Rock 'n Roll 'n Geritol

"All rock-and-rollers over the age of 50 look stupid and should retire."

Said 76-year-old Grace Slick, now playing out her years as an artist. (She paints a lot of white rabbits.)

I was inspired to do the google on Grace after a conversation at work about concerts by aging rock stars. Someone went to see Tears for Fears, a group from the 80's with a few top hits. I admit, I was a fan back in the day. A discussion ensued about who would go see them. It turns out, a combination of fans aged anywhere from 20 to 70. Someone interviewed a younger fan, who commented they knew about the group because their mom was a fan and it became the music of their formative years. 

I suppose if you've still got it, it's cool to get up on the stage and wail away. Sir Paul comes to mind. If Elvis were around, I imagine he'd still be kicking it. But, and yes, I know this would be considered sacrilege in certain circles, there are some rock stars who should probably hang up their spangles and fringe and give it a rest.

A lot of former rockers simply don't have the voice for it anymore. It's painful to hear legends like Roger Daltry and Robert Plant strain to hit the right notes. For some, it's enough to be in the same room with their favorite now-golden-oldie. As a charter member of the baby boomer generation, I am conflicted. These were groups whose music I've grooved to all my life. On the other hand, do I really want to shell out over a hundred clams to watch a group of old guys trying to pull it together after 40 or 50 years in the biz? Maybe it's just better to dust off their records and appreciate the talent that got them there. 

Does Grace Slick miss her days as a hell-raising rock and roller? It doesn't sound like it. She's a recovering alcoholic (clean and sober since the 90's). Her only regrets, she said, are that she never rode a horse. Or screwed Jimi Hendrix.

What a ride that would have been.

Caveat Emptor

Just for shits and giggles, I clicked on the "sponsored ad" that talked about Meryl Streep and Robert Redford getting hitched. A quick trip to Snopes.com confirmed my suspicion that this was total hogwash. The ad touted a miracle face cream tied to a certain television "doctor." (I won't reveal who he is, but his last name has only two letters and was formerly associated with a Wizard.)

Under the heading of "too good to be true," the ad featured several celebrities at their worst versus their most-retouched selves. The difference was more laughable than startling. Does anyone doubt that fashion magazines are well-versed in Photoshop?

A similar ad appeared on yesterday's Facebook page. It said something to the effect of, "Cher is Gone at 70." I didn't click on that one, although my initial reaction was to stop and google her to make sure she was still in the land of the living (she is).

"So," I had to ask myself. "Why would anyone be foolish enough to fall for any of this?"

A quick visit to my favorite search engine revealed that a plethora (I've been hankering to use that word) of complaints exist from regular folks whose bank accounts have been depleted by this particular scam. In fact, there are blogs devoted solely to beefs about this one brand. Maybe it makes people feel better to talk about being fleeced, but it doesn't appear that anyone does anything about the situation other than share their tales of woe.

None of this is surprising. Which is sad. People believe what they read on the internet and hear on that TV station that bloviates about being fair and balanced, but is neither.

The truth is out there somewhere, but it sure can be hard to get to. Maybe the best we can do is look at a story from multiple sources before we believe it. Even then, we all have filters, so we're going to pull what we want to pull from any given source.

The speed of media is both exhilarating and terrifying. Like anything else, it's how we use it that counts.

Let's not be lazy out there.

Okay, enough of this. I have things to do. I need to find out if Tiger Woods was really suspended from the PGA for taking weight loss supplements!

Breaking

I was headed out the door in my usual rush to get to work, when Mr. Ginley said, "STOP!"

Exasperated, I turned and grumbled, "What?"

"Sit down for a minute," said he. "Look at the sky."

Defeated, I plopped down in a chair on the porch and did.

"Now breathe."

I did. And saw the sky for the first time that day. Big, puffy white clouds in a soothing blue sky. Just begging to be noticed.

We sat quietly for a few minutes, and I conceded he was right. I need to slow down.

Work has been crazy. Things at home have been stressing me out: new roof, new car, old car's "check engine" light. I've been thinking about getting a t-shirt that says, "Life is Relentless."

Then I looked at the sky. It's always there, in showers or sunshine.

And I started to breathe again. I glanced upward all the way to work. And I looked out my window at the office and admired its blue loveliness.

I know I need some vacation time, even if we don't go anywhere. October, maybe. When things slow to a simmer at work. Maybe take a trip on the Cuyahoga Valley Scenic Railroad. Or plan a walk through the MetroParks. A visit to the art museum. There's plenty to do in this berg.

And the whole mess will still be there when I'm done relaxing. Hopefully, being rested will help me put it all into perspective.

