The Juice Ain’t Worth the Squeeze

Maybe once – and this is a stretch – I saw camels up close. Even-toed ungulates aren’t animals I remember crossing my path. When I was young, there could have been a time in a zoo when they sauntered up to my thick patterned orange and brown knitted shirt, brown polyester pants, and crooked bowl hair cut … then walked away. Just don’t know. As an adult, certainly any travel overseas can eliminate the possibility of having a dromedary encounter. I’ve never happily humped my way to the Gobi Desert in China, Mongolia, North Africa, the Middle East, or Australia. Speaking plainly here, flying overseas isn’t my thing – not for a camel sighting … not for a whole lot of reasons.

Yesterday, someone I know pulled out a rubber, bendy straw during breakfast. This thingmajig magically appeared out of nowhere in the hands of a young lady finishing off the final 25% of our booth capacity. She’s not one who joins us regularly at our table, but one who is certainly welcome any time. This sucking device is a reusable mouth gizmo designed to avoid using a plastic straw. She had it, I get it. I get the plan, however, didn’t see it implemented. Hot coffee through a rubber straw isn’t the best idea … even among a table of misfits who could ooze their way out of a clown car and nobody would think twice.

As fascinating as that straw was to all of us for the few seconds it bent its way into our conversation, I’m pretty sure it’s not the one that broke the camel’s back. That said, it can still suck just as much as one single, atomically teeny, Whovillian dustball that collapses a stressed-out emotional steampile.

According to Wikipedia, the straw that broke the camel’s back is from an Arabic proverb about “how a camel is loaded beyond its capacity to move or stand”. It is a “reference to any process by which cataclysmic failure (a broken back) is achieved by a seemingly inconsequential addition, a single straw…

We’re all familiar with this idiom … aren’t we? I’ve had a few back-breakers lately. Two minutes yesterday in the car, actually. No need to explain. Suffice to say the phrase, “What the f– is wrong with people?”, should be enough to give you an idea of my mind set. I’m nowhere near perfect and don’t expect others to reach ideal conditions in their mindset when working with me. I can be difficult, but am always … always respectful and kind when expecting certain results from others. “Here’s the plan … do the plan.”

Two weeks ago, I had expectations and communicated them. He understood, or so I thought. Uhm … ‘nuf said. We had a come to Jesus. Today I’m calmer, but am behind schedule. To quote one of my favorite Seinfeld lines, “Serenity now!”…

Here’s the thing. I had a moment to listen to one of my favorite podcasts yesterday to calm me down. Two twisted idioms from callers perked me up: “The juice ain’t worth the squeeze.”, and “..Playin’ some (emotional} Jenga there.”. In context of the podcast, the caller used a religious reference in the second quote, but I imagine any problem poke in your life would work.

Taking the second one first, my last Jenga piece pulled caused the whole tower to collapse. We do this, don’t we? We build these towers of expectations then, little by little, disappointments and failures in others cause us to pull away. Time allows second chances so we once again place hope on the tower again. We fail, or others fail us … again. The camel can’t hold the last straw, right? At this point we look over all the pieces strewn about and say to ourselves, “Why do I even try? …”

This is why the first phrase is so wonderful. “The juice ain’t worth the squeeze.”. I love this. It forces us to look at outcomes, not the process. Putting the straw on the camel in the first place could be the problem. Heaping a pile of expectations on top of an already large clump of calamity, sometimes, may not be the best way to ride through life in a barren desert where answers appear as a mirage more than a reality. Maybe, just maybe, some problems aren’t worth the stress we put on ourselves.

I will find a way to get caught up with what could have been done the past two weeks – and wasn’t. We’re always catching up or keeping up, I guess.

As of 4 a.m., my back is still what it is for an older guy who gets up and types away. Yes, there are two disks not working properly sending signals to my brain and legs – like every five minutes – that trigger a pain response. Regular activity isn’t the same as it was. I’d gladly trade this for polyester pants and a bad haircut. Why didn’t we appreciate youth when it was coursing through our low cholesterol veins? Back in the day, as they say …

Back when Forest Zoo in Gallitzen, Pa still had crowds leaning up against posts and ropes looking at animals … smiling, enjoying the summer days. I do remember going there. No camels were smiling back at me as I walked about with my family and friends. Although, I can’t be 100% confident. Just don’t know..

