And the Band Played On . . . Or Did It?

I’m super excited to have been invited to join a blog group alongside three talented bloggers.  Each week, one of us chooses a topic and we all post a blog entry on that topic, usually on Thursdays.  

Here are the links to the other fabulous blogs:

Merryland Girl

Froggie

Moma Rock

This week’s topic comes from Froggie, who said only:  “open to interpretation.”  I didn’t know what she meant (and she didn’t feel like explaining), so I opened the subject to my own interpretation and decided it meant I could post whatever I wanted.  I had an article/essay I had already written and wanted to share; funny enough, one of the themes woven into the article is, indeed, “open to interpretation.”  Here goes:

                  In This is Spinal Tap, it was the drummer.  It was always the drummer. 

                  By the end of the movie, the fictional band had replaced a seemingly endless stream of drummers lost to bizarre gardening accidents and spontaneous combustion.  But the remaining members continued on.  And Spinal Tap remained Spinal Tap.

                  But would Spinal tap have been the same band had Nigel exploded?  Or had Derek choked on an unidentified person’s vomit?

                  When does a band stop being the band its fans know and love and become something else altogether?

                  In April of this year, popular Bon Jovi guitarist Richie Sambora left the band’s Because We Can Tour after performing only a handful of dates.  Sambora is the band’s original guitarist, and he has co-penned almost all of the band’s hit songs.  The show has gone on; Bon Jovi continues to tour without Sambora, session guitarist Phil “X” Xenidis standing in for Sambora.  But press outlets reported that Sambora had been fired from the remainder of the band’s Because We Can tour, which ended this month.  Sambora’s future with Bon Jovi appears unclear, begging the question:  if Sambora leaves the band, is that band still Bon Jovi?

                  Bon Jovi remained Bon Jovi after its one other personnel change, the firing of bassist Alec John Such in 1995.  Of the band’s five-man roster, Such was the oldest member of the band and perhaps the least well known.  He was quietly replaced by Hugh MacDonald, a studio musician who had long worked with Jon Bon Jovi.  There was no fallout from Such’s departure, and the band has continued to thrive for almost two decades without another member change. 

                  But Bon Jovi’s long unshakeable constitution seems the exception to the rule of the rock band; indeed, a departure by Sambora would bring Bon Jovi more closely in line with the majority of other major rock acts.  Musicians leave bands on a disturbingly regular basis, either by death, by choice, or kicking and screaming.  It seems no major rock band has been spared; Journey, Chicago, Motley Crue, and more recently, Stone Temple Pilots have all lost key members.  Considering the egos, the fame, the substances, the money, perhaps it’s no wonder that astoundingly few musical groups begin and end their careers with the same personnel.  Nor is it surprising that, sometimes, the end of a band itself comes as a result of the wrong personnel change.

                  History shows that when the singer leaves, a band never quite rebounds.  Think the Cars.  Think Motley Crue.  It makes sense; the singer stands front and center, providing both the face and the voice of the group.  But it can be done.  Genesis survived and even thrived when Phil Collins replaced Peter Gabriel as lead singer, and many fans will forever think of Brian Johnson and not Bon Scott when considering AC/DC’s lead vocalist.  Van Halen made a nearly seamless transition when the band dumped singer David Lee Roth and replaced him with Sammy Hagar.  But fans quickly dubbed the new line-up “Van Hagar,” driving home the point that a band that undergoes a huge personnel change isn’t really the same band.  

                  Millions of fans were huge Journey fans back in the day when everyone was a huge Journey fan.  As the world listened to Escape on endless repeat, thousands of fans shared the thought that if Steve Perry ever quit the band, Journey would be no more, because they could never find anyone who sings like him.  And then Perry quit the band and the remaining members surfed the Internet and found a guy who sounds exactly like Steve Perry.  Singer Arnel Pineda joined the band in late 2007 and by most accounts has been well received by at least a portion of Journey’s fans.

                  But is that band still Journey?

                  And who decides? 

                  Much of the power lies with the fans.  When Hagar left Van Halen, the Van Halen brothers brought in former Extreme singer Gary Cherone to fill the gap.  The unpopular arrangement lasted just a few short years – a period followed up with a four-year band hiatus and the (temporary) return of Hagar.  And it seems fans haven’t paid much attention to non-Dennis DeYoung Styx (DeYoung was replaced with current singer Lawrence Gowan in 1999).  Styx continues to tour, but it has never been able to recapture the success it achieved when DeYoung provided the vocals and the sometimes over-the-top front man showmanship.  Genesis suffered a similar fate when Collins walked away from the band in 1996.  Collins was replaced by singer Ray Wilson – who lasted one short year, as fans showed no interest in the Wilson led album, Calling All Stations, or in the supporting tour.  Voting with their pocketbooks, fans decided that Genesis without Phil Collins was not Genesis. 

                  But fans don’t hold all the power, and thanks to complex contracts and corporate structures, and the legal answer of what makes up a band may differ from the aesthetic.  Most fans think about bands as, well, bands.  They ignore the fact that the four or five guys up on the stage making music are actually part of a corporation or some other formal legal arrangement, one governed by complex contractual terms and carefully spelled-out responsibilities.  Sure, everyone has heard about legendary contract riders requiring brown M&Ms to be picked out of candy bowls, but what fan thinks about boards of directors and CEOs and corporate governance when reading an album’s liner notes? 

                  Even though today’s megabands may have begun in someone’s garage, most are run not along the lines of a mom-and-pop shop but instead are set up to more closely resemble a Fortune 500 organization.  In turn, these arrangements often provide fertile ground for litigation once someone leaves the organization.  Recently, Cheap Trick guitarist Rick Nielsen, singer Robin Zander, and bassist Tom Peterson sued founding member and drummer Bun Carlos, asking the court to rule Carlos had been validly removed from the board of directors of Cheap Trick Unlimited, Inc. back in 2010 when Carlos stopped touring with the band (he was replaced by Nielsen’s son, Daxx).  Carlos maintains that he is still “in the band” even though he no longer tours, but his role in the corporate portion of Cheap Trick appears unclear.  Regardless of what fans may want, the decision of who makes up Cheap Trick now lies in the hand of a federal judge. 

