Charlie Sheen and the Power of Free Speech

Unless you've been hiding under a rock the last several days, you've heard and seen Charlie Sheen's rants.  While I watched him rant on some of the Enquirer-esque tv shows, I thought back to a younger Charlie Sheen.  The one that had promising acting chops and came from a famous family of actors.  His talent along with his looks seemed destined for stardom.  Alas, the movies came, wealth was established and bad habits were formed.

Fast forward to an older, frenetic, out of control, former movie star turned tv sitcom star.  He's lost weight, his eyes are bulging with anger and carefully contained hysteria.  His kids, his poor, innocent kids were taken from him last night and shuttled back to a just-as-disturbed, angry mother.  Speaking as an uninformed bystander, if ever was a time for Emilio Estevez to step in, the time was yesterday.  Maybe he can't help.  Maybe it's going to take Charlie Sheen hitting bottom.  And, like sharks circling their prey, the public will be front and center eager to watch the bitter end.  That fact was established when Sheen obtained a Twitter account and he had 100,000 "followers" in less than an hour.  I'm finding the forum a bit disgusting at this point.

Don't get me wrong, I have always encouraged free speech.  I just always hope that those who exercise the right will have common sense.  But, as I've also said, you can't legislate morality either.  Yesterday, it was determined that those groups of people who like to protest funerals of loved ones who fought for our freedoms are allowed to continue to do so in the name of freedom of speech.  I watched these people on tv gloating over their victory and planning their next protest.  It made my eyes water.  What kind of a world do we live in?  That people are allowed to spit on those who gave their lives for our freedoms?  

I'm at a loss for words.  For those who relish contorting our first amendment rights just before the breaking point, congratulations; you win. 

You win and the rest of us lose.  I hope we hear a new version of "I Had A Dream" speech soon.  We need it.

More Musings Later-

Nocturnal Infomercials

It's been awhile since I've had a commentary on late night infomercials, so here it goes.  For those of us who have insomnia, usually the only thing on TV is infomercials.  I have my favorites and then there are "the duds" in my humble opinion.

My Favorite Infomercial
I don't know about you, but I think Florence Henderson made one of the most entertaining infomercials when she was pushing crock pot-esque cookware.  She not only used the product, but she had a gaggle of "friends and neighbors" that sat around her kitchen counter watching all of the fabulous meals that her cookware would create.  There was the smoking kook who was reminiscent of Mrs. Roper on Three's Company, the couple next door who have busy lives and don't have time to make Hamburger Helper (which takes less than 10 minutes), the single woman who wants to "entertain" (meaning she wants to cook for her dates without stressing) and the meat and potatoes neighbor who doesn't like "newfangled appliances."  The infomercial is even named as a television show to give the impression that you already know these lovable characters and it's just a new episode you're watching.  Of course, Florence sings the theme song.  Ya gotta love that.

Of course, after dumping frozen, rock-hard hamburger meat, uncooked noodles and a bottle of Ragu into the contraption, the finished product became a succulent, gourmet pasta dish that the whole family loved!  That one used to crack me up.  Can you imagine how disgusting that would taste if someone really prepared that meal as she did?  Bleh.  But, Florence is always happy, happy and the infomercial does make you wonder if it really does what it claims. 

The "B" Version of Florence Henderson's Infomercial
This one isn't a TV show themed ad.  This one is an older lady with red curly hair who cooks a variety of dishes from breakfast to dessert in a George Foreman-esque appliance.  As she goes from dish to dish, she mentions what a time saver it is to simply dump batter, cutup bananas, walnuts and other seasonings into this machine and have breakfast ready to eat in minutes!  That's great, but you gotta cutup the bananas, walnuts, create the batter and so on.  You've just dirtied a bunch of dishes so you can use a little Foreman-esque appliance.  It's stupid.  I may be sleep deprived at this point, but I'm not stupid.  Jeez.  Then there is a guy with glasses on that wears a golf shirt and slacks that are a size too small.  Then, every bite he samples from this cookware, he swoons as if he's fallen in love for the first time.  He's irritating.  There's no theme music.  The lady isn't happy, happy.  There aren't any obvious marketing ploys.  I don't like this one.

