Am I a geezer...yet?

First of all, what the hell is a geezer? According to various google searches, a geezer is an elderly, old fart, senior citizen, man or woman, who is usually eccentric and sometimes crotchety and most always grumpy. Please note photos of what could be considered geezers.

Of course, Gabby Hayes, erstwhile sidekick of Roy Rogers, was probably one of the most recognizable geezers in the cinema. And, Neil Young, dubbed a guru of what could be referred to as geezer rock, one of most iconic pop geezers of late.

The question remains...have I reached geezerdom? Have I crossed that line from simple middled-aged, grumpy, sometimes depressed, frustrated artist, baby-boomer guy to simply being a crotchety, old geezer? Close friends and my spouse are not allowed to answer that question or comment at this point please!

I believe that true geezerdom is more a state of mind than a point in time predicated by days on a calendar. In my opinion, here are some characteristics of the geezers I have had the displeasure of running into in my life:
1. Over 39 years old.
2. Man or woman.
3. Poor hygiene, ie, you can smell his or her stale, musky body odor from 6 feet away, often masked with cheap aftershave, deodorant, or cologne. This odoriferous aura has moderately lasting residual effects, especially in grocery store or K-Mart aisles. You may not even see the offender, but he or she has been there recently.
4. Poor public social skills, ie, quite often a close-talker who oft times takes out a crusty, stained handkerchief and blows his or her nose with a reckless, gurgling abandon while continuing to speak to you. Then, neglects to properly clean off his or her facial region after the blow session, leaving behind one or more small to medium sized goobers stuck to the stubble in the upper lip region (again, man or woman).
5. Public flatulence, both audible and S.B.D.
6. A slow, shuffling gait and stooping posture.
7. Crusty or sometimes white material accumulated at the corners of the mouth.
8. A "get-out-of-my-way" attitude toward others in a public place.
9. Has several, long, thick, errant hairs growing out of nose and ear areas.
10. Writes in a blog about geezers before looking in the mirror.

There are a couple of those characteristics I don't have!

Idol time on my hands 2/Burning Down the House

I don't usually do this, but here goes...last night's AI performances and HK heats up!

Jason Castro - Yes, a train wreck performance. Borrow a set of heuvos and sing something with, well...balls!

Syesha Mercado - Great show tune effort.

David Archuleta - The judges were kind, but...again, can you conjure up some testosterone from somewhere?

David Cook - Respectable job considering this should be the first and last time he attempts to sing a show tune.

Carly Smithson - A smoking' version of JC Superstar. And, she is finally wearing decent outfits!

Brooke White - Brooke...poor lovely, sweet, appealing, sexy, moderately talented Brooke...ya' had a whole week to learn the words!

My prediction for tonight's results show: Jason Castro...or Brooke White. Please vote off Castro. I'd give Brooke another chance (or 12).


From the bowels of Hell's Kitchen, they could barely manage a fast food menu for kids. The producers pick mostly losers for the dramatic effect. The one clown couldn't even cook chicken wings all the way through. And when someone like Ben shines a bit, Gordon is quick to slap him (or anyone else) back down to the ground. Yet, we still watch with great anticipation. At least they finally got rid of Craig. What a wuss! Is that how you spell wuss? Not important. To the chick who burned her hand (possibly not nearly as bad as it looked): McDonalds and BK is always hiring. Just stay away from the french fry station!

Idol time on my hands

I find it interesting, if not disturbing, that I look forward to Tuesday night television. I look forward to Tuesday night television almost as much as I look forward to Wednesday night television.

Used to be that Lost was on Wednesday nights....wasn't it? I've completely lost my interest in that disjointed, confusing, and contrived fantasy/sci-fi/mystery/survivor soap opera filmed a few hundred yards from Oahu tourist resorts. So now, Wednesdays (and Tuesdays) I'm planted in front of the plasma device tuned to Fox. Yes, I have become a reluctant (and embarrassing to admit) fair-weather fan of American Idol.

