At a Christmas party, one of the group violated the first commandment of living through a Minnesota winter: Never leave your car keys in your overcoat. The event was held at a home, and someone else had gone home with Warren's keys. K and I were leaving the event when Warren discovered the problem and had achieved an irascibility level of about 7 on a ten point scale. I had a flashlight and a cellphone, so I was able to help him contact the special service that came with his car. Once the car was open, Warren said, he had a spare key hidden in the console between the front seats.
A minute or two after he spoke with the service, his headlights flashed, and the locks released on all four doors, and Warren was busy examining every part of the center console.
No keys, and the irascibility score was approaching 12 on the ten point scale. Warren did all the logical things men do at such times - he went through the console several times and began looking in other possible places where the key might be. Nothing.
Warren was about to set the all time irascibility scale score when his wife arrived and inquired, "What's the matter?" Warren gave a succinct summary. His wife opened the rear door on the passenger side, pulled up a cup-like thing, opened it up, pulled out a key and asked, "Is this what you're looking for?"
At this point in such a situation, the irascibility scale divides into the public and private sectors of measurement. If you know most men of a certain age, you can do the numbers without any help from me.
I have thought about this situation often since that cold dark night - mainly about that when we have decided where something is, then that's where we look....and look....and look. Failure leads us to broaden the search to some degree but because we know where something ought to be, it seems difficult to break away from our original perception and to redefine the problem.
Lately, I've been having the same problem around the house, and a good example of this occurred last night. I was getting ready to wrap packages, and I had bought a new roll of Scotch tape. I remembered taking it into the kitchen, got caught up in some other activity, and then couldn't find the damn thing. I looked everywhere in the kitchen, then broadened my search to the stairs, the table in the living room, the table where I had planned to wrap. By now I was nearing a perfect ten on the irascibility scale, and the dog had moved purposefully to another part of the house.
One last shot I thought, knowing that without tape, I was flummoxed. Back into the kitchen. Then I saw it, the little plastic tape dispenser, on its side on the counter. No doubt I had looked at it thirty times but had never seen it.
In much the same way, dishwashing detergent, my own car keys, a pen, disappear from view in plain sight. It's clear that we need to avoid determining what something looks like or where something is, open our minds, and wait for the image to settle in a brain made tranquil by deliberation and not tied up in knots with frustration.
Or maybe that comment I make from time to time about my brains dribbling out my ears is truer than I might have thought.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Monday, September 3, 2007
A Tale Told By An Idiot, Full of Sound and Fury, But Especially Sound
A couple of weeks ago a cousin's son got married in what was one of the most charming weddings I've ever had the good fortune to attend, and I won't burden you with all the reasons for that - suffice it to say that there was a good deal of deep feeling interspersed with wonderfully supportive chuckles and the occasional guffaw.
An event to remember, in other words.
[Sidebar: As I wandered toward my forties I found myself full of ennui about yet another wedding to attend. Then it occurred to me that I seemed to be making up for it by attending funerals and memorial services (I take them to be not the same thing, but perhaps I am wrong.) At this stage of my life, I look forward to weddings and hope for fewer of the other kind of public ceremony, but I fear my demographic status is against me.]
The reception was held in a fine old building in a nearby town, a place considered the "sticks," when I had hair, and as I walked in, I got this feeling in the pit of my stomach. Lots of plate glass, an antique tin ceiling, lots of wood, and carpet on the floor, and in one corner, the dreaded sound system to "liven up" the living.
The young man - it is always a young man - already had music going on the sound system, and as the room filled up and the bar went into action, the noise level went up, and up, and up.
It was hard to have a conversation, not just because of the ambient sound but also because a lot of voices fall into the mid-range, and they are the first to get lost in the waves of sound. So, I found myself saying, "What?" about every twenty seconds, wishing I knew how to read lips, and thinking about that restaurant I was always going to open....the one called Old Farts, with thick carpeting, tapestries and the like on the walls, enough light so you could read the damn menu which would be printed IN ALL CAPS IN A VERY LARGE FONT, and not a note of music to be heard anywhere. No more than six at a table, and the tables would be far apart so those of us with really good hearing could not eavesdrop.
By the time dinner was over and the dancing - well, what they call dancing - was about to begin, I decided that my geezer status would allow me to escape, and I did. I headed to the car and drove home in blissful silence.
