The small town that makes me “ooh” and “ahh.”

[Apologetic Note: This blog entry begs for photos. It screeeams for at least a couple photographic examples of what I witnessed, moon-wise and fireworks-wise, over the Fourth of July. However, I’m not currently too skilled at nighttime photography, and I was also on a crowded pontoon boat where setting up a tripod and immersing myself in experimentation mode wasn’t exactly an option. So, um...please use your imagination. Thank you.]

There’s something to be said for small-town fireworks. And on the Fourth of July, that “something” was, “Ooh.” And, “Ahh.”

We watched the fireworks from what is quickly becoming my favorite place to see the night sky light up...on a pontoon boat on a small inland lake in northern Wisconsin.

Three times I’ve been a passenger as we slowly make our way over the glasslike water shortly after dusk, passing the silhouettes of the trees and buildings surrounding the lake as the last hues of pink and orange and salmon disappear from the sky.

And one of my favorite sights is even before the fireworks begin, as we move to join the armada of already anchored boats on the water’s surface, their guide lights identifying them, residents and visitors to the lake preparing to be bedazzled by the light show to celebrate the holiday.

This year we had to wait until about a half-hour after dusk, but I didn’t mind the wait, as others grew a bit impatient. I just soaked it all in, and stared at the brilliant moon disappearing behind the clouds, and then peeking back out again through a hole that seemed to be expertly positioned in the clouds just to give us one more view.

Part of the fun of being out on the pontoon boat is hearing the reactions of the handful of kids along for the show.

The “oohs” and “ahhs” aren’t the same if they’re not sprinkled in with one little girl’s reaction as she sees her first-ever fireworks display. She must have exclaimed, “A fiyah-wook!!” a couple dozen times as the sky lit up.

And no matter how excited I was to see them, I cannot duplicate the expression of a 4-year-old boy watching a colorful explosion in the sky and then screaming, “That was AWEsome!!”

I’ve seen some impressive fireworks displays in my years, from the days we’d spend all day on the beach in Two Rivers and then at night could see three sets of them going off down the lakeshore...from Two Rivers, Manitowoc, and, faintly, Sheboygan.

And Kohler has a great homey Americana feel to its celebration, with the Kiel band and just the right number of people in its small bowl-shaped park.

I don’t know if the small lakes in northern Wisconsin received a chunk of the stimulus package to spend on holiday celebrations, or what, but...the only display I’ve seen that was more impressive was on opening night of Summerfest a few years ago.

And that’s Milwaukee! To open the biggest musical celebration in the Midwest. Up Nort is most definitely not, um...Milwaukee.

This show had everything required for a spectacular display...the big explosions that seemed to fill the sky from top to bottom, the little fizzly ones that made curly, quirky patterns, a few good white-light boomers, plenty of static cling-sounding choices, and everything in between.

Plus the bonus of being right on the water, among so many other small boats.

At about three different times during the show, we thought it was coming to an end, and at one point I even said, “That’s the exclamation point on a great fireworks display!” But then...they kept going.

And my buddy a few seats away said, “No, Gregg. That was just a comma.”

How true, punctuationally speaking.

Because when the finale came...oh, we knew it! And it was AWEsome!!

So where’s the best place you’ve ever ooh-ed and ahh-ed?

“All architecture is great architecture
after sunset; perhaps architecture is really
a nocturnal art, like the art of fireworks.”
—Gilbert K. Chesterton

Where Have You Gone, Steven Page?

It probably doesn’t take too great of a leap to agree with the statement that, when listening to live music, the lead singer makes or breaks the experience.

But let me give you a bit of a back story as one example to the contrary.

Many years ago when I saw Sister Hazel for the first time, at the county fair in Wausau, the band was arriving very close to the starting time of its performance, and for whatever reason, the lead singer was on a different flight than the rest of the group, and his flight was delayed.

The event organizers pushed back the start of the concert for as long as they could, but eventually a decision had to be made, and Sister Hazel came out on stage, sans one lead singer.

“Great,” I thought. “Drove a couple hours to see a talented new band, and what am I going to see?”

