Music Geek-Out Moments

Goodness gracious, it’s been a heck of a long time since my last entry.  The longest in fact since I started this nonsense over a decade ago.  I keep mentally writing the beginnings of blogs, but for reasons that probably have something to do with the exhaustion of living through a pandemic and an election simultaneously, I haven’t been able to pull the trigger.  That ends today.  I’ve got a bunch of things to write about, but since it’s been a while I’ve decided to ease back in with a bit of music-nerd nostalgia.

If you’re really into music you can probably identify a few times in your life when you connected with a fellow music lover on a visceral or intellectual level.  You met someone who “gets you” or “gets it.”  In my museum of recollection, I could probably find dozens of worthy events to exhibit, but allow me to share just two with you today.  They’re nothing earth-shattering, but they’ve stayed with me all these years and I get a kick out of them.

Alpine Valley Music Center parking lot (i.e., a big grass field), East Troy, Wisconsin, probably in 1989 or thereabouts. 

I walked with my friends from the field packed with cars where people had spent the previous hour tailgating to the gate entrance to see Elvis Costello or Rush or Billy Joel.  (Or maybe Jimmy Buffet?  I didn’t have many Alpine Valley concerts left in me – my last time there was in 1991.)  For some reason I was explaining to my friend that although I was excited to see whomever we were there to see, that I would love, just LOVE, to see Yes on stage and have them announce, “Ladies and gentlemen, ’The Gates of Delirium.’”  Well, you would  have thought I’d just announced that Jon Anderson himself was walking behind me, because some nutjob (as in, fellow music-nerd nutjob) in cutoff jeans and a t-shirt turned toward me and shouted “Oh my God!  Yes!”  He ran toward me and literally – I’m not making this up – knelt down in front of me and prostrated himself in mock adulation.  “I bow to the altar of Yes.”  When he righted himself, his right knee was badly bloodied – he’d knelt down on broken glass!  A little remnant from someone’s tailgating a little too hard with glass bottles.  The bloodied fan looked down to examine his knee and said, “Ah well, Yes is worth it.”  We spent the next five minutes or so avoiding going to our seats and instead exchanging our thoughts on Yes, who at the time were either on hiatus or completely defunct.  I shared my opinion of the non-Jon Anderson album Drama, and we both agreed that it was good but that it shouldn’t have been called Yes.  (I’ve since changed my mind about that.  I believe that not only is it Yes, but it’s among the band’s best six albums).  We wished each other a good evening, but I’m sure we also wished that we were seeing a different band, like being stuck on a date when the woman you really want is on the dance floor with another guy. 

Fortunately, I got to see Yes five more times after this interaction, and they played “Gates of Delirium” at two of those concerts.  They even brought out “Machine Messiah” and “Tempus Fugit” from Drama on one of those tours.  I imagine that my bloody-kneed Yes friend was at some of these shows front and center.

A gas station in western Wisconsin off of Highway 94, en route from Milwaukee to Minneapolis, probably in 1992 or 1993. 

Minnesota may border Wisconsin, but going back and forth between Milwaukee, where my family lived, and the University of Minnesota, where I was in grad school, was getting mighty old.   I found that I’d regularly have to pull over at a rest stop north of Wisconsin Dells and take a 20-minute snooze just to stay awake.  It didn’t help that I couldn’t make it all the way on one tank of gas in my Toyota Tercel, so more time was wasted having to fill up along the journey.  On one such stop, I filled up my tank and walked in to pay the cashier (automated pumps weren’t a thing yet, or at least not at this station), a young guy with dark, long curly hair and a black t-shirt.  While I was waiting for the transaction to be completed, I noticed a song playing on the radio playing next to him, and the music bounced around in my brain for a bit, jump-starting old synapses in need of a good lube job.  I titled my head, nonplussed, certain that I was about to make a fool of myself, but I tentatively proceeded.  “That isn’t…is that Michael Schenker?”  The cashier froze, looked at me in eye with no emotion whatsoever, and then in one fluid motion, opened the till, took out a bill and slapped it down on the counter in front of me, as if he were jubilantly showing his winning straight-flush over an opponent’s full house.  “That, my friend, deserves a dollar!”

I’d gotten it right.  I wasn’t a fan of Michael Schenker.  I wasn’t even aware of him, really, but I remembered a song that had gotten a bit of radio play on WQFM back in 1981, and since my older brother had purchased it (the vinyl record is now in my possession), the album cover and name were somehow stamped on my brain.  Why I was able to remember this, and not, say, the name of a woman seconds after introducing herself to me, was a question better left to that great DJ up in the sky.

But damn, I was proud of that one.

So there you are.  Two geek-out moments.  I hope there are many, many more, but of course these types of interactions that make life richer aren’t possible in 2020.  Here’s hoping in 2021.  In the meantime, I’m going to get cracking at writing another blog entry.  Stay well out there!

