Merry Christmas everyone!
My favorite Christmas song….
I saw this prompt in the email inbox this morning and I knew that even if I had to MAKE time, I needed to write something about it. Even if it was short! (Oh man, I just do way too much STUFF. I never have time to do all the stuff I plan on doing, lol).
Lying IS wrong. There’s no doubt about that. You just shouldn’t do it. It’s too hard to remember, it’s too easy to get caught, and it’s too hard to regain trust.
But there’s a fine line between tact and lying, and I try to stay on the south side of it. It’s the classic case of the girlfriend asking the boyfriend, “Does this make me look fat?” On the one hand, if he says, “Yes. Yes, it does,” – assuming that’s the truth- she’ll be insulted. If he says no, he’s lying, but she won’t be insulted. Which way is better?
If the boyfriend isn’t bothered by how she looks in the outfit of question, then he could just say, “I think it looks fine,” and not be lying- Because he does think it looks fine. That is not a lie, and she is not insulted.
When someone causes some slight to you and they apologize, and you say, “Oh, it’s fine,” and really it isn’t- because they ran into you in a crowded street and you were already late for work and now you’re much more than fashionably late and you’ll probably have it on your record which was spotless until now and that includes all ten years of working there [*deep breath*] – that is a lie. But you don’t want to say something like, “Thanks a lot!” or “Way to ruin my month, lady!”. At least, you shouldn’t want to say something like that.
But you really aren’t mad at THEM. You’re mad that they ran into you. So instead of saying IT’s fine- when IT isn’t- you say, “YOU’RE fine,” because they themselves are fine, and then it’s not a lie. It’s not all the truth, but it’s not a lie either.
Sometimes, you just have to remember to withhold some of the information. You don’t say something that isn’t true, and if you are asked… well, of course, then you’d have to say it. But tact is valuable, and so is truth. That’s a tricky balance.
Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies
Tell me, tell me lies
Oh no no, you can’t disguise
No you can’t disguise
Tell me tell, me lies
~Sweet Little Lies, by Fleetwood Mac
You might recall a post I did a while back, about my favorite movie, The Driver?
You might also recall my mentioning that one of my favorite TV shows is The Mentalist.
Well, just now, I was looking at screen shots, and I realized something. Look at this shot from The Driver:
On the left, is The Driver. Curly blond hair, suit jacket with a dress shirt whose top button is undone and is lacking a tie. On the right, is The Player. Brown hair, wavy at the bottom, wearing a blouse and a blazer over it.
Now look at this shot from The Mentalist (I was hard pressed to find one with them standing on the same sides, so work with me here lol).
On the right, is Patrick Jane. Three-piece suit, but the top shirt button is undone and no tie, and blond curly hair. On the left, is Teresa Lisbon. Long brown hair, wavy at the ends, blouse with a blazer over it.
Very interesting indeed, right?
….Yeah. That’s what I thought. :p
It’s been awhile, I know. School, and dance, and music, and writing, and reading, and life. It’s all gotten in the way. However, I’m still around, and I’m still wanting to blog even if I don’t really have time.
I was scrolling through all the Daily Prompts I’ve missed when I saw this one, and I couldn’t resist. I also turned this in as an essay for school, which is why I had time to do it.
Daily Prompt for Sept. 8th, 2014: You’re sitting at a café when a stranger approaches you. This person asks what your name is, and, for some reason, you reply. The stranger nods, “I’ve been looking for you.” What happens next?
I sat back in the padded little cafe chair and eyed the stranger carefully. I’d definitely never seen him before, and this, of course, made me nervous. “I don’t, um, believe I know you?” I said it like a question. It was a question, really. If I didn’t know him and he knew me, I had obviously missed something.
He gestured to the chair across from me at the two-seater cafe table. “May I?”
I glanced around, hopefully not making it very obvious what I was doing. There were people everywhere. If he was going to try something, I’d be able to get the attention of several patrons, so I didn’t figure there was anything to worry about. Other than the fact that I was struggling to appear calm, of course. This was the twenty-first century. Stuff like this always happens on the crime shows before the victim is killed. Oh, boy, let’s kill that line of thought, shall we, Cass? That’d be great.
“Of course,” I said, in what I hoped was a gracious manner.
He smiled and sat down. “Are you finished with your meal?”
I glanced at the spot where my empty plates had been stacked, right before the waitress took them away. “Yes, I’m just waiting for my check,” I said.
“Good!” he exclaimed, as though this was some kind if grand development. Oh yeah, I’d definitely missed something.
“Uh, so, to what do I owe this pleasure?” I really needed to work on my delivery of “gracious sounding lines ladies use”. I filed that information away for later.
