BoomSpeak

Party People

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partypeopleE  S  S  A  Y  It’s said that the skill in attending a party is knowing when to leave. I’ve never been very good at that. I always arrive as close to time as I dare and I’m usually the last to leave. I just don’t want the fun to be over, you see. I don’t see any merit in leaving when there’s still a good time to be had, and who knows what can happen after the crowd disperses? Many, many times, I’ve had the best time after a party’s over and just a few people linger to sit back to talk while finishing the food and drink. That’s when it gets intimate and insightful. When I was a kid my mother used to say about me, “Oh, she’s just afraid she’s going to miss something,” and it’s still true of me today. I just don’t understand parties where everything closes down before midnight.

On a deeper level I’ve always hung around life’s parties far too long, too, even when things started to turn ugly and, every time, I overstayed to my own detriment. Eventually, though, I’d see the convoluted mess around me and I’d up and leave without notice, without warning, without regret. Not all “parties” that begin with promising fanfare end prettily. Oftentimes, life’s floor is strewn with the bodies of those who couldn’t hold up. I’ve never enjoyed that kind of thing; for me it’s about developing relationships, not numbing out or looking the other way.

I’m finding as I get older that my ability to hold up has lessened a great deal. Sure, I still don’t want the fun to be over, but some things haven’t been fun for a very long time. All I see is bodies, trampled confetti, and a huge mess that no one has the strength or the will to clean up. The fun has turned into pain and anger so I’m out the door. I refuse to be a casualty of those who, through their rage, lash out at each other as well as everyone else in the room. I won’t stick around for the fistfight; when the accusations, backstabbing, shaming, hexing, and dragging everyone at the party through the mud begins, I leave.

This probably is a character flaw on my part; I’m willing to accept that I can no longer hold up. But I’ve finally learned the art of leaving at the right time, or at least I hope I have. When the music ends, the overhead lights come on, and people are passing out, it’s time to assess the situation. The party isn’t pretty anymore, and it never will be ever again. It’s time to go.

SK Waller is an author and composer. Books One and Two (With A Dream and With A Bullet) of her rock and roll series, Beyond The Bridge,  takes places in late 70s London. Read more at SK Waller Blog and SKWaller.com.

Up In Smoke

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marijuanaE  S  S  A  Y    Put down that bong or that doobie and listen up. According to the Addiction Journal (your read that right, there’s a journal for addiction. Once you start reading it, you can’t stop) there has been a 71% increase in marijuana use for people over 50 from 2006 to 2013.

Let that sink in for a minute. So maybe a fair number of baby boomers are smoking pot for medical reasons. Look at any alternative newspaper and the back pages are filled with ads for medical marijuana dispensaries (if that’s legal in your state). Boomers suffering with pain, glaucoma, Alzheimer’s, arthritis, nausea or loss of appetite have all benefited from medical marijuana, but what about the rest of you stoners?

Some baby boomers never stopped smoking pot. From their teen years until now, they have been getting high the same way others have a cocktail every night at 5pm. Then there are the newcomers who have taken to smoking pot because they are lucky enough to live in a state where it’s legal or they live in a state where it’s illegal but everyone can get their hands on it anyway. Marijuana does not have the scare power that it used to.

Study researchers see no particular harm in this increased usage by older citizens, as they assume that these pot smokers are experienced users who know their limits. The risk of falls was cited as one possible adverse effect, however you would have to think that baby boomers who are really high are also not in the mood to stand up. So there’s that.

Researchers believe more studies should be done to see there can be any actual harm to older Americans from continued use of cannabis. As they say in New York, fuhgettaboutit. Even for a publication called Addiction Journal, it’s a little crazy to waste any effort studying the effect of pot smoking on baby boomers.

My mother said it best. “Ladies and gentlemen, take my advice. Pull down your pants and slide on the ice.”

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. He’s written a mystery novel, which therefore makes him a pre-published author.

A Street Curb Named Desire

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parallelparkingE  S  S  A  Y   I read recently about the various quirks we humans have, and was reassured to find that I’m not alone in some of my behavior. And I’m not sure if the failure to master parallel parking falls under the heading of an endearing quirk (probably not) or, more likely, complete ineptitude on my part. Whichever area you assign it, it’s pretty much been the bane of my vehicular existence for the last forty plus years.