I think the affection (or should I say infection) for and/or caused by A.I. began last season with that whole Sanjiyah (sp?) thing. My wife Loretta and I just couldn't turn away from watching the weekly train wreck over and over again. We could not wait to see what silly hair style he sported while singing inane, whimpy versions of pop hits. At least he was finally voted off near the end, and at least Jordin Sparks finished on top. Whew! What a relief!

This season, albeit quite dissimilar in talent from last season, is no less perplexing to watch. This season's Sanjiyah is that David Castro guy. There's no way he will win, but why is he still there when the Australian guy got the boot already? They finally axed Kristy Lee Cook last week. She's not a bad singer, she's just not a great singer. How about the whiney, hobbit-like little kid with the decent voice (David Archeleta)? Looks like he's on the verge of crying all the time. Good voice? Yes. Dynamic performer? No way.

I must admit that I have a slight crush on Brooke White. Her Faith Hill resemblance could be the blame for that. Not a great singer though, and, she comes off a bit snotty at times during the critique period.

Anyway, I'm not going to run down the entire list of A.I. survivors to this point. And my point is that David Cook is the obvious front-runner and will probably win (if he doesn't have a cardiac event before the show ends).

The bigger point to make is my morbid interest in watching American Idol at all! As I said, it is quite disturbing. I should be watching any number of thriller/slasher/mystery flicks continually replaying on cable. Or trimming my toenails. Or surfing eBay. Or jogging. But, I defer the use of the wide screen and surround sound to my wife's obsession with A.I. I must also admit that I go on line at the start of Wednesday's results show and find out who gets booted. Of course, I never tell Loretta...I value my marriage more than that. I just can't stand surprises! Yet, that is where I will be tonight (Tuesday) and tomorrow night (Wednesday). Watching the less-than-stellar performances of star-wannabes. Then listening to painfully repetitous critiques from (Yo...dog...check it out! A little pitchy at times....) Randy, (I...I...I...just know you're gonna be a star) Paula, and (Brooke, it was kind of like a hamburger with no meat) Simon (cue the boos).

Maybe the saddest statement of all is that I am not alone. Each week, I discover more and more people, my age and younger, watch this show. And that doesn't include the closet American Idol fans. Of which, I am sure there are millions! Maybe billions. Perhaps the first couple of seasons are now reaching distant galaxies and is being watched by aliens.

Don't even get me started on Ryan Seacrest. What a talent-less robot? But, he's laughing all the way to bank. And I'm writing a blog on an old iBook, selling shit on eBay, and thinking about trimming my toenails now so I won't miss American Idol tonight.

Wait a minute! American Psycho is on at the same time. Now what do I do?

Music is (almost) my life

Somewhere near the Canoga Theatre, on Sherman Way in downtown Canoga Park, there was a music studio. I think it was in the late 1950's, maybe I was eight or nine years old at the time. My parents would drop me off in the afternoon after school a couple of days a week, and I would lug a heavy, cumbersome suitcase up a steep set of stairs to the second floor where the studio was located. It was there where I took accordion lessons.

I don't remember the teacher's name. I'll call him Mr. Lentl (for lack of anything else that comes to mind). But he was an old guy who I recall reminded me of Adolph Menjou in Pollyana. A grumpy, sometimes inpatient fellow who taught me a lot about playing the accordion and music.

I think it was somewhere around five years of accordion lessons. During that time, I played at several park/bandstand community concerts (on stage with my music school accordion students), a couple of grade school events, and, naturally, many impromptu at-home "go get your accordion and play something for your aunts and uncles", performances. The latter of which began enthusiastically enough (see photo, that's my grandma Hansen drinking a glass of Pabst Blue Ribbon, plugging her ear and wondering when this will all end), then digressed into a embarrassing whine-fest by me to let me go out and play with my friends.

Funny, in a scene from one of my favorite movies, Fargo, the son is shown sitting in his room with an accordion on his bed and a poster of some Bavarian accordion master plastered on the back of his bedroom door! Apparently most males of Scandinavian decent are subjected to taking accordion lessons early in life. I call it the "Lawrence Welk/Myron Floren Syndrome". Geeze, no wonder I hate polka music to this day!