One Step with a Sister Smile

Every day. Every day, before taking the first step of fifteen up a flight of stairs, I glance over to my right. This picture hangs among many … so delicate it is in my line of sight. Never do I ever pass by without thinking of my sister – if only for a second or two. This isn’t to say she’s not around. A few hours and a quarter tank of gas, I’d be at her front door. “Go west, semi-old man … “, and visit your slightly older sister sometime!

We weren’t old back then, for sure. The two of us hung out together a lot. Not surprising a picture showing off our smiles exists because it happened on porches, in boardwalks penny arcades, cheap family motel suites, and while we donned off-white cherub choir robes. We had each other to bounce smiles off of when happys and giggles hid behind adult stresses and concerns swirling about our home.

Yes, I do think about my sister when passing by this picture. Today, more than a few seconds…

…It’s because we’re so much alike – today, yesterday, and tomorrow. As adults, those three days, no matter when they fall on the calendar during any year, provide us with,”you, too?” moments. Times when we connect experiences together are wonderful. Separately thinking or acting lives in worlds, separated by concrete and time, come together in seconds through a phone – vanishing the weeks gone by during which we didn’t connect.

I stopped in to see our dad this afternoon. As usual, he was talking to my sister and chatting up the news of the day. She listens, he talks. So goes the daily long-distance phone call between the oldest of three and her father. I, the middle child – an appeaser and quite possibly the eyes and ears on the ground – am very comfortable checking in to see if all is well with the man who now struggles with names and occasional logic patterns. These are the smiling roles both my sister and I gladly play in the theatrical performance of a one-man, late stage in life, show.

We communicate ideas and thoughts just like we used to do in those rooms and arcades. Just now, the skeeballs, sandy footprints on the boardwalk, cherub robes, and baseball cards on the front porch have been replaced with “What to do’s?”, and “What to thinks?” about our dear dad.

Dad is fine, kinda. No worries, yet. The “You, too?” moments now are connected with wordy sentences sounding like answers we don’t really have at the moment. “Oh, you heard him say that, too?”, or “Man, I think I feel the same way …”. followed by a bunch of back and forth wadda-ya- thinks?

We know these moments aren’t unique to us. Thousands of sons and daughters have these conversations every day. Perhaps you are chit-chatting ideas back and forth over wires or airwaves with someone you love much as I love my sister? She and I are really trying our best to pilot this plane we have no idea how to fly.

For now … and today, after stopping in to see him, we went out for lunch. The usual Wednesday Canal burger satisfied my hunger while he decided a conversation about the local road construction was the best use of his time. Actually, this was a relief from politics and money … his usual go-to. Sure, names were a problem and I was glad to help. So goes life.

I have a sister, never forget how and when to smile, and never miss that first step. We were young once. I still feel that way when I see that picture, if only for a few seconds. There will come a day for me, possibly, when I lose my ability to remember names, places, or experiences. If that day comes, I want to smile….

I believe that is the first step in any process … no matter the challenge. I’m just one of the fortunate ones to have a sister by my side. If only in a picture fifty years old hanging so delicately in my life most times, that’s perfectly fine; however, I like the phone calls, too. I think she’d agree.

This Happened Today

So, this happened today. Not to me, mind you, but to a friend of mine who was merrily on her way when a prehistoric encounter interrupted a rather boring drive. We should all be so lucky. A friendly looking Brontosaurus with, apparently, a frozen Big Foot in the cooler for her visual satisfaction – first hand – and ours through her phone camera.

Yes, I know “Yeti” is the brand of the cooler. Allow me a literary license here. Since we’re considering beasts living an average of 150 million years ago, I figured throwing in a fictitious, furry ice dripper for effect wouldn’t be too much of a stretch. According to legend, Alexander the Great demanded to see the Yeti when he conquered the Indus Valley in south Asia around 326 B.C. (livescience.com). I guess at that low altitude, the great creature couldn’t survive, so a Yeti could not be produced for the Great Alex. Bummer. Yeti continued to believe one existed.

I’m not buying it. S’pose it could be true, but until I have dinner with the 6-foot tall, red haired mountain dweller with extra-large tootsies, I h’aint believing it exists. A Brontosaurus existed, though. I know it! I’ll go one step beyond, too. Snorkasauruses walked this earth as well … Fred Flintstone had one – I saw Dino with my own eyes years ago … and I heard him talk. Nobody, not nobody, is going to convince me that pinkish-purple, ploding, pouncing, tongue flapping, happy family pet didn’t add everyday effervescence to childlike dreams.

