The Next Louis Armstrong

 

I received an email the other day announcing the formation of the ORSO or Oconee Regional Symphony Orchestra. Made up of volunteers and designed to bring cultural enhancement to our area, the announcement nearly sent me into a state of what’s known as delayed depression. This is where you forget something for at least 50 years and then, if you live long enough, somebody brings it up and you remember it and it wasn’t good. A lot of old relatives will do this at holidays just to see if anybody remembers bad stuff and it usually ends up with half the families going home early after the “fireworks”. Usually starts with the phrase, “remember when”.

Sometimes I go into it when I remember Mike Walker beating me to the streetlight in 60’ cause he hit puberty before I did but I didn’t know what puberty was and figured he was just faster. Plus he weighed more than me and that made it even worse. But I digress. I have no idea where the hock shop silver trumpet mom and dad purchased in 57’ is today and therefore cannot attend the auditions. This is probably a good thing because if I did to ORSO what I did to that fifth grade band and music director, they’d no doubt use me as a balloon vendor prior to the event instead of last chair trumpet. See, some of us are made to play musical instruments and others the drums. I wanted to be a drummer but got drummed out of that by Tommy Hoskins, the class favorite and since there was only one set of the things and lord knows that was enough, he got to play drums and I got last chair trumpet. Last chair trumpet was not near far enough away from the band director and in an effort to save his and the children’s hearing he placed me at the very back of the stage behind a curtain.

Said it would carry the notes so I would be able to hear them more clearly. Every once in a while he’d peek around the curtain with a look that said, “Are you still here?” I lasted a couple of months, and learned that really good music can often be found on a crystal radio. Well, the keys stuck on the darn thing. And no matter how much of that expensive oil you squirted down the plungers, they still stuck. So when I hit a bad note (which was every other) it hung on like a pair of symbols, reverberating (a word I learned in band) throughout the stage area, reminding everyone I was still behind the curtain.

Mom and dad had invested quite a bit of money in the silver trumpet, a whopping five dollars, hoping I would become another Louis Armstrong I suppose and Mom insisted I practice outside, even though Tennessee winters can be rough. She said the cool air would help carry the notes so I would be able to hear them more clearly. Dad thought I should be held back a grade to perfect that thing before moving on to sixth grade band. He always thought I was the best at anything I chose to do but dad was fallible and in this instance, dead wrong. In the end the oil can was as empty as the notes and even these two wonderful people, who thought they had created at the least the world’s greatest slide flute player, decided there was no way they were going to spend more money on a silver trumpet that, when played by me, always reminded them of a New Orleans funeral procession.

They steered me toward the choir. There I learned I couldn’t sing any better than I could play the trumpet and so gave up everything but the crystal radio. Today I have ITunes. Best of luck to ORSO! We could use some cultural enhancing around here and don’t worry, hopefully that silver trumpet is a chalice in somebody’s silver collection. But, if you’re in need of a drummer……..dreams never die.

Info for Who?

If you’re like me you probably enjoy a good infomercial once in a while... yeah, right! My cable bill runs around $100.00 each month (basic) and lately I’ve found myself wondering why I need it. Paying for a commercial seems almost insane, maybe even masochistic. So, the other day I decided to see what I was paying to see and if in fact I wanted to continue footing the bill for being a patsy. Here’s what I found.

I could buy a professional pocket steam mop, sold by Mark with the dark glasses, I suppose to make me feel less intelligent since Mark knows everything there is to know about this contraption and I’m just the idiot paying to hear about it. He’s been rehearsing this gig for years and shows me just how dirty wherever he’s cleaning is because that thing is black when he finishes. He then suggests washing it in my washing machine. Yeah, right! If my house was that dirty…I’d move.

I could buy something for my joints. It may or may not work but it works for everyone on television so who am I to think it won’t work for me! It’s Arthri-D-Joint Health and it’s not made to treat any disease (uh, like arthritis do you suppose?) only to make your joints feel better. Yeah, right! The “scientist” who came up with this stuff is probably in re-hab.

