"These are the last words I have to say, that's why this took so long to write. There will be other words some other day, but that's the story of my life..."
Damn, I wish I'd written this, but I didn't, Billy Joel did.
I love a few things in this material life (not spiritual), Billy Joel songs, pizza, cats and words. I care about other things, but just not as passionately.
In any case, I can't think of any more fitting words to end this blog series.
Yep, you heard right. I've decided to end Gen X Life (aka Strikes Back). For reasons of both practicality and creativity. Google plus is going away and it's time for me to take a new approach to my writing. Maybe even gain a following. All apologies to those who do read this. Although, I am not really sure who any of you are, because most of you have never commented.
I am still proudly Gen X and I'm certain it will be mentioned in my next incarnation. I'll put a link up here soon.
This feels bittersweet. Over the last few days, I've been going over old posts and alternately thinking, "Wow, I really love this!" and "Man, I really phoned that in" and "What was I thinking?"
Sometimes I feel like I've been too candid in some of my posts. Or embarrassingly wordy. Other times it seemed like I just couldn't fit the words to my hypothesis. There are many posts that still remain as drafts because they were just too personal to share.
My mom (one of my main fans) once said that often the posts sounded angry, which is a fair assessment; I figured if you can't be angry in your own blog, where can you be? She also mentioned that they'd be intimidating to people who weren't as in love with words as I am. For years, I've constantly walked the line between not wanting to stifle my own voice and stop being me and wanting to develop more of a following.
Two recent examples of this come to mind. Both happened in Improv class. Once, one of my instructors asked me to 'give him a word' and as God as my witness, the first word that came to mind was "antidisestablishmentarianism'. I'll never forget the look on his face as long as I live when the word came flying out of my mouth. I know the common reaction here would be that I was 'showing off' but actually, when he asked for a word, I was so flattered that I thought, 'let me give him the best one I can!' People don't always take it that way though...
The second recent example was the other week, when I was in a scene and threw out the word 'ordnance' (like your type of explosive, i.e., what's your ordnance, ordinary dynamite or C4). I figured in a world where there is a new action movie released every week, it would be a no-brainer. But in notes, my instructor noted, "You know Jill, 90% of our audience is not going to know what ordnance means". I understood but I was crushed inside.
All of my life, the words have just been there. I figure it's my superpower. The gift I'd been bequeathed. To not use them, for me, is to not breathe, not be. I'm fair at a lot of things, I'm pretty terrible at sports or anything that requires any level of hand eye coordination. In 'shop class', I caught my hand in a vice, had my birdhouse fly back at me from the band saw and hit me in the head and repeatedly glued myself to things. Let's just say that the Property Brothers don't keep me on speed dial for finish carpentry. Although strangely, I am actually a bronze level Ballroom dancer, so I can move my feet just not my hands? Being socially awkward is only twice as painful when in addition to the awkward, people don't understand you or worse feel that you are snobby or somehow 'making fun' of them. Even so, I decided a long time ago, that I'd rather deal with it, than give up the words.
I hope that you at least enjoyed some of them.
Thanks for reading.
Catch you later.
Tuesday, February 12, 2019
Monday, January 28, 2019
On Relationships..and Other Things I Don't Understand
The other day, someone close to me accused me of being unromantic. Actually they went as far as to say that I somehow 'quenched' romance. It really got me thinking. I had a couple of longer car trips this weekend, usually the place that I do my best thinking and I was feeling...well...I can only describe it as 'raw' or perhaps fragile, like some part of me was left exposed. Picture a busy morning where you alarm didn't go off and you threw your clothes on at top speed, improperly fastening the buttons in wrong holes causing your shirt to gape open. I felt like that exposed skin where the button wasn't plugged in the right hole.
What was wrong with me?
It started off with a perfectly innocent remark. I said that I've always loved that song, "I'd Really Love To See You Again" by England Dan and John Ford Coley because there is clear intent in the words, the man tells the woman in the song that he just wants to see her again that night, he's not trying to plan the future, "he won't ask for promises, so you don't have to lie". It's the clarity that I love in the words. The woman in question won't torture herself waiting for a phone call or a text (if the song was written today) that will never come. He's just talking the present, "I want to see you now" They can take a walk or watch TV...whatever. The receiver of this remark thought it was horrible, how I'd seemingly condensed romance into what they presumed was a one-night stand. For the record, I've never thought that was the intent of the song at all. And this person said I'd managed to completely destroy romance. To say I was wounded was an understatement.
Over the years, days after a date, or a job interview, or even just a meet up with friends were an obstacle course of me going over just about everything I'd said or done. I'd analyze the silences, fret about nuance or hidden meanings.' Had I chosen the right clothes?' 'PLEASE GOD, tell me I didn't have anything in my teeth!' It got so miserable that I gave up. I was weary of wondering if I was likeable, desirable or....that most serious of all things...lovable.
