Sally Turner Kennedy has a couple of new items on her blog, North Coast Muse. Sally is a bird lover, bird watcher, and bird follower. One of her new post focuses on what’s going on in the world of trying to restore Ohio’s peregrine falcon population. She’s posted a photo of two of the current Columbus peregrines chillin’ out high up in the Rhodes Tower in downtown Columbus.
Sally is a doer and loves to take in a festival, concert, art display, farm market, etc. Her most recent post is of a recent craft show she attended. As usual, she has some nice photos.
Let me tell you story, my Chapman’s General Store patrons. ‘Twas way back in the winter of ’64, and my music world consisted of listening to the likes of Bobby Vinton, Gene Pitney, Bobby Vee, Paul Anka, yes, even Andy Williams. Hell, we didn’t even have much Elvis in the house. My sister Karen had some Elvis soundtracks but even The King was way too controversial for Bourneville, Ohio at the time. Mom and Dad had some Dean Martin stuff I could throw on the turntable, if that clarifies my situation at all. I was 8-years old but listened to music as often as I could. I was too young to buy 45s, so I was dependent on whatever was brought home by Mom & Dad or my two older sisters. Bleak times indeed. Those times had become bleaker in November of ’63 when my 2nd grade teacher walked in the room to tell us that JFK, a man for whom I’d passed out flyers around Ross County with my strongly democratic family, had been blown away in Dallas. I was shaken, even at my young age. Seeing your dad cry for the first time will do that to you. With the country knocked down to one knee, it certainly needed a wake-up call. I, and everybody else, got one in February.
O.K., I know the title to my post sucks. I tried to think of something witty to no avail. So, I just went straight to the point, which is my usual modus operandi anyway. Here’s the deal though. I have been attending concerts since 1973. That’s 38-years for you Highland County folk. My first show was Brownsville Station, with Redbone opening. Again, for you younger kids Brownsville Station did the original, and infinitely better, version of “Smokin’ in the Boys Room,” some 15-years before Motley Crue attempted a lame cover. Redbone is best remembered as a band of American Indians, dressed in full native regalia, who sang “Come and Get Your Love.” Politically correct? Not so much. Great show though. The main point of my post is that concert etiquette has changed tremendously over the years. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a believer that almost anything goes, especially down front. But still . . . a list of my beefs:
People who sing the words to every single song. Hey, I enjoy a good sing-a-long as much as the next guy, but when I go see Paul McCartney I don’t want to hear some 65-year old wannabe groupie singing “Let It Be” louder than Continue reading Things I Hate at Rock Concerts→
Two and two are four. Art is around us, but it is something that you have to open your eyes to see. Fairly often we find ourselves focused on a task too hard to take a look at our surroundings. We need to learn to take time to glimpse at the world around us. The towns and cities we live in may not have the Louvre or the Met; they may not have a thriving theatre or a concert hall, but there is art everywhere. I am glad to have grown up in Washington Court House because I have had the opportunity to grow up with art. Some of it is hidden in the confines of old buildings; some however, is in plain sight. It blends into the town’s culture and heritage and eventually is forgotten, because we forget to open our eyes to it. We forget the brushstrokes and sweat it takes to make our masterpieces blend in with the community. We forget how boring the blank canvas was before those brushstrokes took effect.
You may remember the end of John Steinbeck’s stage adaptation of, Of Mice and Men. After accidentally killing a young woman, Lennie escapes from the men hunting him and hides near a small river, waiting for George to come and save him. George arrives, but understanding that he can no longer protect Lennie, he makes the difficult decision to shoot him. He kills Lennie so that he will be saved from the cruelty of his pursuers.
It’s a difficult ending for a modern audience. Killing a developmentally disabled man is complicated enough, but adding the fact that the killer is his best friend and caregiver makes an already hard to grasp ending that much more complex. Every time I teach the play the discussion concerning the moral and ethical dilemma presented by the ending consumes most of the available class time.
But last week I was confronted by a response that I had never heard. When I asked for opinions on what the Steinbeck was trying to say to us through the ending one normally quiet freshman offered his unique thoughts. With some surprising degree of confidence this student said that George killed Lennie because he wanted his freedom. George was tired of taking care of Lennie and now he could spend his money on whatever he wanted.
If you’re younger than I you may have never heard of Rusty Warren or Redd Foxx. Even if you know of Redd Foxx it’s probably from his role as Fred G. Sandford of television fame. But long before Sandford and Son, Foxx was known as the king of dirty jokes while Warren was the queen.
In the 1950s people secretly listened to Redd Foxx and Rusty Warren on long-play, 33 1/3 r.p.m., vinyl record albums which society in general viewed as extremely raunchy humor. Everyone owned a couple of these albums, or had a friend who did. Adults routinely held house parties with a part of the evening’s entertainment consisting of sitting around the record player listening to the latest album from one of these comedians.
I’ve written about Parker J. Pfister before. Many of you around our area may remember him as Jason Pfister who graduated from McClain High School in the late 1980s. Jason was always a creative and talented person and in the years since leaving Greenfield he has carved out quite a name for himself in the world of photography, especially wedding photography.