Scenes from Boston Market

I live a great deal in my own head. Writers (and I use this term loosely when applying it to myself) in general tend to have a voluble inner monologue. Sometimes it can drive you a bit loopy. Unlike some, I tend to spend a lot of time in my own company. I'm not really sure if it's by choice or if it is purely happenstance. Rather than jib at it as I've done in the past, I've lately come to embrace it. My pocketbook is littered with scraps of paper where sometimes I've been so struck by an idea or thought that nothing would satisfy but to seize a pen and commit my thoughts to paper.

The following is kind of a stream of conscious monologue that occurred when I was recently dining at a Boston Market. To set the scene, it was a Friday around noon...on an overcast and terribly humid day in a town in Central Florida, but it could have been any Boston Market in any state with their generic decor and utilitarian tiled floor. 

I enter and right away I'm struck by the noise level, it's doubly loud because of the tile. Every scrape of a fork against a plate, every kid whining, every abrasive clash of a chair being pulled back or banged against a table is amplified by an intensity of about 4-5 decibels. The smell of chicken is immediate, rich and seductive, and I can see the crispy golden skin of the chickens glistening reddish-gold in the light of the slowly turning rotisserie and feel myself salivate. Mind immediately goes to Newman (Helllooo Newman!!) and his unholy love of Kenny Roger's Roasters offerings and all of the sudden I am picturing Kramer with his chicken body and Cosmo face with the crazy hair and I stifle a giggle as I approach the 'Chef'.  Probably not a chef at all but some kid who did not object to wearing a hairnet in public and seemed to be able to handle a knife without cutting himself as often as the last kid they hired who left for a better paying gig at Chili's. He takes my smiling face as a good sign of a customer who for once is going to be easy to please. He has no idea that on the inside of that face is a loony who's trying to keep a straight face while re-running past episodes of Seinfeld in her head. The moment comes when he asks me, 'What'll you have?'  Here's the thing, ever since, well ..about birth I have been afflicted with chronic indecision and have while in line changed my mind about eight times, which is ironic because I ALWAYS end up getting the same thing, 1/4 dark, mashed potatoes, and corn. I have the calorie count committed to memory, it's in my budget, add in the complimentary cornbread and it's more than enough food. Which makes it doubly perplexing as to why, when, with the moment upon me under pressure and feeling myself begin to perspire, I blurt out, "the special!". Here's the other thing, growing up in a household such as mine, with money a constant concern and raised to always seek out a bargain, if there is some kind of special, even if it's something I don't particularly want, I take the special just to prove how very economical and frugal I can be. Unfortunately this time, the special is actually half a rotissierie chicken, HALF!, with two sides. Terrific. I can actually feel my hips increasing in circumference as I watch my mashed potatoes and corn being ladled on the plate. Just watching the process I begin to lose my appetite. I start to wish I was Adam Richman who is very well-compensated by the Travel Channel to ingest more food than is good for him. Or anyone for that matter.

My plate is passed down the line and as I am about to approach the cash register, I see that the guy ahead of me, has ordered the meat loaf and is in serious consideration over whether or not to order dessert. Meat Loaf. One ironclad rule that I stick to and which has served me well in life is that, unless I or possibly my Mother has concocted said loaf, I ain't eatin it! For a few reasons, with the chicken, I can actually see it roasting, being prepared, watch them hanging the chickens on the spits. No such luck with the meat loaf. You can't smell the ground beef, check the grade, the fat to meat ratio or see how much filler and what is in the filler. Lastly, I always have inward wariness over anything that has the term loaf or perhaps log attached to it. Finally guy ahead of me decides against dessert. Somewhere for no apparent reason, Michele Obama finds herself smiling. Chalk one up for the healthy eating lobby!