The One I LOVE to HATE
You knew it was coming, right?  How many infomercials have you watched of Chuck Norris and Christie Brinkley plugging "The Total Gym"?  I love to hate this one.  I think they do a good job of demonstrating the equipment and if I had money, I would be tempted to buy it.  So, they accomplish what they set out to do.  They even get the actor that is going to jail for tax evasion to demonstrate!  He's probably doing any work he can get to pay the IRS.  

Now, you not only get to watch Chuck do his workout, but his wife as well.  She doesn't want to be "beefy" like her big strong husband (gag) so she does workouts to look more lean.  It's kind of funny to watch her talk while she works out because she's so out of breath.  Does she really do this workout every day?  Really?  Chuck has learned to suck it up and talk and workout without busting a lung. BUT, you can tell he's struggling.  His wife makes me gag and when he flexes his bicep to emphasize his "beefiness" I am tempted to turn the channel.

But, here is the part I truly love to hate!  I like Christie Brinkley.  She looks great and I believe she works hard to keep her body looking that way.  She demonstrates the machine well, moving from one exercise to the other.  THEN: she does one exercise that isn't "named" where each leg is isolated by doing a semi-squat on the machine.  She flashes that modeling smile and giggles, "I think I'll call this one 'the Christie!" 

After that, I feel vindicated that I can turn the channel.  Oh wait, Ron Popeil is about to "Set it and forget it!" while he sprays paint on the back of his balding head.  Gee, that looks natural.  Why didn't I think of it?

Sleep is an elusive mistress.

More Musings Later-

Northern Exposure in a Southern Town

Lately, I've been missing the TV show, "Northern Exposure."  For those of you not familiar with the show, it was the story of a transplanted New York doctor assigned to handle a remote, Alaskan town's health care.  While the central character was the doctor, I found the strength of this show sat squarely in the laps of the supporting actors.

 There was the wealthy, Texas bred entrepreneur who flexed his influential muscle when confronted, the elderly grocery store owner who was no-nonsense with a penchant for being blunt, yet was one of the softest and kindest characters of the show.  There were many characters I liked and the two who I just mentioned were just a couple of examples.

I have to say the characters that I resonated the most with was Ed, the part Native American twenty-something and Chris, the Radio DJ.  It occurs to me that there are a little of both of these characters within me.  I loved watching Ed.  He struggled with social situations as well as wisdom with regard to his heritage.  He was later groomed to be a Shaman and it proved to be quite the challenge.  He was sweet, kind and unassuming.  A bumbling wunderkind if you will.  Where a Shaman is supposed to lead with wisdom and grace, Ed fumbles with these concepts and ideas.  He is oh so human and I love that about him.  Those who he is supposed to counsel, instead counsel to him in an unorthodox manner.  If Ed were real, he would be my best friend.

Then, there is Chris, the DJ.  He is a long drink of water who sees the philosophical tint to most any situation.  In a town where the usual is surviving, Chris gazes through the glass window of the radio station and pontificates on air, the wonders of life lessons that citizens of this town might be struggling to understand while they hide away any evidence of angst from neighbors in this tiny, rugged northern town.  He is a poet, a thinker and voracious reader of matters that plague the heart and man's psyche.  His existence is meager, yet his understanding is massive.  Chris is the sort of friend you want to either share a bottle of Chianti and discuss the matters of the world or belly up to the nearest sports bar to throw back a few beers and revel in the simplicity of rooting for the home team. 

As I sit in my home snowbound from getting out; I find myself needing a little Northern Exposure in my southern town.

More Musings Later-

Rocky Balboa and 2011

As I watched 2011 introduce herself, I couldn't help but be thankful that 2010 was over.  In fact, I think alot of people are grateful last year is over. 