Then there’s “Dr” Monita Poudyal who says “Supple” can heal everything from joint pain to weight problems. And of course it’s available in a bottle. The FDA won’t touch this stuff but again we find it was “discovered” by a couple of scientists. One has to wonder who these two scientists are and why they aren’t in re-hab with the Arthri guys. So I listen while these two robots discuss how wonderful this bottled fruit juice can be for me. Yeah right! Can you say “snake oil”?

Some five foot tall anorexic comes on and tells me I can lose weight by taking deep breaths when I walk 10,000 steps a day… then tries to sell me something for my flabby thighs. Maybe I should send her money for a Big Mac and fries. Yeah right! I’ll walk myself to McDonalds and save the money. She wouldn’t have eaten it anyway.

If you’re like me you’re probably tired of frying, burning, rolling and waiting for your hair to get right. The Topstyler will take care of that bedhead in four minutes or less if you can figure out where to place the clam shells. Ivey is the girl up front getting her awful pre-Topstyler hair done while eight pairs of breasts watch from behind…just to get your attention. I had no idea men watched these things until I noticed the girls in the rear. Well, to make a long story short, Ivey, who in no way resembles a scientist, actually learned how to use the Topstyler all by herself right there on the air! Yeah right! This girl uses her equipment like a blackjack dealer in Las Vegas. Methinks she’s done it before.

And if you want to go from looking like a cadaver to something slightly better in one day, get the Lifestyle Lift. Guaranteed to defy gravity and make Linda, who is seventy, look at least seventy after she uses it. If you want real change, not the kind the president’s been talking about, get the Lifestyle Lift and remember, it doesn’t work the same for everyone. Just say, “gobble gobble” and watch that sagging neck disappear! Yeah right! I’d be perfectly satisfied if my face was the only thing on this old body that was losing to gravity.

After making all these purchases you might need to seek some financial help from one Peter Popoff. He’s anointed and appointed and will sell you something in an envelope, sent by God himself, to get you the money you deserve. It’s called “miracle money” and it’s just for those dumb enough to continue to purchase cable television. He also has special water from who knows where but I’ve got some of that right here at the house. I call it rum and I know it comes from Puerto Rico. Peter also has a debt cancellation tool for those who just can’t resist being preyed upon by people like him. Yeah right! I think I’ll go back to radio.

R-E-A-D

Today is “soapbox day”. A day I’ve dedicated to preaching on about things others might like to say but don’t. Today’s soapbox has to do with reading, a skill that seems to be slipping further by the wayside with each new reality show on television, and the infomercial, a great way to become “infomed”? What is the problem with people not being able to read in the year 2011? Are we going backward here? While I don’t think you can raise a person’s I.Q. much by teaching them how to read, you might be able to get them some lateral movement, plus, most of the intelligent people I know can read. Someone once said we are what we eat but I rather think we are what we read. Still, we have folks out there who feel that the ability to read a road sign or menu comes second to being able to watch television and is really the only life skill we need, other than smoking or being able to drink ten beers without throwing up. Why else would someone put a five year old in front of a television for hours each day? I suppose they figure if they can pull up to a McDonalds, see a Big Mac and fries picture, cipher out what c-o-k-e looks like and maybe f-r-i-e-d p-i-e, why, they’re good to go! But think about the difficulty of say, going to Wal- Mart. Now the non-reader has to find a label that might say c-e-r-e-a-l or c-h-e-e-s-e, or maybe m-e-n’s w-e-a-r or l-o-u-n-g-e-r-i-e. Is that French? Well, I suppose it really wouldn’t matter if the person can’t read in the first place.
And what about reading the paper to find something to buy or check out an old friend’s obit? You might find them by their picture but what if the picture shows them thirty years ago sitting on the back of a truck at the local Krystal. Reading is important and the only way you would know it was them would be if you hadn’t seen them in thirty years. Yes, preaching to the choir here because you can read or you wouldn’t be reading this. You have to wonder what it says about my intelligence though. And speaking of television, are we really becoming more informed by watching infomercials? Or less “infomed” due to information that insults our intelligence?