I didn’t get my license until I was 20 and a junior in college.  I wasn’t that interested in driving, had friends to squire me about, and it simply didn’t hold the allure for me that it did for lots of other kids my age. My Dad, an incredibly kind and patient man, understandably seemed a little more tense with me by the time I followed my three brothers to a license. While I knew all the rules of the road and was conscientious about following the speed limit and using the signal indicator, parallel parking was a bugaboo I simply couldn’t conquer. We practiced it ad nauseum, but I think his unflagging patience was tried to its limit with me. Finally, the day of the road test came and I was of course pretty nervous about the parking portion of the test, which came last. I passed the driving portion with flying colors, and then carefully pulled into the designated parking spot between two orange cones. If memory serves, this maneuver took two or three tries. I knew I was in trouble when the young officer opened the passenger door, leaned his head out and asked, “What do you want me to do, lady, take a boat to the curb?!” He passed me anyway, either out of pity, not wanting to have to repeat the experience, or a combination of the two.

That was then, this is now. I don’t know if it was turning 65 recently or simply chagrin with myself for being so incompetent for so long in this one area, but I decided to embrace parallel parking. Okay, embrace is too strong. I now deliberately choose spots on the street that require me to use the parallel parking skills that my contemporaries mastered years ago. No pulling in head first for me, no sir! I’m not saying it’s always pretty; it isn’t. It takes two or three tries sometimes, and frequently involves the tires scraping the curb as I settle in. But I’m doing it, and I’m 65! Now if I could only learn how to use chopsticks….

Barbara Tulli is a retired elementary school librarian in Virginia. Now she devotes more time to writing, reading, traveling and sleeping past 5:15 AM. Read more at her blog Just Beyond the Tracks.

Hotel Humanity

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hotelhumanityT R A V E L   It has long been a secret desire of mine to spend my life living in a hotel. It doesn’t matter where, although the larger the city, the more appealing that life becomes. If money were no object, if family could re-adjust the values I planted in them about hearth and home, kith and kin, yeah, I could live indefinitely in a hotel. Sure, having your room cleaned, your laundry washed, and your bed made by someone else every day, not to mention the convenience of hotel restaurants, room service, reduced long-term rates and all that, makes it a sweet trade off for utility bills and fees we pay to “sit tight,” but there’s more to it than that. Hotel life isn’t for people with children, dependent elderly parents, or collectors of Hummel figurines, but it works for some people.

It doesn’t matter in what city I’ve stayed, or what hotel. As long as they have a bar the clientele never changes. There’s the woman in the slinky dress sitting on the corner of the bar sipping a split of champagne. Is she a hooker? Hard to tell. There’s the older businessman, distracted, but eyeing the women from either the end of the bar or from a table while he tries to look important as he makes text after text. There’s the loudmouth who bellows about his room, the service, the price of the drinks, anything he can think of. Anything to be noticed by everyone else, who largely ignores him. He’s the one who pisses off the bartender, who angrily throws the empty beer bottles in the trash with a deafening clang while she impatiently watches the last fifteen minutes of her shift tick by on the clock. There’s the couple, usually sitting at a corner table kissing and nuzzling, preparing to go upstairs to their room for a night of wild monkey love. There’s the dad who slipped down to the bar for a beer (no glass) after his wife and kids finally fell alseep in their room. There’s the group of conventioneers complaining about the traffic and sweating themselves through glasses of Jim Beam and gobbling the overpriced burger plate while trying to outdo each with how early their wake up calls are going to come in. And then there’s me, sitting at the bar, largely invisible, listening to the conversations and studying the human condition.

Yeah. That’s what I love about hotel life. It’s not about the room or the service or the little soaps, it’s about the people. Forget the gym, forget the pool, forget the spa. The bar is the only place you’ll encounter hotel humanity.

Steph Waller is an author and composer. Books One and Two (With A Dream and With A Bullet) of her rock and roll series, Beyond The Bridge,  takes places in late 70s London. Read more at Bucksnort Chronicles and SKWaller.com.