As I've mentioned in some posts last year, it was a year of sadness, grief, anger, despair, changes and huge lessons learned.  It wasn't for naught and that's a good thing.  The most painful situations are some of life's best lessons.  I was humbled and determined to be a good student and learn my lessons accordingly.  However, the bombardment of life crashing down around me threw me into a perpetual state of feeling punch drunk.  The scene in every Rocky movie where he is facing a huge opponent and is savagely beaten until he pulls himself up by the bootstraps to dig deep and discover his strength once again strikes a familiar chord. 

That moment in time when he is whirling from the intensity of punches is something we can all relate to.  In fact, instead of a huge fighter swinging hellacious punches at me, it was only 2010.  I've already begun the process of pulling myself up by my bootstraps and it takes time and constant determination.

In any event, hello and welcome 2011. 

Go ahead...cut me Mick.

More Musings Later~

It was the Best of Times...Oh, Who Am I Kidding?

2010 without a doubt, has been the mother of all years for me.  And, it seems that this pinnacle year began to flex it's muscle almost immediately.

While it seems that 2010 has ground my emotions and psyche up like hamburger meat, I've taken a look around and I'm not the only one.  People that have been involved in longstanding relationships are now standing as one.  The usual is now unusual and the norm is now on it's ear. 

It's been strange to observe all that has happened and that is happening as I speak.  As for living my life, it has been difficult at best as I find myself struggling to find "my new normal."  The end of this traumatic year has my attention and my thoughts.  I can only wonder what is ahead in 2011.

Whatever it is, I hope the path is a bit more level and that we can all find our new normal.

More Musings Later-

An Open Letter to Randy Moss

I remember watching the NFL station one evening not too long ago when the commentators were discussing the fact that your contract was coming up for renewal with the New England Patriots.  I watched you as you answered questions for reporters.  You reiterated that you would work your butt off regardless of come what may with your contract.  I thought it was a fair and succinct statement given the circumstances.  I'm not sure why the Patriots didn't come clean with the contract negotiations, but hey, professional football is a business, right?

Suddenly, you are sent to the Minnesota Vikings.  Things don't seem to be working well there either.  Why?  Who knows.  Office politics is an ugly game that most people don't care to participate in.  I'm one of them.  In fact, I'm willing to bet that if I had been dealt the same hand as you, I would play them the same way as you did too. 

You probably feel like once again, you are shuffled off to another lame pro football team.  Let me fill you in on the Nashville fans and the Tennessee Titans.  We WANT you here.  That's why Fisher snapped you up as quickly as he did.  Do we already have great players?  You bet we do.  Adding you to the roster only makes our team better, not a liability. 

Nashville is beyond excited by having you on the team.  We may have a "country bumpkin" reputation due to our musical history and geography, but we are also a metropolitan city with an exciting football team that just got better within a blink of an eye.  We want you to work your butt off.    

In exchange for your hard work, expect to see:

• Fans snapping up jerseys with your name on the back.   
• A rowdy, supportive crowd at the games
• A fiercely loyal fan base.
• A sold out crowd at our home stadium, as well as  every sports bar in town to be packed to the rafters cheering for you and the rest of our guys.

We may be "boring" or not "metropolitan" enough for some players, but we're loyal, rowdy and we're dying to win a Super Bowl.

Ya With Us?   We need to go just ONE MORE YARD.

Welcome, Randy Moss.

The Color Purple

Watching the news can be a depressing endeavor some days.  So full of violence, political idiocy, hate and religious persecution. 

A week or so ago, I watched a story where several teens were bullied at school because they were gay.  I suddenly was thrust back in school and was the butt of jokes, mean spirited remarks and other forms of taunting once again.  Yeah, I was one of those kids that was bullied.  I hated school.  I wondered how long it would take before the comments and taunts would stop.  The school yard filled with children shouting filthy names at just a few soon grew into junior and high school students where the shouting was replaced with whispers, stares and false rumors traveling at the speed of light.    