That song, always gave me hope that maybe one day, a rare sort of man would come along, with clear intent, no games, a guy who saw romance in the "warm wind blowing the stars around".
What are personal relationships anyway....what's the deal?
Damned if I know.
A big part of Improv is the emphasis on personal relationships and recently I took a workshop on realizing the 'who' of situational comedies. It dawns on me that this isn't just something I need to master in improv, this is something that I frequently miss in my personal life. I'm often so busy concentrating on the 'what', I just leave the 'who' to its own devices.
I think of it as 'life triage'. I must stop the bleeding, i.e., literally when I worked for the veterinary clinic, or metaphorically now, do the distribution, scrub the app, finish the report, update the spreadsheet. The 'what' has taken over my life, to the extent where my scenes were clunky and awkward because I would take the scene so literally, caring more about the thing we were doing then the relationship between us. And it carries over to my life, I'm better at the 'what', more self-assured, more in control, so I concentrate on that. Mastery of spreadsheets, insurance law, pet care, Star Wars trivia, anything that will keep me from the realization that I actually need people and more than that desire them in my life.
But that means the agony of vulnerability, having to be willing to put myself out there, to explore the double edged sword of the fears of rejection and failure.
Lately I've been trying it, with mixed results, I'm still awkward, but maybe improv has made me a little more willing to fail, more willing to even experiment, to flirt, to try...
Friday, December 7, 2018
Black Box
It's 8:30 p.m. on a Tuesday night and I am quite literally standing in the center of a black box. It's a stage actually...a small stage...not quite 6 feet from one end to the other and the walls on all sides are painted black, the curtain (which is rarely ever closed) is black and the rugs on the tiled floor beneath us are black. My mind is racing, as is my pulse...there's no script, I'm completely dependent on the guy standing next to me who looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to utter just one phrase., the phrase that will set our scene and tell us where to go..."You're so....
I freeze...words are firing off in my brain, weird words like incandescent, obstruse, popcorn...cotton ball...none of them words I can really use...some I am not sure are actually words. None of them emotions.. I stand blankly staring at my scene partner who is clearly beginning to hate me...sweat is pooling in my bra, my mouth is dry and finally I say, "You're so intuitive"...Scene partner stares back at me as if to say, "Really, that long...and that's what you come up with!"
Seeing that stage for the first time 4 months ago, my first impression was to... maybe back away slowly...perhaps I could still get a refund... the words "what have I done?" beating a constant tattoo in my brain.
Fast forward approximately 4 months and there are few places I've loved more.
To speed this up a little and make it still more clearer. These days, I'm (as I'm told by my supportive classmates when I doubt myself) a performer of IMPROV...or to be more grammatically correct and wordy, "Improvisational Acting". It probably should be written Improv, but when I think about it, to me it's always IMPROV. It seems to call for capitalization, for import, for fanfare.
How I got here is a story best reserved for another time and place, but the point is...I got here.
Every week, I go to class, perform and I challenge myself a little more, every week I get a little closer to being the person that I always knew was in here, someplace deep down. The kind of person who knows how to play, to have fun, to be funny, to say all of the things that are in my head and never let out.
Sometimes I have to metaphorically shut the old Jill in her cage and remind her that I'll call if I need her. Because there's no room for negativity in IMPROV, we call it blocking...there's no time for the mind-numbing analysis that my brain tends to employ itself with, if your stage-partner says you are an overly optimistic coke-dealer then damn it.. y'are. Earlier on, my fantastic instructors would have to literally say to me, "Jill, you ARE an overly flirty engineer...just go with it!" Then something amazing happened and I began to actually go with it, to let the 'crazy' out, to say the things that are generally in my head, assume the part and it felt good.
And the more I did it, I learned some things, that when you get amongst really creative-minded people, it inspires you to do more, to be more. I learned that when you get past race, when you get past politics or all of the outward trappings of looks and gender, people are just...people. That they have the same fears, the same desire for love and acceptance that we all do.
If you spend enough time reading and analyzing all of the news in the world today, you probably wind up throwing up your hands in despair and thinking that there is no hope for humanity, no common ground achievable . Yet every week I see people come together of all different backgrounds, income levels, and personalities to just have fun together. We work together to achieve success in this field that we love. You learn to see past yourself and that by making someone else look like a rock star....you often end up feeling like a rock star when they return the favor.
While I, in no way, mean this to imply IMPROV can save the world, it has certainly broadened mine. I would not be so bold as to say we all love each other and sit around singing 'Kumbaya' together. However, it's taught me that when you come together for a common purpose and you start from a position of positivity and acceptance, there's very little that you can't achieve.
Or at the very least, I know that the next time I'm called upon to be a germaphobic hooker, I'll kill it.