The Dreaded Crossword Puzzle

Wordplay is not my bag.  While I can construct a decent sentence and write a compelling story, anything involving cleverness bewilders me.  I find riddles and puns baffling.  Asking me to finish a complex limerick is like asking a dog to play the piano.  Hell, even vocabulary is a challenge for me.  It’s okay.  I’m not complaining or being hard on myself.  I’m just providing some background for my next illogical pursuit. 

The dreaded crossword puzzle.

At least five different times in my life I’ve delved into crossword puzzles and tried to understand them.  It’s a skill I want to have.  I see people who are no smarter that I – my mother, for instance – filling out the New York Times puzzle each day, and I want what they have.  I want to be clever, to be given a clue with a question mark and see right away that when I’m asked, “Chicago balloonists’ needs?” that I should consider “ill winds” as the answer.  I want to discern that the clue “Ghostbusters and The Police” is asking for “trios.”  I want to understand that “Lucky strikes” is a clue for the word “ores.” 

This stuff kills me.  I like facts.  I like names and dates.  And even though I find vocabulary daunting, I’m okay if a crossword puzzle gives me a clue of, say, “hostile” for a synonym of, say, “truculent.”  I may not get it right away.  Hell, I may not get it at all.  But at least I know what they’re asking for and what’s expected of me.   There have been times when I’ve looked up the answer to a crossword clue and I’ll have no idea what it means.  Others are just infuriating to me.  One puzzle I tried to complete had the clue, “bum.”  The initial “just the facts, ma’am” side of me thought, “hobo.”  Ah, but then my newly-discovered clever side of me thought, “borrow,” as in, “Can I bum a cigarette?”  But before I could pat myself on the back, I – after struggling mightily and getting nowhere – discovered that the answer was “no good.”  So the clue wasn’t a noun and it wasn’t a verb.  It was a fricking ADJECTIVE!  As in, “You got a bum deal.” 

Son of a…!

Last October I ordered a book of Monday New York Times puzzles.  As a new puzzler, I was just learning the rules, so even Mondays were a challenge.  I had to learn the consistency in tenses between clue and answer, that Sp. can mean Spanish, that an abbreviation in the clue means an abbreviation in the answer, and that “with, to Maurice” is asking for the French word for “with” (which I do not know, but at least I now know what’s being asked!).  It took a little time.  I also learned to spot various themes of the puzzles, such as shaded grey areas that contain anagrams of the same letters, or circled letters that spell a phrase (such as a diagonal patter going up that spells “what goes up” followed by a diagonal pattern going down that spells “must come down.”).  That sort of thing.

After getting through a bunch of Monday puzzles, I visited my daughter in California, who, after spending some of her winter holiday filling out crossword puzzles with me, decided to purchase her own book of two-hundred puzzles.  But this one was a book of Tuesday puzzles, and she regretted her purchase instantly, laboring just to get half a puzzle completed.  I, having gotten through a chunk of my Monday puzzles, traded my half-finished book of Mondays for her book of Tuesdays, as I thought I was ready to graduate to the next level.

Not so fast.

It’s now September and I’m on puzzle 196.  I didn’t achieve my first perfect puzzle until 166 and I’ve only completed one since then!  So yeah, to date I have completed two – THAT’S TWO!! – puzzles that were 100 percent correct.  On many, many others I was just one or two letters off, sometimes due to carelessness, sometimes because I had to guess about things like the first name of Spiner of “Star Trek T.N.G.”  Is it Brett or Brent?  I guessed Brett, which was wrong.  That stuff I can live with.  Either you know it or you don’t, unless you manage to work your way to the correct answer through another clue/answer.

As for the wordplay stuff, I’m getting better.  Slowly.  Just last night I was given the clue, “It’s taken by witnesses” and was able to come up with “stand.”  I know.  It’s not earth-shattering.  It’s not even clever.  But this was a big accomplishment for me.  More impressive was my solving a bunch of clues in a puzzle a few days ago:

Thesis topic for sex ed?   “Quickie study”
Cameras taking pictures of permanent markets?”  “Sharpie shooters”
Pompom on a skullcap?  “Beanie sprout”

Pretty good, eh?  I mean, this was HUGE for me!  I’m slowly learning to think just a bit outside the box.  I’m not always able to open it, but I’ve at least cut through the twine and packing tape.

One of the answers to last night’s puzzle was the ubiquitous “ewes.”  What on earth did puzzle makers do before this word, OR before Oprah Winfrey, Sammy Sosa, Nora Ephron, Yoko Ono and Uma Thurman were celebrities?  Not a puzzle goes by when I’m not filling in one of those names.  I’ve also learned that an eagle’s nest is called an aerie, that the river in Florence, Italy is the Arno, that the volcano in Sicily is Mount Etna, and that the Greek letter for H is Eta.  Also, that the Concorde was an SST and that a common camera lens is an SLR.