Lady behind me, who has been in a tizzy for the last five minutes over the fact that she doesn't see the vegetable plate on the menu boards is anxiously quizzing her longsuffering friend. "Oh gosh Margo, do you think they don't have it anymore, did they discontinue it!" Friend tries to reassure her in an attempt to keep her from diving out the nearby drive thru window and impaling herself on a Hyundai. Finally they reach "Chef" who when asking them 'What'll they have', says "Oh sure ma'am, the vegetable plate is number 13 now", and then asks her friend after ordering the 1/4 white, 'wouldn't she rather have the special which is a half rotisserie with two vegetables for the same price?' "Oh no, she says, "that's way too much food" Skinny Bitch!

I reach the cash register, quickly decline the dessert to show indecisive guy how easy the decision actually is, and then reach the next moment of panic that Boston Market now bestows on their patrons. In an attempt to change their image somewhat as less of a 'fast food' place and more of a 'restaurant', they now ask you 'where you want to sit' and than walk your plastic-ette plate to the table for you. You then get to watch your plate of food cooling on the table while you queue to fill up your own drink at the soda fountain/lemonade/ice-tea urn/cold water station. It's a head-scratching moment. I'm always wondering why A. they don't trust me to carry my own plate (of course if they knew me in some of my more accident-prone moments, it would make perfect sense) and B. if they take some kind of perverse pleasure in watching us try to decide where to sit while under pressure. After finally deciding on my own table arrangements which saw me just narrowly miss out on a booth, because by the time the family who looked in the process of leaving finally gathered up their cretinous whining children and the harried-looking dining room worker was able to scrape the 4 layers of greasy chicken and congealed macaroni and cheese off the seats, I'd already panicked and directed my plate-carrier to a rickety table with one chair leg that was missing a 'foot' and consequently rocked the whole time giving me a slightly vertigo-type feeling.  I wasn't the only one to feel this way, as I navigated my Rock of Gibraltar sized portion of chicken trying to avoid the skin, I amused myself watching other patrons and the look of panic that seized their facial features when being asked where they wanted to sit.

About halfway through the meal or about halfway before I decided to finally give up on the glacier-sized amount of food on my plate (damn special!) an older man came in through the front door and I guess being a semi-regular and knowing the procedure he was about to undergo decided to cut through the bureaucracy and before getting in line came into the dining area and laid his umbrella down on the table next to mine to 'keep his place'. It put me in mind of a tom cat staking out his territory by spraying urine. He further reinforced the randy tom cat image by looking me over several times lecherously. Let's just say his eyes never met my face. I begin to wonder what it is about some old men who just when I've begun to rethink the whole stereotype and decide that it's just an old wives tale and doesn't happen anymore, have to come by and blow everything to smithereens. Not being afflicted with indecision, he straightaway orders the meatloaf and furthermore he elects the chocolate cake for dessert. Somewhere from the vicinity of the White House living quarters, the sounds of sobbing are heard. He comes over, slams the cake in it's plastic container down next to the umbrella and then a few moments later comes back bearing a large plastic cup of Coke. His plate carrier follows meekly and sets down his meat loaf. I give my entire attention to my plate of chicken, not wanting to show him the slightest glimmer of interest lest he speak to me. I absorb myself in the contemplation of my lunch as if it was the most scintillating companion I've ever known. Then lecherous old man begins to cough and choke after one mouthful of food, then after the second bite and the third bite and on and on. 

As a compassionate fellow human being, I dare a quick glance in his direction, praying with all of my might that he isn't choking to death and in need of the Heimlich Maneuver because the thought of having to give this dirty old man mouth to mouth is absolutely appalling to me. Phew! No he's fine but still coughs and hacks through and after nearly every mouthful. All of the sudden, the humor of the situation gets to me, the screwy chair, Skinny Bitch and Margo daintily eating chicken and vegetables, lecherous old man literally choking down his lunch, "Chef" cawing 'what'll you have' to every blasted customer and trying to hawk the special, the guy in the corner table who talks enthusiastically with a drumstick in each hand using them as batons to drive home his point, panic-ridden customers being put on the spot as to what table they want to sit at, the mountain of food on my plate and I start laughing out loud. 