I’ll Give You A Driveway Moment

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drivewaymomentF I C T I O N   You want a driveway moment? I’ll give you a driveway moment. No, it’s not some sad, uplifting, or enlightening story I’m listening to on NPR. And it’s not a favorite golden oldie on WWAM. Nor am I out here in the car contemplating the theory of relativity.

I’m sitting in the car that is parked in my driveway because I don’t want to go inside my house – at least not yet. Because when I walk through that door I have to be an adult who worries about my spouse (who thinks I take our marriage for granted), about my grown children (who won’t leave home), and about my parents (who may soon need to go into a home), and about planning for retirement (a train that has long since left the station).

Driving home from work I was able to find respite from all these wonderful topics, but now that I’m in the driveway, the only thing between me and the boogey man is the sanctity of my car. It may be old and have over 150,000 miles on it, but the seats still smell leathery and I am comfortable behind the wheel. I know everything about this car. The new tires on the back, each of the disc brake rotors I’ve had replaced, the new radiator hoses, it’s all documented in my mind. Really, when I think about it, I realize I have replaced 50-60% of the car by now. But the sound system is still A-1 so I can listen to some soothing classical music while working up the courage to leave the comfort of my “cabin.” Might as well put the seat in the reclining position to see if that will lessen the throbbing sensation in my frontal lobe. That’s working. I can already feel my heart rate slowing down, my hands have stopped clenching, and the damp brow is drying off.

I feel transported to a better place – a place where no demands are made of me. When I’m hungry, food appears. When I’m drowsy, a soft bed is there for me. Everyone speaks softly and we are gentle with one another. The sense is that everyone is solicitous without verging on obsequious. This is good – very good.

A loud rapping noise on my window shatters the reverie into a thousand tiny pieces. My son is staring at me through the fogged up window and mouthing some words. I’m confused – I don’t know what he’s trying to tell me. He makes a motion that I should lower the window, and I comply.

“Can you move your car so I can get mine out?”

No hello. No how are you. Doesn’t ask if I’m okay. Just stands there looking idiotic wearing a backward ballcap, waiting for me to move on, so that he can move on.

Fine. Until tomorrow then. This driveway moment is over.

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. He’s written a mystery novel, which therefore makes him a pre-published author.

Talk to Me

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F I C T I O N   talkingpasteachother“Dad and I are buying a condo near Boulder.”

“Why?”

“So we can all be together on the weekends.”

“And do what?”

“You and Huston and Lola can board; Dad and I will ski.”

“Mom, I’m not into Boulder yet. Why are you jumping on Colorado? Remember my applications to Tulane and Miami? Where’s my flannel? I threw it in the laundry room yesterday. Can’t find it. I’m meeting up with Guy and Finn in thirty. Can we move on this? Chop, chop.”

“Don’t be disrespectful. I’m at the end of my rope….and prescription.”

“Chill mom. What prescription? I thought you were in a twelve step; sounds like not!”

“None of your business. I hope you never have to deal with three little whiners. The last time you even said ‘thank you’ was when we gave you the Beemer on your birthday. Now, nothing! No ‘please,’ no ‘thank you’ just a bunch of demands that make me crazy. One year of college for you, not to mention the other two kids, is going to cost more than I spent on Dr. Steinmetz all of last year. Botox isn’t cheap and if you add in the spa trips…well it’s a lot!

“Mom, get it together. Find my flannel so I can get going. I need your card, out of gas.”

“Take the Amex Black but don’t tell Dad. He’s so freaked out about everything these days. No humor, nothing. He’s thinking of selling the winery because it’s running at a loss. I told him, “Winery? Are you crazy? You only drink Scotch and what the hell do you know about wine? The Brownleys are a bad influence hon and just because they like wine doesn’t mean you had to buy a winery! God, you’re such a doormat. To be honest, you’re way too nice to Drake and Gina. Did you see that rock on her finger at the club last night? I wonder what she had to do to get that! Fake, fake, fake and I hope that diamond’s fake too. Would serve her right!”

“Mom, calm! Don’t beat Dad up! I’m outta here. Screw the flannel…later!”

“Text me, Linden, and don’t forget to pick up Huston at practice. Did you see my phone?”

“On the table, Mom. It buzzed. Gina.”

Kim Kohler writes on the uncertainties of living in a liberal hot spot where everybody has an opinion, every opinion counts and nobody uses turn signals.

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