When I was in school, kids actually went to school.  Now, attending school is a by-product of Teacher-in-service days; Science Camps; and choir tours.

I joined choir, not because I loved to sing, but because the choir room was next to the lunch room.  And, choir was right before lunch.  The bell would ring, and we’d be first in line for the 15 cent milkshakes!  Then, came the news that we had to go on “Choir Tour”.  We journeyed by school bus to the southern part of the state, staying in some nasty hotel rooms.  If I knew then what I know now… I would have teased the dog next door until he bit my leg off.

Today, choir tours involve international travel.  England, France, Germany, anywhere where they have funny pants.  Choirs are taken much more seriously today.  They sing the same music, use the same risers, even use the same unisex gowns.  Someone named “Mandy” wrote her name in felt marker on the inside of the one I had to wear.

After 2 years of singing in a choir, I had had enough.  Singing in unison so we could sing in harmony seemed to defeat the whole purpose for me.  I did find a certain joy in singing; just not singing like that.  And, as my voice changed it took me decades to get to the point where I could control it again.

Nobody… NOBODY taught me more about singing harmony than the Eagles.  A Southern California band that had members from Detroit; Dallas; Jacksonville; and somewhere in Nebraska.  They MET in Southern California, so I guess they earned their moniker there.

I learned more listening to an Eagles album than in 2 years singing in a choir.  How to find and sing a harmony line, how to match the phrasing and to meld my voice behind the lead vocal.

Back to my original thought; I’m not saying I don’t think teachers deserve in-service days.  They do.  They deserve a whole helluva lot more.  I also believe that the study of music would be more than helpful to a lot of kids.  Especially in mathematics.

While parents bemoan the loss of athletic programs and art programs and music programs, maybe they should bemoan the loss of academic programs as well.  Schools wouldn’t run out of money due to having to close the school due to snow for a week, if the kids stayed in school long enough to get through the curriculum in the first place.  Just my opinion.

I wish I’d have had the foresight to take more art and music classes.  I took all the athletics I could handle.  If I had taken more art classes, I might be able to make a stick drawing that actually looks like something now.  If I had taken more music classes, without having to drag a tuba up and down the road, I might know the difference between a C flat and a B natural.

But I didn’t, I don’t, and it’s not for me to say.  So Miss Byrd, wherever you may be, your Playmate of the Month good looks got us to pay attention… but we were only there for the 15 cent milkshakes.

It seems that every month there’s a new reality show being debuted. “Superstars”, or “Cougar”, or “Bachelorette who used to be a Bachelor” (coming soon to FOX!). And, I do understand that they’re very inexpensive to produce, and in these economic times advertising money isn’t flowing as freely as it was 5 years ago. These reality shows are literally putting writing staffs out of work. They still need some writers for the witty banter given to a woman from Boise who can’t put two words together, much less two teeth. Because, as you know, Reality TV is far from being actually being “Real”.

But, I digress. Reality TV is actually good for us. You, Me, as well as your neighbor who tells you they don’t even have a TV, but knows who just got kicked off the island. How is it good for us?

If you’re anything like me, you’ve stopped watching TV. I have been a TV junkie. I admit it. But, in the last 15 years, I’ve slowly walked away. Especially network TV; or Reality TV (they’re one and the same).

They’ve forced me to write more; walk more; go to the pub more; make new friends; see new things; see old things; just plain go out and have a life! So, embrace Reality TV. It’s the Golden Age Of Television for your kids! Someday, they’ll be watching The Real World, Keeping Up With The Kardasians, and The Cougar saying “THIS is television, THIS is the good stuff!”

It’s enough to make you bite your own arm off.

Hiding under an awning, in a tshirt that was a little too clingy for my self-esteem, I watched as others hurried by. All being drenched by this ocean falling from the sky. Some gave up, walking in laughter at the predicament they found themselves in. Some were very upset about their hair. Some walked with umbrellas that had been turned inside out by the accompanying wind.

And then, the thunder began. I suppose there was lightening too, but since it was daylight it was hard to tell unless you happen to be looking directly at where the lightning was about to be. And, if you’ve ever tried to photograph lightening, you know how hard this is. I have, and failed. Not miserably, but enough to cause the negatives to be lost in the sea of negatives only to be found by my family long after I’m gone and buried.

But, back to the thunder. In a large downtown area, surrounded by concrete, the sound was multiplied and echoed endlessly. But it was that first initial blast of sound directly overhead that made me grin like a squirrel in the Planters Tasting Room. I wanted to live in that sound, I wanted it swirling around me, teasing me from the left, surprising me from the right. It was miraculous.

