Now, where was I?

Well, a dear friend notified me that it has been a year since I've written in my blog.

I knew I was forgetting something.

Well, that's gonna change!

My blog is back, now there's gonna be some chuckles
Hey la, hey la, my blog is back.
The only thing that rhymes with chuckles is buckles,
Hey la, hey la, my blog is back.
Yeah! It's gonna be so funny.
Yeah! It won't be makin' any money.
Hey la, Hey la, my blog is back.
Hey, my blog is back,
oh oh yeah, my blog is back,
WTF my blog is back,
Oh yeah.

Alright, everybody! See you next year!

Hair Redux Redux

After writing my recent post about the musical Hair I started thinking about draft card burning and what it meant in my younger days. I remembered this record that was popular at that time.

It is called "A Letter To My Teenage Son" by Victor Lundberg.

I think it is worth a listen.

Hair redux

I had the pleasure of seeing a fine production of the musical Hair the other night and clearly it has held up much better than I have. I first saw it almost 40 years ago (OMFG!), but to me the music is still exceptional and I found this performance to be extremely moving.

I'm not sure how someone who has viewed the Vietnam War filtered through the pages of a history book is going to feel about this show, but, really, is the Iraq war so much different?

There might have been was a bit less torture in those days.

Before the performance began the artistic director made a point of explaining that the bits of paper being burned near the end of the first act were Draft Cards. (Remember when it was a crime to burn a piece of paper?)

The concept of a government that could pluck you out of your comfortable, everyday existence and drop you into a nightmare 8,000 miles away is something that is foreign to contemporary society.

Today's government just deceives you into going to war and then won't let you come home when you're time is up.

I agree with this reviewer when he says that the key to this production is in the song "Where Do I Go?". When I saw the show in my 20's I related strongly to that theme.

"Why do I live?," cries a confused young man. "Why do I die?"

Back then I thought as I grew older (if I grew older) I'd some day know the answer to those questions.

I was wrong.

They Tried To Do A Renovation, I said No, No, No.

I headed over to my local inexpensive Chinese place the other day, eager to partake of their 4.95 lunch special. The chicken with hot pepper and peanut is a particular favorite of mine, and they make the best at Guo's.

Imagine my shock and awe when I approached the rather shabby storefront and saw a sign proclaiming "Closed for Renovation". Inside a couple of workmen were mulling over some blueprints while a circular saw whined nearby.

It was clear. Change was in the air, and a single thought immediately leaped into my head.

I shamefully prayed they hadn't discarded the oil from the deep fryer.

Countless battered chicken wings, breaded baby shrimp, and thickly crusted egg rolls had made that oil just a bit less viscous than a good quality 10W30, yet somehow it had mystically retained the spirit of all that had fried before. Whatever was placed in that oil emerged with a wonderful flavor of all it's past denizens.

It makes my mouth water just to think about it.

I noticed the owner standing by the window looking in. I walked over and asked, "Guo? What's going on?"

"Had to make renovation. Inspector say so."

"Inspector?", I asked, shocked. "Not the health inspector?"

"No, no", he said, sounding a bit offended. "Building inspector. Bad floor."

"Ah," I said, as if I knew something about bad floors.

After a decent interval had passed I had to ask, "What about the, um, er,..."

"The oil?" said Guo, knowingly.

"Oil?" I said, trying to sound nonchalant. "What oil?"

"You twenty-fifth customer to ask today. Oil fine. I keep in back. Soon as renovation over, oil go back in fryer."

I breathed an inner sigh of relief. Maybe not so inner, as Guo said, "You happy now?"

"Yes, very happy. How long until you open again?"

"One week."

I silently damned the building inspector. One week without chicken with hot pepper and peanut? A grim prospect. Very grim prospect.

I walked glumly over a couple of blocks to the another Chinese restaurant that I had noticed but never used. A bright, teenage girl stood behind the counter wearing a crisp white apron. "May I take your order?" she perked.

As I spoke she noted each item on a neatly lined notepad. When I was finished she asked "Would you like an egg roll with that?"

"I don't know. Are they any good?"

"They should be," she smiled happily. "We just changed the oil today."

Ham And Eggs

I was talking to my dad the other day and asking him what it was like when he was growing up. He'll be celebrating his 84th birthday in a couple of weeks which means he was born in 1924, which means he was 10 years old in 1934, the midst of the Great Depression. I was wondering how those times compared with our current economic problems.

He thought for a moment. "My father used to say 'If we had ham we'd have ham and eggs. If we had eggs.'" Dark humor from his father (my Grandfather) who I always remember as a pretty happy-go-lucky guy. Family legend has it that he spent some time as a bootlegger and I remember him telling stories about how he would outrun "The Feds" by speeding through the woods in an old Model T Ford. And on those occasions when I went riding with him he often demonstrated the prowess needed to lose a persistent Treasury agent.

If we had ham we'd have ham and eggs.

If we had eggs.

For my father, I guess, that sums up the Great Depression.

These days it's considered a hardship to pay four and a half dollars a gallon for gas while fretting about how to lose those last stubborn fifty pounds.

Certainly that's a problem, but not quite as serious as worrying about where your next meal is going to come from.

I've heard stories of people filling up their tanks at the gas station and taking off from the pump without paying. Just floor it and head for the woods.

Grandpa would be so proud.

By 1944 my father was in basic training on his way to earning a Purple Heart at Saipan.

I haven't heard him complain about the price of gas lately.