The first time it happened, I was in elementary school.  I was wearing a lacy dress, shiny leather shoes with lacy socks along with a hair ribbon  pinned to the the curls in my hair via rollers, Dippity-Doo, Aqua Net and bobby pins  for safekeeping.  I looked like every other little girl back in the day.  But, apparently my secret was out.

During class one day, my teacher was writing on the blackboard and I raised my hand.  The boys had been calling me a name and I didn't understand why.  My teacher acknowledged me and gave me permission to ask the question.

"What does the word, 'queer' mean?"  She thought a moment trying to second guess my reason for asking and simply stated, "It means, 'odd' or 'unusual'.  She turned around and continued writing on the blackboard.  I felt vindicated as I just wanted someone else of authority to tell me what I already knew.   My teacher turned around again and looked at me expectantly and asked, "Did that answer your question?"

I decided to push my luck a bit further.  "Does 'queer' mean the same thing as 'homosexual'?"  She laid the piece of chalk in her hand onto the blackboard tray along with the erasers.

"To be absolutely clear, the words, "queer" are slang for the word homosexual.  This slang term is meant to be hurtful towards others when used.  The word, "queer" will be used properly in this classroom, out in the recess yard and in my presence.  Have I made myself clear?"  My teacher wasn't particularly well-liked so the emphasis of her words was missed by most of the children.  I realize now that she could have gotten into a lot of trouble making that remark to a class of 3rd graders. 

The next morning I walked to school and saw that our school had been vandalized.  Across the main entrance, someone had painted the words; "TARYN IS A QUEER."  I was mortified, highly embarrassed and ashamed without knowing why.  I felt like I was the only one to endure this type of bullying.  As I think of it now, it's amazing to me that people are STILL being persecuted for being gay.  You might as well condemn me for having brown eyes.

I tell you this story so that other kids that have gone through similar, not as drastic or even more extreme bullying will know they are not alone.  I lived through it and discovered that life can be quite wonderful as an odd duck.  So, I am asking that everyone that has read this blog to pass this post on to friends and friends of friends.  As Shug Avery mused to Miss Celie, "I think it pisses God off for people to walk by the color purple and not even notice."

We're here, We're Queer and there's no need to Fear.

Wear purple on October Time Wednesday, October 20 · 12:00am - 11:30pm



Location Everywhere

More Info On October 20th we will wear purple to bring awareness to, and put an end to intolerance in honor of the 6 boys who committed suicide in recent weeks/months due to homophobic abuse at home and in schools. Purple represents spirit on the LGBT flag and that's exactly what we would like all of you to have with you: spirit. Please know that times will get better and that you will meet people who will love you and respect you for who you are, no matter your sexuality. Please wear purple on October 20th. Tell your parents, friends, co-workers, neighbors and schools.

RIP

Tyler Clementi

Seth Walsh

Justin Aaberg

Raymond Chase

Asher Brown

Billy Lucas

Zach Harrington

and all other victims of homophobia

 
More Musings Later-

Trying to get it down

For those who follow this blog, you know that I have been working on a book for quite a long time.  I'm not able to work on it for long periods of time as my fingers and hands tell me how long I can work these days.  So, when my hands aren't shaking, having neuropathy or having sharp arthritic pain, I work as quickly as I can to write this book.

For the first time, I'm really pleased with the content thus far.  While sometimes I am able to take the time necessary to really craft a good story, sometimes I am forced to rush through just to get the story down as I think of it.  I use an outline, but sometimes working as the inspiration comes is much better.

I've read alot of the greats and classics and saw myself becoming frustrated and discouraged because it seemed that writing was so easy for them.  It's like watching a virtuoso musician play a difficult selection without even breaking a sweat.  No struggling, just the production of smooth genius.  I was harrumphing to myself this morning as I thought of great books that read so gracefully, profoundly and yet, simply.  I hope my book will be one of those classics one day, but I can only wish at this point.