I freeze...words are firing off in my brain, weird words like incandescent, obstruse, popcorn...cotton ball...none of them words I can really use...some I am not sure are actually words. None of them emotions.. I stand blankly staring at my scene partner who is clearly beginning to hate me...sweat is pooling in my bra, my mouth is dry and finally I say, "You're so intuitive"...Scene partner stares back at me as if to say, "Really, that long...and that's what you come up with!"
Seeing that stage for the first time 4 months ago, my first impression was to... maybe back away slowly...perhaps I could still get a refund... the words "what have I done?" beating a constant tattoo in my brain.
Fast forward approximately 4 months and there are few places I've loved more.
To speed this up a little and make it still more clearer. These days, I'm (as I'm told by my supportive classmates when I doubt myself) a performer of IMPROV...or to be more grammatically correct and wordy, "Improvisational Acting". It probably should be written Improv, but when I think about it, to me it's always IMPROV. It seems to call for capitalization, for import, for fanfare.
How I got here is a story best reserved for another time and place, but the point is...I got here.
Every week, I go to class, perform and I challenge myself a little more, every week I get a little closer to being the person that I always knew was in here, someplace deep down. The kind of person who knows how to play, to have fun, to be funny, to say all of the things that are in my head and never let out.
Sometimes I have to metaphorically shut the old Jill in her cage and remind her that I'll call if I need her. Because there's no room for negativity in IMPROV, we call it blocking...there's no time for the mind-numbing analysis that my brain tends to employ itself with, if your stage-partner says you are an overly optimistic coke-dealer then damn it.. y'are. Earlier on, my fantastic instructors would have to literally say to me, "Jill, you ARE an overly flirty engineer...just go with it!" Then something amazing happened and I began to actually go with it, to let the 'crazy' out, to say the things that are generally in my head, assume the part and it felt good.
And the more I did it, I learned some things, that when you get amongst really creative-minded people, it inspires you to do more, to be more. I learned that when you get past race, when you get past politics or all of the outward trappings of looks and gender, people are just...people. That they have the same fears, the same desire for love and acceptance that we all do.
If you spend enough time reading and analyzing all of the news in the world today, you probably wind up throwing up your hands in despair and thinking that there is no hope for humanity, no common ground achievable . Yet every week I see people come together of all different backgrounds, income levels, and personalities to just have fun together. We work together to achieve success in this field that we love. You learn to see past yourself and that by making someone else look like a rock star....you often end up feeling like a rock star when they return the favor.
While I, in no way, mean this to imply IMPROV can save the world, it has certainly broadened mine. I would not be so bold as to say we all love each other and sit around singing 'Kumbaya' together. However, it's taught me that when you come together for a common purpose and you start from a position of positivity and acceptance, there's very little that you can't achieve.
Or at the very least, I know that the next time I'm called upon to be a germaphobic hooker, I'll kill it.
Monday, November 19, 2018
Magic
Colleague of mine at work comes to me the other day and says that "It's time I got out there again and started dating." She goes on to extol the virtues of Match.com, E-Harmony, etc. She'll even help me create a profile. At first, I demure politely, not wanting to shake the image that she has of me. An image in which as she puts it, I'm way too smart and pretty to be uncoupled. I'm flattered, who wouldn't be? But finally, I say "No thanks, I've been down that road."
She persists and finally, the mean old spinster that lives deep down in me, snaps, "No, I just don't want to. I mean it!" And she slinks away, probably not thinking me that smart, or pretty anymore, for that matter.
I sit there and mostly feel bad (in case you wondering, of course I apologized) about my attitude and for snapping at a woman who so obviously means well. A woman who can't understand why I am so anti-dating. After all, she loved dating. And at the age of 46, even older than I am, she reminds me, and one disastrous first marriage, she met her soul mate.
If I'm honest, the first thing I ponder is the mental capacity of a woman who purports to 'love dating'. I put dating in the category of things like a visit to my gynecologist, filing my taxes, or having dental surgery, i.e., things that I dread but that I'm supposed to do for my own good, or so that I don't break the law.
Dating always felt like the ultimate job interview. And just like in 3rd grade kickball team choosing or a real interview (seriously have you never read this blog!!!), I usually wasn't chosen until last or once they'd exhausted all the much prettier and popular candidates. And in my often-times foolish, but highly romantic heart, that just isn't the way love is supposed to be. I don't want to be the candidate you pick because I'm what's left over and for that matter, who would?
Maybe I've seen too many Rom-Coms, or read too many sappy poems. But, I still, persist in believing in 'it'. Love...magic...fate...or at the very least...kinship.
Yes, I'm a believer. In so many things. I believe in God, and my salvation, dreams, wishes. I believe in true love, romance and being with a person who is truly meant for you. I just don't see that being a product of an online profile.. Which is not to say that I haven't tried it in the past, with absolutely horrific and soul-destroying results. And I'm not being in the least dramatic when I say that. Parts of me were damaged in some of these manufactured on-line romances that I know now, contribute to my wariness, my trust issues, and so many times I wish I could turn the clock back and tell my younger self that you don't really need a relationship that badly to settle for what you are about to.