                  Stone Temple Pilot is fighting a similarly strange battle as a result of the band’s firing of singer Scott Weiland earlier this year.  Upon hearing of his alleged dismissal in the press, Weiland said he did not understand how he could be terminated from a band that he fronted and founded, and for which he co-wrote numerous hit songs.  Weiland left the dispute for lawyers to figure out and, true to his word, he filed suit against his former band mates after they replaced him with singer Chester Bennington a few months later.  The remaining band members have begun calling themselves Stone Temple Pilots with Chester Bennington in what appears to be a weak attempt to circumvent additional legal headaches.  The remaining members have sued Weiland to prevent him from calling himself a former member of the band, or from performing any of the Pilots’ songs.  

                  A court of law will decide whether Weiland gets to call himself a member of Stone Temple Pilots, but the court of public opinion will determine whether Stone Temple Pilots without Weiland is, actually, Stone Temple Pilots.  A change in a band line-up greatly differs from a corporate shuffle.  Most corporate board members are relatively anonymous entities; Steve Jobs aside, their faces rarely grace fans’ T-shirts and posters.  In the end, no matter how badly a band may want to replace its singer or guitarist or drummer, whether that band survives won’t depend upon the group’s corporate structure or contractual arrangements – or even on whether a band erases the departed band member’s face from tour merchandise, as Bon Jovi has done to Sambora – but instead on whether the band’s fans support the personnel change.  For Bon Jovi, time and album sales will tell whether Bon Jovi without Richie Sambora is Bon Jovi at all.

Thursday Fiction: "Someday"

I’m super excited to have been invited to join a blog group alongside three talented bloggers.  Each week, one of us chooses a topic and we all post a blog entry on that topic, usually on Thursdays.  

Here are the links to the other fabulous blogs:

Merryland Girl

Froggie

Moma Rock

This week’s topic comes from Merryland Girl, who asked us to write a short piece of fiction.  After torturing myself for a week, here’s my take:

                  The hood of the car creaked as Tommy popped the latch and pushed the rusting sheet of metal above his head.  As he snapped the thin prop rod into place, he wryly thought he should just leave the hood up permanently; the car rarely ran anymore, anyway.  He hunched over, ran his hands back and forth over his ripped jeans, and let out a long breath.  His knowledge of the workings of a car engine were limited to what he’d learned in auto shop back in Sayreville High School a handful of years earlier – when he’d bothered to show up.  He moved his head from side to side, wiggled a hose, flicked at the radiator cap.  There had to be some way to get the car to run; he just didn’t know what it might be. 

                  Not like he had anywhere to be, really.  He hadn’t worked in more than six months, not since his union went on strike and his job went along with it.  He pulled a stained rag from his pocket and wiped at some leaking oil and thought about the last time he’d earned a regular paycheck.  To say money was tight was a joke.  It was almost nonexistent, and he had the pile of bills to prove it. 

                  The car might as well stop working, he thought.  I can’t pay to put gas in the tank.

                  Disgusted, he slammed the hood and walked toward the house he shared with his wife, Gina.  Not even a proper house but a trailer, and not even a double wide.  They were lucky to have the trailer, a gift from Gina’s parents when they realized he couldn’t take care of their daughter.  Tommy kicked at a rock, mindlessly wondering how to spend the rest of another long day.  He never thought he’d miss leaving his house to go to work every day, waking early to spend ten hours at the dock alongside guys he’d known forever, guys like him, guys he knew from high school, guys who hadn’t been smart enough to make a plan and join the Army or go to college – to get out, once and for all.

                  He’d had a plan, of course he had.  He was going to be the biggest rock star to come out of New Jersey since Southside Johnny.  Bigger than Bruce; hell, as big as ol’ Blue Eyes himself.  It was all he’d ever wanted since he was twelve years old and his parents bought him his first guitar.  He’d played whenever he had time, and he’d played whenever he didn’t.  He sacrificed school and homework to play that guitar.  He wrote lyrics on his bedroom wallpaper, serenaded his parents with his newest tunes.  His folks believed in him.  They looked the other way when he broke curfew and stayed out until the wee hours of the morning, playing at clubs he wasn’t even old enough to legally enter.  They woke him for school, nudging him awake and whispering good morning as he rolled out of bed and grabbed the dark sunglasses he wore to cover his exhaustion as he went through the motions of another school day. 

                  By Senior year, he went to school for one reason:  Gina LoCarro.  She was the girlfriend of a friend and, thanks to the alphabet, she wound up sitting next to him in sixth period History.  At first, his interest grew out of pure necessity; Gina was a decent student, and he made friends to get his hands on her copious notes.  But later, when he realized that she was not only smart but also beautiful and funny, his goal became something else altogether.  He played it cool, and by the time Senior year wound down, they were dating exclusively.  Tommy loved everything about Gina:  her long, dark hair woven with thin strands of copper; her coffee-colored eyes; her laugh that seemed to come from the very bottom of her soul.  More than that, he loved who she was and how she made him feel.  Gina wasn’t like the other girls at Sayreville High.  She didn’t play games, and she didn’t suffer fools.  She had no interest in pink puffy dresses or wrist corsages, so they skipped prom for a night at the boardwalk.  She was comfortable with herself, and she felt no threat from the other women who tried to catch his eye at the nights he played at the clubs.  She let him know, ever so subtly, that other guys would be happy to have her, and that made him never take her for granted.  They married young – just a year after graduation – in a small ceremony in her parents’ back yard.  Gina wore a short black dress and big silver earrings, and Tommy wore Chuck Taylors and a suit he borrowed from his dad.  He and his band supplied the music for the party, though he made sure to steal a few dances with his new wife.  It was the happiest day of his life, a life he assumed would be full of many, many more happy days, all with Gina.

                  Just as he’d seen in his mind’s eye, their first year as husband and wife was happy.  He worked during the day at his friend’s music shop, fixing guitars and giving lessons to little punks with big dreams.  At night, he played.  He and his band worked all the clubs:  the Stone Pony, the Fast Lane.  They played weddings and bar mitzvahs and high school dances.  They didn’t care; an audience was an audience and cash was cash.  They limited themselves to just a few beers a show and managed to scrape together enough money to make demo tapes, which Tommy dutifully delivered to every record company executive in Manhattan.  No one bit, but Tommy didn’t worry.  It would happen . . . someday.  It would just take time.  And he had plenty of time. 