But, if all else fails, I know I can keep my balance by looking skyward.

Too Shy? There's an App for That.

I haven't been listening to NPR much lately.

Understandably, it's been dominated by election coverage. I already know who I'm voting for. Or, more accurately, who I'm voting against. I find the entire debacle mortifying. I've blocked several sites on my Facebook page, and I'm considering moving to that log cabin in the woods until it's all over.

Of course, it won't be over. Whoever wins, there will continue to be plenty of mud slinging and a lack of statesmanship. Alas, the days of both parties working together to get things done has gone the way of the dodo bird. All we're left with is dodos.

But, back to NPR. I was driving home last night, and I decided to listen for a little while. There was a story about a 16-year-old girl who created an app for teenagers who face the lunch table dilemma.

Anyone who has suffered from excruciating shyness (a la yours truly) knows this is not the trifle it would appear to be.

After I was asked to leave a lunch table early in my high school career (I was "scaring the boys away with my clothes"), finding a place in the cafeteria became a burden.

I have a vivid recollection of trolling from table to table in search of a seat that was at the end of a table that had some but not too many kids -- I didn't want to "butt in," but I didn't want to look like a sad sack sitting at an empty table. The trick was to appear that I was at least on the outskirts of a group. I didn't try to jump into the conversation, I just sat and listened as others complained about  schoolwork or teachers or their parents or some party at somebody's house or who was smoking what.

Eventually, I think in my junior year, I stumbled into a group of misfit toys like myself. We were weird but wonderful.

How I wish there had been an app back in the day.

The girl who invented the app is Natalie Hampton, and she lives in Sherman Oaks, California. Her app is called "Sit With Us." It helps kids who are looking for a place to sit and enjoy their lunch, and, more importantly, belong.

Natalie had trouble finding a lunch table at her old school. She's at a new school now, and although she's doing just fine there, she felt she had to do something to help the other kids who experienced the angst of approaching groups of already-friended teens in search of a place.

In high school, fitting in can be tough. Especially when you don't know anyone, and you're not an outgoing person.

So far, the app has been well received and is enjoying success at her school.

I hope it catches on in other schools across the country.

Although they would have you believe otherwise, no one is a rock. Or an island.

Just Plane Nuts

As we were pulling into the driveway the other night, my son and I looked skyward and saw two jets flying in formation.

Dammit, Jim, I'm a writer, not an artist.

It was a reminder that Labor Day weekend was fast approaching, and that could only mean one thing: the jets were running through their paces in preparation for this weekend's National Air Show.

In a former (married) life, I went to the Air Show every year. I stood by dutifully as my then-husband, a builder of model airplanes, pointed out the markings and recited the capabilities of each and every airplane displayed on the tarmac. I nodded appreciatively and tried to sustain an interest that waned and finally died after the first hour or so.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed taking a look-see at all the planes and was as awed as every other spectator in the stands when the Blue Angles (or Thunderbirds) blew by above us at crazy speeds, in formation, and performed their stunts. I learned what a hammerhead was. And I was enthralled by the history and anecdotes of the planes featured in the show.

Alas, my Air Show days were long ago, and I only have a vague recollection of the event. And a memory of a sore neck, squinty eyes and ringing ears.

I applaud those whose knowledge of such things goes so deep.

As for me, I guess this means I wasn't a pilot in a former life. Or a wing walker.

I kinda like my feet planted firmly on the ground.

Even if my head is often hanging out in the clouds.

Moving Violations

What is it about shopping for a new car that makes me feel violated?

There are a lot of people who actually enjoy this process. Alas, I am not one of them.

Last weekend, I girded my loins and headed out to shop for a new mode of transportation. The plan was to turn over the keys to my current car to my kid. And, because misery loves company (and he's a good schmoozer), I took the lad with me to help me manage the sales pitch.

Which backfired. More on that later.

We entered the Toyota showroom and waited for one of the birds of prey to begin circling. We didn't have to wait long. I almost felt sorry for the young man who approached us. He looked twitchy and uncomfortable in his role. But, bless his heart, he worked it the best he could. I explained the car was for me, and that my son would be getting the current vehicle.

He proceeded to show us the Corolla, the only car in my price range that Toyota ever wants to sell me. I asked to see the Yaris, which is low man on the totem pole in the showroom. He showed me one they used as a loaner but said they didn't have any for sale on the lot, so I was discouraged from buying one. He also offered up the Scion, which I discovered they are trying to get rid of because they're not making them anymore.