There is a line in the service of marriage that I have always been particularly drawn to, "those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder". So that must mean that God puts people together, God joins them together. I've always taken that to believe that I can rest, that this is out of my hands, my destiny is in safe-keeping, God's timing, His hands.
It's a little un-religious, but to me that's the ultimate magic. The sense that one day when I least expect it, a man will show up in my life, and he'll be the one. That I'll know him when I see him, because there will be recognition, kinship, a feeling like I've always known him, and maybe, hopefully a tall man, with handsome features and a wicked sense of humor.
I'd much rather wait on God's timing, then wait for a profile.
But above all, I know it will be...magic.
She persists and finally, the mean old spinster that lives deep down in me, snaps, "No, I just don't want to. I mean it!" And she slinks away, probably not thinking me that smart, or pretty anymore, for that matter.
I sit there and mostly feel bad (in case you wondering, of course I apologized) about my attitude and for snapping at a woman who so obviously means well. A woman who can't understand why I am so anti-dating. After all, she loved dating. And at the age of 46, even older than I am, she reminds me, and one disastrous first marriage, she met her soul mate.
If I'm honest, the first thing I ponder is the mental capacity of a woman who purports to 'love dating'. I put dating in the category of things like a visit to my gynecologist, filing my taxes, or having dental surgery, i.e., things that I dread but that I'm supposed to do for my own good, or so that I don't break the law.
Dating always felt like the ultimate job interview. And just like in 3rd grade kickball team choosing or a real interview (seriously have you never read this blog!!!), I usually wasn't chosen until last or once they'd exhausted all the much prettier and popular candidates. And in my often-times foolish, but highly romantic heart, that just isn't the way love is supposed to be. I don't want to be the candidate you pick because I'm what's left over and for that matter, who would?
Maybe I've seen too many Rom-Coms, or read too many sappy poems. But, I still, persist in believing in 'it'. Love...magic...fate...or at the very least...kinship.
Yes, I'm a believer. In so many things. I believe in God, and my salvation, dreams, wishes. I believe in true love, romance and being with a person who is truly meant for you. I just don't see that being a product of an online profile.. Which is not to say that I haven't tried it in the past, with absolutely horrific and soul-destroying results. And I'm not being in the least dramatic when I say that. Parts of me were damaged in some of these manufactured on-line romances that I know now, contribute to my wariness, my trust issues, and so many times I wish I could turn the clock back and tell my younger self that you don't really need a relationship that badly to settle for what you are about to.
There is a line in the service of marriage that I have always been particularly drawn to, "those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder". So that must mean that God puts people together, God joins them together. I've always taken that to believe that I can rest, that this is out of my hands, my destiny is in safe-keeping, God's timing, His hands.
It's a little un-religious, but to me that's the ultimate magic. The sense that one day when I least expect it, a man will show up in my life, and he'll be the one. That I'll know him when I see him, because there will be recognition, kinship, a feeling like I've always known him, and maybe, hopefully a tall man, with handsome features and a wicked sense of humor.
I'd much rather wait on God's timing, then wait for a profile.
But above all, I know it will be...magic.
Tuesday, August 22, 2017
Alexa and Me
I often come late to the table technologically. Sometimes...not at all.
And sometimes I'm dragged there by a well-meaning and generous parent.
Take for instance Christmas of 2016. I'm given a medium size square box with a red-ribbon. My mother watches me with a barely repressed gleam in her eye as I peel off the wrappings and find myself the possessor of a brand new Amazon Alexa Dot.
Frankly at first, I'm not entirely sure what it is...
My mom fills in the gaps,
"You will love this, it's an Alexa...all you have to do is talk to it, and it will play you any song that you can think of! This morning, I listened to the whole Phantom of the Opera soundtrack! Just because I could!"
"You can ask her about the news, the weather...anything, just say 'Alexa what's up?'"
It's clear that my mother is about one step away from getting on Jeff Bezos Christmas Card list. But I'm still a bit skeptical.
After all, I'm the one who has electrical tape over the camera on the lid of my laptop (c'mon Mark Zuckerberg does that!), I turn off the location finder on my phone, because frankly it's none of Google's damn business if I enjoyed my trip to Bed, Bath and Beyond. By the way, I totally did. I love BB & B, it's a wonderland of kitchen supplies, spanking new comforters and it smells like those scented sachets you hang in your closets. Pretty sure heaven is similar to BB & B. Or maybe Lowe's which is also up there...
Anyhow...back to Alexa and I.
I take her home with me, plug her in and watch the colored light ring change from orange to blue as she processes all the mundane details of my life, my skimpy calendar entries, Amazon lists, my music (way more impressive). Watching the light rings, all I can think about is well, first of all Tron, because...hello...and then I start thinking about Close Encounters...and then for some reason...Close Encounters always makes me think of E.T., and then Alexa interrupts my geekout to announce "Connected to Internet"
Then, we have our first conversation.