Anyway, much to the dismay of my Danish mother and grandmother, my feigned interest in playing the accordion wained as I entered pre-teen years and picked up a guitar for the first time. The rest is history, since I still play guitar to this day. Check that...try to play the guitar. Evidently, one must practice on a regular basis to become proficient in anything, something I don't do enough of...practice, that is.

Oh yeah, I also dabbled in playing the drums in my teens and was even a drummer in a small, short-lived rock band whilst in the Navy at Moffett Field and in Hawaii. We actually did respectable versions of Cinnamon Girl (Neil Young), Hey Joe (Hendrix), and a selection of other rock and roll gems from the 60's and early 70's. My band buddies and I spent most of our practice time arguing about which song to play, how to play them properly, and how each of us sucked at our particular role in the band! Our front man and lead guitar player, Greg, was very good...the rest of us did, indeed, suck. Greg left the band first due to all the bickering. It was all over five minutes after that!

Today, I am an average-skilled rhythm guitar player, ie, wannabe lead guitar player whose idols include Santana, Eric Clapton, Daryl Stermer (Phil Collins guitarist), and Russ Freeman (Rippingtons). Oh...I am, however, a wicked air-guitarist. At least I got that goin' for me!

oxymorons

"A capfull of oxymoron in a bucket of water, and you're ready to clean anything!"

Actually, oxy from the Greek for sharp...moron from the Greek for dull. The word oxymoron is itself an oxymoron. Similar to a contradiction in terms.

Such as: Jumbo Shrimp, Military Intelligence, Silent Scream, Living Dead, Same Difference, Peace Force, Working Vacation, Microsoft Works. Or a few of my favorites: A Good Job, A Caring Boss, Bad Luck, Honest Politics, Tax Break, Legal Loophole, Customer Service Ethics.

One cannot delve into the word oxymoron without uncovering so many references to cynicism, sarcasm, nihilism, paradox, juxtaposition, or rhetoric (just to name a few). I just described myself in terms!

Oxymorons, like rationalizations...you can't live a day without them.

DILLIGAF !

Pronounced dilly-gaf, the first time I heard that term, or should I say acronym, was in 1969. I was in Navy Electronics "A" school in Millington, Tennessee (just outside Memphis) learning how to be an Aviation Electronics Technician. Actually, I didn't really hear the word. Point of fact is that it was written on the blackboard my first day of class. DILLIGAF in big, six inch high chalk letters.

A tall, lanky, greasy-haired Navy 2nd class Petty Officer named Pritchard strolled in. Dressed in the obligatory blue bellbottom work pants and denim shirt starched to squeaky stiffness, he picked up a wooden pointer from the chalk rail and slapped it against the chalkboard near that word.

"Dilly-gaf!", he blurted out toward our class of twenty five or so fresh faced young men eager to learn the ways of the United States Navy, "Any one of you swingin' dicks care to tell me what dilly-gaf means?"

There passed what seemed like a full minute of silence, no one volunteered to answer the question since no one knew what this silly word meant.

"Well, since none of you dumbasses seems to know", Pritchard barked back at us, "I guess I need to tell ya'!" He pointed an oversized thumb over his boney shoulder and said, "Dilly-gaf means Do I Look Like I Give A Fuck?" A few half-hearted chuckles emanated from the class.

I just thought to myself, "Nice. I gotta remember that one".

2nd Class Petty Officer Pritchard continued by saying, "And that is how I run this class. I could give a flying fuck if you pass or don't pass. If you don't pass, you'll be shipped out to the fleet and be scrubbing destroyer hulls in New Jersey next week! Got it?"

It wasn't something I thought about for many years until I found a metal pin for my Harley jacket at a Harley function. Evidently, DILLIGAF blended nicely into that lifestyle as well as the armed forces. Funny how some things never change.

There was another instructor who wrote FUBAR on his classroom blackboard. Another poetic relic from a time long gone.

Turn right or left, but only turn three times...

The inherent problem with making right angle turns in life is a mathematical one.

In school, grade school and high school, I was told that I was gifted child, especially in science and math. Gifted being the always-a-bridesmaid-never-a-bride intellectual consolation prize to being deemed genius. "Missed it by that much!" Almost Mensa material...a bright child with a lot of potential...teacher’s pet...musically inclined...and very creative. That was in grade school. High school was an entirely different story. Damn puberty!

