Just One More Thing...

As you may have guessed, I have recently become obsessed with “Murder, She Wrote.” I discovered the show during Groundhog’s Day weekend when I was too drunk to sleep. I had a house full of people and didn’t want to turn the TV on, so I browsed the instant (just add water) movies and shows. I had just watched a Columbo episode with Leonard Nimoy as the killer and it really freaked me out. Talk about a cold hearted snake. Nimoy was almost too clinical of a killer. Also, Columbo used the murder weapon found at the scene to crack the shell on his hard boiled egg breakfast. I guess that makes him a hard-boiled detective. Anyway, it was creepy on so many levels, I decided to abandon Columbo and find something else to watch.

Netflix said, that if I enjoyed Columbo, I’d probably enjoy MSW. So, I took the recommendation and settled in to a 5 a.m. viewing. I started with season 1 and boy was it corny. But I remember Doc saying it was a show his mother enjoyed. Sadly, Doc’s mother walked on in 2003. As I watched the show, I felt this sort of warm feeling. My MIL and I didn’t always see eye to eye, which is typical of MIL relationships, I would guess. But watching this show made me remember things I’d forgotten about Mary.

Isn’t memory a funny thing? Some people like to listen to music to bring back the old days. Others might travel back in time through photo albums or journals. I am probably the least nostalgic person I know. I don’t like to relive the past. I prefer to play out the possibilities of my future instead of probing the painful past for memories and rolling them around in my mind like some kind of mental Jolly Rancher. Recently, however, I’ve learned the value of memory. Now that so many of my nearest and dearest have either left town or left this mortal coil, I try to look for memories to tie me to them.

It starts with dreams. I see them in my dreams. If they’ve passed away, I talk to them, but they don’t talk back to me. I cling to those dreams and the feeling that they were nearby again. I also recall what they liked and try to bring whatever it is into my life, even if it’s not really my cup of tea, just so I can be close to that person for a little while. Like watching Murder, She Wrote to bring my MIL back.

The interesting thing with MSW is that, when the show was on the air, I was probably totally outside of the demographic market. I was in high school and college at the time. CBS was in full-blown “Celebrate the Elderly” mode and it didn’t really speak to me. But as I watch now, I get a comforting feeling that I am watching MSW and experiencing some of the same reactions Mary may have had when she watched it.

Sometimes I try to think what Mary might have thought about what was going on. I don’t know. It makes me feel better. In my heart, I know I kept Doc’s parents at arms’ length. In hindsight, I wish I hadn’t. Doing things or experiencing things they enjoyed, I feel like I’m opening my heart to them for real. Perhaps, it’s too late and I’m closing the barn door after the horses got away. But you have to close that door at some point, don’t you? Even if the horses never come back.

But now, watching MSW is no longer an exercise in nostalgia for times that never were. But rather I’ve come to really enjoy it. I’ve found a connection to Jessica Fletcher. I’ve also found a role model in her. She’s a successful writer who travels the world and people invite her to become involved in whatever important task they have in front of them. That’s what I want to be. Even more so, though, I like the sweet way that she doesn’t take shit from anyone. She has no problem calling people on their lies in such a way that makes the liar fell like she deeply cares for him or her. It’s remarkable.

I typically prefer to assume if you look me in the eye and say something, that you’re telling me the truth. But as I’ve aged, I know that people can’t be telling the truth all the time. I like to pick my battles, but in the past, I’ve felt unarmed, not able to tell when I was on the business end of a snow job or not. But now, I have developed my instincts and I can tell when someone isn’t being completely honest. I still struggle with the confrontation part, but with Jessica’s help, I think I have gathered a vocabulary for calling bullshit without being mean.

So forgive me if in the very near future, I put my nose where it doesn’t belong or call you on your bullshit. It’s only because I love you and I want to be a part of your life, while we are both still here to enjoy it together.

Why I Wish I Had Laid Out The Eighty-Seven Bucks To See Justin Timberlake In Concert

I regret heartily that I didn't throw thrift to the wind and shell out the dough for a fair-to-midland seat for the recent Justin Timberlake Concert. It's not just the fact that he delivered quite a show, according to Genn6's accounting. Right now, he is at the very peak of his fame so far and I feel like I've missed being a part of a cultural phenomenon.

Granted, a Justin Timberlake concert is no Woodstock or LiveAid concert, but it is significant event in music. Here is a man who was able to shake loose the stigma associated with being part of the Mickey Mouse Club and N'Synch and really blossom into an artist with significance, significance being record sales. To me, he seems to be at the apex of his career so far. He could continue to rise in significance and become an icon, ala Bono or Madonna. He could make successful album after successful album and maybe even influence world events. He could also slide away and become a characiture of himself, ala Elvis Presley or Cher.