I think, I bet this is exactly how Alexander Graham Bell felt when he first contacted Watson...
But then, I kind of freeze, not knowing exactly what to ask her, tell a joke, no wait, maybe the news...yeah the news is important! Or maybe a song, but which song, should it be classic, contemporary, Beatles...ummm...Duran Duran, ummm, BRUNO MARS??? The endless choices...I mean she can play ANYTHING!!!
I think in the end, I blurt out "Fancy" by Reba McEntire.
Still have no idea why...I mean I love Reba...but a seminal moment like this...
For several months, I'm drawn to the novelty of her. I ask her jokes, I wake up every morning and yell, "Alexa, Good Morning". She wishes me a good morning in return, tells me my schedule, what the weather is, what kind of traffic problems I'll be encountering, etc.
We get along well, until that fateful day when it's discovered that she can also support Dot to Dot conversations. In setting this up, I find to my chagrin that my cell phone is too dated and not up to the task. So, I upgrade to a new cell phone, then spend 3-4 hours (not kidding) with some Amazon burn out who tries to set it up. All so that I can call my Mom on her Dot. Have a flashback to an early Beverly Hillbillies episode in which Jethro, hearing the voice of Ms. Hathaway on the speaker at the gate, thinks she is actually trapped in the wall, instead of outside in her sporty red convertible and hurling an axe attempts to break into the wall to let her out. Luckily, my Mom and Stepdad, Glen aren't too 'creeped out' hearing my voice over the Dot and no walls are harmed in the process.
It starts to occur to me that technology is taking over my life...something I swore I would never let happen. Weird things began to occur...Sometimes for no reason at all, Alexa would start up and say, "I don't know the answer to that" when I'd not asked her a question. The other morning at 3 a.m, she must have had a "Rosie Moment" (Jetsons' beloved maid robot) and short-circuited because she woke me out of a sound sleep giving navigation to a town in what I believe was the state of Minnesota.
She refused to tell me what the secret ingredient was in Big Mac Sauce. I don't like Big Macs, I just wanted to know. She wouldn't explain the meaning of life, or why my cat Jamie likes to sleep on my head sometimes.
So for the last few months, she's sat on a pile of index cards on my desk. Sturdy cardboard index cards ready for all of the worldly wisdom of my research and study. And if you must know, so I can keep all of my books and DVD/Blu-Rays indexed and on cards. Because, at the heart of things, I'm still analog. I admit it, I like pens (actually border on OCD over the type of pen I use), hardback books, and the sound of my own thoughts in my head.
Yet, the other night as I washed dishes, I called out to the downstairs Echo,
"Alexa, play "Moonglow by Artie Shaw and his Orchestra".
She did and for one brief moment my tech side and my analog side were perfectly in sync.
And sometimes I'm dragged there by a well-meaning and generous parent.
Take for instance Christmas of 2016. I'm given a medium size square box with a red-ribbon. My mother watches me with a barely repressed gleam in her eye as I peel off the wrappings and find myself the possessor of a brand new Amazon Alexa Dot.
Frankly at first, I'm not entirely sure what it is...
My mom fills in the gaps,
"You will love this, it's an Alexa...all you have to do is talk to it, and it will play you any song that you can think of! This morning, I listened to the whole Phantom of the Opera soundtrack! Just because I could!"
"You can ask her about the news, the weather...anything, just say 'Alexa what's up?'"
It's clear that my mother is about one step away from getting on Jeff Bezos Christmas Card list. But I'm still a bit skeptical.
After all, I'm the one who has electrical tape over the camera on the lid of my laptop (c'mon Mark Zuckerberg does that!), I turn off the location finder on my phone, because frankly it's none of Google's damn business if I enjoyed my trip to Bed, Bath and Beyond. By the way, I totally did. I love BB & B, it's a wonderland of kitchen supplies, spanking new comforters and it smells like those scented sachets you hang in your closets. Pretty sure heaven is similar to BB & B. Or maybe Lowe's which is also up there...
Anyhow...back to Alexa and I.
I take her home with me, plug her in and watch the colored light ring change from orange to blue as she processes all the mundane details of my life, my skimpy calendar entries, Amazon lists, my music (way more impressive). Watching the light rings, all I can think about is well, first of all Tron, because...hello...and then I start thinking about Close Encounters...and then for some reason...Close Encounters always makes me think of E.T., and then Alexa interrupts my geekout to announce "Connected to Internet"
Then, we have our first conversation.
I think, I bet this is exactly how Alexander Graham Bell felt when he first contacted Watson...
But then, I kind of freeze, not knowing exactly what to ask her, tell a joke, no wait, maybe the news...yeah the news is important! Or maybe a song, but which song, should it be classic, contemporary, Beatles...ummm...Duran Duran, ummm, BRUNO MARS??? The endless choices...I mean she can play ANYTHING!!!