                  And then Gina got pregnant.  They wanted kids – lots of them – but he didn’t want to be a kid when he had them.  And that’s what he was, a twenty-year-old kid suddenly thrust into the role of father.  When the pregnancy test registered two pink lines, he and Gina didn’t even think twice.  They’d made their bed, they’d lie in it.  They would keep the baby.  Tommy gave up his job at the music store and took a full-time shift working for a shipping company down at the waterfront.  He unloaded boats, mindless, mind-numbing, backbreaking work.  He hated every minute of it.  But it was a union job and it paid the bills.  Or, well, it used to. 

                  The moan of the screen door snapped Tommy back from the docks.  He watched as Gina stepped onto the small wooden porch and gently pulled the door closed behind her.  She was dressed for work, her pink and white polyester diner uniform neatly pressed, her long, dark hair tightly tucked into a tight bun – a look Tommy hated.  He loved when she wore her hair down, just like she used to do when they drove up the coast, windows open, radio blaring.  But she rarely wore it like that these days; the baby liked to tug it, which drove Gina crazy.  So she pulled it back into a neat ponytail or a serious bun.  It doesn’t matter, Tommy thought, kicking the car tire, it’s not like we can take a drive up the coast.

                   Gina walked down the steps and tilted her head back toward the house, her tiny stud earrings glinting in the sun.  Tommy hated those, too.

                  “Baby’s asleep,” she said.  “I’ll be home after the dinner shift.”  She leaned over and kissed Tommy’s cheek.  “I’ll try to get a ride from Renee.”

                  Tommy waved goodbye.  He hated this.  All of it.  He hated living in a trailer.  He hated surviving on Gina’s paycheck and her measly tips.  He hated that he couldn’t even drive her to work, that she had to bum rides from co-workers or else take the bus, which she walked toward now.  He felt like a failure.  He wasn’t playing music and he couldn’t even take care of his family.  Here he was, standing in his tiny gravel yard, while his wife went to work another long shift at a crappy truck stop.  It killed him inside.  Gina never complained, not once.  But, sometimes, at night, she woke up crying.  Tommy knew why.  He’d hold her close and whisper, “It’s okay, Gina, it’s okay.  Things will get better.  We’ll make it.”  Someday, he’d think.  Someday.  The thought of those nights made him want to scream, to punch something, to shake his fists at the sky and curse the Universe and shake out all the rage he felt, all the fear.

                  Instead, he walked toward the trailer and quietly opened the door.  He didn’t want to wake the baby, so he didn’t bother to turn on the old TV set his parents had given them.  There’d be nothing on, anyway.  They couldn’t afford cable, so he’d have a choice between the screaming breeders on Maury or else a roundtable of middle-aged shrews on one of the other channels.  No thanks.  Bored and frustrated, he grabbed a notebook.  He’d write a song, his favorite way to manage his emotions.  His only way, really, now that he’d had to give up his guitar.  The baby had gotten sick a few months earlier, and they didn’t have the money for the doctor’s bills, so he brought his beloved Les Paul to the local pawn shop.  It broke his heart.  He’d lost his means of self-expression.  He used to make that guitar talk, but now it sat silent in the store window.  And he sat silent in his aluminum living room, holding it all in.

                  He found a working pen and flipped to a clean page.  He chewed the cap until inspiration hit.  And then he wrote:

                  Tommy used to work on the docks

                  Union’s been on strike, he’s down on his luck

                  It’s tough.  So tough.

The words started to flow, and he scribbled faster:

                  Gina works the diner all day

                  Working for her man, she brings home her pay for love . . .

                  Tommy could barely keep up with the words as the filled the page.  He scribbled furiously, tapping out a simple beat with his right Chuck Taylor.  He wrote the last word as the baby started to whine and fidget and let him know she was awake.  Tommy stuck the pencil behind his ear, closed the notebook, and slid it under a worn couch cushion.  He headed toward the crib, singing, as he walked, “We gotta hold on to what we got, doesn’t make a difference if we make it or not.  We got each other and that’s a lot . . . ”

                  He scooped the baby up from her crib and kissed her forehead.  He felt good after getting his words out on paper.  He couldn’t play them on his guitar, but he could sing them, and he did.  He sang them to his daughter, the one with Gina’s big, dark eyes.  He danced her around the tiny trailer, his cheek pressed to hers.  The baby giggled with glee, and Tommy laughed.  He gave her another kiss and walked toward the bedroom to look for the Snugi they’d gotten from Gina’s sister.  He strapped the baby to his chest and walked toward the door.

                  “C’mon kid,” he said.  “You’re smarter than me.  Maybe you can figure out how to fix the car.”  He let the screen door slam behind them as he stepped down the stairs, walked to the car, and again popped the hood.  He crouched down and whispered into the top of the baby’s head, “So, what do you think?  Is it the carburetor?  Or is it the starter?”  The baby kicked her legs and squealed with delight. 

                  “The alternator, you say?  I hadn’t even thought of that.”  Tommy looked around at his little yard, his boxy trailer, his creaking porch, the rusting car.  He looked down at his little daughter, his healthy, perfect child.  For a fleeting moment, he considered his beloved guitar, standing in a window a few blocks away.  And he thought about the notebook, now tucked into the sagging frame of the hand-me-down couch.  He knew he’d get back to his music, just as soon as he could get the money to get his guitar out of hock, as soon as he caught up on bills and built a little nest egg for him and his little family. 

                  It will happen, he told himself . . . someday.

                  “Alright, kid, let’s go find my toolbox and give this a shot.”

                  

TGI -- Eh, Forget It

I’m super excited to have been invited to join a blog group alongside three talented bloggers.  Each week, one of us chooses a topic and we all post a blog entry on that topic, usually on Thursdays.  

 

Here are the links to the other fabulous blogs:

Merryland Girl

Froggie

Moma Rock

 

This week’s topic comes from Moma Rock, who asked:   What is your favorite day of the week, and your least favorite day of the week?