I’ve always been fascinated with sound. From recording my first rainstorm when I was 14; to listening to my one and only earthquake experience. The sound of a jet plane engine as the forward power is applied; the heavy foot of a drummer hitting that bass drum with all her might. (Yes, I just saw a female drummer do this, amazing!) Even the plucking of a bass guitar, specifically Paul McCartney’s in 1990, causing my shirt to vibrate from 50 yards away. Sound fascinates me.

However, it’s gotta be that pure sound. The dirty, over-compressed, over-driven sound from today’s guitars, rather bore me. I’ve been in the venues where the sound was so loud that my ears began to distort. The sound didn’t change, my ears simply couldn’t take it! That doesn’t do a thing for me. And, I know some people who think that’d would’ve been the ultimate rock show.

I’ve paid the price for all that listening. My ears aren’t what they used to be. I’m by no means deaf, but I know I miss out on a few things in a crowded restaurant. Things like that. Or, maybe it’s just that I don’t pay that much attention any more. It takes effort to engage me these days. Gone are the days of utter fascination with anyone with a story to tell. You’re gonna have to have a good story to capture and keep my attention. Because the more I look around, the more really good stories there are out there. I want to move on to those good stories, and waylay the ignorant ones.

So, enthrall me. Take my attention and rivet it. Whisper in my ear, and capture my heart forever. Either that, or shut-up and let me listen to the thunder.

The trees, the rocks, and the grass were all slippery wet with the morning dew that came 12 hours too soon. The sounds of the forest were dampened so that her footsteps and her breathing were all there was to be had.

She walked slower now, coming across the boulder that she was expecting to find 15 minutes ago. Climbing to the top of it was no easy feat, but sitting there in triumph after conquering it was worth the effort.

As the silence eerily creeps over the woods, she understands what it means to be alone. She may only be a mile from a warm fire and dry clothes, but it may take her the rest of the night to navigate back to them.

The slightest of breezes passes by her ear, as if calling her name. She shivers ever so slightly. Her fears begin to creep back into her head. What was becoming comfortable is now a dread. No one knows where she is. Panic begins to grow in her belly. The cold and dampness seems to have grown ten fold from what it was just minutes ago.

Her eyes dart around her, seeking movement, but she sees none. Her instincts tell her to run. Run back to the cabin in the clearing, but she’s unsure of which direction it is. The panic inside her grows, hungry for more power over her.

She slides down off the rock. Her body shakes from the cold, from the fear, and from realizing that this must be what her sister felt the night she died, in the same spot.

In that 3 and a half seconds that he looked down, she vanished. Like tears in a rainstorm, she was gone. He walked 3 feet this way, then 4 feet that way. His wandering eyes never lighting upon her again.

Was she an aparition? Was she even there at all? Was she just a cruel trick played upon him by his own unconscious self?

He felt a tear well up in his right eye. The beauty that was shown him, may never be seen again. He was amazed at the strength the vision, the ghost, the woman, made on him in mere seconds. Was it what is commonly called “Love at first sight”? Was this what that felt like?

He continued to stand there. To anyone else, he appeared like a child who had lost his parents. Not knowing which way to turn. To leave, was to admit defeat as well as negate any shred of possibility of seeing her again. To stay was to believe in ghosts, visions, and love at first sight.

He sighed heavily. Took one last deep breath, and is tapped on the shoulder. He turns to see her standing before him, her hand offered to his. “I’m sorry, I had to meet you. My name’s Erin…”

I can hear the river beyond the bushes. I know it’s cold water; really cold water. The car headlights are shining through the trees, but they’re focused on nothing. I thought the pain might be a little more harsh than it is. I s’pose breaking your back has some merit.

College is where I started to flail. Going to class was much harder. I s’pose that’s when I lost control of some things. When folks say they “experiemented” in college, I understand now. But, it wasn’t until I was out of college that I understood what that meant.

Funny how the cold makes you unable to move your legs. Or, maybe my legs are just gone. I can’t look down, I can’t feel them, I can’t do anything except this damned breathing. In, out, over and over.

Then, there was Marie. I should’ve fought harder, and married that girl. She was perfect. Sure, she was messy, but so was I. And, she did her “experimenting” with other girls’ boyfriends later on… okay, so maybe she wasn’t perfect. But, who is at that age? At any age?

You know, I’m gettin’ kinda sleepy. Is that a good thing? It would sure be nice to get some sleep and wake up tomorrow refeshed, so I can climb out of this gully or wherever I am. I’m not light-headed, so I can’t be bleeding anywhere. Right? I guess some First Aid classes would come in handy right about now. I’ll have to do that as soon as I recover. I might get a couple days off work for this!

I hear something… someone! I can’t yell, though… why can’t I yell? The breathing is stopping too. Oh, god… They’re going to walk right past me! No, they’re coming back!

Mom!?!

