse on the refrigerator.

Back in the 70's, on a whim that cannot be fully explained (for what explanation can be applied to the mind of a creative 10 year old?), during a family visit to a place called Frankenmuth, I saw this fridge magnet. It was in a box near the cash register in the gift shop of a restaurant named Zehnder's (home of the largest family style chicken dinners on the planet, but that's another story). It was one of those....impulse buys that they get you with, like Ring Pops and key chains.

It wasn't anything special really....it was small, made out of pine wood with a wicked grain, and stained darker than it should probably have been....and it has little leather ears, a leather tail and a couple of pin heads for eyes. Oh, and the bottom was flat and had a magnet, of course.

Cuz it's a fridge magnet.

We were on our way up to the cabin (see previous postings for details), and it wound up on the fridge in the cabin for eight years. And then, on my way out the door heading to my Freshman year at the Northern University, I took it with me. Slipped it into my pocket. And it wound up on the dorm fridge.

And the fridge in my first apartment.

And every apartment and house afterwards.

And currently, it resides on the fridge here in the Capitol City of the Northern State.

Everybody needs some stability. Some find it in jobs; some in wives and husbands, children and pets.

Me?

Fridge magnet.

Who woulda thought?

I was raised in one of the homes of Rock and Roll.

There were other homes, of course; Memphis. Cleveland. Liverpool. And even though San Francisco seems to think They Built This City on Rock and Roll....well, that song sucks, and Jefferson Airplane sold out, so f**k them and their noise.

I was raised on Bob Seger, and Ted Nugent, but there was also the Holy Trinity of the Beatles, the Stones and the Who. Aerosmith and KISS.

That's what my peers listened to.

But I was also raised on a whole collection of 78's, and they contained Benny Goodman, and Tommy Dorsey, and The Firehouse Five and Stan Kenton and Gene Krupa and
Bunny Berrigan, and every trumpet player that ever existed, including a cornet player named Red Nichols. And of course, Satchmo.

This confused my peers; every generation disbelieves the last one.

I was never a big fan of country music growing up, but it was a staple of the radio stations in Harrison; it was too twangy and depressing, really. I have since come around to some of the contemporary 'country' music.

But there was this thing, that came upon me suddenly one summer afternoon, late in the day. A weak signal from a radio station in Louisville, KY; a program about Ozark influences; and all of a sudden, it was there.

The Dillards.

The song was called, Let It Fly.

Been a fan every since.

I'm listening to it now, because it's been a hazy day and it doesn't look to improve. There is a trace of sadness and I miss a few people more than I wish I had to...

But Steve Martin was right, way back in the day: You can't play a sad song on a banjo.

Meandering toward the net.....

I'm looking over some of the knick-knacks I keep on the hutch in the corner of my office; it used to be a closet, but a very creative fellow tuned it into an oak hutch that matches the book cases that surround three quarters of the room in the basement. The shelves will probably, one day soon, be overcome with books; but for now, it is peopled.....

By Bender Bending Rodriguez from Futurama: "bite my shiny metal ass!"
By Popeye and Olive Oyl: "I yam what I yam and that's all dat I yam!"
By Mr. Bill: "Oh Nooooooooo!"
By the B9 Robot: "Danger, Will Robinson!"
By Darth Tater, the Mr. Potatohead that's moved to the Dark Side.
And by a Dalek that screams, "Exterminate The Doctor!"

There are other things, as well: A hunk of the Berlin Wall that was given to me by Sabrina when we journeyed to visit her Mother in that wondrous city; A mini-sandbag filled with sand used during the Mississippi River Flood of 1993; and a mini-replica of the Stanley Cup.

That's one of my favorites, really. Shiny and silver and symbolic of the most difficult championship to win in the history of sports.

I could talk about my favorite moment in the Stanley Cup Finals: Detroit versus Pittsburgh, 2008. The 2009 version of the same two teams was also great, but I like 2008 because Detroit actually won it......

Detroit beat the crap out of them at home for the first two games.....outscoring them 7-0. But Pittsburgh fought back, winning game three. Detroit won game four, but didn't seem to play with the fire of the first two games....and an amazing game five that went into triple overtime....

Game six was the decider, and Pittsburgh came out with 1:30 left, pulled their goalie and put the pressure on; with just 3 seconds to go, Crosby let loose with a shot that caromed off the goal post, and slowly, achingly slowly moved parallel to the goal crease as time expired.

I love a good series.

But what I love best.....is the sound of the skate on the ice. Skating alone on a freshly Zamboni-ed, rink......just a few security lights to provide illumination...and slowly, moving clockwise around the ice, behind the nets, back and forth.

Skritch.....skritch....skrtich.

The sound of the wooden stick against the vulcanized rubber puck.

Tock....tock tock......

Moving toward the goal; skating through the imaginary defense toward the formidable imaginary goalie....move right, move left....

Skate right, but hold the puck off to the left, the shift. Move left, puck right....

Skate backwards toward the net; Backhand to the top shelf just off the glove side.

Red light.

Nothing like it.

In my imagination, I'm smooth as fresh ice.

Unless you're the lead dog, the scenery never changes.*

I can't seem to put anything together.