 

Here’s my take:

 

                  I’ll admit it:  I struggled with this one.

                  Since losing my lawyer job last July, my full-time job has consisted of taking care of my kids and running our household (that sounds so very Downton Abbey but it is so not).  Although each day is a little different, for the most part, my days are remarkably similar (and most, much to my husband’s disappointment, tend not to include cleaning of the actual house).  During the school year, each day dawns with me making breakfast, packing “cold” lunch for the 10 (the 7 likes hot lunch), keeping after the girls to get dressed (read:  “yelling”), and then driving them the handful of blocks to school.  With the exception of Thursdays when the 10 needs to remember to grab her cello (or I need to remember to remind her), the mornings rarely vary.  Afterschool introduces a bit of variety; the girls are both on swim team, which means swim practice on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, at differing times (on Wednesday, they swim at the same time – at two different locations).  There’s no swimming on Tuesdays and Thursdays when we instead venture out to another suburb for the 10’s therapy appointments, again at times that vary by day. 

                  If I had to pick one day to dislike, I guess Monday fits the bill because it is the most trying.  The 10 swims early, and both girls have gotten out of the homework routine and need a firm push right back in.  I pick them up from school at 3:35, ply them with a snack, and hound them to stop arguing and do some homework until we leave the house one short hour later to drop the 10 at practice.  By the time she gets home and eats dinner, she’s in no mood to do any more work, which often means a struggle with a tired pre-teen still clinging to the freedom of the just-passed weekend.  It’s not particularly fun for any of us.

                  The easiest days would be homework-free Saturday or Sunday – no therapy and no homework and no arguing about finishing math or vocabulary.  Unless it’s a swim meet weekend, we only take one trip to the Y – and my husband kindly volunteered to take the 10 to her 7 a.m. swim practice on Saturday.  I can’t say the weekend days are my favorites – there’s nothing particularly special about them – but they tend to be the least stressful.

                  Kinda boring, right?

                  Because my answer was so dull, I started thinking about how I would have answered that question a few months ago, before my days were completely ruled by the whims and schedules of little people.  Prior to losing my job, I used to work Tuesdays and Thursdays – roughly 10-11 hours each day – and then as needed from home.  I dreaded Tuesdays, not because I minded work, but because I had to wake up early and dress like a semi-professional and mentally get back into the swing of being in an office.  Thursdays were better because I knew I didn’t have to come back downtown for another five days, but they were still long.  I didn’t have the typical TGIF attitude because my “F” fell on a “Th” – and I still had to take care of the kids and the house on F. 

                  But one of the things I liked about working was that my Tues./Thurs. schedule gave my otherwise amorphous week a bit of structure.  Whenever I needed to schedule anything non-work related, I always blocked off those two days.  If I ran out of time with errands on Monday, I’d think, “Ok, I’ll do that Wednesday or Friday.”  Tuesdays and Thursdays were automatically off limits.  When that went away, I found myself strangely feeling like I had too much time.  If I ran out of time on Monday, I’d think, “I can do that Tuesday.  Or Wednesday.  Or Thursday.  Or Friday . . .  .”  It was odd; instead of feeling relief at having so much more time, the added hours overwhelmed me.  I felt like I was taking big gulps – not of water but of time.  And I felt like I was drowning. 

                  I’ve worked in one capacity or another since I was fifteen years old and a candy girl at my neighborhood movie theatre.  Not working feels foreign.  I haven’t yet been able to find a new job, and I can only do so much writing and crafting, so I decided to sign up for some volunteer work.  I chose to do so at a hospice.  As it should, volunteering to work with terminally ill people in their homes requires training and a background check, among other hoops, and I completed the physical and the fingerprinting and the training a few months ago.  I’m scheduled to begin the actual volunteering in the coming weeks.  I’ve committed to a few hours a week, divided however I choose.  I’m thinking I will do all of the hours in one day, and I’m curious as to how this will change the landscape of my week.  Will volunteering day become my favorite day of the week?  I’m certainly hoping so.   

                  But if nothing else, I’m hoping the time commitment will give me back some of the structure I’ve been craving the past few months.  Maybe I’ll do my volunteering on Monday to counterbalance the inevitable after-school storm I’ve come to dread just a bit, or maybe I’ll wait until Wednesday to break up the week.  Maybe it won’t matter what day I do it – maybe I just need to do it.

                  I do wonder whether, a few months down the road, my answer to this week’s question will change, just as it has from a few months past.  My fellow writing women and I may need to revisit this one down the road.  Stay tuned.

 In the meantime, bonus content:  Sir Jon Bon Jovi and Sir Bob Geldof singing about their least favorite day:  "I Don't Like Mondays"

 

Embracing Black Friday . . . Or Seeing Red?

I’m super excited (and grateful!) to have been invited to join a blog group alongside three talented bloggers.  Each week, one of us chooses a topic and we all post a blog entry on that topic, usually on Thursdays.  

Here are the links to the other fabulous blogs:

Merryland Girl
Froggie

Moma Rock 

This week’s topic was my bright idea, and I asked everyone to give an opinion on stores being open on Thanksgiving.  Here is my take:

            If you are one of those people who will be lining up outside of Target or WalMart or Toys ‘R Us or one of the other stores open today, I have only two things to say to you:  first, bring a warm coat because it’s pretty cold out.  Second, be respectful – and don’t forget to wish the picketers a happy Thanksgiving.

            It takes a lot to get me to protest something, and the choice by major retailers to remain open on Thanksgiving falls way, way, way at the bottom of that list.  No, other than ogling the crowds when I drive past the strip malls, I won’t give much thought to stores being open today.  I am neither “pro” nor “con” Early Black Friday.  In all honestly, I simply don’t care whether stores are open on Thanksgiving . . . or Christmas, or Hannukah.  I personally won’t be shopping, but not because I morally object to the concept but because I hate crowds and I hate the cold.  But I take no issue with stores being open all day – and requiring their employees to work.  And here are my reasons.

(1)              Many, many jobs require employees to work today.