“What the hell am you doing?” He asked his reflection in the mirror. The mirror didn’t answer, so he continued combing his hair into the same style that he’s used for more than twenty five years. The clock he won at the fair 4 years ago reads 6:15. He’s got forty-five minutes to get to the other side of town.

He’d showered, shaved, trimmed for the second time today. He figured it would keep him occupied until it was time to go, and that time was coming up fast.

“This is stupid.” he says as he pulls on the new-ish black pants. He mulls over the many reasons not to go anywhere. “I have nothing to offer. I’m too old to be doing this. It’s a waste of her time.” he says in dismay. Although he tries, he can’t come up with a single reason for continuing on. He sits on the edge of the bed and looks at his feet. One with a sock and a shoe, one bare naked.

“What’s the point? I mean, who wants to go out with a guy who talks to himself!” He says pulling the other sock on.

It’s been 2 years. Sometimes she thinks it hasn’t been long enough, but she had agreed to go.

“This is just going to be a bumble-f**k.” She says giving her eyes a little extra black eyeliner. The cat doesn’t answer, just tilts her head from the top of the toilet. “Talk me out of it, Sammy. I’m damaged goods, why would someone want to spend a couple hours talking to me?” She waits for a reply, but receives nothing more than a cat stare. Sammy, a well-worn Tabby, has become used to one sided dialogue. She doesn’t care, as long as the can-opener continues to whir twice a day.

“A lotta help you are.” she says as she slips the v-neck sweater on. She slides her hands in and adjusts herself in her bra. “I need all the help I can get!”

He slips his jacket on and checks himself out in the mirror. He sticks his hand down his pants and adjusts himself. “Comfort above everything else.” he says to no one in particular. Walking to the kitchen he opens the refridgerator and looks inside. “You’re going out to dinner, dips**t.” he says closing the refidgerator. He flips off the light switch for the kitchen, then the dining room. Walking to the living room, he turns on the light there. His hand reaches for the door handle. But, he freezes.

“This is so ridiculous.” He says with a big sigh. He stares himself down in the mirror. “Just go! This is no different than any other time you go downtown.” The reassurance doesn’t help. With an emmence amount of will power, he finds himself outside. He walks to the car and slides in. He prays to all that is automotive that the car won’t start. It starts right up. “Damn.” He says.

She checks her watch. It’s almost seven. She should’ve made it for seven-thirty. Just a little more time to calm her nerves, that’s all she needs. Just a little more time. Maybe she should wear a different top. “These pants are a little too tight, aren’t they?” she thinks to herself, turning around and looking in the mirror. “I look like a frickin’ whore.” she says examining herself. She pulls her purse to her chest and opens it. Scrounging around she finds her lipstick. She applies a slight coat, and tosses the tube back in the purse.

She stares at herself in the mirror, consciously trying to slow down her breathing. She slowly shakes her head, when Sammy winds herself around her legs. “Sammy! You’re shedding!” she says loudly, as she rushes upstairs to find the lint brush. She checks drawers in the bathroom, then the bedroom. She does this at least twice a week, but can never find the lint brush. She spools off about two feet of scotch tape and begins to pull the cat hair from her pants legs. Cursing under her breath, she checks her hair and make-up one more time. That’s when she hears the knock on the door.

Rushing downstairs, she takes a big breath and opens the door wide with a big smile.

It’s hot.  I think my hair is sweating.

It’s hot.  Nothing says “I Love You” like an air conditioning unit.  What’dya think of me so far?

It’s hot.  I’m slow and bloated from all the water and other liquids I drink.

It’s hot.  I’m not sweating; I’m glistening.

It’s hot.  But it’s a dry heat.  A dry heat that’s giving me the dry heaves as I die from heat exposure.

It’s hot.  Women in tank tops.  ’nuff said.

It’s hot.  Young girls in bikini tops.  Why didn’t they look like that when I was much younger?

It’s hot.  Temper’s flare for no reason.  Except that they’re hot.

It’s hot.  I have a new found brotherhood with the Thanksgiving turkey.

It’s hot.  The sounds of my fans are deafening at two in the morning.

It’s hot.  This morning I was sweating in the shower.

It’s hot.  Sleep will not come.

And now I’ve got nothing.  Don’t get me wrong, having that information can indeed be a burden.  One such non-disclosure document is still in effect!  What’s come to my attention recently is that I’ve come to notice that it felt good to be trusted with information like that, and I miss it.

It’s not that it was what defined me; it’s more of a self-confidence booster.  Something that I’m lacking at the moment.   That may be why I think about it now.  At the end of the day,  I’m good at holding information.  I’m also good at disseminating it, when appropriate.

And, the worst question anyone can ask me?  “Tell me about yourself.”  My life is full of secrets, and none of them are proprietary.  I still don’t know how to answer that question.