I think in the end, I blurt out "Fancy" by Reba McEntire.
Still have no idea why...I mean I love Reba...but a seminal moment like this...
For several months, I'm drawn to the novelty of her. I ask her jokes, I wake up every morning and yell, "Alexa, Good Morning". She wishes me a good morning in return, tells me my schedule, what the weather is, what kind of traffic problems I'll be encountering, etc.
We get along well, until that fateful day when it's discovered that she can also support Dot to Dot conversations. In setting this up, I find to my chagrin that my cell phone is too dated and not up to the task. So, I upgrade to a new cell phone, then spend 3-4 hours (not kidding) with some Amazon burn out who tries to set it up. All so that I can call my Mom on her Dot. Have a flashback to an early Beverly Hillbillies episode in which Jethro, hearing the voice of Ms. Hathaway on the speaker at the gate, thinks she is actually trapped in the wall, instead of outside in her sporty red convertible and hurling an axe attempts to break into the wall to let her out. Luckily, my Mom and Stepdad, Glen aren't too 'creeped out' hearing my voice over the Dot and no walls are harmed in the process.
It starts to occur to me that technology is taking over my life...something I swore I would never let happen. Weird things began to occur...Sometimes for no reason at all, Alexa would start up and say, "I don't know the answer to that" when I'd not asked her a question. The other morning at 3 a.m, she must have had a "Rosie Moment" (Jetsons' beloved maid robot) and short-circuited because she woke me out of a sound sleep giving navigation to a town in what I believe was the state of Minnesota.
She refused to tell me what the secret ingredient was in Big Mac Sauce. I don't like Big Macs, I just wanted to know. She wouldn't explain the meaning of life, or why my cat Jamie likes to sleep on my head sometimes.
So for the last few months, she's sat on a pile of index cards on my desk. Sturdy cardboard index cards ready for all of the worldly wisdom of my research and study. And if you must know, so I can keep all of my books and DVD/Blu-Rays indexed and on cards. Because, at the heart of things, I'm still analog. I admit it, I like pens (actually border on OCD over the type of pen I use), hardback books, and the sound of my own thoughts in my head.
Yet, the other night as I washed dishes, I called out to the downstairs Echo,
"Alexa, play "Moonglow by Artie Shaw and his Orchestra".
She did and for one brief moment my tech side and my analog side were perfectly in sync.
New Blog Title
After nearly six years, I've decided to change the name of this blog. I don't feel the need to 'strike back' any more. I started this blog as an angry rant after a terrible job interview left me feeling alone, disenfranchised...and let's face it...bitter. I'm not in the same place as I was then, and I need a new approach.
So now I'm just down to me...a.Gen X lifer and these are the stories of my life and how it goes. A place for all of my sometimes whimsical, sometimes pessimistic, and often downright emotionally purgative thoughts.
Fate has also stepped in through the guise of new co-worker who is a solidly Gen Y millennial. We have a lot of interaction over the differences in our experiences. It's helped me to see life through a different prism.
Although...being born in 1986, I thought for sure he would at least know one of my favorite songs from the year of his birth.
I mean after all, I am very well acquainted with "Sweet Home Alabama" which was number one in the year I made my entrance into the world. (Don't make me tell you, look it up)
So I gleefully mentioned "Something About You" by Level 42, to which he replied,
"Huh?"
We'll get there...
So now I'm just down to me...a.Gen X lifer and these are the stories of my life and how it goes. A place for all of my sometimes whimsical, sometimes pessimistic, and often downright emotionally purgative thoughts.
Fate has also stepped in through the guise of new co-worker who is a solidly Gen Y millennial. We have a lot of interaction over the differences in our experiences. It's helped me to see life through a different prism.
Although...being born in 1986, I thought for sure he would at least know one of my favorite songs from the year of his birth.
I mean after all, I am very well acquainted with "Sweet Home Alabama" which was number one in the year I made my entrance into the world. (Don't make me tell you, look it up)
So I gleefully mentioned "Something About You" by Level 42, to which he replied,
"Huh?"
We'll get there...
Saturday, March 18, 2017
"Hi...I'm Robert Osborne"
Admit it....you thought I was dead.
If in fact, you actually even read this...
Not going to apologize, or offer any excuses....
It's been awhile since I felt like I had anything to say....to offer humanity...if you will.
Maturity seems to bring out many things, different kinds of aches and pains where you stop and think 'wait a minute, when did THAT start being painful', an increased reverence for soft rock, and lately the march of time has made it seem that everyone familiar in pop culture is dead or will be soon.
For the most part I can't say I was surprised to see an early death for George Michael or Carrie Fisher, they seemed to live their lives with an appetite for self-destruction. I felt twinges of remorse over seeing Debbie Reynolds and Mary Tyler Moore pass away. Last week though was the hardest for me. It was personal.