            It’s interesting to me that, during my entire childhood, my Grandpa (and my Uncle Tilly and a couple of my cousins) worked at movie theaters, and no one ever so much as batted an eyelash.  For as long as I can remember, movie theaters have always remained open 365 days a year, meaning that my relatives at one time or another missed holidays.  Even now, during the Early Black Friday debate, no one ever mentions movie theaters . . . or concert venues, or casinos, or restaurants (where many people head to eat a Thanksgiving meal).  Hell, even Disney World, the mecca of family togetherness, is open on Thanksgiving – and it is operating with extended hours:  8:00am to 1:00am!  No one says a word about radio announcers, TV broadcasters, journalists, pilots, flight attendants, prison guards, bus drivers; I could go on and on.  Sure, some of these jobs are essential – someone has to put out fires and drive ambulances – but not all.  And so it begs the question:  why is it ok for ticket sellers and projectionists and concession stand workers and guys dressed like Mickey Mouse to miss a holiday, and yet we assume the fall of civilization as we know it if Target cashiers are required to work?   

            It makes no sense to single out stores.  And even stores don’t get equal trashing.  For seemingly ever, Chicago’s two main grocery chains have remained open for at least part of Thanksgiving, as have both of the big drugstore chains.  Some stores with pharmacies have always remained open the entire day because people do get sick on holidays (I’m sure anti-Early Black Fridayers would like to outlaw that, as well).  Perhaps the grocers and druggists don’t court the Early Black Friday crowd, but I have never heard anyone complaining when they realized they forgot the cranberry sauce and had the option of running to Jewel to grab a can. 

(2)              I grew up in a work-on-holidays family . . . and I survived!!

            Growing up, my Dad worked as a police officer and my Grandpa as a motion picture operator.  Guess what?  Police departments and movie theaters are open on holidays!  Attendance at our holiday celebrations was hit or miss.  We might see Dad for Thanksgiving, or we might not.  Christmas?  Grandpa might be there, but Dad might not, or vice versa.  One year, we’d have both at the table; the next, we might have neither.  I can’t say we liked it, but we didn’t not like it.  It just was.  We accepted the rotating absences as part of their jobs, the jobs that provided us money to make a meal and buy gifts and live in a house.  Eventually, my older sister took a job at a hospital – also open all year.  And when I was a teenager, I, too, worked at a movie theater for a few years, meaning I might spend Thanksgiving behind a greasy candy counter squirting barrels of popcorn with butter instead of sitting around the table with whichever other family members had the day off.  I truly didn’t mind.  It was a job, and I knew the holiday requirement when I took it.  Plus, I made more money those days, at least one-and-one-half time, sometimes maybe more.  I certainly liked that perq – as did my Dad and Grandpa.  That benefitted our family. 

            The absence of my Dad or my Grandpa or me from the table in no way diminished the holiday.  In fact, I think it made us more grateful.  We might miss Grandpa at Thanksgiving, so we’d be extra happy to see him on Christmas Eve.  And when we could all be together, well, we took a moment and noticed.  And felt grateful.

(3)              For some people, Black Friday (and Early Black Friday) are a tradition.

            The anti-Early Black Friday argument presupposes many things, most of which I believe to be untrue.  For example, some assume that having the stores open harms the integrity of family, not only by forcing some members to work but also by giving other members a reason to sneak out early.  I beg to differ.  Some families bond over Early Black Friday.  I used to work with a woman who could not wait to hit the stores early – with her daughter.  They loved the adventure of bargain hunting, and they also loved the together time.  On Monday, she’d share their war stories, and they were just as good as if not better than anyone else’s holiday-around-the-table tales.  Who’s to say that their tradition is in any way less than the tradition of another family whose members chose to stay home all day?

(4)              The anti-Early Black Friday argument pre-supposes a family.

            This entire discussion presupposes the existence of a family.  I was lucky to have one waiting at home for me when I worked at the movie theater, but so many others don’t have that luxury.  This year alone, I can name four close friends who will not be spending Thanksgiving with their family, not because they have to work or because of Early Black Friday but because of issues that do, actually, damage families:  divorce, discord, and distance.  Sometimes even marriage fragments a family; when two people couple, they often have to decide which of their families to see on any given holiday.  Others don’t want to be with family because it is simply too stressful or unpleasant.  Know why National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation is funny?  Because it’s about a dysfunctional family, and it strikes pretty close to home.  Such familial strife is a simple reality of life – just like working a job at a place that doesn’t close for holidays.

(5)            Holidays should be “should” free.

            What bothers me most is that the Early Black Friday debate presupposes the existence of a should.  It imagines what the holiday should be and foists it upon everyone.  I can’t speak for anyone else, but at no time in my life has any holiday ever looked like a Norman Rockwell painting.  Until the age of 12, I never even ate turkey on Thanksgiving – we always served homemade ravioli in my Grandma’s gravy (and I miss those days).  Should that not have been allowed?  What about the year I accidentally dropped the sweet potatoes in the middle of the street while helping my Grandma out of the car?  Was Thanksgiving ruined?  (Grandma sure thought so … .)  It seems strange to celebrate a holiday that celebrates gratitude for peace and freedom by protesting and trying to force everyone to celebrate the exact same way.

(6)              Turkey tastes just as good on a Wednesday or a Friday.

            Is there a reason a family can’t celebrate Thanksgiving on another day?  I know a family doing that this year, not because of Early Black Friday but because of varied commitments and hectic travel arrangements.  I know another family that does this almost every year because the son is a policeman.  Should they not do that?  Do we only have a twenty-four-hour window . . . or else?  I’ve always wanted to celebrate Christmas after December 25 so we could cut our costs in half or else buy twice as many presents.  But using the Early Black Friday logic, I should not do that because Christmas falls on December 25, period.

            It amuses me that people who insist that Thanksgiving must be celebrated today are serving their families a historically inaccurate meal.  Historians have proven that Pilgrims likely didn’t eat turkey, but instead feasted on goose or pigeon.  Early settlers also had no access to potatoes, white or sweet.  And there was no cornbread or pumpkin pie – nothing sweetened with sugar – only parsnips and likely some seafood.  It is even more amusing that in 1939, before Thanksgiving became fixed as the fourth Thursday of November, President Roosevelt moved Thanksgiving to the second Thursday out of concern for the economy:  he believed that, if the holiday fell late in the month, Americans would not have enough time to shop before Christmas.