Here’s one for you. “Can you boil an egg? Can you peel an egg? Can you dispose of the shell of an egg? Or has the effort become just too darn time consuming and energy consuming to allow you to really enjoy the experience? It sounds like you may need to consider purchasing the new Ripoff egg peeler, designed with the person like yourself, lazy, allergic to water and “uninfomed” in mind. Give me thirty minutes of your time and I will demonstrate how peeling an egg the old fashion grip and strip method can raise blood pressure and cause carpel tunnel syndrome. Let me show you the latest in egg peeling paraphernalia guaranteed to take the stress out of raising your cholesterol level. And after I’m finished we’ll crank up the old dishwasher, place the Ripoff in there and have fun searching for its pieces when the dry cycle completes.” Please…we can do better. The only way a person would need the Ripoff is…you guessed it…If they couldn’t read a recipe for boiling an egg in the first place! My guess is somebody out there is getting richer by the minute as I write this and an infomercial on washing celery and flossing one’s teeth can’t be far away.

Conservation

Where would we be today without the green folks, the conservationists who, like me, want to preserve the planet? Like my dad used to say, “Son, you’ll never know when it’s gonna stop raining or the sun runs out of gas.” I’ve been a green man for years, and have known many “greenies”, learning many of my conserving ways from dad. We always think of May as conservation month around here, making an effort to go just as far as possible into “Saunaville” without turning on the A.C.This year, after living in a hothouse full of mold for a month, we made it until May 12th. When your back sticks to your shirt, which is stuck to your chair, and every smell that has ever been in the house reveals itself, you know the A.C. fairy can’t be far away. There are other signs as well. The dogs pant near the A.C. air vents but since they must know nothing's coming out of there but the stench of dead bugs and fur balls, I think they do it just to make us feel guilty. Once in a while they look up as if to say, “If I had your brains I believe I’d turn on some A.C.”
Actually, I remember growing up when we didn’t have A.C. at all, and dad was as green as a cucumber. We had this wonderful contraption called an attic fan. It was in the hall ceiling and the blades must have been huge because they would turn ever so slowly and still bring air in through the windows. Very quiet it was, and all you would hear was the soft sound of hot air rushing into the attic. We had to be in bed around nine, except for Sunday nights when ice cream was on the menu. The ice cream was melted of course but I can tell you that was the best bowl of ice cream ever drunk. After that you had to go sweat in your bed until the blessed fan sucked in enough cool air from the outside. If that didn’t happen you’d either pass out from the heat or wait for a cool breeze to lull you to sleep around 2 AM.

Turning on the attic fan before the air outside turned cool was considered by dad to be un-green and once in a while you’d hear him holler, “Who turned on the d-mn fan!?” He didn’t much care for lights on in the summer either, said it made the house too hot. Except for using his belt on my brother (who deserved it) he saved on energy any way he could. Not one of us five kids would admit to turning on the fan. When I was around fifteen I learned a trick with that attic fan. You could lower your window to just a few inches above the sill and feel one heck of a breeze. One night, while adjusting it just right, I happened to spot two future leaders in the green movement, on the front porch next door. Mary Beth and Roger they were and about seventeen at the time. She got a window A.C. before we did but went green about that time also and chose to spend time outdoors on most evenings with Roger, her boyfriend, saving energy. I’ve always admired their sacrifice as they preferred sweating on the stoop to turning on the A.C. in her bedroom. I often wonder if she received some kind of green award for her efforts. I’m sure Roger got his just reward. Now days, when I hear the dogs panting, I think of these two pioneers in the green movement, conserving energy on the porch years ago.