Last week, Robert Osborne passed away.
Robert Osborne was the genial, mellifluous-voiced host for Turner Classic Movies for over 20 years. For most of those 20 years, I was one of his most ardent fans. Probably not the most devout or zealous; I never wrote him a letter, or sent him a knitted sweater. For some reason that I've never really questioned, Robert was part of my life, like a favorite uncle who just happened to be the most well-informed movie fan on the planet. No really, he was...he wrote the definitive guide to old movies, "85 Years of Oscar, the Official History of the Academy Awards".
Bout of illness or surgery, Robert was there for me, broken-heart, Robert was there for me, a period of unemployment, Robert was there for me. With a kindly smile and a story about the movie I was about to see was my class film professor. Sometimes it felt like he was personally there watching it with me.
Some years ago, back in about 1988 when my grandma became ill and moved back to Ohio, while helping my mother go through her possessions in her Florida summer home, I came across old movie magazines, Photoplays, etc. They mesmerized me, the old advertisements, the pictures of the movies stars. I paged through and looked at them until the pages literally came apart in my hands. Yes, I realize if I'd been more careful, I could have probably unloaded them for some serious coin on Ebay. If I'd done so though, I'd never have had the experience of falling in love with Gable, Grant, Niven and Powell long before I'd ever seen one of their movies. I cut their pictures out, made collages and plastered my bedroom walls with them. Out when the Julian Lennon, the Wham posters and the Duran Duran; I was infatuated with these debonair leading men who had died before I was born.
About that time our cable company began carrying American Movie Classics (AMC), the place you now know as the home of the Walking Dead, and Mad Men actually used to have classic films all day (and the world was better for it) introduced by Bob Dorian and Nick Clooney. Finally a chance to see some of my heartthrobs for real. So when the fledgling Turner Classic Movies (TCM) was announced in 1994, I was excited. Unfortunately, it would be another 5 years until the network actually made its way from a premium HBO-like pay channel to a basic cable offering where I could actually watch. Even then I was skeptical about this Robert Osborne, whoever he was. Nick Clooney and Bob Dorian were my guys.
Then I saw my first Robert Osborne intro and it was as if he'd always been there, that I'd always known him. Whenever I had free time or was sick, when it was Christmas, or Easter, Robert and TCM always had the programming I tuned in for. To this day, "Libeled Lady" is one of my favorite comedies because Bob said I needed to see it. Through Mr. Osborne, I learned to appreciate acting as it should be, how a movie can make you see life differently, it's power to pick you up when you are down, to inspire, to make you laugh, to make you cry. I think in this day of 24 hour news and social media, of constantly revolving reality shows, people crave stories about a less complicated age and less 'reality' which is why TCM keeps gaining fans (younger and younger) and ratings. Without a powerhouse like Robert Osborne to helm it, I don't know if TCM would have ever gotten a chance.
Just the other weekend, I went to our local art movie house (back in the days before TCM and it's efforts on film preservation, we never even had a local art movie house and now it's planning to expand) to see a showing of "It Happened One Night" with Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert, a movie that came out in 1934, before my parents were born, an 83 year old movie. The reaction amazing; to see the laughter and seen the joy on the faces of people who were connecting to this Academy-Award winning film directed on a shoe-string budget with Gable on loan from his home studio and Colbert who had to be persuaded to put off her summer vacation to film it. The first person I thought of was Robert Osborne, "I bet he would have loved something like this"
As I was leaving the theatre, two guys walking behind me who couldn't have been more than 18-22 years old were saying, "Dude, that was really good. I wasn't going to see this, but...man I'm glad I did". I beamed. It seemed that life, that mankind felt better to me.
I had a similar reaction two years earlier checking my Twitter TCM feeds while waiting on my car to get tires, my favorite actor William Powell was actually trending. I marveled for a moment, 'I wonder what Powell would think?' When he died in 1984, no one had even dreamed of social media and here he is being searched, where he was born, who he loved. They tweet that they find him handsome, funny and name drop the movies he's been in.
If not for Robert Osborne, I wonder if it would ever have happened?
My DVR is full of TCM movies, many of which I already own on DVD or Blu-Ray, and I keep them not for the movies, but for Robert's introductions. They can't be replaced. It'll be a while until I can let them go.
When I learned that he'd passed away, via social media...I texted my Mom,
"Robert Osborne died. Absolutely heartbroken..."
It wasn't nearly enough to sum up the way I felt about him...not nearly enough. I find comfort in the fact that there are many others who like me, today...grieve.
If in fact, you actually even read this...
Not going to apologize, or offer any excuses....
It's been awhile since I felt like I had anything to say....to offer humanity...if you will.
Maturity seems to bring out many things, different kinds of aches and pains where you stop and think 'wait a minute, when did THAT start being painful', an increased reverence for soft rock, and lately the march of time has made it seem that everyone familiar in pop culture is dead or will be soon.