            Tradition is nice, but it is meant to be a comfort, not a source of stress.  If you’re lucky enough to have a family, bring them together when you can – and be thankful you can.  If you hate turkey or can’t afford it, have pizza.  Better yet, throw a Peanuts Thanksgiving and pop some popcorn, make some toast, grab a handful of jellybeans, and sit around a ping pong table with some folding chairs and enjoy each other’s company, regardless of the day on the calendar.  

(6)              Embrace the American right to choose and stay home.

            I agree with one argument from the other side:  if you don’t like Early Black Friday and want it to go away, then don’t shop on that day.  Stay home.  Vote with your wallet.  After all, we are, at our roots, a capitalist society, and if enough Americans refuse to take part in the sales, the stores will stop holding them.  (The fact that hundreds of people form lines that snake around stores tells me that won’t be happening any time soon.)  And if you don’t want to work on that day, don’t take a job anywhere that will be open; to me, this includes places that have always been open on the holidays – police and fire departments, hospitals, newspapers, radio stations, movie theaters, airlines, The Happiest Place on Earth.  That list now includes retail establishments. 

            We can’t blame WalMart for the breakdown of the American family.  (We can blame it for the breakdown of American small towns, but not the family.)  And we cannot – and should not – legislate every facet of American life.  Our country was founded on a simple principle:  to each his own.  Yes, originally, it meant religious freedom, but today it means much, much more.  It even extends to shopping on a holiday, if that’s what you want to do. 

* * * * * * * * *

            I’ll be spending Thanksgiving Day with my family.  My Grandpa has been gone for many years, but my Dad is still around and long retired, so he will be at the table.  We will eat turkey (I still miss the pasta!) and all of the traditional-but-not-really sides.  I’m also hoping to be able to meet up with one of my friends, one who couldn’t spend the holiday with his family.  We want to take in a movie, something we did in college, way back when.  It’s an old tradition we’d like to bring back, and this year, more than, ever, my friend needs the comfort it brings.  So I’m grateful to the movie theater employees who will be working that night, people who – without knowing it – will make his holiday a little more special.  I know that, for some, it will be a sacrifice, but for others, it will just be another night at work. 

First it Was White, Then it Was Yellow, Then it Was Mauve . . .

I’m super excited to have been invited to join a blog group alongside three talented bloggers.  Each week, one of us chooses a topic and we all post a blog entry on that topic, usually on Thursdays.  

Here are the links to the other fabulous blogs:

Merryland Girl

Froggie

Moma Rock 

This week’s topic comes from Froggie, who simply said:  Indecision.

Perfect timing, Froggie:  I’m suffering from this malady as I write . . .

                  When I was younger, I absolutely adored the band Rush.  I loved their sound but, more than that, I loved their lyrics.  I saw each song as a little poem set to music; once, I spoke the lyrics to The Trees during eighth grade English class when we were assigned to recite a poem aloud.  (Straight-laced Mrs. Dieden was none the wiser).  The band’s lyrics, largely penned by percussionist Neil Peart, spoke to my adolescent sensibilities.  I found his words deep and sophisticated, beautiful and often philosophical – and they sounded pretty good coming out of Geddy Lee.

                  But one line from their song Free Will has always kind of freaked me out:  “If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice.”  Think about that.  Say it again (or, for fun, sing it in a screechy Geddy Lee voice).  It’s profound, really.  By opting not to do anything, you’ve done something.  Even by keeping the status quo, you are acting. 

                  It’s kind of terrifying, really.

                  The song debates free will versus determinism, pretty heavy stuff and a subject we often discussed in our Catholic school religion classes.  Of course, Geddy chooses free will.  But, as the song explains, implicit in free will is the belief that individual choices matter.  There is no, “Everything happens for a reason.”  Things happen only because we choose to make them happen – or choose not to.  There’s no higher power, there’s no planned path.  We control the outcome, all but what we leave to chance.  That’s a lot of responsibility.  That’s a lot of unknown.

                  And even more frightening, there’s no escape from making decisions.  We can’t not decide because, if we do, we still have made a choice.  That’s a lot of pressure.  And, often, that very pressure leaves me spinning in a swirling cloud of indecision because, even though I know I have to decide, I’m not comfortable doing so.

                  Thanks to Professor Saul Levmore’s Torts class, I know that life is one big cost/benefit analysis, and people make choices based on getting the best outcome, whatever that might look like.  This requires assigning values to different elements, weighing options, and choosing what one believes to be best for one’s self.  It takes time and thought and, sometimes, even research.  Most importantly, it takes trust.  Indecision grows out of distrust of one’s self and one’s ability to choose wisely.  It’s your inner voice screaming, “I don’t know the right answer and I can’t figure it out!” before throwing up one’s hands and shutting down the whole process.

                  I personally don’t trust my gut, so even the most mundane decision can cause stress.  Major decisions can cripple me.  I’ve been this way for as long as I can remember, but hell if law school didn’t make it worse.  Lawyers are trained to see issues from all sides, and a good attorney is a global thinker.  I can come at a problem from every possible angle.  I’m the Queen of the What If.  It’s effective in law, but in life, it’s just exhausting.  I imagine and consider scenarios that would not ever cross most people’s minds.  Well prepared?  Perhaps.  Drained?  For sure.

                  I get a visceral reaction when I can’t decide.  My heart races and I actually feel nervous.  Sometimes, if the choice is large and serious enough, I undecide (indecide?) myself into a headache.  Heck, even with a small choice, I can become so overwhelmed that I have to walk away and choose later (this has actually occurred more than once in the cereal aisle).  Don’t even think of asking my husband how many times we re-painted the living room in our old house because I couldn’t decide on a paint color I liked.  (Five.  Don’t judge me.)