I was heartened to read a quote from a literary master who was harrumphing as I was regarding his writing.  Who would have thunk?  In any event, I hope that one day if I am designated a master, that someone will find a quote from me saying the same thing so that writers won't quit the journey.

“I write one page of masterpiece to ninety one pages of shit, I try to put the shit in the wastebasket.” ~ Ernest Hemingway in conversation with F. Scott Fitzgerald, 1934.

Andrea Chenier

 Last evening, I attended the Nashville Opera's production of Andrea Chenier.  I browsed through my program before curtain call and noticed that the productions for the year offer well-known classics such as Carmen, The Marriage of Figaro and others, nonetheless, I was pleased that I would be exploring unfamiliar territory in Chenier.

Andrea Chenier is a poet who found his own written words to be at odds with his country's political and social struggles.  While Chenier was well acquainted with aristocratic social circles in the beginning, his battle of words through France's political upheaval both literally and figuratively lead him back to accepting the consequences for his moral conscience of words.  A unique perspective considering that the working class, martyrs and disadvantaged are at the forefront of this story, ala' Victor Hugo's Les Miserables.  Along the way, Chenier falls in love with Maddalena di Coigny, a prominent socialite's daughter who has gone into hiding during the French Revolution. 

While the story is centered on Andrea Chenier, the true drama and weight of emotion is portrayed by Carlos Gerardo, a former servant to the upper crust di Coigny family.   Social roles have reversed and Gerardo has become powerful in his political role within the French Revolution and abuses his power by attempting to force himself upon his former employer, Maddalena di Coigny.  After listening to Maddalena tell of the murder of her mother and the burning of her home, the realization of his newfound power is simply an illusion. 

As with most previews or "final rehearsals," there were a couple of miscues between the orchestra and vocalist(s).  A few misspellings on the subtext screen were glaringly apparent as well.   There were also  some problems with 2 of the male roles being able to comfortably sustain notes in the lower register against an exuberant orchestra.  I couldn't help but wonder if adjustments in blocking and or subduing the orchestra could alleviate this problem.  Then again, many of the singers were wisely saving their voice for opening night.  Let's face it, Nashville in early October can be an overwhelming cocktail for throat issues. 

Kudos to the Nashville Opera for keeping this medium fresh and alive.  I was both amused (at first) and incredibly impressed with the promotion of offering both temporary and permanent Opera tattoo's in the lobby.  It's just one of 30 ways to celebrate the Nashville Opera.  In the land of facebooking, twittering and keeping up with the ever growing technology, the Nashville Opera is doing their part and more.  Interested in providing a school with an intro to Opera?  For more information, click here: Education Programs.

While sitting in the dark watching these cast of characters,  I found myself mesmerized in particular by  Lori Phillips (Maddalena di Coigny).   Prior to last evening's performance, I listened to several arias of this opera to become more acquainted with the story, emotion and characters.  I found the haunting and moving aria "La Mamma Morta," sung by Marie Callas and listened to what I would use (quite unfairly) to benchmark Ms. Phillips' performance.  A very unkind measurement of perfection that would be virtually impossible to overcome.

Phillips' was able to act her part complete with the slightest of gestures, emotional breaks in her voice that reached well into the back of the theater.  The feathery nuances of her restrained voice describing the horrors of her mother's demise grabbed this audience as the power of her chest voice climaxed in revealing a gut-wrenching mournful loss which reverberated throughout Jackson Hall.

I'm not qualified to speculate whether Maria Callas's "La Mamma Morta," was superior to Lori Phillips' version.  I only know that moments such as these which are draped in darkness inside a theater is a gift from the composer.  The stirring of the soul from Lori Phillips' vocal performance is a gift from the singer, complete with star power.

Bravo

More Musings Later-

The Allure of Id

I don't mind telling you that I have become a junkie of the worst kind.  My thoughts inevitably lead to when can I watch more of it?  Each day's challenges along with mundane occurrences are met with a renewed analysis.  The child's most incessant and irritating question:  Why?