“All in due time, my dear,” said the stranger. At this moment, the waitress came over with the check. “Ah, sweetheart, would you get me a cup of coffee? And whatever the lady here would like. I’ll be paying her check,” he offered her a disarming smile.
The waitress blushed and glanced away, before nodding and tucking the check into her apron. “Of course sir,” she said. She glanced to me. “What can I get for you?”
I cut my eyes between the stranger and the waitress. I couldn’t decide whether I should tell him I already had the check covered, tell him I was in a hurry, tell him I didn’t want anything else, or just roll with it. On the one hand, free things usually come with strings attached. On the other hand, this really wasn’t the time to be hashing out the financial aspects of his motives.
I ordered a chocolate milkshake. When in Rome, y’know?
“So,” I said, offering the man a smile, “what can I do for you?” Yes, much better delivery, a pointless voice praised in my head.
“You can be patient until our orders come,” he said. And then, he proceeded to make small talk about the weather and the crops this year, and the stock market and the sad state of the panda population and heaven knows what else, and just when I felt I was about to burst, our orders showed up.
He smiled charmingly at the waitress and got her to blush again, and then he turned his attention to me. He smiled at me as I took a sip of my milkshake.
“I’m sure you’re very curious about all this,” he said.
I just managed to keep my eyes from rolling themselves. Understatement of the frazzling year. “A bit, yes,” I agreed sedately. Oh, that is rich, the pointless voice in my head chuckled.
“Well, I won’t keep you in suspense any longer,” the man said. “My name is Johnny Larson. My friend Elvis Wesley and I have been searching for you.”
I stared at him for a minute, temporarily forgetting that it takes two to tango and I wouldn’t learn any more information if I sat there like a ninnie and gawked.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
I blinked and nodded. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I’m sorry, did I hear that right? Johnny Larson and Elvis Wesley?”
The man chuckled. “We’re from the League of Imposters. We pose as celebrities for a living.”
I nodded slowly. “I see,” I said, even though I really didn’t see at all.
“You probably don’t think I look much like Mr. Carson.”
I shook my head. “No, I must admit, I don’t,” I said.
He chuckled again. “Well, you will. It takes the right clothes and make up. And I have to be in character.”
I nodded silently again.
“We’re here to offer you a once in a lifetime opportunity.”
I offered him a tentative smile around my milkshake. “Really,” was all I could think to say. “Who’s ‘we’?
He gestured to a table in the corner. A man who could’ve looked like Elvis, if he was older, skinnier, had a different hairstyle and clothes, and wasn’t texting on his iPhone, waved to me with a goonish grin.
I waved politely back with a smile and turned back to my personal stranger. “What kind of opportunity?”
The man smiled and reached inside his suit jacket. “This is a file you should look at,” he said, drawing out a folder and placing it on the table in front of me.
I opened it, and glanced it over. I saw a picture of a woman with brown hair and eyes, who looked much older than me. Under her picture was the name Laura Elena Harring. Beneath that, several stats.
Born: March 3rd, 1964
I didn’t get any further than that before the man said, “We’ve been searching for her look alike, and I believe we’ve found it in you, Madam.”
I looked up, an incredulous expression on my face that I couldn’t hide. “Me?” I squeaked. “This woman was born in 1964! She’s the same age as my father and I don’t look anything like her!”
The man smiled in a bored fashion, as if he already knew I would say all that. “You can look like her, in a little while. You’ll need to be at least thirty-five before we can begin your impersonations, but you can begin training now.”
I glanced at the sheet again. “This woman is still alive.”
He shrugged. “She won’t always be. If things follow the natural cycle, you’ll outlive her.”
I blinked. How delightful. “Uh, yes. I fail to understand where this is going.”
He sighed. “Madam, please. You will make a million dollars a year if you join this program.” He leaned forward across the table. “You are special. You may be trained to be like this woman. You will be able to have anything you want, whenever you want. You will live a life of luxury. You’ll never have to debase yourself by engaging in menial labor again. All you have to do,” he said as he slid a paper and pen across the table, “is sign this and join the League.”
I stifled a chuckle. Where did they find this guy? “‘Debase myself by-”
“A lady does not debase herself by engaging in menial labor,” he interrupted. “And you certainly are a lady- aren’t you, madam?”
I stared at him for a moment, deciding not to justify that question with a response. “What would this… umm, entail?”
He sat back and grinned at me. “You’ll live in a mansion all to yourself. Anything you want, you’ll have at a moment’s notice. Servants and maids will be available on call. You’ll go to parties and have nice clothes and fancy foods. You can have everything you’ve ever dreamed of owning.” He smiled a little shark like. “A ‘64 Ford Fairlane Thunderbolt….. or a Framus AK74 guitar… anything.”
I wondered how he knew what was on the top of my “List of things I want but will never be able to have”. Then again, this guy was pretty odd, so it shouldn’t have surprised me.