Turns out, the rest of the group came on stage and rocked the crowd. The performance was definitely missing a certain unique voice, but the other band members covered surprisingly well, and to this day I joke about what a great performance Sister Hazel gave the first time I saw them…minus one very important member.

Fast forward to last weekend. Summerfest.

We’d discussed going down on Saturday, and a Barenaked Ladies concert at 10 p.m. was going to (hopefully) be the highlight of that day.

After a group of us made plans to meet on the Summerfest grounds, a buddy sent me a link late last week to a story that lead singer Steven Page had left BNL a few months earlier, after charges of drug possession were brought against him.

While I’m a pretty big fan of BNL, this was the first I’d heard of this change in the band’s lineup.

This news brought me even more concern than learning years before that I’d have to hear Sister Hazel without its frontman, because BNL was already well established, and had a dozen or so very big hits that depended heavily on Page’s unique lead voice.

But I had faith in the other members of the band, and we were all ready to give them a chance to keep us secured among their fandom.

The threat of rain kept us from getting to the stage at an early enough hour, and by the time we showed up, about 45 minutes early, the bleachers and tables and aisles and rows were all filled.

So we hung out in back, and then moved way off to the left side to get barely a glimpse of the stage, and when Barenaked Ladies finally came out, it was easy to tell very early on that they weren’t the same Barenaked Ladies.

They stuck to much of their newer music, which only the most dedicated fans could sing along to. Among the first five songs they played, we knew one, and even that one was a bit...flat...without Page belting out the vocals.

A buddy of mine who had no interest that night in seeing the BoDeans, tapped me on the shoulder during the fifth song and asked, “Wanna go over and check out the BoDeans?”

And that was the end of our BNL concert experience. I doubt we missed much during the next hour of their show. And until they fill the gaping void that is Steven Page’s absence, I may spend my time enjoying their music through my headphones rather than through giant loudspeakers next to a stage.

The BoDeans put on an impressive musical performance for those in the group who hadn’t seen them before, and they played two of my favorite songs as encores, so it made for a good move.

And coincidentally, a few of us hung around into Sunday and went back to the grounds later in the day to see (dramatic come-full-circle pause) Sister Hazel. With lead singer planted firmly in front of a microphone, and not on a late flight in.

Because of course, the lead singer really does make or break the musical experience.

Usually.

“When we started I wasn’t the singer.
I was the drunk rhythm guitarist
who wrote all these weird songs.”
—Robert Smith

Keeping My Fingers Crossed

I don’t fly much. It’s rare if I get up in the air once every year or two.

So when I do hop a flight, I pay attention. To people, things, conversations, etc. Here are a few observations from a plane to Las Vegas last weekend.

• I was seated in an exit row on both flights, which got me approximately two miles of leg room. At no extra charge!

When the flight attendant came and asked if I accepted the responsibilities of sitting in an exit row, I wanted to reply, “You mean the “responsibility” of stretching my legs all the way out every five minutes so I don’t cramp up on the four-hour flight? Yes! Absolutely!”

One lady on the trip home apparently didn’t want exit row responsibilities, because as she switched places with another passenger, she said, “That just creeps me out!”

• Perhaps it’s a sign of my simple mind, but it’s still almost magical to me that when a behemoth of a vehicle like that gets up to a certain speed, the ground slowly drops away and off we soar into the clouds. All by adjusting a couple little flappy things on the wings. (Probably has something to do with those big engines, too, right?)

• Before we left the runway, one of the passengers closed her window shade and leaned against the inside wall of the airplane, and a flight attendant said, “Ma’am, we ask that you keep your window shade up during takeoff.”

Which made me immediately wonder to myself, “If that’s so the pilot can turn around and check his blind spot for runway traffic, I think maybe I’ll drive.”

• On a related note, after we were up in the air, the pilot announced over the speaker that there were some signs of turbulence ahead, “...but we’re just going to keep our fingers crossed and hope that it isn’t too severe.”

Wait, what? First we have blind spots, now we have our “fingers crossed”? Where did I put my car keys??

• As we flew, I determined that the term “turbulence” as it relates to ground travel is akin to driving an Amish buggy down an old cobblestone street. You might get jostled and bumped around a bit, but for the most part it’s no big deal.