Sometimes when I get the giggles I just can't pull myself together. Every attempt to divert my thoughts in another direction just seems to make me laugh harder. People are beginning to stare and so I take out my pen and a scrap of receipt from my pocketbook and once more begin the process of committing this day to memory.  Doing so, it reassures me that even in the rough times, the crazy moments of life are still worth savoring.

Some day when I'm sitting in my cubicle office, untangling and analyzing lines and lines of meaningless data, I think back to this day, to this moment in time and again I laugh remembering that it's not the big things in life, it's the moments captured in time and savored that matter.

Musical Identity Crisis

I admit it, I'm a bit stuck in the past. It's been mentioned to me. And sometimes in less than kind phrases, a few come to mind, 'prematurely middle-aged', 'you, you were born old and you're gonna die old', (this salvo was lobbed at me by my younger sister in the midst of a fight over, if I'm not mistaken, possession of the CD player) and the ever-popular, if predictable, 'you live too much in the past'.

In answer to my critics, I was perusing an article today that listed current Grammy nominees and predictions for the winners in each category and as opposed to the Oscar Nominees which with the sounds of tumbleweeds and crickets in my head I blanked on every movie and several of the actors. Conversely, I knew many, if not nearly all of the nominees for this years Grammy's.

There is the utterly divine chanteuse, Adele, which, well...words fail me to describe her stellar vocals that have an undercurrent of pathos and pain that hasn't been seen since possibly Janis Joplin. Who, distressingly, I've never liked. Joplins' singing always made me feel sort of itchy and uncomfortable, it was nails on a chalkboard, sandpaper, cat's tongues. It made me think of rashy sore throats.  In country there is the refreshingly natural vocal band 'The Band Perry' two brothers Neil, Reid and their hit-song writing lead singer sister Kimberly. Their music is easy on the ears, romantic, imaginative and intelligent. There's the funky, 'Foster the People' with their 'Pumped Up Kicks' which I liked until I really listened to the lyrics...What can I say except, songs about kids with homicidical tendencies...well they just tend to leave me depressed! Foo Fighters, Cee Lo, Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, Bruno Mars, Bon Iver, yes know em' all. Ah...Coldplay. New Album, Mylo Xyolo. I've been listening to it on repeat. The funky electronica 'Princess of China' and 'Paradise'.  Here's the thing about Coldplay, I always love their new album until, after about 50 or so compulsive listens when I realise that it's just a lot of driving piano, ambient yelling or possibly ambient moaning, 'Whoa oh oh, Whoa oh oh's' with backing tracks of blissed-out studio-engineered electronica. It's sort of the equivalent of Lucasfilm when they CGI'd the living daylights out of the three Star Wars Prequels. Then I begin to curse the day when album producer Brian Eno synthesized his first track and went to Tibet to sample monks chanting. I begin to wish for the days when he donned feather boas, played keyboards for Roxy and kept his mouth shut. When he left the art schoolesque creative overdosing to Bryan Ferry.

For me, modern 21st century music is a lot like the heady feelings you get when you start dating someone. At first, you are spellbound, you hang on their every word, you get butterflies in your stomach when you first see them, a sort of bilious nausea if you will. It's very much like having the flu, the lovesick feeling. Then fast forward a few months and you begin to see the cracks, the fact that he chews with his mouth open, how he no longer rushes to get doors for you, how she dominates the conversation with constant mentions of the word 'I', how tiresome her friends' opinions have become. Has he/she changed really? No, it's just that the newness has worn off, the proverbial gilt off the gingerbread. Same with music, did the arrangements really change? Maybe it's just that the cracks are beginning to show.