So what’s with the smirk on this guy’s face, anyway? I know traffic can be a boresome four-laner – especially the highway on which he was traveling. I’d probably have the same look out my driver’s side window at a car whizzing passing me on the left … if that would be possible considering that lane would probably have construction cones, or massive craters – like the ones created by the meteors that interrupted his ancestor’s dinner millions of years ago. Our roads are, well, good for whack-a-mole with any tire of your choice this time of the year. Suspensions are on their last nerve, axles play chicken with every upcoming dippidy-do-dah in the road, and tires hold their breath when drivers speed up in an attempt to Evel Knievel their way over pot holes. As a result, that look above is appropriate for deserved car repair bills as well. So I kinda get it.

I want to know what this guy is made of and how much he weighs. Also, I am assuming “it” is a male and have no way to prove this, either. Just some random questions in my mind never to be answered. Disappointed my friend didn’t get out of her car on a very busy interstate to ask those questions, I am. I mean, after all, it isn’t every day one sees a dinosaur on a trailer being transported to places unknown. As I type, that smirkish look is on my face wondering why I have to spend the rest of my life without answers to those questions. Also, I am keenly aware she reads this blog and that look, quite possibly, will be dismissed off my face post haste – through a friendly gesture, of course.

I love pictures like this. Most are mine, though some come in from friends. Ordinary objects like this guy (or gal) help me exit the grind of drudgery. That’s overstating it a bit. Sorry. My life, like yours, isn’t really a grind. It is a normal sightseeing of sameness. Friends, family, coffee, places, traffic, and work all seem to weave a blanket of comfort around us – which is nice – but we get used to the usualness of it all. Right?

Look for the dinosaurs in your day if you can. If you find one, share it. If not a sniggering green Brontosaurus, look for a treasured trinket that falls across your field of vision that wasn’t there minutes prior. Appreciate the shape, color, and size of that funny little favor in your life, and then go about your day.

Sure, it’s probably not going to bring you wealth or help you realize lofty dreams from your childhood, but it could give you a few minutes of needed rest in the midst of a busy, normal day. I know that silly picture, at 12:58 p.m. today, gave me the chuckles for a minute when I was really too busy for my own good.

I hope this guy found his way home. Wherever home is, I’m sure he’ll be welcomed. He’ll never know what joy he gave to fellow travelers along the way as I’m sure my words are not the only ones written or spoken about his journey. This happened today. So glad it did.

Basically Frustumated

There were two. Mrs. Garver and Mr. Kachur. One, a Shippensburg University graduate who stood in front of us wearing large round lens glasses and always had a pleasant smile on her face. She squared up a classroom of rather anxious teens for being a smaller framed, but strong, astute lady. The other, a man of equally heavy lenses always tinted with a slight brown hue to match his thick quaff of dark hair parted sharply from the right. Of the two, I preferred the latter. His math class happened earlier in the day when I was happier and open more to the possibility of learning than nodding off later in the afternoon. Mrs. Garver’s class, a year earlier, was numerically exciting – as I’ve always been a math geek – but an eighth period drudgery always caught up with me.

Now, I use the term, “math”, to encompass all numbers, shapes, sizes, formulas, theorems, x’s, and y’s all of us experienced throughout our intersectional, awkward teenage years. Most express disengagement when spouting about math class experiences. I don’t. Never was there an axis I didn’t enjoy crossing, a train-word problem worth unsolving, or columns of numbers that didn’t excite me. Quadratic equations are still intoxicating. Amicable numbers hug my soul. Oh, and the Fibonacci Series, c’mon now … !

Imagine my frustration when the concrete object above caught my attention … and I couldn’t remember/figure out what that darn shape, form, and/or boxy, pointy, square-looking thingy is called !?! …

… So, I sent a text to the artist/sculptor who is marvelously working on this project at the outskirts of town. Oh, you know him. It’s my friend Joel. I’ve mentioned him before in my blogs recently. The picture above is the base intended to hold a large metal sculpture he’s building. I know no details other than that. What I know is what you see. A certain, specific amount of concrete “yards” have been formed into that shape and are currently enjoying time to cure.

Ah, yes … the shape. We “sort-of” figured a four-sided quadrilateral without giving it much thought. I wouldn’t hold him to much of the decision here because I was more concerned about it than he was. As an aside, these kinds of silly little brain sticky-things get lodged in my psyche until some kind of easiness comes to bear – not his.

I did my research, with another friend in tow, and we are confident in proclaiming to the world: IT IS A FRUSTUM !! … and to continue onward with a stupid pun, I’m happy to say there had to be a point – eventually.