Now, I'm not criticising the young for enjoying their efficient hearing skills and ability to decode what others are saying and having a great, loud time at these celebrations. They're up to that sort of thing. But as the boomers age and their children remarry, perhaps it will occur to someone that the young should be in the big room, enjoying themselves to the hilt, and those of us who are approaching our sell-by date might have a nice quiet space down the hall - even across the street...one with tables of four, a couple of jig saw puzzles, and some decks of cards, along with a tv showing some sporting event but with no sound, just closed captioning. We could visit the main room in shifts to maintain contact with the primary group of party-goers but not so long as to destroy what's left of our hearing.
You probably thought I forgot to mention the bar. Just wanted to see if you were paying attention. Of course there should be a bar with an older bartender who can put together an old-fashioned, a sidecar, a manhattan, a rusty nail, or a sloe gin fizz. He'd probably appreciate the quiet atmosphere too.
Now before you open your pie-hole and make a growing sound, remember this is not a criticism, just a suggestion for future consideration ...when and if the topic comes up.
An event to remember, in other words.
[Sidebar: As I wandered toward my forties I found myself full of ennui about yet another wedding to attend. Then it occurred to me that I seemed to be making up for it by attending funerals and memorial services (I take them to be not the same thing, but perhaps I am wrong.) At this stage of my life, I look forward to weddings and hope for fewer of the other kind of public ceremony, but I fear my demographic status is against me.]
The reception was held in a fine old building in a nearby town, a place considered the "sticks," when I had hair, and as I walked in, I got this feeling in the pit of my stomach. Lots of plate glass, an antique tin ceiling, lots of wood, and carpet on the floor, and in one corner, the dreaded sound system to "liven up" the living.
The young man - it is always a young man - already had music going on the sound system, and as the room filled up and the bar went into action, the noise level went up, and up, and up.
It was hard to have a conversation, not just because of the ambient sound but also because a lot of voices fall into the mid-range, and they are the first to get lost in the waves of sound. So, I found myself saying, "What?" about every twenty seconds, wishing I knew how to read lips, and thinking about that restaurant I was always going to open....the one called Old Farts, with thick carpeting, tapestries and the like on the walls, enough light so you could read the damn menu which would be printed IN ALL CAPS IN A VERY LARGE FONT, and not a note of music to be heard anywhere. No more than six at a table, and the tables would be far apart so those of us with really good hearing could not eavesdrop.
By the time dinner was over and the dancing - well, what they call dancing - was about to begin, I decided that my geezer status would allow me to escape, and I did. I headed to the car and drove home in blissful silence.
Now, I'm not criticising the young for enjoying their efficient hearing skills and ability to decode what others are saying and having a great, loud time at these celebrations. They're up to that sort of thing. But as the boomers age and their children remarry, perhaps it will occur to someone that the young should be in the big room, enjoying themselves to the hilt, and those of us who are approaching our sell-by date might have a nice quiet space down the hall - even across the street...one with tables of four, a couple of jig saw puzzles, and some decks of cards, along with a tv showing some sporting event but with no sound, just closed captioning. We could visit the main room in shifts to maintain contact with the primary group of party-goers but not so long as to destroy what's left of our hearing.
You probably thought I forgot to mention the bar. Just wanted to see if you were paying attention. Of course there should be a bar with an older bartender who can put together an old-fashioned, a sidecar, a manhattan, a rusty nail, or a sloe gin fizz. He'd probably appreciate the quiet atmosphere too.
Now before you open your pie-hole and make a growing sound, remember this is not a criticism, just a suggestion for future consideration ...when and if the topic comes up.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
The Older Gent's GPS System
If you hang around men over sixty - and sometimes younger - you will hear the word "prostate" at some point in the conversation, and you probably won't have to wait to long. You are too young to read this if you think I intended to write the word "prostrate."
Invariably the conversation skips over one of the recurring challenges in the male geezgeist, and that has to do with what the doctors like to call "voiding," but the rest of us use more accessible words and phrases - among them - peeing, whizzing, spending a penny, seeing a man about a dog, a cruise ticket, or almost anything else which has nothing to do with what we're talking about.
For many years I did not acquire a full refined GPS (Geographical Peeing System). It was at a performance of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. I had enjoyed a couple of glasses of something before the performance and failed to complete my preparations for the play with what we call a "pit stop." I didn't know that Act One was one hour and fifty-two minutes long, not including applause.
I still hold the intergalactic record for the "loo dash" in that theatre, and that experience taught me what my elders already knew: you have to do a continual assessment of your bladder, your present and immediate future locations, and the distance to an appropriate porcelain appliance.