Of course, in an Amish buggy, you don’t get that occasional dip that makes you wonder if the pilot is in the cockpit using the joystick that controls the plane to play a video game.

• It seems as though many passengers use a flight as an opportunity to start a new book, as all readers in my vicinity, without exception, were no further than page 20 as we began our flight.

• When it comes to seatmates, it helps if you feel at least somewhat comfortable being near them. Because while I’m of a certain size in which I fill my seat rather completely, and the lady next to me was of generally the same size, when we both leaned back to catch some high-altitude Z’s, it almost felt as if we were, um...cuddling.

We’ve since become a couple that argues about who gets to use the arm rest.

• The girl in front of me didn’t need to request a pillow to be comfortable. She just used her boyfriend/husband’s shoulder. The whole...way...out. (Hope he wasn’t pitching in a big game last weekend.)

• As the beverage cart passes up and down the aisle, it inadvertently bumps shoulders, elbows, etc., and during one pass, the flight attendant said, “Sorry. Sorry! Wide load!” (insert dramatic pause here) “The cart! I mean the cart!” she said, providing a free chuckle.

• Safety note: When using the airplane bathroom, please be sure that all ties, necklaces, shoestrings and hanging appendages are firmly secured before flushing the toilet. Or you might just get sucked right out of the plane!

As we descended upon Las Vegas, looking out the window at Lake Mead and the natural landscape below us, seeing the city in the distance becoming more defined, I wondered how much richer I would be on the return flight five days later.

Answer? Much. So much richer. For the experience.

The wallet...that’s another story.

“The airplane stays up because
it doesn’t have the time to fall.”
—Orville Wright

Three Words.

While my brain is working itself back into Reality Mode, I wanted to post at least a thought or two about my trip to Las Vegas last weekend.

“Hmm,” I said to myself, “what are three words that best describe my time there?” I kicked around a few ideas:

Can’t. Stop. Gambling.

Cirque. Shows. Rock.

Beers. Pools. Beers.

Social. House. Delicious!

(the above coupled with my newest discovery: I. Hate. Sake.)

Then it hit me, and I knew I had my three words. And believe me, I’m the furthest thing from a fashionisto you’ll ever meet. But they were everywhere. And impossible to miss.

Little.
Black.
Dress.

“If people turn to look at you on the street,
you are not well dressed.”
—Beau Brummel

How Many “Middles” In Middle-Aged?

I’ve been thinking lately about age, and the simple idea of growing older.

And a recent trip to the grocery store...where you can learn so much if you just listen, right?...put a bit of a new twist on things for me.

I snuck into the checkout line with a dozen or so items after a day of activities and the goal of getting home and crossing a few things off of my To-Do list, and walked into the middle of a conversation between the checkout girl and a couple in front of me.

“…oh, I know, I just don’t like getting old,” was the first thing I heard the checkout girl say as I started to unload my items onto the conveyor belt.

“You’re not old,” said the lady in front of me.

“Hmm, but I feeeel old,” the girl emphasized.

“You can’t be that old.”

“I’m older than I look.”

Here’s where I decided to quietly join the game, and looked up and gave the checkout girl a quick glance. Twenty-four, maybe 25, I thought to myself, giving it my best guess.

“How old are you?” asked the customer.

“I’m 20,” said the girl.

Whoops. I guess I was off by a year or two or five.

If she’s older than she looks, as she said, I wondered if she thought she looked 17? Eighteen?

“Ack!” scoffed the lady. “You’re not even old enough to go to a bar.”

“I still do!” the girl boasted, a lilt of pride almost visible in her voice.

So at first, she was trying to convince the lady how old she felt, and in the next breath she was almost bragging that she was able to sneak into bars under age.

“You’re not old,” the lady returned to her original argument.

“I’m middle-middle-aged!” retorted the girl.

I had no plans to enter this conversation, realizing the futility of arguing with a girl who claims she’s “old” at 20. But I made a quick mental note of that new phrase, and wondered if I could even punctuate it correctly when I wrote about her on my blog. Because she was most. definitely. blog material.

The lady insisted once again that the girl was far from old, and the girl proudly repeated her rank on the aging scale.

“I’m middle-middle-aged!”