I went to my favorite $5.00 sub-touting restaurant this evening to pick up a footlong and as I waited at a traffic light, Hall and Oates', 1982 smash, 'I Can't Go For That' came on the car stereo and immediately I was struck at the lushness of the arrangement, at Darryl Halls's soaring vocals, how utterly and unapologetically soulful. Just how damn good it still is 30 years later. For all of the advances in music technology, digitial remastering, etc., you can't beat the sheer musicianship of my perennial favorites, Rush. And I have to agree wholeheartedly with my blogging Yoda, Mr. 'Bone' that Gordon Lightfoot is a revelation in terms of storytelling, like a balladeer of old. 

As for me, yeah I'll keep some of the new on my MP3, Adele, The Band Perry, maybe some Gaga for when I need pumping up for exercise. I'll sigh and keep the Coldplay for the moments of self-loathing. But if some kind of worldwide data crunch occurs and I'm suddenly forced to choose, I'm keeping the Prince, keeping the Michael Jackson (Sh'amone, hee, hee), keeping the Rush, the Billy Joel. I'm keeping the Lightfoot, the Genesis and I'm definitely keeping the Hall and Oates. Keeping the soundtrack to my youth.

So yeah, it's possible I live too much in the past. But there again, it's possible that as with any identity crisis, the answer is usually found in the past.

I'd go on about this, but Coldplay's on again and I've only reached about 28 listens...

The Gift of the Magi Revisited



A co-worker asked me the other day, "What did you get for Christmas this year, she said, "You know, what one thing did you get that you really wanted?"

As I began to tell her, O. Henry's classic story, 'The Gift of the Magi' came immediately to my mind. A simple premise really, a husband and wife sacrifice something they particularly prize in order to buy the other the gift that they desire. The wife sells her hair to buy her beloved husband an ornate chain for a favorite watch, while he in turn sells the watch to buy tortiseshell combs for his adored wife's long beautiful hair.

While I don't count my act of seeming self-sacrifice to be anywhere near the level of those immortal lovers, it did in turn present me with both a treasured gift and a wonderful opportunity to share the story I am about to relate.

When I went back to work approximately 2 months ago, a small germ of an idea lodged itself in the back of my mind. Perhaps, I thought, 'if I were to economize on some things and put a few dollars away every paycheck, I might be able to save for a flat-screened television'. It's not that I particularly needed a TV, the 27" analog behemoth that resides on my chest of drawers is in working order and perfectly adequate. In fact many times when faced with the reality of how many people in my county of Florida are literally starving, (1 in 5 families) and are living in their vehicles, I felt ashamed at even thinking of it. But, think it, I admit, I did.

All of these fine thoughts came to a crashing halt when my cat fell ill in early November, racking up a bill that now prompts me to want many times to embroider a t-shirt for myself that states, 'My Cat and My Paycheck Go to Lake Mary Veterinary Clinic'! 

Every December, the company I have now been contracted to twice throws an elaborate Holiday (Christmas, eeesh, why can't we use that word anymore!) Dinner/Dance. At this elegant soiree, they raffle off dozens of items, Blu-Ray players, IPOD's, Walmart/Best Buy Gift Cards and....Flat Screen TV's! Of course, I thought, 'Maybe I'll win the flat screen this year!'  Then, as is its wont, life threw me another curve ball. The same Saturday that the dinner dance was being held turned out to be the same night a family dinner party was being held in honor of my niece, Penelope (names again have been changed to protect the innocent).

So there I was on the heels of a dilemma, on one hand I could go to the dance and possibly win the TV, but on the other hand I thought 'isn't family infinitely more important than a dance and a TV' Was there any other choice? I went to the family dinner. I admit it, more than once as I snapped beans, piped potatoes from a pastry bag, and generally helped get things ready for the party, I sulked inwardly and wondered if I'd have gone to the party, might I have won something, maybe even one of the TV's. As it happens, a guy in my department actually did win a flat screen at the dinner.