With a well designed GPS system, along with tending to one's intake and observing the royal custom of always stopping when the opportunity is presented, one can avoid the need to cross one's legs, to bite the lip, to think of the desert, and so on. Such defensive strategies just do in whatever you are doing which keeps you from going down the hall. At the play, I kept thinking, "Why in hell didn't he call it Second Night, why in such flowerly Elizabethan language, doesn't the audience know that laughter delays the onset of my relief, why didn't they break after the scene just ended, why are thirty five year old directors with really healthy bladders putting their male elders through the hell of a such a long first act?" and not about the wonderful performance I was, on the surface, enjoying.
Crossing the trail of the sixties and beyond makes us better planners, and that is probably a good thing.
Invariably the conversation skips over one of the recurring challenges in the male geezgeist, and that has to do with what the doctors like to call "voiding," but the rest of us use more accessible words and phrases - among them - peeing, whizzing, spending a penny, seeing a man about a dog, a cruise ticket, or almost anything else which has nothing to do with what we're talking about.
For many years I did not acquire a full refined GPS (Geographical Peeing System). It was at a performance of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. I had enjoyed a couple of glasses of something before the performance and failed to complete my preparations for the play with what we call a "pit stop." I didn't know that Act One was one hour and fifty-two minutes long, not including applause.
I still hold the intergalactic record for the "loo dash" in that theatre, and that experience taught me what my elders already knew: you have to do a continual assessment of your bladder, your present and immediate future locations, and the distance to an appropriate porcelain appliance.
With a well designed GPS system, along with tending to one's intake and observing the royal custom of always stopping when the opportunity is presented, one can avoid the need to cross one's legs, to bite the lip, to think of the desert, and so on. Such defensive strategies just do in whatever you are doing which keeps you from going down the hall. At the play, I kept thinking, "Why in hell didn't he call it Second Night, why in such flowerly Elizabethan language, doesn't the audience know that laughter delays the onset of my relief, why didn't they break after the scene just ended, why are thirty five year old directors with really healthy bladders putting their male elders through the hell of a such a long first act?" and not about the wonderful performance I was, on the surface, enjoying.
Crossing the trail of the sixties and beyond makes us better planners, and that is probably a good thing.
The Inconvenience of Conveniences
After a certain age in the male of our species, the word prostate tends to take on a special meaning, and men begin to develop their own internal GPS (Geographical Planning System) based on proximity to a toilet.
At a recent gathering, one of my friends told me he'd seen a local production of the semi-musical comedy "1776."
"How did you like it?" I asked.
"First act was one hour and forty-five minutes long."
He had given me essential information, and I appreciated having it. Then we forged ahead with a chat about the production. His response reminded me of the night in the theatre when the Globe Theatre of London was presenting "Twelfth Night." I had had a couple of drinks beforehand, but when the first act went past an hour and a half, I began to be concerned, and then I went into the standard drill - cross the legs tight, think about anything no liquid, bite the inside of the cheeks, hope, pray...the usual.
At the one hour and fifty two minute mark, the applause began, and I set the Guthrie Theatre World Record for the Men's Room Dash.
Anyway, in geezerhood, one measures one's intake against "porcelain proximity," and one takes advantage of every opportunity to lighten up.
When the my hip was deteriorating, I came to appreciate bathrooms for the handicapped - they are sometimes near than regular conveniences, and thus, more convenient. I have been known to utilize a one person women's facility when the men's was occupied, locked, and the need was great.
At a recent gathering, one of my friends told me he'd seen a local production of the semi-musical comedy "1776."
"How did you like it?" I asked.
"First act was one hour and forty-five minutes long."
He had given me essential information, and I appreciated having it. Then we forged ahead with a chat about the production. His response reminded me of the night in the theatre when the Globe Theatre of London was presenting "Twelfth Night." I had had a couple of drinks beforehand, but when the first act went past an hour and a half, I began to be concerned, and then I went into the standard drill - cross the legs tight, think about anything no liquid, bite the inside of the cheeks, hope, pray...the usual.
At the one hour and fifty two minute mark, the applause began, and I set the Guthrie Theatre World Record for the Men's Room Dash.
Anyway, in geezerhood, one measures one's intake against "porcelain proximity," and one takes advantage of every opportunity to lighten up.
When the my hip was deteriorating, I came to appreciate bathrooms for the handicapped - they are sometimes near than regular conveniences, and thus, more convenient. I have been known to utilize a one person women's facility when the men's was occupied, locked, and the need was great.