Ah, yes. I remember when I was middle-middle-aged. Back in the day when I had to...find someone old enough to buy me beer.

The age question is one I’ve been pondering off and on lately. Not obsessing over, mind you, but...recognizing.

According to the checkout girl’s timeline, I officially become “middle-aged” in about a week and a half.

The number isn’t really bothering me as much as I’m saying it is, because age is just a number, right? And a small-talk conversation in a checkout line.

I’ll be turning that number in Las Vegas, where I think there’s an unwritten rule that on your birthday you don’t turn a year older, but instead turn two or three years younger.

I just made that up. But I plan to stay there until it comes true, and I rewind back to about my mid-20s.

So fine. I’m soon going to be middle-aged. (that one I at least know how to punctuate.)

But aside from a few (hundred) gray hairs, I look...and act...younger than I am.

Does that counter-logic work as well for bloggers as it does for checkout girls? Yeah. Didn’t think so.

“Ah, but I was so much older then,
I’m younger than that now.”
—Bob Dylan

Stretching the point? Or poor choice of words?

This blog entry is going to be interactive (I hope), as I’d appreciate a little feedback on this one. I know I have some strong-minded, opinionated readers out there, and I’m curious to hear what you think.

If you’re not comfortable with leaving your opinion in the comments section, then might I suggest using the “Ton-Fifty-MAIL” link in the sidebar and sending me your thoughts. Thank you.

— • — • —

Last week I wrote the following column for the paper I work for:

Being a non-smoker, and one who spends an occasional evening in a barroom in the pursuit of various bar-related activities...darts, cards, sporting events on oversized high-definition television sets...you’d think that I’d be jumping up and down at the idea of a statewide smoking ban.

Several years ago, I would’ve said it didn’t bother me one way or the other. I was well aware of all the elements that make up a bar’s “atmosphere”...smoky haze included.

And I could sit next to smokers and watch a game and be relatively unaffected, save for the smoky clothes that would need to hit the washing machine as soon as possible after arriving home.

Many eating and drinking establishments do a pretty good job of eliminating as much of the smoke as possible, making the environment tolerable for non-smokers. But there are definite exceptions.

Sunday night, I spent a few hours in one of those exceptions, and the way I felt almost all day Monday made me an instant proponent of the smoking ban.

The smoke in that bar was as heavy and thick as a dense fog, and it seemed as if some of it had been lingering there since before I became the legal drinking age.

Monday I walked around for most of the day in a dense fog of my own, light-headed and generally out of sorts. Can’t blame the beers, because I only had a couple. I point my finger at the cloud of smoke in which I sat and breathed.

I shot a few dart tournaments in that bar years ago, and didn’t come away with the day-after effect like I did this time. So it can probably be attributed to me getting older, and I accept that reasoning.

“Just don’t go in that bar if that’s the effect it has on you for a day or more after,” I can hear you smokers telling me. And that’s as valid an argument as any of those that are made in favor of the smoking ban.

If I want to go and play cards among a group that likes to have a few (dozen) cigarettes while they fondle their poker chips, then I have to accept the consequences that I just may feel like crap for the next 24 or 48 hours.

Or I can wait until a different night during the week when the poker group convenes in a location that is better suited to handling and eliminating the smoke from the air. Because smoking ban or no smoking ban, I bet the air in this particular bar will be able to be sliced with a knife for the next decade.

I use this extreme example because it’s still fresh in my hazy brain, as I’m writing this column after having felt under the weather for the past too many hours.

As much as I applaud the smoking ban from a non-smoker’s point of view, I also understand a smoker’s right to light up a cancer stick in a bar if he or she chooses. Not so much in a restaurant, but...in a bar? That’s a finer point to argue.

Then again...no one’s ever died of second-hand beer or whiskey consumption, have they?

— • — • —

That column was published on Thursday, and Friday morning I found the following comment in my inbox. It’s being copied and pasted as it was sent, so all punctuation and spelling and etc., are the sender’s. (My column is called, “What The Parrot Saw,” which explains the greeting.)

Hey Parrot.....

"no one's ever died of second-hand beer or whiskey consumption"........  REALLY???