Fast foward a few days and it was Christmas Day. Once again I found myself snapping beans and helping to get ready for another family feast. As I watched the kids open presents, I opened one of mine which my mother announced, 'This is from your stepdad!' and I opened a bag containing an HDMI cable, which I gamely held up and tried to be grateful for, "A cable.. I said feeling puzzled,  'I don't quite understand' and my Mom said, "wait a minute" upon which time a large box was slid in front of me and a few tears of holly printed paper and there it was... the flat-screened television!! Well...anyone who reads this blog knows that I choked back a few tears and I kept saying "Oh my gosh!, Oh my gosh!", until one of my nieces actually asked me to stop which I promptly ignored with another "Oh my gosh!"

Turns out that my stepdad DID go to his holiday party and won the raffle! The big prize...the flat screen TV.
After relating this story to my co-worker, 'she said, 'You know, whenever you look at this TV, you will think of your parents'. I said, "Yeah, I will ". But actually, whenever I look at this TV, I will think of how many times we are gifted things because of self-sacrifice. Sacrificing something that you want to make someone else's dream come true. When I look at that TV, I will think of the Magi...

Gratitude

It's been quite awhile since I posted something other than 'novelty flashbacks', although those who follow this blog, don't worry they'll be plenty more of those, 'cause I love 'em. Sometimes it just feels good to wallow a bit in 80's nostalgia.

Part of the reason for my silence has been that I actually was able to find work! In a supremely ironic twist, which well...nothing surprises me anymore, sent me back working under contract to the same manufacturer I worked as of last February, before my 9-month job-hunting odyssey.

One week after starting back to work, I got some kind of a cold/flu which, having just begun a new job I couldn't very well take time off to 'shake' and then a week later my beloved cat Gordon became 29 different kinds of ill, starting off with a urinary blockage!!

More than one time, I indulged in a serious bout of feeling sorry for myself, but of late, I've begun to really have quite a different sense of things. To best explain my turn of heart, I'd have to go back to a favorite novel in which the main character, an Episcopal rector, after suffering a debilitating car accident and owing to illness endures a great period of depression from which he emerges having begun to understand that it's the will of God, that we, in ALL things, 'give thanks'. Whether or not, you consider yourself a 'religious' person, this has application.

Gratitude in of itself can be such a liberating exercise. Sometimes just sitting around and counting the many things that 'have gone right' can so outweigh the wrong that it can change your whole focus.

And it's particularly appropriate on this weekend!

So with that in mind, I'd like to first say thanks to my parents, my wonderful Mother, Father and Stepfather for all their help, financial, emotional, cheerleading, listening. To my co-workers who welcomed me back so kindly; I've really enjoyed re-forming and making new acquaintances. To the wonderful staff at the vet for looking after my cat so well, for caring, for being there with a hug, a box of tissues when the stress of it all was too much, for taking my numerous phone calls, for listening to my questions. To my cat, Gordon who in an incredible way has shown me true courage, devotion, strength under pressure and guts!  To my very talented stepfather for all his mechanical know how in helping to get my car running right and giving the right advice for maintenance, I'm so grateful. And to God, who has blessed me more than I could ever endeavor to deserve,  who has forgiven my selfishness, my whining and has shown me a measure of grace that is truly staggering.

In all things, I give thanks!

Gen X Retro Flashback: Inspector Gadget

Growing up this was just about my very favorite cartoon. It's not surprising as I absolutely loved Don Adams as Maxwell Smart on the TV show 'Get Smart'. Basically Gadget is Smart, albeit with no 99, and animated. Don died a few years back and was one of the only 'celebrities' I ever felt genuine regret at his passing. Somehow I wish I could send him an email and tell him thanks for all the times through his shows that he cheered me up, made me laugh and learn not to take life so seriously. Somehow he managed to stay dapper and handsome even when making himself ridiculous with that snarky, nasal voice. Thanks again Don for Max and Inspector G!

I'm Ready for My Close-Up, Mr. Cowell...