Mr. Salesman then trundled off to crunch some numbers to compare the Scion and Corolla purchase price and monthly payments. It took him about 15 minutes. I'm not sure why, because he came back with a handwritten list that was probably copied over from something they have in the back office. There were no extra offers, just the manufacturer's current perks and a reduction for the amount I intended to put down.

He asked if I wanted to test drive the Scion. Sure, why not.

He couldn't find the keys. None of his cohorts could find the keys. After about five minutes of Keystone Cops, it was determined someone else was test driving the car.

I was tired and discouraged. I told the salesman I had to be somewhere soon, and could I please take the numbers with me. He said he had to xerox them first. We waited while, out of nowhere swooped another bird of prey, introducing himself as our salesman's father.

"How's he doing?" I was asked. I didn't realize I'd have to complete a performance appraisal. I murmured his son was doing just fine. Then he committed the cardinal sin, the one thing guaranteed to send me running for the door.

He started selling to my kid.

He assumed. Having ascertained my son recently graduated from college, he said there was a rebate for that. Also, special financing. He learned where my son went to high school and asked him if he knew Sam Schlabotnick. My son murmured yes, he did. Mr. Salesman Senior then went on to tell him he could ask Sam to tell him what a great salesperson he was.

This is why I'm not allowed to carry a gun.

Mr. Salesman Senior, getting desperate and obviously not understanding my increasing annoyance, ramped it up some more. He started talking to me about restaurants near the campus of my son's former college. I said, yes, I'd been to them both, and yes, they were fine eating establishments, as I grabbed the sheet of numbers from his son and edged my way toward the door.

Over his shoulder, I could hear Junior asking for my kid's phone number. A couple of "have a nice days" later, we finally made our escape.

I went home and did the Consumer Reports thing on the cars I had seen. (Yes, yes, I know I should have done that first.) Reluctantly, I had to admit, the Corolla was the best car for the money. Which is why it is Toyota's bread and butter.

Two days later I went online and made an appointment at a different Toyota dealership. I got a woman salesperson. Good move. She was professional and mature. Not too chatty. Not smarmy at all. She knew her stuff.

The funny thing was, she sliced the numbers in a completely different manner, but the monthly payment came out about the same as the first place I'd shopped.

No matter how comfortable I may have felt with the salesperson, when I finally emerged after signing all the paperwork, I still had the uncomfortable sensation of being eviscerated.

To top off the whole wonderful experience, I received an email from the dealership where I finally purchased the car saying, essentially, could I please shit or get off the pot and let them know if I was interested in buying a car from them or not because they wanted to update their records.

My response wasn't snarky at all. For me.

P.S.  Just picked up my new car...all is forgiven!

Shadows in the Classroom

We wandered the old classrooms, partly in search of mementos, partly in search of old memories.

Yesterday, Mr. Ginley's old grammar school began selling off old desks, chairs, textbooks and other classroom materials. They closed the facility a few years ago, and we weren't sure if the sale signaled the end of any hopes of another school coming in. If new owners had other plans. Or if it meant the building was going to be demolished.

I took the day off so we could take a look-see.

Mr. began pointing out the classrooms he had been in. The cloak room where he removed his soggy boots before class. The windows that used to be casement style and opened in the early fall and late spring, now permanently sealed shut. Bits and pieces of memories. But mostly, he walked through deep in thought.

I trailed, feeling sadness at the silence. No shuffling of feet. Or chalk dust. (Just dust.) No cacophony of young voices. No lingering energy. Just classrooms filled with chairs tucked neatly under desks. A former science room. A music room that housed percussion instruments and a box filled with sheet music. A primary classroom with blocks and bric-a-brac for creative learning. All of it for sale.

We had decided ahead of time to select a couple of chairs. We'd picked up two of them from another sale at another school many moons ago and found them to be very useful around the house.

So, as Mr. reminisced, I began to search. At the end of our journey, we found stacks of old wooden chairs with metal legs. We selected three, which turned out to be slightly different in size. It was a challenge to find three that were in decent condition (no wobbly back or legs). And that did not have initials etched with a pen knife. Or male genitalia in graphic detail. (How did they manage to carve all that without the teacher noticing?)

Included in our purchase were maps of the building by floor. And an old yardstick -- there was much speculation about whether any of the marks on the well-worn implement could have been made by use of force on Mr. Ginley. (At our school, the nuns used rulers, but when I asked, my husband pointed out the additional 24 inches increased the range of reach.)

We paid for our purchases and loaded them into the car. It will be bittersweet for my husband to have a piece of his childhood living in our home. A comfort, in a way.

But also a reminder of the shadows that live only in memory.