…aaaand, here it is: In all my years, I can’t recall a frustum. Base 10 in our numbering system? Sure. Never reaching first base in little league because I couldn’t hit a ball thrown to me to save my life? Yep. Bases that react with acids to form water and salts? I guess, if chemistry is your thing. Bob Cranshaw, in the world of homophonic bass jazz pioneers, if you will. In this case, a frustum base caught me by surprise as I exited town the other day. What isn’t a surprise, however, is the care, artistry, and time Joel is putting into this piece. I am looking forward to the (possible) Arbor Day, April 30th unveiling of a work of art this town of Hollidaysburg should be proud to have on its soil.

It will be, equally, my pleasure to share his progress here on DougHugs as I see it happening. I may not know all the shapes or forms he uses – and that’ll be ok. Art is to be appreciated, not necessarily understood.

This kinda describes our friendship, in a way. Appreciated, not understood.

Take that as advice for your life however it applies. Appreciate something, or someone … or a relationship with something. Don’t try to understand it too much, or at all. In my recent experience, I’ve learned it may end up just frustumating you, anyway.

Sparkling Sunday

A drive and a walk. A simple first Sunday in April. Not something I usually do.

This is Canoe Creek State Park. A few minutes drive east from where I’d usually be on a day like today. Hometown – Altoona, Pa.

Don’t know why it was necessary to experience this calm and silence. I’m not the guy who looks for natural moments like this. I like reflective, insightful keyboard thoughts at my desk with warm mugs of tea sitting by as friendly hellos. Whisking away on my phone – while elbows rest on a well-worn, faded picnic table – is quite the different experience.

Up in the distance sky, a few small aircraft break the silent blue. Small pebbles crunch under the feet of the few passerbys on the stoney path behind me. The lake ahead is so calm. Small ripples touch the same breeze moments later crossing over my relaxing shoulders. Even the chatter coming from a dad and his toddler playground playing nearby doesn’t distract from sounds of soothing wind sails crossing over my ears.

This is a Sparkling Sunday – not a brilliantly shiny one. Just one that has, for me, a spark of something new … different. This is the first Sunday in years – in April – I’m not at a particular location doing my “thing”. My concession stand, for 13 years, has been – loyally, without fail – at a particular location every Sunday from April through October. Today, I’m not there. Through a series of decisions not necessarily my own, it wasn’t to be. They announced an opening day of April 4th (today) … I drove by. Closed.

So, I continued onward. The drive was necessary. Down a few local roads and one state highway, my car ended up here. I sit on a bench looking out over a lake remembering all the family reunions, church picnics, and events I attended at this very park. Most folks I remember now are eternally silent. They are as silent as the lake, but as alive in my memory as all the folks now walking and playing within my eyesight.

The spring sun is warm against my beaten leather jacket. That same sun gives me the opportunity to look at a beautiful, shimmering glow across the lake. Each little sparkle could be a memory … a new experience ahead … or simply a reminder to us that one day at a time is all we really have.

Another toddler has joined the fun with her dad at the playground. They are playing quietly with each other. Dad has a hand over his eyes looking out over the lake – while keeping guard over his loved ones. I suspect he sees the same magic I do. His thoughts and experiences perhaps a bit different than mine, but still appreciating the calm and quiet of the moments.

This is a special Sunday for me. Yes, it’s Easter for Christians. This, today, is a sanctuary.

I’m so glad nature was at the end of my drive and walk today.

S’Mores Amore

It took me a few tries. Four to be exact. “Gerbil, hamster, rat, mouse?”, I commented frantically to my good friends who own this precious little being. Their Facebook comment header: “The terror in her eye is for the rapids ahead.” “Guinea pig!”, was the response with an expected exclamation mark as I should have remembered. As well, I needed to reconnect via text for her name. “That one is S’Mores. The yellow one is Nilla.” Ah, Nilla … the second of the two I also forgot they had. So, to summarize here: four attempts at the pet type? Failure. Remembering her name? Failure. Recalling they had not one but TWO? Failure. Oh, boy.

Acknowledging the cuteness of this guinea pig? Success.

I’m not a small pet kind of guy. Maybe you are. Any living creature worthy of one hand palm-holding while eating a ham sandwich out of the other isn’t really a pet in my mind. It’s just me. A book, pack of baseball cards, phone, remote, the inside of a half-eaten bag of caramel popcorn? … Anything keeping that other hand busy at the moment is more valuable to me than something small, inhaling, and furry. I wouldn’t do a thing to harm them, mind you, or be critical of anyone – like my friends – who love them. Just not my thing. I can, however, look at pictures like the one above and say to myself, “Geesh, that’s cute.”