“Uh, wow. That all sounds very nice, but…” I thought over my life currently. I worked for minimum wage, rented a bungalow in a small town, drove a VW Beetle that was worse for the wear but driveable. I played a cheap rookie Dean guitar and ate a lot of Ramen noodles.
But it was my life. And I’d made it all by myself, without anyone’s help. I was independant. And I was me.
And here sat a stranger that made me nervous, who apparently knew everything about me, heaven knew how, who was asking me if I wanted to be rich and famous by pretending to be someone else. By giving my freedom to people who would pay me and wait on me and treat me like glass.
Here was the only chance I would ever have to have any of the things I dared allow myself to dream of once in a blue moon.
“Power and glory and fortune and fame
There must be a price you must pay
Where do you go when you know that you’ve gone all the way?”
But I liked my independence, my VW and my bungalow. I never did care much for the name on the tag as long as it looked nice and fit me, and Ramen noodles were just fine with cheese on them. And cheese was pretty cheap.
Power and glory and fortune and fame weren’t worth the price…. not this time, anyway.
I slowly shook my head. “No. No, I’m sorry, Mr. Larson, but I think I’m happy with my life. I don’t believe I can help you.” I slid the papers back across the table.
He stared at them a moment and then looked up at me. “Are you sure, madam? This opportunity will never present itself again.”
I smiled confidently. “I’m sure, sir.”
He sighed and stood up, gathering his papers. “As you wish, my dear.” He said. He nodded to Elvis Wesley, who waved again and headed for the door. Johnny Larson paid my check, as he’d promised, and then turned back to me. He pulled my chair out and offered me a hand. I could obviously stand up on my own, but he was trying to be chivalrous so I accepted it.
He walked me to my car, and I turned to him with a smile when we reached it. He even opened the door for me. I got in, he closed the door, and I rolled down the window. He smiled down at me and said, one last time, “Are you certain, madam?”
I laughed a little and said, “I’m certain, Mr. Larson. Thank you for offering, but the answer is no.”
He touched two fingers to the brim of his fedora. I nodded back to him, still smiling, and he turned and walked away. A limo with a bored looking chauffeur at the wheel pulled up, and another man got out to open the door for the strange Johnny Larson, who climbed in and was spirited away by his staff.
I was about to put my VW in gear and head back to work before my lunch break was over, when my phone rang. I answered it.
“Hello, Miss Cassidy.”
Ah, Grandma was calling.
“Yes?” I said.
“We have a question for you.”
“Oh, really,” I said.
“We can’t find Grandpa’s orange drill, and we’ve looked everyplace. You don’t know where it is, do you?”
I smiled to myself, and even as I rattled off an automatic list of the most likely places to lose a big orange Black and Decker drill in Grandpa and Grandma’s house or pole barn, I thought to myself, This is definitely the life I’d like to keep, Mr. Larson. You’ve no idea what you’re missing.
Lyrics from All The Way by Triumph.
If you understand to what TV Show I refer with the “[blank] does not debase xerself by engaging in menial labor” quote, then I applaud you because you have exquisite taste. ‘Xer’ is a gender neutral term to replace him or her so I don’t give you a hint, by the way.
I hope you liked it! :)
You’ve no idea how often Grandma calls me and says “We have a question for you” and then asks me if I know where [thing] is. I have developed automatic answers my now- Say where I last saw the thing, and list the most likely places to lose it, and wish them good luck. It’s very familiar and made for the perfect “life-setter” to stick in this story.
Here’s the song that comes from:
Where there’s a will, there’s a way
Every dog will have his day
Those who wait are only wastin’ time
Pray for wisdom – dig for gold
Can’t buy freedom by selling your soul
You gotta be willin’ to give them a piece of your mind
Let a clearer conscience lead you
Don’t let anyone deceive you
When your heart cries out you must obey
Take it all the way, we can make it
All the way, we can take it
All the way, come tomorrow, come what may
Right or wrong? You can’t decide
But the loser pays and the strong survive
So take your shot, give it all you can
You better watch out, you better look around
’cause what goes up is gonna come down
Everybody lives by the law of supply and demand
Once you’ve set a course don’t change it
Luck will come to those who chase it
Don’t let anything get in your way
Power and glory and fortune and fame
There must be a price you must pay
Where do you go when you know that you’ve gone all the way
All the way
I went down to the sacred store, Where I’d heard the music years before, But the man there said the music wouldn’t play…
And in the streets, the children screamed, The lovers cried and the poets dreamed But not a word was spoken, The church bells all were broken…
And the three men I admire most, The Father, Son and the Holy Ghost They caught the last train for the coast, The day the music died.
I plan on being a musician in some right. Being in the music business. Of course, that would be hard if we didn’t HAVE a music business to be in.