Back to my loosely related comparison of life to the theorems of Pythagoras. If one makes four right angle turns, one will return to a point of origin. If ones makes enough right angle turns, one will find oneself going in circles...check that, squares that brings one back to where one started. By the way, no credit to Pythagoras for this one...it’s my idea!

With this in mind. It would seem judicious for me to make a sharp left angle turn this time, sted the usual right angle turn. Then, keeping in mind that enough left angle turns will also bring me back to a point of origin...I mustn’t make any more than three turns, left or right, to point me in a different direction. This direction may only be assumed to be the right direction, ie, correct direction at this point in time.

Furthermore, perhaps only one singular right or left angle turn may indeed be the key to a proper change in my direction (my life).

I am truly not a person who dotes on Pre-Socratic philosophy or any other ancient writings from people who lived in a time before indoor plumbing or iPods were invented. However, Pythagoras is widely accepted as the”father of numbers” and the philosophy that everything is related to mathematics and that numbers are the ultimate reality.

I believe my own personal number in life is “3”. It also happens to be a prime number. I may have already made the first two right (or left) angle turns and this last change in direction was indeed the third. I just may be headed in the right direction right now! As long as I don’t make another (fourth) turn. Then, you know where that will take me.

Math. At least I got that goin’ for me!

The 1st of April

April Fools’ Day. According to Wikipedia, ‘the day is marked by the commission of hoaxes and other practical jokes of varying sophistication on friends, enemies and neighbors, or sending them on fools’ errands, the aim of which is to embarrass the gullible’. Seems more like April Cruel Day when you think about it. Anyone who participates in “celebrating” this date is the biggest fool of them all. And, most likely, celebrates in this fashion 365 days of the year anyway. I have never really been a practical joker...though I have been the gullible recipient of such behavior on many occasions. The key word here is gullible. My gullibility has not only affected my personal life, but a good deal of my professional life as well. In this context, I’m juxtapositioning gullible and naively trustworthy...to a fault.

April 1st is also the day I began writing again, at least in this here blog. It was one week ago today that my life reluctantly took another right angle turn toward who knows where. The sordid details forthcoming.

From the start of this web-log, I’ve tried to avoid making it a simple journal of my day-to-day life. Friends have told me this type of narcissistic prattle is not interesting to read by anyone but close acquaintances and relatives hoping to stay “in touch”. I somewhat disagree with that observation. If these ramblings and musings constitute a journal or a diary, so be it. It’s all I have to go by, at least with non-fiction. My fictionesque works in progress certainly contain many elements of real life as well...my real life. Of course, my so-called life is heavily laced with daydreams and fantasies, some of which closely relate to reality, some not so closely.

For instance, many years ago, when I was a teenager, I imagined what it would be like to be married, live in a nice house, have children, and work at a job and profession I enjoyed. All of which would bring me great satisfaction and peace of mind. I dreamed about it, I wished for it...and it happened. Then, it went away. The satisfaction and peace of mind disappeared. The memories, both good and bad, remain. My children being the most important relic from that period in my life...a good thing.

Later on, I imagined what it would be like to be married to a caring, loving lady, live in a nice house, and work at a job and profession I enjoyed. All of which would bring me great satisfaction and peace of mind. I dreamed about it, I wished for it...and it happened. Now, it’s going away. The satisfaction and peace of mind have disappeared. The memories, both good and bad remain. My caring, loving lady being the most important relic from that period in my life...a good thing.

April Fools’ Day? Sometimes it feels as if my whole life has been one big April Fools’ Day, with a constant mix of Deja Vu thrown in for good measure.

Evidently, I still have quite a long distance to go before it is over. There are many other roads and choices ahead. I can only I hope I make the right choices. Perhaps I need to make my choices, then do the opposite. Perhaps.

One thing I have learned over the years is that there are two kinds of fools and two kinds of assholes in this world. One kind knows what he (or she) is...the other hasn’t a clue. And, yes...they come in both genders!