We have to be willing to concede softness in our lives. Make room for pleasurable moments and at the same time accept they aren’t for us, but for others. A kind-of half way, emotional embracing when we can say to ourselves, “That’s really nice. Not for me, but I won’t judge. Just not my thing.”

The other afternoon, I sat alone in a restaurant and observed the most curious of events. An older man sat near the middle of the small room with whom I can assume was a friend. Next to them, nearby, sat two ladies – younger by a few years in their late 60’s early 70’s. Behind both tables in a booth, a dad and his daughter sat quietly. Neither said a word as each was intently staring at their phone except to occasionally request a refill or condiment. One other booth next to me was occupied by one laborer on a lunch break who decided a b.l.t. with a side of fries and coke satisfied his quick half hour lunch time.

I didn’t expect that small community of eight – including me with hungry eyes full of a juicy burger with dripping swiss cheese and mushrooms, a side of hot fresh-cut fries, and a large glass of cold diet Pepsi – to develop into a connection between that day and a guinea pig. Somehow, it did. The last day in March and the second day in April, 2021. Here we are.

A discussion began at the table where the two men sat. I believe it started over the concern about our area needing to change the way local calls are going to be dialed. There’s a change to a ten digit numbering system from the standard seven digit norm. Change is hard … especially for an older generation. I get that. The one gentleman became a bit agitated at having to remember the slightest change (remembering to dial those extra three same digits before every call). His demeanor and vocal rhythm changed with every attempt at understanding the new system. The ladies at the nearby table gently explained the timing of the phone company’s implementation and the reasoning behind it, but this didn’t matter. He wasn’t disrespectful or rude, just becoming less comfortable. I believe this was the catalyst for what followed.

His attention a bit distracted, he leaned over my way and commented about the dad and daughter sitting over in the booth. “See. That’s what’s wrong with society today. Nobody is talking to each other anymore. Those darn cell phones! Look at that!”, as he clearly, and loudly, directed those words toward them.

I nodded my head in the direction of the dad and daughter, silently eating their fried haddock and burger, as if to say, “It’s ok..”, and put my hand up in a conciliatory manner to avoid any confrontation. Fortunately, they understood the situation and continued on with their screen time. I quietly agreed with the gentleman because this was the best way to ease the tension at the moment.

I’ve been thinking about that exchange for a few days. Why didn’t he take a second, look over at the dad and daughter, and say to himself: “That’s really nice. Not for me, but I won’t judge. Just not my thing.”? Well, because he’s old and really set in his ways, probably.

I’m fortunate to have the mind, still, to look over there and think: Did they just lose a loved one and can’t talk to each other yet? Is she having a difficult time in school and doesn’t know how to ask her dad for help? Is he a single dad trying to raise his daughter? Did they just need some nice time together? … The possibilities are endless. Yes, these phones are a problem. I get that. I can say, though, looking at those two in the booth a few days ago, it was nice seeing a dad and daughter together. I won’t judge why they weren’t talking. It was fascinating to look over every few minutes, granted, but the why behind the silence is their business. Period.

I will concede that pleasurable time and quiet to them, however, it’s not for me. I like to talk to those in my company at the table. Yes, I DO occasionally text and check my phone when dining with friends and family. These darn cell-mates have become personal prisoners with whom we’ve become very friendly.

As to the cute guinea pig in the kayak? I have S’Mores amore until I forget her name again. She has some rough rapids ahead according to the comment. We do, too. Life isn’t easy.

We can make all this a bit simpler by backing off our pre-conceived ideas about right and wrong, good and bad. Look at others and appreciate their moments – accept their lives, their situations and nothing more. See that? “That’s really nice. Not for me, but I won’t judge. Just not my thing.”

Be silent. Talk up a storm. Own a guinea pig or a large giraffe. Whatever you do, I will acknowledge your cuteness in doing so. Don’t ask me to hold a ham and swiss on rye in my free hand while doing so, however.

Word Worms

John Branyan says we were created with a little bit of stupid in us. All of us. He’s a comedian I found on DryBar comedy. He comedically claims, “God put something stupid in every one of (us) … that the rest of the world is supposed to laugh at. So, when you cover something up that people are supposed to laugh at, you are covering up a blessing. Recognize your own stupidity then share it with the ones you love.” That is, laugh – according to John.