So yeah, I’ve absorbed a little bit of trivia that may come in handy in no particular place in my life except crossword puzzles. 

I’m getting better, but I’m not ready for Wednesdays just yet.  I may never be.  For my Tuesday puzzles I think I’m at a 20/60/20 breakdown.  Twenty percent I get close to solving or maybe actually solve.  60 percent I need to look up a word or two to solve.  And twenty percent I have no fricking clue what the puzzle maker was smoking when he came up with this sadistic game, perhaps as a way of taking out all of his worldly anger and frustration on pathetic puzzle-solver wannabes by having the nerve to categorize his puzzle as a “Tuesday” and not a “Thursday.”  To him, I say, you win.  You’ve proven that I’m a dunce.  Nicely done.

In the meantime, I – a glutton for punishment – have purchased another book of two hundred Tuesday puzzles.  Wish me and my self-esteem luck.

Feline or Foe?

I’m going to make a confession despite the ensuing calls that are sure to come from my daughters, my sister and my vet if they happen to read this blog.  Okay?  Here goes.  I would be happier if my two cats – the orange tabbies Fred and George Weasley Heinz – would suddenly…um…not be alive. 

There.  I said it. 

Now don’t get your undies in a bunch.  I promise not to go all “Apt Pupil” on them and commit felinicide.  (Haven’t read the Stephen King novella?  You should.)   I’m not insane.  But yes, the cats do, from time to time, drive me insane. 

“Oh, come on,” you might say.  “What on Earth could two cute little cuddly cats do to upset you so?”

Well, I’ll make a list of the things my two cats have ruined since they joined the family nine years ago, right after my sister’s dog paid a visit to my home and played with our two hamsters until they were dead, hence clearing the Heinz household slate as far as pets were concerned.   We had an opportunity to replenish our deceased pets with something grander.  A dog?  One would think, but no.  We heard about someone getting rid of two flea-ridden kittens (the adjective unknown to us until we got them home), so we took the bait, and here we are nine years and many ruined household items later.  Allow me to share the items my cats have destroyed either by tearing them apart with their teeth, knocking them over onto the floor, or via urination:

A futon mattress.

A futon cover.

A shower curtain.

Three bean bag chairs.

Dozens of stuffed animals.

Four pillows.

A rug.

Two antique vases that had survived for eight decades, only to last two nights in my home.

Two plants.

Countless cut flowers, to the point where we don’t buy flowers anymore, and if someone gets us some as a present, we store them on TOP OF THE REFRIGERATOR!

Several scarves.

Several gloves.

Several hats.

Several blankets.

Several sweaters.

Several Crocks.

A few pairs of flip-flops.

Still think I haven’t earned the right to be mildly disenchanted with my feline friends?

“Oh, but the joy they bring,” you say.

Yes, the vomit I’ve had to clean up on an almost weekly basis.  The litter boxes they’ve failed to hit with their apparently malfunctioning weaponry.  The rug I had to spray from edge to edge while using an ultraviolet light to illuminate virtually one big mass of cat urine.  The $1200 I spent bringing George back from the brink of death after he swallowed a toy.

Joyful indeed. 

We now have to keep our bedroom doors shut at all times because doing otherwise will invite the Weasley twins to tear apart clothing and any other moderately fuzzy artifact lying about in our house.  But here’s the thing:  on hot days when the air conditioner is running we have to keep our doors open, so lo and behold there were days this summer I spent vacuuming up the little plastic beads spilled from the torso’s of stuffed bears, lambs, and other assorted Beanie Babies.  And since our doors were open, the cats felt obliged to wake us up at 6AM for their morning breakfast, be it a work day or otherwise.

(I know what some of you are saying: “Paul, you don’t work anyhow, so who gives a shit?”  I DO work.  I work cleaning up after my two demon cats!)

We must be among the first generations of mankind to put up with this kind of nonsense.  Would an average Joe living in 1850 put up with this crap?  Of course not.  He’d kick the damn thing out of the house and maybe even drown it for good measure.  Hell, I know a person who shall not be named who took his wife’s cat away for the day for a “little trip,” and only one living organism returned.  The wife is much happier now as a widow.  (I’m only kidding, but not entirely.)

“@@ I know a someone who took his wife’s cat away for the day for a “little trip.” The wife is much happier now as a widow@@”

I will not resort murder, though a blurb in TIME Magazine last week certainly put me on edge.  Seems a cat in Oregon named Corduroy has claimed the title as the oldest living cat.  Get this: TWENTY-SIX YEARS!  And that’s NOTHING!  The oldest cat ever on record is Crème Puff, who lived to be over 38 years old!