If the above sounds familiar to you, then you've been watching HBO's In Treatment along with me.  I never saw the series until recently as they are catching viewers up on past episodes so that when Season 3 is throttled into gear, everyone is on the same page, or couch as it may be. 

I've always been intrigued by psychology and how therapists are able to decipher and untangle the wires of emotion within us.  HBO has taken this series which was originally a successful Israeli television program and tells the story of a fifty-something therapist who allows the demons of his patients to rear their ugly head for answers along the path to clarity.  The viewer of this drama becomes the voyeur seeking gratification to our lustful interests as we are allowed into this sacred, yet raw vulnerable area of the patient's psyche. 

Never mind that the therapist is that of brooding Gabriel Byrne, an intriguing and attractive Irishman who is able to settle back into an easy chair and engage either silently or quietly to the rumblings of his patient's emotional debris.  I guarantee you will find yourself examining his face for any nuance of discovery.  Even though his own life is as shattered and disturbing as his patients'.  His lilting brogue serves as the voice of reason or further self exploration of your emotional mine fields, indicated by a hmmm or referenced with a forefinger to his forehead.  

In any event, I've been consumed with this program.  Just yesterday, the phone rang and as I held the receiver to my ear, I heard the words of a man stammering, "Hi, I'm your Dad."  Words I hadn't heard for at least 20 years.  He wanted to speak to my mother.  As I handed the phone to her, I silently corrected his choice of words from "Dad" to father.  A very large difference in my mind.

I wonder what the good doctor would say?

Letting Go

This morning, I got up to the smell of Fall.  And, when I think of Fall, I immediately think of changes.  Both literally to the weather and to each of our lives. 

Think about it, Fall is when the new school year begins, learning new things, reading and listening to new writers and music.  It's football season, ordering or chopping wood for the fireplace, thinking about the holidays that will spiral out of control and be here before you know it, shopping for sweaters and coats all in preparation for the Fall season.

Not only is it an onslaught of "newness," it's also a time for letting go.  Although the give and take of letting go should be done seamlessly throughout our lives, if you're like me, it's a struggle and causes noticeable commotion within our lives.  I bet it wouldn't even take the game of 6 degrees of separation to find people who have lost or gained a relationship, felt the loss of a child and gained the presence of an adult in their place.  Perhaps it is the loss of self without anyone or thing to replace it.  Or, the worst case scenario, the loss of emotion which leaves the soul dry and brittled for the length of life.

On the other side of the coin, I find it interesting that when a brave soul is able to expose their innermost feelings either personally or to an audience, you will undoubtedly find people cringing at this display.  Is it because they have never felt these emotions of letting go and don't know what to make of it?  I'm betting no.  I think it edges too closely to the barriers we all have that protects our vulnerability. 

No one is perfect and it is usually pointed out quite graphically during one's school years.  Whether it's bullies who have their way with those who resemble their insecurities the most, or those who don't measure up to the school's most popular, athletic, best looking etc,  we're all taught to protect our shortcomings with our life.  Enter stage left, Fear of revealing Self. 

It's a shame, really.  Instead of wincing when observing the act of letting go, we should be applauding it.  The smell of Fall is upon us.  It's time for Letting Go. 

Don't wince, embrace it.  Life is awful boring when all of your time is spent protecting yourself.

More Musings Later-

 

Art and Music

When people find out that I have played with symphony orchestras, inevitably, the question is always asked; is a conductor really needed?  It appears that they are simply waving their baton while the orchestra is already doing their job of playing in tempo with each other.  So what is it about the conductor that is so necessary?

While I'm probably not the most qualified person to speak to this question, I think I am able to provide some insight of why someone is needed to jab and slice the air with a baton in order to create order of musical notes.

I remember from my college days that our small southeast Texas music department was now home to a brilliant musician, Dr. Edward Schmider and his wife Laura.  Dr. Schmider and his family lived in Russia and defected to the United States and landed as a violin instructor at Lamar University.  I remember listening to stories as he recounted leaving his world behind in order to live a free life in the U.S.  This included leaving his beloved violin behind.  Leaving an instrument to some may seem insignificant in the big scheme of things, but to an artist, it is the same as leaving a part of your soul behind to fend in your absence.  And, so he did.