His follow-up example to illustrate the point is how we, as mature adults, always give the obligatory “honk your horn” arm pump to large, passing trucks on the highway. That, in itself, isn’t funny as I listened to his delivery. My mind didn’t jive with his thought; however, when he proposed the idea of the truck driver returning a gesture to “honk our little horns”, I understood why he is the comedian and I’m not. He continues, “We don’t pass a construction zone and (pretends to use a jack hammer) expecting them to say, ‘Hey, let’s do that for the passers-by’ (my edit here)” … “Comedy is built into the fabric of our society, DNA.”, as he says.

You can’t be serious all the time. Even a local grocery store, in their attempt to sell popcorn to the masses, finds a comedy error in a sign of the times:

I don’t need 8 ounces of sensual experiences at the local grocery store. If I did, not quite sure what $2.49 cents each would get me, anyway. At close to 2/3rds the way through my life if actuarial tables hold true, spending less IS very tempting because I’m not doing well in the retirement savings department. Where popcorn participation falls in the Redenbacher ridiculousness of this Weis wonderment, I’ll never know. Caramel sticks to my teeth and that’s more important to avoid than whatever two Washingtons and a few quarters would ever get me. With that, I’ll pass on carnal popcorn for now.

There’s my friend, Joel. Now, before you get ahead of me here, there’s no connection to the popcorn. None. There is a link to comedy and humor, though. He’ll not admit it, but there is. A chain of events always lead to his upsetting my affable apple cart. The absurdity of this relationship is the bait I always take … and laugh about later while driving away … alone … thinking through a series of sentences he artistically bobs in the water. I consider the things in his life I’m supposed to laugh at while noshing on a bagel, but end up digesting my own “crazies” a half-hour later.

To be serious for a moment, my jokes ARE funny, original, and clever. He can’t see his way through the normal in life to appreciate coffee-time flair. He responds, not reacts, which is very positive. Even in the daily, “You’re not funny … You think you are, but you’re not.” responses, he’s complimenting me. I see this no other way. “Shhh … Just be quiet.”, is another. Yeah, not going to work. I’m respectful, kind, and pleasant. But, hey, … if I hear an opening for word wizardry or playful bantering, I’ll jump in to keep the conversation between my friends lively and interesting. Mike, Sue, Jim, … Joel and others need this in the morning.

There is always one final barb from Joel that gets me, however. Hard to nail down the exact words. They are a blur in my memory. Might as well figure he knows what those few phrases are a few feet under the water where my sensitivities swim. He says something to upset me. Once I take the bait, his laugh is genuine as he reels in my insecurities and rage at, once again, being lured by the rod of ridiculousness. I do think he derives great merriment at this game – as I do moments later recognizing my stupidity once again.

We have these friends who do this to us, don’t we? As a matter of record, these very friends will also do anything we need at any time as well. He was the first to help me last Friday when the wind damaged my concession window. He’s been a continuing friend in matters personal when I stop by his workshop to talk or watch his mastery on the lathe or admire his woodworking artistry. We’ve argued over poker rules when he knows I’m right and upsets my chip stacks. In years past, there have been times I’ve needed help and he’s been there for me.

I know I’m not crazy or anywhere near it. I am a bit gullible, of course. I’m fortunate to have a friend who recognizes this and, despite accepting my higher level of humor and humility, still welcomes me at his breakfast table a few days a week inside a hotel cafe.

Appreciate the little bit of stupid in yourself and share it with the world. Find a few friends who see it in you and laugh with them. John kinda has it right. I believe most of the comedians see all the crazy in the world and make us laugh.

Joel sees my “non compos mentis” and responds accordingly – with respect and admiration. He’s clearly not a comedian. Artist, yes. Humorist to any degree, not really. DryBar comedy won’t be calling him anytime soon. For that matter, my phone won’t be buzzing, either. Neither Joel nor I expect fame or fortune from our words – comedic or otherwise. I’ll continue to pour out my soul and he’ll do what he does … put a few more tasty word worms on the hook.

…and I’ll bite once again.

The Phantom and the Hinge

It’s hard not to be an Andrew Lloyd Webber fan. As a musician, I’m drawn to his music. Also, as one who enjoys a good cook-out and one less “b”, I can enjoy a Weber grill as well.

A connection beween the two may seem a stretch, but give me some latitude here … A lot of space, please. It’s been a long week.

Take Raoul from Phantom of the Opera.

I feel so connected to him right now. Unhinged. More on that word association soon. For now, a mask would be warranted. Oh, and it wasn’t a Weber grill, either. Doesn’t really matter, though. The chamber full of propane, I inserted the flaming end of a lighter into said grill and saw half my life flash in front of my eyes in a nano second. The screen in the top of a once calm concession trailer blew out as a loud bang took off facial hair and solar flared all the moisture out of my right eye – at least this is what my optometrist friend said ten minutes later when she graciously stopped by at my blurry insistence.