It's Our Stupid Memories...Or Is It Memories, Stupid? I Just Can't Remember.
It's true - your memory becomes unpredictable as you age, especially for the names of things and people. At a recent dinner party, several potentially amusing stories were interrupted by such lapses, and either the story got completely derailed or it dragged out until it collapsed like an unsuccessful souffllé.
Here's an example:
I watched that movie the other night, the one about a princess in Italy, you know....what's her name?
Was it the one with Gregory Peck?
I don't remember, but there was a man riding a bicycle with her, and she had dark hair...it might have been, Cary...um....
Grant.
Brown or black?
No, Grant, G-R-A-N-T.
I meant her hair.
Well, the film was in black and white, so I don't know.
She was also in "My Fair Lady."
Oh, Julie Andrews.
No, the film - and she didn't do her own singing.
Julie Andrews can't sing any more...something about her vocal cords.
Kather...NO, IT WAS AUDREY HEPBURN!
Not Julie Andrews - you're sure?
Absolutely yes I am.
And the man was William Hold...
No! Gregory Peck...it was Greg Peck.
He was good.
And even better in To Kill - what?
A Mockingbird, by Harper Lee.
Yeah, right. You're good.
Wait, wait - it was called something Holiday.
Italian....no....no....no....
Roman Holiday!
[Smiles all around]
This happens all the time now, but I have uncovered a solution, and I do not mean this in a humorous way . Each of us in the geezer category needs to create a couple of names, one male and one female who will stand in for the forgotten name, a congenial substitute which will allow the story to move forward without delay. In most cases, this allows the narrating geezer to appear more "with it," informed, and in the current century.
I use the name William Masterson, unless the story is sports-related, in which case he becomes Biff Masterson. The female name I borrowed from the name of a publisher who works with a friend of mine, and she is Enid Harmon.
One should never select such names as Ben Dover, Throckmorton P. Gildersleeve, Egbert Souse, Larsen E. Whipsnade, Henry Aldrich or Pneumonia Vanderfeller. If you are among geezers one of them might recognize these, but they would be reasonably safe in crowds of the young.
When I am asked who directed that great production at the (Fill In The Blank) Theatre, I can say knowingly , "One of William Masterson's best efforts in many years." If someone knows the real name and corrects me, all I have to say is, "Well, the old noggin has let me down again," and feign knocking my head with a closed fist.
Darn near foolproof.
Here's an example:
I watched that movie the other night, the one about a princess in Italy, you know....what's her name?
Was it the one with Gregory Peck?
I don't remember, but there was a man riding a bicycle with her, and she had dark hair...it might have been, Cary...um....
Grant.
Brown or black?
No, Grant, G-R-A-N-T.
I meant her hair.
Well, the film was in black and white, so I don't know.
She was also in "My Fair Lady."
Oh, Julie Andrews.
No, the film - and she didn't do her own singing.
Julie Andrews can't sing any more...something about her vocal cords.
Kather...NO, IT WAS AUDREY HEPBURN!
Not Julie Andrews - you're sure?
Absolutely yes I am.
And the man was William Hold...
No! Gregory Peck...it was Greg Peck.
He was good.
And even better in To Kill - what?
A Mockingbird, by Harper Lee.
Yeah, right. You're good.
Wait, wait - it was called something Holiday.
Italian....no....no....no....
Roman Holiday!
[Smiles all around]
This happens all the time now, but I have uncovered a solution, and I do not mean this in a humorous way . Each of us in the geezer category needs to create a couple of names, one male and one female who will stand in for the forgotten name, a congenial substitute which will allow the story to move forward without delay. In most cases, this allows the narrating geezer to appear more "with it," informed, and in the current century.
I use the name William Masterson, unless the story is sports-related, in which case he becomes Biff Masterson. The female name I borrowed from the name of a publisher who works with a friend of mine, and she is Enid Harmon.
One should never select such names as Ben Dover, Throckmorton P. Gildersleeve, Egbert Souse, Larsen E. Whipsnade, Henry Aldrich or Pneumonia Vanderfeller. If you are among geezers one of them might recognize these, but they would be reasonably safe in crowds of the young.
When I am asked who directed that great production at the (Fill In The Blank) Theatre, I can say knowingly , "One of William Masterson's best efforts in many years." If someone knows the real name and corrects me, all I have to say is, "Well, the old noggin has let me down again," and feign knocking my head with a closed fist.
Darn near foolproof.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