Think about that comment for a minute and then answer this question:  Why is that Geske woman in prison ???  Isn't that just one example of "second-hand beer or whiskey consumption" and it's aftermath ?????  I think you owe a HUGE apology to the families of those people who were victims of "second-hand beer or whiskey" consumption !!!

The rest of the column was right on............if I don't want to smell from other people's cigarettes, I'll go elsewhere BUT I should have that choice, not have Big Brother shove it in my face !!  What's next ??????????????????

And here is what I sent to the reader as a reply...

Hi, XXXX...

I appreciate your comments.

While you make a valid point, I think you're assuming an extra step in the process...that being the one where the bar patron is careless enough to get into a 3,000-pound vehicle after his or her beer or whiskey consumption and go hurtling down the highway at 60 mph without all of their faculties about them.

My point in the column was that if someone sits in a bar next to someone who smokes...or a group of people who smoke...over a period of time, it's possible that the non-smoker could develop serious health problems through no fault of his or her own, except for choosing to spend time in that environment.

Whereas if someone sits in a bar and drinks soda next to patrons who are filling themselves full of beer or whiskey...their consumption has no effect on the soda drinker during his or her time in that establishment.

Perhaps I could have worded it a bit differently, but the phrase "second-hand" used in this example has nothing to do with a person's actions or judgment when they leave the establishment.

Thank you for your feedback, and thanks for reading!

Gregg

— • — • —

So tell me...

Did you read the last line in my column and cringe, wondering why I chose to end it with such a bonehead statement? Or did you not immediately make the connection between that statement and drunken driving, as my reader did?

If your first reaction was that I’m an insensitive idiot for ending the column that way, and that I should never again be left alone to play with words and a keyboard, don’t be afraid to tear into me for it. I can take it. And I’d like to know.
 

“It is now proved beyond a doubt
that smoking is one of the leading
causes of statistics.”
—Fletcher Knebel

An Ode To The Close Of Poetry Month

This won’t really be as much of an ode as it will be a list. But tell me, what sounds more poetic? An ode to poetry month, or a list to poetry month. Thank you.

I’ve been rather absent from this space this month (let me guess...you haven’t noticed), but I’ve been busy with National Poetry Month activities. And now that April is coming to a close, I hope to have more time to devote to blogging.

After writing my brilliant “Roses are red” poem to begin the month, and having it favorably critiqued by a real live Ph.D. of English professorology (even if she was just being polite *ahem*), I knew I had to do more. I had to make the month count.

So. Here, in no particular order, are a few of the myriad ways I’ve been celebrating, promoting, and ode-ing National Poetry Month.

• Gently nudged everyone with whom I came in contact to begin pronouncing it “poh-emm” instead of “pome.” (This act cost me serious Guy Points.)

• Attempted to spend the entire month rhyming my activities as I went about the business of my day. Therefore, I haven’t eaten any oranges, or sat on any sofas, or purchased any items that were silver or purple.

• Drew up a set of plans to build a mending wall, being careful to ask what I’d be walling in. Or walling out. And to whom I was like to give offense. The project is still in blueprint stage.

• Met a guy on the street named Sam, and invited him over for some green eggs and ham.

• During my walks around the village, I approached everyone I saw and asked, “How do I love thee?” which got me dozens of confused stares, two threats with garden shovels, and one marriage proposal.

• Began writing my own original poem called, “Jabberwookie,” but decided against finishing it for fear of legal action from George Lucas. And Lewis Carroll.

• Met a girl on the street from Nantucket, and invited her over for some green eggs and ham as well.

• Attempted to use the term “iambic pentameter” at least three times a day. This is not an easy task in standard barroom conversation.

• Sounded my barbaric yawp through the village, and was promptly cited for a noise violation. (The price we pay sometimes in the name of art.)

• Stayed up until midnight one dreary night, and as I looked outside I pondered. I hadn’t eaten much that day so I was rather weak...and weary.

• Stumbled upon two roads that diverged in a wood, and took the one more traveled. And you know...it really hasn’t made much of a difference.

So tell me...how did you spend your National Poetry Month?

 

“The greatest poem is not that
which is most skillfully constructed,
but that in which there is
the most poetry.”
— L. Schefer