Look away, I’m hideous. I should be masking my idiocy. Raoul I’m with you, my friend … Artificial tears run down my rosey, now shaven cheek as I think of you. Where is MY mask hiding this scorched half-face of shame?

Yeah, ok. I’m dramatizing the moment. Everything is fine. For a few moments, however, I was worried. My vision was blurry and the smell of burnt hair overtook the usual sausage and hotdog aroma inside my trailer. Blinking sucked. No tears were available for my comfort.

I am now comforted knowing time will give rise to more follicle frolicking. Eyebrows coming back full and robust, a salt-and-pepper semi-beard surrounding a smile, and lashes blinking to awaken a moist eyeball will all befriend me again. Time is the healer of bangs both hairy and gaseous.

I will be extra cautious in the future. Uhm, that’s what I said the last two times, anyway. So, how’s the weather in your town?

Speaking of weather, the Pentecostal winds whacked my concession window cover yesterday. Yes, those higher than average gusts lifted not my spirits, but a heavy, hinged swing roof causing two hydraulic arms to snap off. Hinged? Well, I was able to generate tears from one eyeball, anyway, as the roof slammed itself down against the concession window so elegantly holding a menu sign and my last nerve. No cracks after a quick scan and no patience remained in my already winter season ending, battle-weary skeleton of a body.

Yesterday was my last day at that location. In ten days, I will be relocating to summer spots. An ice cream/shaved ice concessionaire guy will be plopping down where I’ve been these past months. As planned, scheduled maintenance days appear ahead in my book … alas, I will be abandoning those for repairs to my trailer. Back and forth I shall go. Best to forget what I had hoped for and live for what is: fate.

Fate has me paying more money for repairs I didn’t plan on and extra work not scheduled. Fate waited five months for me to flash-freak my face with non-serious, look-back, kinda funny, now, blue flaming frivolity. Fate also gave me a schedule off-site event to cater with my smaller concession cart during a beautiful Saturday in March. A day in which I could not have opened, anyway, with a damaged 20′ trailer and slightly bruised ego.

Tomorrow, that large trailer will be back home for a clean-out before going to the metal shop for repairs. Scott, the proprietor of the fabricating shop, assured me he can fix the damage. I have confidence he can. A spit and polish after replacing the two hydraulic arms with a tweak and pull here and there … I’ll be back in business in no time.

Gosh I hope so. There is redemption at the end for the Phantom. Sure, Christine dies from an accidental gunshot … yada yada … go see the show sometime to appreciate all the twists and turns. Love, intrigue, and … exceptional music as only Andrew Lloyd Webber could write.

I could send him some ideas for his next opus. Perhaps a pianist who reignites his passion for excitement and high energy bursts of gale force winds? “The Unhinging of a Man”?

I do have years of experience in music theory and arranging, one good eye, and one hell of a story to tell so far.

Chloe’s Springtime Step

It didn’t take long for Chloe to recognize me after her long hibernation. After few months of cold weather, she was as anxious as any (dog) could be to get out of the house. She seemed happy and a little less puppy-ish since I saw her last. The only problem she has been experiencing, really, is … me. Recognizing my 6-foot frame slugging about from across the road isn’t the issue. Her eyesight is sharp. Catching a waft of the meaty concession trailer smell drifting off my work clothes upwind from her pug-beagle nose isn’t the issue, either. I make no sudden moves, speak no ill-timed or unkind words to her, or walk googly-crossed, human limpy as I approach. She’s decided – in her furry little canine cranium – I am nuts.

Such was the case yesterday. This was a similar reaction she, surprisingly, had going into last fall when I thought the two of us were doggo-Doug-o sympatico. Toward the end of the summer of 2020, this slightly lighter in heft puppy started to react differently to me. Less neighborly, shall I say. We were pals … then we weren’t. She switched a switch … pulled a puppy lever in her brain. The run to Doug with fevered enthusiasm knob fused out, I guess. Not only did it burn out, it also triggered a rash of opposing phrases including: “Run from man!” and “Shake in fear at end of leash!”…

I did something I can’t rectify. I’d like to have a heart to heart talk with this animal. If I possessed the powers of a Dolittle, perhaps a solution would be possible. As of this moment, there’s little I can do … but try.