So Fred and George, I promise to keep feeding you and keep cleaning out your litter boxes.  I promise to play with you and talk to you.  I promise to let you hang on me when I’m watching TV.  I promise to continue to spend a small fortune on your checkups with the vet.

But do you think you could promise to bow out gracefully after, say, another nine years or so?  That seems like a fair deal, don’t you think?

The Phrase "Spoiler Alert."

The invention of the phrase “spoiler alert” has got to be one Man’s greatest linguistic contributions over the last decade or so.  Philip B. Corbet of The New York Times has rightly pointed out how overused the phrase has become, and how it’s often used incorrectly, but for my money, overuse is preferable to the alternative.

I think of the woman who came to my home in 2002, and who – after eating our food – thanked us by divulging the ending of the movie, The Others.

I will do for you what she didn’t do for me.

!!!!SPOILER ALERT!!!!

She opened up that pouty little mouth of hers and spewed out, “I couldn’t believe it when I learned her children were dead.”

She is very, very lucky that I didn’t resort to the following (or worse): 

After her egregious case of vomit of the mouth, it didn’t matter to me if she was smart or pretty, if she’d overcome obstacles in her life or helped the needy.  I couldn’t possibly care less if she gave twenty percent of her earnings to charity or if she was raising three perfect little angels.  None of that shit mattered to me.  What mattered is she opened her mouth and ruined the ending of a movie I was excited to see.  Yeah, the film had already left theaters and moved into video stores, but to me, there is no statute of limitations when it comes to revealing secrets about a piece of art.

I still haven’t told my kids about the ending of Psycho.  I’ll never divulge the meaning of Rosebud, whether or not Thorwald really murders his wife, and where the quarter of a million dollars is hidden in the movie Charade.  That’s for them to discover.  And I sure as heck won’t mention a word about The Sixth Sense.  Sure, I could try to ease my kids’ anxiety and mention !!!SPOILER ALERT!!! that the ghosts are actually trying to help, that they’re good guys (never mind the movie’s Big Secret).  I resorted to this tactic when my kids were younger watching E.T. for the first time.  !!!SPOILER ALERT!!! “The bad guys are actually good guys,” I said, attempting to alleviate their trepidation, but I’ll never do this again.  It kills the journey.

Some people just don’t get it, including – unfortunately – much of my family.  Last summer my sister-in-law blurted out the secret behind the musical, Next to Normal, the same day my daughter was to see it.  And just last month, my mother, in response to an email of mine indicating that I wanted to see the movie Enough Said, wrote the following email !!!SPOILER ALERT!!!:

I fell in love with the Soprano guy, what an appealing person.  Was Julia's character vulnerable, screwed up, or just terribly unkind?

Yep.  So now I know the ending of that movie, too.  Thanks, Mom.

I think when it comes to discussing books, films and theater, we could look to my sister for guidance.  Her advice for living in a world in which the excretion of opinions is as commonplace as breathing is this:

Shut your trap.

The True Sign of Aging: Smarter Kids

As the parent of two sixteen year-olds, I recognize that my perceived IQ is going to plummet precipitously over the next five years or so, only to rebound nicely in time for my daughters’ graduations from college.  This, I can accept, primarily because it’s temporary and because I’ll end up looking pretty good in the end.

I can also accept that I recently had to purchase my first pair of reading glasses and that the suit I purchased in 1993 is becoming tight in the mid-section. 

What I can’t accept is the true sign of aging: having kids that are far smarter than I am or ever will be.  And this has nothing to do with grades and tests.  Sure, both of my daughters did better on their practice ACTS than I did on my actual exam, but they’ve also taken classes that begin with the words “honors” and “AP,” and they tend to engage in activities such as completing assignments and studying.  Well, sure, anyone can do well on his ACT if he prepares for it.  Where’s the challenge in that?

No, the true sign of my kids’ superior intelligence was exhibited on Labor Day, when my family got together with friends and agreed to play a game of Pictionary – children vs. adults.  I am humbled and ashamed to reveal that my opponents were three-quarters of the way through the board before my team reached the first square!  We managed to shrink the margin of defeat before our kids completed their victory dance, but in truth, the adults – to borrow President Obama’s description of the 2010 midterm election – took a shellacking

Yes, I drew a Christmas tree about as well as my daughter did, but that didn’t help my team guess any quicker.  And my game partner learned that drawing nothing to help us guess the word “nothing,” wasn’t as successful as drawing something and then drawing a line through it, as our opponents did.  Even my 11 year-old son, who I would hope to be lagging somewhat on the intelligence front, portrayed “time zone” perfectly, sketching the Earth, drawing vertical lines through it, and then adding a clock for good measure. 

That’s right.  My sixth grader successfully drew “time zone.”  My team couldn’t even get “yield sign.”

Which is why from now on, I’m going to exercise my superiority over my children the only way I know how: ping-pong.