For the most part I can't say I was surprised to see an early death for George Michael or Carrie Fisher, they seemed to live their lives with an appetite for self-destruction. I felt twinges of remorse over seeing Debbie Reynolds and Mary Tyler Moore pass away. Last week though was the hardest for me. It was personal.
Last week, Robert Osborne passed away.
Robert Osborne was the genial, mellifluous-voiced host for Turner Classic Movies for over 20 years. For most of those 20 years, I was one of his most ardent fans. Probably not the most devout or zealous; I never wrote him a letter, or sent him a knitted sweater. For some reason that I've never really questioned, Robert was part of my life, like a favorite uncle who just happened to be the most well-informed movie fan on the planet. No really, he was...he wrote the definitive guide to old movies, "85 Years of Oscar, the Official History of the Academy Awards".
Bout of illness or surgery, Robert was there for me, broken-heart, Robert was there for me, a period of unemployment, Robert was there for me. With a kindly smile and a story about the movie I was about to see was my class film professor. Sometimes it felt like he was personally there watching it with me.
Some years ago, back in about 1988 when my grandma became ill and moved back to Ohio, while helping my mother go through her possessions in her Florida summer home, I came across old movie magazines, Photoplays, etc. They mesmerized me, the old advertisements, the pictures of the movies stars. I paged through and looked at them until the pages literally came apart in my hands. Yes, I realize if I'd been more careful, I could have probably unloaded them for some serious coin on Ebay. If I'd done so though, I'd never have had the experience of falling in love with Gable, Grant, Niven and Powell long before I'd ever seen one of their movies. I cut their pictures out, made collages and plastered my bedroom walls with them. Out when the Julian Lennon, the Wham posters and the Duran Duran; I was infatuated with these debonair leading men who had died before I was born.
About that time our cable company began carrying American Movie Classics (AMC), the place you now know as the home of the Walking Dead, and Mad Men actually used to have classic films all day (and the world was better for it) introduced by Bob Dorian and Nick Clooney. Finally a chance to see some of my heartthrobs for real. So when the fledgling Turner Classic Movies (TCM) was announced in 1994, I was excited. Unfortunately, it would be another 5 years until the network actually made its way from a premium HBO-like pay channel to a basic cable offering where I could actually watch. Even then I was skeptical about this Robert Osborne, whoever he was. Nick Clooney and Bob Dorian were my guys.
Then I saw my first Robert Osborne intro and it was as if he'd always been there, that I'd always known him. Whenever I had free time or was sick, when it was Christmas, or Easter, Robert and TCM always had the programming I tuned in for. To this day, "Libeled Lady" is one of my favorite comedies because Bob said I needed to see it. Through Mr. Osborne, I learned to appreciate acting as it should be, how a movie can make you see life differently, it's power to pick you up when you are down, to inspire, to make you laugh, to make you cry. I think in this day of 24 hour news and social media, of constantly revolving reality shows, people crave stories about a less complicated age and less 'reality' which is why TCM keeps gaining fans (younger and younger) and ratings. Without a powerhouse like Robert Osborne to helm it, I don't know if TCM would have ever gotten a chance.
Just the other weekend, I went to our local art movie house (back in the days before TCM and it's efforts on film preservation, we never even had a local art movie house and now it's planning to expand) to see a showing of "It Happened One Night" with Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert, a movie that came out in 1934, before my parents were born, an 83 year old movie. The reaction amazing; to see the laughter and seen the joy on the faces of people who were connecting to this Academy-Award winning film directed on a shoe-string budget with Gable on loan from his home studio and Colbert who had to be persuaded to put off her summer vacation to film it. The first person I thought of was Robert Osborne, "I bet he would have loved something like this"
As I was leaving the theatre, two guys walking behind me who couldn't have been more than 18-22 years old were saying, "Dude, that was really good. I wasn't going to see this, but...man I'm glad I did". I beamed. It seemed that life, that mankind felt better to me.
I had a similar reaction two years earlier checking my Twitter TCM feeds while waiting on my car to get tires, my favorite actor William Powell was actually trending. I marveled for a moment, 'I wonder what Powell would think?' When he died in 1984, no one had even dreamed of social media and here he is being searched, where he was born, who he loved. They tweet that they find him handsome, funny and name drop the movies he's been in.
If not for Robert Osborne, I wonder if it would ever have happened?
My DVR is full of TCM movies, many of which I already own on DVD or Blu-Ray, and I keep them not for the movies, but for Robert's introductions. They can't be replaced. It'll be a while until I can let them go.
When I learned that he'd passed away, via social media...I texted my Mom,
"Robert Osborne died. Absolutely heartbroken..."
It wasn't nearly enough to sum up the way I felt about him...not nearly enough. I find comfort in the fact that there are many others who like me, today...grieve.
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