So, try I did yesterday. Once again, walking across the street to a heavier, hibernated, happy-to see-everyone but me chompy little brown ball of energy known as Chloe. She likes her stick pieces, her two adult owners – neighbors across the way – and her friendly dog pals who walk by every so often. Yes, everyone. Every dog, tree, wind gust, blade of grass, person on the freakin’ planet, … shall I go on?

If I seem a bit bitter about all this … I may be, however, she’s kinda cute and I’ll put up with being ignored and misunderstood. There’s no need for my ego to be stroked by a little semi-puppy living a few yards away who happens to still be a favorite of mine … even though she’s upset with me for some irrational reason. I deal with illogical ideas and suggestions 24/7 and have conversations with invisible clones who constantly argue with me inside my head, so a four-legged fur-ball giving me a little grief for no reason isn’t too much for me to handle.

I’d like her to like me again, though. A few snap shots from feet away – then cropped for the purposes of a blog – aren’t enough. Kneeling down in front of that face in 3D, real time, would be kinda’ better. Granted, Chloe doesn’t owe me a darn thing. Her life isn’t revolving around a big Doug sun here. She’s not my dog, but she’s a neighbor … a friend I’d like to have around for a while.

I think we made some progress yesterday. Small, but forward.

It was a really nice day for a change. A small 24-hour walk into spring was a welcome relief for all of us regardless of my relationship snags with the little stinker. She did allow me a few moments close by … sitting on the front steps petting her head. Ever so cautious, she was. Chloe’s springtime step of 2021 in my direction, I suppose.

We will meet many times this fair weather season. My clothes and smells won’t change much. Chloe, most likely, is bound to take her place at the end of a pretty leash a few yards away – across a calm street where other dogs will be passing by. Dogs I don’t know as well, but canine-friendlies not as finicky as Ms. Pugslie-Beagilo … with her slightly contentious attitude toward me.

Even with that, I wouldn’t change a thing. Chloe is pretty cool. I like a bit of mystery. After all, she’s recognizing me with all my crazy, too. Maybe, just maybe, we’re just right for each other and she’s shy. Yeah, that’s it.

One Yellow Flower

Greenbean is friend who brings joy to little ones I have occasion to musically entertain along the path of my life. He is a non-human life form puppet who becomes whatever – whomever – I need him to be through my voice and right hand. A magical, mysterious monster? Why not! A compassionate listener? Sure. One who teaches the ABC’s of the grand staff? Absolutely. Since 2013, the year after my mom died, Greenbean has been a steady companion throughout the lives of many.

Why the name? The last voicemail left on my answering machine from mom was a breathy thank you for a green bean casserole dropped off earlier in the day. She was suffering from late stage cancer difficulties, yet found the few seconds to call. Always the generous soul, she would certainly make that call. It could have been a bag of chips or a quart of milk … her heart would reach out just the same. Food, favors, car rides, cards, … it didn’t matter to her. There was always a follow-up “thank-you” in some form. I knew of no other proper homage to mom than name happiness, thankfulness, and gratefulness after her …

… And with the same breathiness, I write during these early morning hours.

It’s my time to offer my thanks and gratefulness. To life and all it has … and to a special person.

Specifically, to the artist of “One Small Flower”. This small painting rests comfortably on the top of my Baldwin piano. As I play, never is it not a peripheral reminder of the gift of music endowed to both of us. A talented artist as well as a musician, her gift to me ensures an already high level of commitment I have to join her in a journey. We are, together, preparing a benefit concert to raise money for rare appendix cancer research. Our hope is not to raise millions (although that would be terrific). We want to share our gift and, as well, enjoy music together.

That concert is months away. Now is now and cancer does not take time off. The stage with a piano and a microphone awaits, but stage four is here now. I’m sad about this. There’s no denying my last 24 hours of tossing and turning can’t be appeased by a Chopin nocturne or Brahms Intermezzo at this moment. Music has specific healing power, but there are times when grief inside a sad brain can’t be silenced by listening to a lush symphonic crescendo, either. The artist of note has a blank canvas at the moment. Everything is secondary as this pianist types.

This isn’t about me. It is about the 2.5 x 2.5 inch gift of one yellow flower on my piano … because now is now. My dear friend is having a difficult time and I can’t do much more than type one letter at a time. One word after another … hoping, somehow, she knows there are silent musical masterpieces and invisible works of art being played and painted for her – soon to be heard and seen once again.

She is a steady, wonderful companion to many. An artist. A musician. One who deserves a call to simply say, “Thank you”…

I know mom and Greenbean wouldn’t have it any other way.