There was a little.....upheaval.....last week, and it's thrown off my balance, timing, wit, and sleep cycle just a bit.

I would like a new view, though. Bismarck by night through the west window of a circular building just isn't doing it for me anymore.

That reminds me a time when my Father took me to the roof of the Edison building in downtown Detroit; he was doing a little emergency surgery on something in the building, and I looked out over the great city in decline, lit up on an early summer's night.

I laughed a little. My Father asked why.

"Because from up here, you'd never know that it was a sh*thole."

Ah, memories. And perhaps an apt metaphor for life through another person's eyes. One man's beauty is another man's sh*thole.

Or, in another way, it could be proof that, "if ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise." Sometimes, NOT knowing is infinitely better than knowing.

Oh, boy......stop now. Too much to think about on that thread.

MONKEY! LOOK AT THE SILLY MONKEY!



*Based upon my current mental state and the picture at the end of the post, I was going to call this post "Cochran Blocked", but juuust couldn't do it. But, because it IS funny, I had to mention it.

I've come to see some theatre, eh?

The end of your average scholastic year was a melancholy time; you were losing a group of students that you had just spent four years getting used to, so there were some mixed emotions:

A nice blend of "I'm going to miss you guys terribly" to "How can I miss you if you don't go away?"

But the ensuing free time, between the graduation ceremony and the start date of whatever summer theatre gig I had managed to land, was a time for going back to the Mitten to see the folks, catch up with the sibs, and inevitably head into the land of Canada, to visit that Shakespearean theme park, Stratford Ontario.

I would go for about a six days every summer, see as many plays as I could stick into those days, eat good food, smoke exotic cigarettes, and spend cash like it was Monopoly money because, well...that's what it looked like.

Back in the day, I had an 'in' up there; a great actor named Nicholas who would come to the Northern University when I was a student to do some workshops. I would write him to let him know of my coming, and he would, at the very least, arrange his schedule to get a meal, or a cuppa coffee, and we would talk about everything but theatre.

Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans; my life got more complex with my sabbatical (which, as the old joke goes, turned into a Mondacal and a Tuesdical) so the last time I was up there was the summer of '96.

And I fully intend to get there again, in the very near future. Right after I take up permanent residence along the Cedar River.

The first time I ever attended Stratford, I was a high school senior bussed up to see a matinee performance of Henry V. It was performed in the Festival theatre, which seats almost 2000 people, a thrust stage with not a bad seat to be had. I don't think I had ever seen anything like it.....and Stratford became a kind of sacred Shangri-La for the likes of me.

A place where nobody ages; where ancient texts are brought to life; where the streets are all tree-lined; where the swans are an almost blinding white; and where there isn't a shopping mall to be seen for miles.

Of course, it's harder now; you need a passport, and the currency exchange rate no longer favors the American dollar.

But I am impatiently waiting for the opportunity to hear the brass quartet announce the beginning of the play.

Lessons, Suggestions, and Goodbyes: The Random Friday.

-I just ate far too many Oreos......

-I watched a local production on Wednesday evening; a production of 12 Angry Men. I am always reminded of a line from CHEERS, where Woody the Bartender has been cast in a production of this very play, but, "they could only get 6 actors, so we all have to be, like, twice as furious...."

-It was a good production; some decent performances. But it did remind me how much I miss teaching. My wife could tell as well; on the walk from the theatre to the car, she put up with my dissertation upon the need to maintain the given circumstances in order to acquire the necessary build to the climax; and, if an established character says something un-characteristic as the play moves forward, then there has to be some kind of upset that needs to be defined. And blah blah blah.

-I hate Friday mornings. And by mornings, I mean Midnight to 8AM. I hate them because I can't seem to sleep on Thursdays. So, I go from Thursday morning at 5AM (when I usually wake up) and I don't get to sleep again until about 2 PM Friday afternoon. I've built up the endurance, but to say I tolerate it is stretching a bit.

-I was casting about the television stations, and I found that one of these Food Network shows were trying to find the best Coney Island in Detroit. They whittled it down to two places....American Coney Island and Lafayette Coney Island, literally next door to each other in downtown Detroit. I can say from experience that if you've eaten a Coney from Lafayette, you know you've eaten. But my personal favorite has always been Lipuma's in my hometown of Rochester.

The making of Coneys is a delicate matter;
It isn't just simply a holiday breeze;
You may think at first that it's only a hot dog,
but I tell you it's more; it is chili, and cheese.

The topping is beanless, for that I am certain;
And mustard and onion is a fait accompli;
But my Coney Island must also have cheddar,
For Skyline is best from old Cincinnati.

-An old colleague of mine, Richard Holmes, passed last week after a short battle. He was a regular attendee to my directorial efforts at Culver-Stockton College, was generous with his praise and laser sharp in his critique, and was one of my favorite "Pie Day" conversations, because you never knew where it was going to go, but the ride was certainly going to be fun.

Take care Richard; Hopefully, I'll see you if I get there.

-And finally, the most important lesson I've learned this week comes from an old Jackson Browne song; one of my longest lasting friends, V, reminded me of this song, and the one line I should always remember but ALWAYS seem to forget:

The times when we were happy,
Were the times we never tried.

-Good Night and Glued Duck.