                  To help, I’ve come up with a few “strategies.”  An oldie but a goodie is something I like to call the Regret Game.  I ask myself, what will I regret more, doing X or not doing X?  That works pretty well when I have to choose between action and inaction.  But for really big, complicated decisions, ones I don’t really want to have to make in the first place, the Regret Game usually doesn’t help, so I instead play the Grieving Game.  There, I mentally move through Elizabeth Kubler Ross’s stages of grief.  An example:  a few years ago, we had to decide whether to leave the house I loved and had lived in for a decade or stay and continue to deal with an unstable neighbor and an overcrowded, unimpressive local school.  First, I faced denial.  Move?  No, we don’t need to move.  Our neighbor isn’t that crazy.  The school isn’t that bad.  Next came anger.  Why do we have to move?  Why can’t he go?  Where does my tax dollar go?  This isn’t fair!  Third, bargaining.  Maybe we can build a fence.  Or a moat.  And enroll the kids in private school.  Fourth, depression.  I don’t want to leave my home.  I brought two of my three daughters home from the hospital to this house.  It’s my forever house.  Finally, I arrived at acceptance.  I can’t change my neighbor.  I can’t fix the school.  I guess I’ll start packing.  Once I reach acceptance, I’m good to go and I generally don’t reconsider the issue.

                  Currently, I am facing some big life decisions.  They run the gamut of the most basic whos, whats, whens, wheres, whys, and hows of life.  I won’t get into them, but soon I’ll have to make several different (big) choices in several different (big) areas of life.

                  Needless to say, I’m a nervous wreck

                  But, ironically, I know I have no choice but to make these decisions.  I also know that if I don’t, I’ve already made a choice.  Because, like Geddy, I choose free will and all of its accompanying responsibilities. . . even if it terrifies me and even if it means painting the living room again.

Happy "Me" Day to You

I’m super excited to have been invited to join a blog group alongside three talented bloggers.  Each week, one of us chooses a topic and we all post a blog entry on that topic, usually on Thursdays.  

Here are the links to the other fabulous blogs:

Merryland Girl

Froggie

Moma Rock

This week’s topic comes from Merryland Girl, who asked:  Tell us what your ideal “Me Day” would be like.  Two stipulations apply:  1. You have no responsibilities to anyone today, meaning you don't have to work, be in communication with anyone, do errands/ chores, etc.  2.  You have an unlimited amount of money that you can spend.

Here’s my take:

                  In 1982, a terrible song called I’ve Never Been to Me flooded the American airwaves.  The song hit Number 3 on the charts even though it had absolutely no redeeming musical value whatsoever (other than using the word “whore” as a verb).  It was sung by a one-hit wonder who looked remarkably like Jennifer Beales and who sported a single name:  Charlene.  Charlene’s one hit was awful:  one hundred percent pure campy pop fluff. 

                  I, of course, loved it. 

                  Many a Saturday afternoon, I skated around the Axle Roller Rink as the song blared from the scratchy speakers, placed there by the middle-aged woman who worked as a disc jockey at the rink.  I bought the 45 and played it at home, the dramatic tones filling my bedroom.  I concentrated on the grown-up lyrics, willing them to matter to me all the while realizing they held absolutely no meaning in my then fourteen-year-old life.  Hey, lady, I’ve been to paradise, but I’ve never been to me.  What the hell does that even mean?

                  Fast forward a few (dozen) years and . . . I kind of get it.

                  It’s still a terrible song, but now, in the throes of what I’m assuming (read:  “hoping”) is the tail end of a mid-life crisis, I find myself wondering whether I’ve actually ever “been to me.”  (Yep, still sounds really cheesy . . . and oddly a little dirty.)  So, as I ponder how I’d spend my dream “me” day, I find myself thinking less about what I would do or where I would go and more about who, exactly, I am. 

                  I wear my labels.  I know I’m a mother and daughter and wife and attorney and Chicagoan (more specifically, a North Sider), and a Cubs fan.  Those words accurately describe my place in certain subgroups.  But do they describe me as a person?  I can also offer certain characteristics about myself, a handful of personality quirks and traits that I can easily identify – and that I embrace.  I am not a morning person.  I prefer sugary to savory, chocolate cake to lobster, peanut butter M&Ms to almost anything.  I like hair band rock and most kinds of rap but dislike opera and folk music.  I become annoyed – greatly annoyed – when someone mangles grammar.  I love to read, hate to gamble, am indifferent about religion.  I’m a junker at heart, and I love to spend hours at thrift stores and flea markets.  I enjoy a good road trip to just about anywhere, really, just so long as there’s music on the radio and a bag of Twizzlers on the dashboard. 

                  I sound fabulous, don’t I?  A real walk in the park.

                  But it’s not all sunshine and roses here in this place I call “me.”  I walk around with my fair share of stuff, idiosyncrasies wrapped mostly in the neurotic sheen of insecurity.  On my dream “me” day, I would shake off these weights for the entire day.  For example, I’m wired to be a bit anxious.  I can brood with the best of them.  On my “me” day, I would not worry.  At all.  About anything.  I would turn off my law school-trained mind to stop globally thinking about every possible scenario for every possible problem.  Click!  Off.  I would also not wonder, even once, if I look fat, or if I am fat.  Or whether the wrinkles around my eyes have become more pronounced, despite the globs of moisturizer I cake on each day and night.  Or whether my roots are showing, or my hairstyle is out of date.  I wouldn’t care at all about what other people think of me.  I wouldn't wonder whether I should try to be more like that person or less like that other.  I wouldn’t silently question my effectiveness as a mother or as a wife or as a friend.  No, on my “me” day, I’d switch the always-running soundtrack in my head from the all-critical-all-the-time station to a non-stop, twenty-four-hour Bon Jovi marathon.  That would be my ideal “me” day:  the day I really embraced, accepted, and enjoyed being myself – wrinkles and all.

                  One thing I wouldn’t change is the fact that I’m kind lucky in that I don’t really feel the need to invent a dream “me” day, no matter how fun the exercise sounds (and it really does sound like fun).  Like everyone else, I have ways I like to spend my time and money, things I like to do and places I like to go.  And of course I’d love an entire to day to do one or more of these things, with an unlimited budget to boot.  But I’m lucky enough to be able to do most of these things during the course of any given week.  I read and write almost every day.  I visit thrift stores and junk shops fairly regularly.  Every few months, I take a day to myself and hit the flea market in Kane County, and other months, I go to the hair salon for a haircut, some highlights, and a little talk therapy.  I’ve even managed to travel – alone – a few times this year for writing workshops in St. Louis and Saugatuck, Michigan.  I don’t want for much that I don’t have.  Except, it seems, some peace of mind.  An internal happy place.  My own piece of paradise.