"Ms. Jones!", a brisk polo-shirted girl with blue streaked hair, a headset clamped in her ear with a mouthpiece protruding inches from her pierced upper lip, a flying lanyard around her neck that proclaims her to be a 'Staffer-'Best Singer in the USA Competition-a division of Super Duper Cola, Inc.' shrieks at me, "you're next!" I stand up, unhook the i-pod ear buds, brush imaginary crumbs from my leatherette mini-skirt, adjust my sequined tank, make sure that the bright yellow and pink streaks in my hair are artfully framing my face, take a deep breath, square my shoulders, trill a few practice "mi, mi, mi miiiii's" and take the cordless mike the frantic, panting staffer holds out, and I step out on to the stage....There he sits, Samuel Corwin himself, ' that's the guy ', I tell myself ' who can make or break me! ' Okay, here goes, showtime...

Yeah, that's the new kind of fantasy girls nodding off in Algebra have these days. Me, I used to dream about maybe being out at some club one night and have Downtown Julie Brown herself show up and take one look at me dancing, in my teased hair, puff ball skirt, t-shirt with leggings and laced up Converse and turn to her lackeys (as all MTV Stars must have) and say in that inimitable London Cockney voice, 'Oh that's so fab, boys we simply have got to have her on Club MTV!'

In my fantasy though, I knew that my big break would probably only involve just that, one moment to get on stage at the Palladium and dance to Depeche Mode with Downtown Julie, after which I'd go to college, get a fabulous job like Diane Keaton in Baby Boom, then get married and settle down in a split-level in the 'Burbs with a really nice accountant.

These days it seems, every kid who isn't completely tone deaf, is sure he's the next big thing. By the age of eight, if he doesn't have 30,000 hits the first day You Tube debuts his rendition in the church choir of Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance", his little pysche is so crushed that it'll probably cost Mommy and Daddy a Rip-Stick and 80-120 hours of therapy.  Incidentally, when I was in church, am pretty sure Gaga would have been verboten. We sang songs about Father Abraham, Jesus, sheep and such, we never warbled pop hits that involved tongue-ringed kisses in sand, or love as disease.

For fun, and the fact that not very much good passes for TV these days, I've begun watching, "The X-Factor". I was kind of hoping that a Susan Boyle or Jackie Evancho might be discovered here in the States, some overlooked singer that really deserved a chance. Instead what I have seen, really troubled me in terms of the future of this nation. For instance, I have never witnessed narcissism on such a large scale before. All of these 14, 15, 16-somethings and younger in some instances, in tears and crying about how they've worked so hard and just can't bear it if they are sent home. They've worked so hard...hmmm..I don't know if hours spent in front of your mirror, plugged into your I-Pod, singing along with Brittany, Mariah or X-Tina into your hairbrush really qualifies as work. I did the same thing, albeit with a Sony Walkman and Debbie Gibson and sometimes if you must know, Olivia Newton John and Sarah Brightman (who I still think is one of the best soloists ever). It seems as if all of them have been camera-ready since birth. For example, I never saw one teenager in an awkward stage with acne, gawky skinned knees or greasy hair the way kids looked in my Junior High. As if they somehow skipped over childhood and adolescence and were born as pop-stars in waiting. Because goodness knows, that's all they ever strive toward.

Is is so bad that they might have to go home, go to school, study hard and work to get a job like the rest of us mugs? In some ways the parents are as bad as the children they are raising (and I use the term raising loosely). Many times, the X-Factor, while Jr or Sissy is singing, will cut to the oh-so-proud Mom and Pop who with the requisite tears running down their faces (incidentally I think if this show continues at all, they should, in fact, rename it 'Everybody Cries') they later interview. There the almost-more-excited-than-the-star-kid parents are asked to reminisce about their little star. The interview which is overlayed with audio of Jr and Sissy singing in the background, is nearly always a Michael Landon-esque moment where Mom having pulled herself back from the brink of a complete nervous-system collapse, smiles brightly at the host and says, "Oh yes, little Jace was always musical, I can remember Daddy and I thinking while we were filming his preschool graduation that his rendition of Enya's Only Time was just so good we knew we had a star on our hands".