In this post-arena rock, microcosmic world, a girl has to really dig to find a culturally significant event that is both significant to her and in her price range. So far, in my life, I've suffered great disappointment in the culturally significant events I've attended. Among the disappointments, I would first have name Hands Across America as the greatest offender. I was fifteen going on sixteen and I was totally stoked to be apart of a nationwide and literal get-together for charity. When we arrived on Route 62 in Alliance, Ohio there were plenty of people, but not enough for us to stretch across the highway and hold hands. We were all a good 20 feet apart. What a bummer.

Since then, I have looked for smaller venues to find that magical connection with the people around me. For instance, I went with Doc to see the movie "Old School" at a theater after 9:00 p.m. on a Saturday night, which meant the audience was full of people around our age. There were no kids and no annoying people. Sitting in that theater and laughing with a group of strangers numbering in the hundreds was more of a connection to humanity than Hands Across America could ever be, in my opinion. It was a small event, to be sure, and we weren't trying to end hunger or anything, but for a couple of hours, I felt a part of something.

Now, going to see Justin Timberlake in concert at this moment would probably qualify on the drink size scale as a "Large" event (not small, medium or supersized). His concert tour probably won't change the world. But for those few hours, a couple of thousand people and I would be connected together through music that is innovative, cutting edge, sexy, and understated. The show would be visually stunning what with the light show and all the dancing. And all of my thousands of new BFF's would have seen Justin Timberlake at either his launching point into superstardom or the moment before his downfall. We would have cultural braggin rights, to be sure.

Sigh. Life is too short to pass on culturally significant events. When I'm an old woman, I want to be able to pull a box of momentos off a shelf when my grandchildren come to visit and show them some really amazing things. For now, I have momentos from buying the sixth Harry Potter book at midnight the first day it went on sale. I have concert ticket stubs from bands that have since been inducted into the Rock Hall. I also have stubs that I will never admit to having. I want to show my grandkids that I lived. I soaked up what I could, when I could. I want them to see me as someone who was connected to this world, and even if she wasn't on the stage, she was in the audience for something great.

You may say, why not just see Justin on his next tour? I could do that, I suppose, but by then he'll be either sinking or catapulting and not at this interesting crux he is currently on. He'll either be over or the tickets will be even further out of my price range. I've missed the Timberlake window. But don't worry about me; I'll get over it. Believe you me, I've got my eye on the horizon and when the timing is right, I'm going to dive into the sea of humanity and soak it up.

Musical Memories: Journey's Open Arms

When I was in middle school, the administration would throw a Sock Hop for all of us angsty, pubescent social rookies. It was a time for all of us to come together and reveal our clique allegiances, our true likes, and our insecurities. It was an opportunity to show off our fashion sense (or lack thereof). We would get to hear the best tunes of the day played by some poor bastard whose bad luck it was to be hired as a D.J. for a middle school sock hop.

Usually, we all went "stag," except of course for those rare few who somehow managed to become a couple. These fine couples were considered to be "going together." That's what we called a monogamous relationship in middle school. So, obviously, they went together to the sock hop. My friends and I spent a lot of time trying to decide what to wear. I went with the a Ralph Lauren sweater, jeans, and argyle socks, of course.

I had a secret ambition to woo Mike Sinko at the sock hop. He and I had been in an advanced reading group together the year before and I thought he was cute, if a bit short. I also thought he would be low-hanging fruit, as no one else seemed interested in him. You see, I just wanted to go with someone (as a couple) and he would do.

I had a plan to nab him. I would go to the sock hop, be cool, talk to him every now and then, and finally, when the D.J. played Journey's Open Arms, a top hit at the time, I would walk up to him and ask him to dance. He was a major Journey fan and, as I had predicted, he came to the dance wearing his Journey T-shirt. So, I figured asking him to dance to a Journey song would be an offer he could hardly refuse.

Well, the evening didn't quite go according to plan. I did go to the sock hop. I didn't manage to remain cool in more ways than one. You see, my Ralph Lauren sweater was wool. And after dancing feverishly to the pop hits of the day, I was so hot, and not in a good way. I had failed to adhere to the one Preppy rule I have never since forgotten: layer. Had I put on a polo shirt underneath my sweater, I could have taken that wool sweater off and worn it with the sleeves tied around my neck, where it belongs. Alas, I was stuck with a super-hot, somewhat damp and odd-smelling sweater.

I tried to talk to Mike, but he'd not so subtly move away from me every time I'd try to approach him. Hmm. Those bitches I went to the sock hop with probably told him about my plan. However, when the D.J. played Open Arms, I bucked up and boldly went over to him and asked him to dance (he didn't see me coming, I approached from behind). He was too flustered to say no. So we assumed the middle school dance position: my hands were on his shoulders, elbows slightly bent and his hands were at my waist and his arms were extended completely (he was a little guy). And we swayed to the sincere crooning of Steve Perry. He mostly looked over my shoulder and I mostly listened to the words and felt their meaning spear me in the heart. This song was about us. Well, if you squint, it's about us.