                  As Charlene sings in that awful, awful song, Hey, you know what paradise is?  It’s a lie.  A fantasy we create about people and places as we’d like them to be.  People tend to think of paradise as a place outside of themselves – a mecca like Hawaii, or Fiji, or a boat ride along the Amalfi Coast.  And all of those places do, indeed, sound wonderful.  But what good is walking around Maui feeling anxious, or strolling Capri worried about how your ass looks in your bathing suit? 

                  Maybe Charlene had it right.  Maybe paradise doesn’t really exist . . . on the outside.  Maybe it comes from inside, from silencing that voice that calls out flaws and failures, from accepting ourselves as we are – however that may be.  I haven’t been to that place, but I keep trying to find the way.  And if I do, I will declare that day the best “me” day ever.  And I will celebrate by eating peanut butter M&Ms while conjugating the verb “to whore.”  I think I owe Charlene at least that much.  

(Bonus content: Charlene's video!)

Taking What I Can Use and Leaving the Rest

I’m super excited to have been invited to join a blog group alongside three talented bloggers.  Each week, one of us chooses a topic and we all post a blog entry on that topic, usually on Thursdays.  

Here are the links to the other fabulous blogs:

Merryland Girl

Froggie

Moma Rock

This week’s topic comes from Moma Rock, who wrote:  “Choose a quote that inspires you. What makes it inspiring?”

Here’s my take:

          I used to work with a woman who had on her desk a bright wooden plaque bearing the words:  “Too blessed to be stressed.”  How cute, I’d think to myself as I passed her cubicle – all the while noting that although she may have believed herself to be blessed, she was, it seemed to me, often also quite stressed. 

          I’ve never been one for mantras.  I struggle with platitudes.  Sometimes, things people say that are meant to inspire actually kind of tick me off.  Example:  “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”  I beg to differ.  Sometimes, what doesn’t kill you actually maims you and leaves you emotionally battered and curled up in the fetal position on a shrink’s couch.  I feel the same way about the line, “Everything happens for a reason.”  Sure, and sometimes that “reason” is that people make ridiculously bad choices – and nothing more.

          I do enjoy reading inspirational quotes for no other reason than they make me think.  But I’ve never found myself adopting one as my own, or even feeling inspired to act because someone strung together five words in a creative way.  “The man on top of the mountain did not fall there.”  I like it; it’s clever.  But I can’t say it inspires me.  “Just do it.”  Nice marketing ploy, and not bad advice.  It does not, however, make me want to lace up my running shoes and hit the pavement. 

          As much as I’ve never really been inspired by a quote, over the years, I’ve managed to collect a handful of sayings that bring me comfort.  My Blessed-Stressed co-worker and I worked at a fast-paced litigation firm, the kind of place where, when a case got close to trial, the environment grew tense and intense.   Gearing up for trial meant working fifteen hour days, six days a week (and working from home for several hours on day seven). 

          During one particularly rough trial, not long after I’d started, I stressed myself into a tizzy trying to figure out how to finish the ridiculous amount of work that had been placed in my lap.  I’m kind of a Type-A personality when it comes to work and deadlines.  I want everything to be perfect, meaning on time and error free.  An admirable trait?  Perhaps.  But my tendencies just add to my stress.  One afternoon, my favorite partner walked into my office and quickly picked up on my rising panic.  He sat down across from me and, partly obscured by the wall of files on my desk, calmly reminded me that there were only twenty-four hours in a day and that I could only work a portion of those hours – because apparently I also had to sleep and eat and breathe.  I looked at him like he was crazy.  Didn’t he know how much work I had to do? 

          He rose to leave, but before he did, he said, simply, “Progress . . . not perfection.” 

          I’d never before heard that phrase, and after he left my office, I turned his words over in my mind.  And then the “aha” moment hit.  He was right.  In those three words – words that formed a phrase I’d later learn he gleaned from Alcoholics Anonymous – I found a center, a grounding point.  I’d turn to those words again and again, year after year, trial after trial.  And each time, those words gave me comfort.  They calmed me the hell down.

          A few years later, I’d have reason to learn a number of other Alcoholics Anonymous slogans, not out of any need for recovery myself, but while supporting someone close to me.  I found myself drawn to the phrases.  They formed a kind of emotional shorthand, a neat way to address some uncomfortable feelings and situations.  The Serenity Prayer in particular struck a chord; to me, it seemed applicable not only to addiction, but also much else in life.  I’ve caught myself saying the words in my head many times when facing a difficult situation or person:  God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. 

          The prayer reminds me to save my energy for situations where I can make a difference, and not to waste my precious time banging my proverbial head against a proverbial wall.  It also reminds me that I cannot change another person, I can only accept him as he is – or walk away.  And it reminds me that I will face things I do not like but I won’t always be able to fix or solve them; I will only be able to react and to manage my reaction.  These have not been easy lessons for me, yet somehow running the prayer through my head has grounded me when nothing else seemed to bring relief. 

          Over the years, I formed a friendship with Blessed-Stressed woman.  As our relationship blossomed, she gave me a birthday gift that now sits on my bedside table.  It’s a small silver box, shaped like a seashell.  Across the top are imprinted the words, “This too shall pass.”  I appreciated the gift, and I loved the saying.  I didn’t know until recently that the phrase is commonly used in AA.

          Huh.

          I suppose it’s interesting that I’m not inspired by platitudes meant to propel people to new heights but I am calmed by sayings intended to pull people from the depths of addiction despair.  (A psychiatrist likely would have a field day with that, assuming I could uncurl myself out of the fetal position long enough to mention it.)  I don’t know what, if anything, that might mean, and I don’t care.  I’m happy that, although I’m not motivated by pithy phrases, I am calmed by somewhat spiritual slogans.  What that says about my emotional make up, I certainly don’t know.  And that’s okay.

          As they say in AA:  It is what it is.