I think if I have to hear just one more time, how so and so, just can't stand, "to live if I have to die with this music inside of me", as if somehow music was an insidious form of cancer and singing was the only way to expell the tumour(s), I will spontaneously combust like those cows out on desolate praries where they only find a carcass some months later at the round-up!

I'm one of the lucky ones, I had good parents, not stage parents, like Justin Bieber's Mom who tirelessly promoted her son on You Tube, forcing him on to stages anywhere anyone would listen until she had the full attention of L.A Reid himself. Frankly you strip away the elfin looks, the floppy stylist-created haircut and you have a kid with an ok voice (which will not be the same when it changes) who simply 'lucked out' and who like many others will be someone we all remember was once, really famous. It's a very common tale. I wish more parents were like my Dad, who took the chance of instilling some reality into his child instead of filling her head with pipe dreams.

 In the 6th grade, I was flying high in the school chorus and I and a good friend of mine (who actually still sings, not on the pop charts mind you, but in her church and I daresay she doesn't do Gaga) spent all of our time singing and mugging before mirrors dreaming we were the next Bananarama or Bangles (once again people, if these names mean nothing to you, for goodness sake find yourself an X-er, they probably still have the Cd's or at least the ability to hum most if not all of the greatest hits) and I just knew that it'd be no time before someone 'discovered us' and we'd be the next great hit on MTV. One day I was bragging and singing and my Dad gently told me that 'truthfully, your voice is not all that great. It's okay for the school choir, but your real talent will be found by studying. Study hard, he told me and learn as much as you can. If I were you, I'd read more than I'd practice singing.' I was of course devastated, and did I read? Of course, no, I sang even more and practised even harder. 'I'd show my Dad he was wrong!'

Then the day came when I had my 'vocal test' in front of our choir teacher who was a very hard taskmaster and who at the time, was my very own Simon Cowell. When the moment came where she took us aside one by one for 'mentoring' and to let us know how we'd done, she took a deep breath, (I guess even hard-nosed teachers and maybe even Simon Cowell hate to kill dreams) and told me, "You work very hard and I've never seen anyone try as hard as you do day in and day out. However, while I am happy to have you in the general chorus, you aren't a soloist, your voice just isn't strong or distinctive enough. You are a very good student and I've noticed that whenever we had a break, or when others were performing, you are always reading. If I were you, I'd take advantage of that, reading and study is where the best opportunities are. To make it as a singer, or in a band, it's a one in a million chance, even IF you are the best. Plenty of wonderful singers are working during the day at Walmart and singing in bars at night!" I was devastated of course, first of all she'd said what my Dad said! Then I realised that maybe deep down, it hurt because I knew she was right. My best successes would come later as a reporter, editor for the school paper, creative writing classes. My grades were my rewards, not my hits on You Tube.

I wish kids these days had parents who truly mentored like mine did. Parents who told them the truth instead of pushing them to humiliate themselves on the world stage. The whole history of the United States would have been altered had not a young Abraham Lincoln labored and studied and read, often in the face of adversity and crushing poverty. What if his parents had just said, "Abe, you're wasting your time with all this study, now there is a traveling Minstrel show 2 towns over, I bet with your height and distinctive 'look' you'd be a natural!"

What is so wrong with working for a living? For every Carrie Underwood or Kelly Clarkson, there is another who had their moment in the spotlight and then faded away, does anyone know where or even remember who Taylor Hicks, Justin Guarini, or Blake Lewis is these days?

My wise choir teacher left one last gem of wisdom in my year book and every so often when I'm having a day of regret I look at it. She wrote, "to my student, whom I'll always remember as being an avid reader like myself". It spoke volumes. She wrote a reader, not a singer...like myself, meaning very few make it and those who don't teach others!

By the way, I did actually try out once for a TV show...it was Jeopardy. I guess my Dad was right all along.

Gen X Retro Flashback: The Other Ones- "Holiday"

Here's a really cheesy blast from the past...I don't know what it is...but this is one of those songs that makes me immediately think of the 1980's....