So now I come to you, with open arms
Nothing to hide, believe what I say
So here I am with open arms
Hoping you'll see what your love means to me
Open arms

Living without you, living alone
This empty house seems so cold
Wanting to hold you, wanting you near
How much i wanted you home

So, long story short, when the song ended, we parted ways. We both attended an afterparty at Noble Romans, but I soon came to the realization that we were never meant to be. On the way home, my Dad had the radio going. Open Arms was playing as rain wept down from the sky and streaked the windows. Had you seen me from outside the car, you might have thought I was crying, but I wasn't. I was disappointed that Mike Sinko didn't remember the connections we had made reading Jack London together the year before. I was chagrined that he acted like I was chasing him. I felt misunderstood.

However, I wasn't really invested in him. I just wanted to go with him so that I could hold my head high among the bitches I hung out with. It was probably for the best that it didn't work out after all. Trophy boyfriends aren't all they're cracked up to be.

Earworm Memories

Walter Egan's Magnet and Steel

After I started going to school, my Mom went back to work. Therefore, I was put into the care of our neighbor across the street, Darlene, after school and in the summertime. She had two teenagers, one of whom was a young lady named Lynette. Lynette was constantly doing her hair and fighting with her mother. Fortuantely, I think I only spent one summer with this mother/daughter after school special waiting to happen.

During that fateful summer, we had passes to Lake O'Pines, a not so local swimming hole. It was a man-made lake with campgrounds. I truly hated to go there. The "lake" was brown and awful, the sand was large-grit and the kids were either malicious or indifferent.

I would wake up in the mornings we were going to the "lake" filled with all the dread a five-year-old could muster. I would wait in their living room while Darlene snapped at Lynnette over whatever was annoying her that day. We'd finally all be ready to leave and pile into their dark blue Buick. By the time we got into the car, Lynette and Darlene would no longer be speaking to each other.

Darlene would reach over and snap on the radio, faitfully tuned to WHBC, the local easy-listening station. They had a pretty constant play list and Magnet and Steel would be on as we drove down the long, tree-lined road to Lake O'Pines. I can remember the smell of the car, the chill of the air conditioning, the small silver levers that controlled the power windows, and Darlene complaining to Lynette about how vain she was. And this opera of bitchery was set to the lilting sounds of Walter Egan's plantive pipes. Ah, good times.

Ooh ooh ah
Now I told you so you ought to know
Ooh it takes some time for a feelin' to grow
Ooh you're so close now I can't let you go
Ooh and I can't let go
For you are a magnet and I am steel

I can't hope that I'll hold you for long
Ooh you're a woman who's lost to your song
Ooh but the love that I feel is so strong
Ooh and it can't be wrong

With you I'm not shy to show the way I feel
With you I might try my secrets to reveal
For you are a magnet and I am steel
For you are a magnet and I am steel

Earworm Memories

The past two mornings, I've arisen in the morning with a haunting tune ringing in my brain:



It has stuck with me for many years and I don't know why. I remember hearing it the first time at about 8 years old. I recall really listening to the words as I waited in a car outside K-Mart with my cousins. My uncle had gone in the store for something. It was raining and the heater was on full blast. I remember thinking the man's voice was quite nice. I started thinking about flying away myself. It sounded pretty good at the moment.

I love my cousins, don't get me wrong. But spending time with them always felt like a dangerous adventure. They were older than me and fond of pranks. My uncle, their father, was a somewhat unpredictable man, who often ran out of gas. When this would happen, he would strip to his running shorts and jog to the nearest filling station to get more gas. I'm not sure if it was because he was broke most of the time, forgetful, or just the kind of guy who liked any excuse to go for a run. Maybe it was a combination of the above. Maybe it didn't happen as often as I remember. At any rate, when I was with them, I was always at least 20% in fear for my safety.

This was a rather high fear threshold for me. I was an only child and my parents are very conscientious. I don't ever remember them running out of gas. They probably did at some point and I've forgotten because I always felt safe with them.

For many years, I resented the time spent with my uncle and cousins. I felt that my parents were being highly irresponsible, putting me in the care of mad people. But now, I look back at those days rather fondly. Without them, I would never know what it was like to just hop in the car on a whim to go to Cedar Point or Geauga Lake, to arrive when it opens and stay until it closes. I would never have gotten a glimpse of what it was like to be a teenager in the early eighties. I would never have met the cool people they hung out with.

Sure, I lost some of my innocence hanging out with them. But I got a glimpse of a life less orderly, less secure. I learned what it felt like to throw the dice and deal with the consequences, good or bad. I learned what good singing was. I discovered how good it felt to break the rules every now and then.

That song always reminds me of that day in the parking lot. I haven't heard it in years, yet I can instantly call it up in my mind. And when I do that, I'm transported to my childhood, where I sit in an overly warm car that smells of vinyl and stale cigarette smoke, watching the rain roll down the windows and wishing to fly away.

Not with the perv who wrote the song, mind you. Just on my own.