One fall semester, Dr. Schmider taught me why a conductor is necessary for an orchestra.  Our orchestra was attempting to learn a piece by Shostakovich.  At the time, my musical awareness was severely stunted.  Most people have heard this composer's name and realize his fame, but there isn't a personal connection between a person and this great composer.  Most budding musicians are guilty of this crime, the names are well-known but the connection is void.  Enter Stage Left, Dr. Schmider.

Our conductor at the time thought it would be interesting to have Dr. Schmider work with our orchestra in learning this piece.  Not simply to sing troublesome parts to those struggling with the technicality of producing the music, but to really learn this piece of music.  I'm grateful to this day that this incredible opportunity presented itself as it did.

Our group expected the usual, explanation of musical terms, learning difficult rhythms and preferred bowing patterns.  Ah, but this is the art of music.  Where technical proficiency is necessary, but heart and soul is needed more.  Dr. Schmider didn't bother to teach this piece of music in the typical way.  He gave us the connection of Shostakovich by recounting his own experiences with the composer.

As a younger man, Schmider was 1st violin under Shostakovich, the conductor.  The words Schmider gave to us were the same that Shostakovich gave to him.  In the silence of listening to his quiet direction, we all knew an incredible moment was happening.  Make no mistake, Schmider wasn't a metronome, his crumpled facial expressions and barely there movement of his baton brought us to the moment of Shostakovich's grief, sadness, anger, joy and a plethora of other emotions.  Those emotions which hung heavy in the air proved to be timeless as the music evolved as it was meant to evolve.   Somehow, a rehearsal hall in a small Music department of a southeast Texas college became connected to a rehearsal hall in St. Petersburg, Russia where a conductor/composer jabbed and sliced the air to release the music.

This video reminds me of that moment in time.  Where boredom of repetition and tried and true are replaced with the enlightenment of magic.  The cellist/singer is technically proficient, but most importantly, he has connection to his soul.  Bravo, Travis Booker.

More Musings Later-

Sounds in the Night of Long Ago

The other evening, I was lying in bed watching television.  It must have been around 9pm or so and as I watched a tired Nick at Night rerun, I suddenly heard a familiar reverberating bass line dancing between the chord progression of I, IV and V. 

I muted the sound and listened closely.  A smile crept to my lips as I listened to a garage band honing their craft.  The crash of cymbals and the plinking of keyboards provided a throbbing accompaniment behind a tentative yet wailing lead guitar pulling simplified riffs of Carlos Santana.  It brought it all back to me.  While neighbors were making a beeline to the nearest phone to complain to the cops, I was in my bedroom thinking about when I was a young teenager. 

I was friends with a young man who lead a band similar to the one I was listening to that evening.  I remember he invited me to listen to them rehearse and that I did.  I got to know his Mom, Dad, little brother and sister.  His Dad worked at a refinery by day and played in bands at night.  He knew his son was talented and mentored the young musicians into a polished band.  I've written about them before, and while I should probably set that memory aside, it's nights like these when sounds in the night bring me right back to those wonderful days.

Little did I know that the musical genes continued on to Barry's little brother, David.  I've lost track of Barry Piggott and what he is up to these days.  But, through the powerful medium of the internet, I see that David Piggott is doing quite nicely for himself.  And, Barry and David's dad, Johnny Piggott is still playing in bands.  I've seen photos of Barry's son and it is astounding to me how much he is like his Dad.  From the way he stands to his hairstyle, he is his father's son.  It appears that he is destined for a musical career as well. 

As I listened to the continuing fugue of sound from next door, two things occurred to me; the Piggott musical dynasty will continue on and I hope the neighbors will hang up the phone, turn off their tv's and listen. 

Something special is happening right next door.  In fact, someone may write about it in the future.

More Musings Later~