Modern music is bad enough to me, but I can handle it. People like Bruno Mars and Phil Philips actually know what they’re doing, and they give me some hope for young people’s musical tastes. But honestly, right now, they’re the only ones. Otherwise, I worry that several popular genres like rock, pop, and dance have totally gone to pot, and other worthless genres (to me- if YOU like them more power to you) like hip hop, rap, techno, etc have popped up to drag the other genres under with them.
You must be wondering why I don’t like them. Or, maybe you’re not, but either way, if you keep reading you’ll find out.
Like a Joe Walsh interview brought up, music isn’t made by PEOPLE anymore. I mean, technically it is, but not in the same way. People write a part for an instrument, make it on a computer (Garage Band anyone?) and add on all these digital tracks made by virtual instruments one by one, and then they sing, and then they run their voice through all kinds of odd filters, and then they call it music. I suppose it is (creative licence) but not in the true sense of the word. Not to me. Not to most people I’m good friends with.
Music is sold by the song for $1.29, sometimes 99 cents if you’re not too popular, and yet most people just steal it off some pirated site on the internet for nothing, like it’s perfectly fair to the artist to say “hey, I know you worked hard on this and this is how you make a living and it makes about as much sense as asking a painter give his paintings away for nothing, but I’m gonna just steal this now, because I want it and I can’t afford it. Okay?”
People make CDs and put ‘em in Walmart, people buy them now and then because they’re in the five dollar CD and movie bin, but no one wants a physical thing they can hold. Everyone wants files and virtual stuff.
Record companies don’t even have any records for crying in the bucket, and anymore they’re a joke. There’s no putting planning the cover art and going to great lengths to get the order of the songs just right when you make the album to get the message just right, no concept albums happen anymore (although Styx’s Kilroy Was Here album with the robot theme was a mild disaster, it’s still the principle of the thing), and no one sits down, puts a CD in, starts it on the first track, and listens to it all the way through in the order it was meant to go by the artist who planned it out. (except for me, apparently).
Heck, I may be the only person left who even uses the word ‘album!’
You know what REALLY bothers me though? This radio station has decided that they want to fit 24 songs an hour instead of 12. And they’ve also decided that people no longer have the attention span to put up with the same song for three or four minutes, I mean seriously, no one has three or four minutes to devote to one thing at a time anymore, right? So they’ve started cutting songs in half however they see fit. This is just wrong. Maybe they listen to a song and say “Okay, no one will care about the solo. Just cut that out.” or “No one will care about the bridge, no will care about the last chorus, no one will care about the second verse, just cut it out.”
Okay, let’s look at Freebird. That’s a song most people know, right? Everyone yells Freebird at concerts so I’m assuming you all do. If you don’t, I’ll put it in the bottom of the post just in case. But it’s an iconic rock song by Lynyrd Skynyrd, which has it’s own Wikipedia page, and is a staple of rock and roll. It is half ballad, half iconic guitar solo, which is the point of my huge, so far pointless paragraph: What if this happened in 1973 and they cut out the solo in Freebird? Would it still be the most iconic song in rock and roll? Heck no it wouldn’t, and I’d like to see you try to convince me otherwise! It would just be a short ballad with nothing to make you come into half way through on the radio and be like “hey! that’s Freebird!” as soon as you hear a few notes.
Or, hey: How about the Dire Straits song Sultans Of Swing? Not exactly a classic, but have a glance over the lyrics here if you like. It would leave us all lost and confused if they chopped it in half. The story about a band called the Sultans of Swing would be lost if they chopped it off after the verse about Guitar George who knows all the chords, would it not?
Look at the Thanksgiving Day classic by Arlo Guthrie: Alice’s Restaurant: the eighteen minute song about how he and a friend took Alice and Ray an Fasha the dog’s garbage out and decided one big pile was better than two little piles, so they threw it down a cliff with some other garbage and since it was a small town, they got into all kinds of trouble. And also, he came to talk about the draft, and the Group W Bench…and tell you that if you wanna end war and stuff you gotta sing loud. If they cut that in half we’d never know about the fate of the 27 8×10 color glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one explaining what each one was to be used as evidence against us. Them. Whatever.
Not to mention, songwriting is a skill. Maybe you didn’t know. but there is an art to songwriting. Read a book called The Craft Of Lyric Writing by Sheila Davis sometime. There are certain song formats like ABAB or BABA or ABCA or….etc etc. (A being the chorus, B being the verse, C being the bridge/solo/interlude/whatever, etc etc). It is an art that requires you to tell a story that pulls people in and makes them want to actually hear the whole thing. This is like messing with the art of lyric writing. There is no way a songwriter can accommodate to make sure the story-line in the song will still be complete in case some jughead at a radio station decides to chop it off. Okay, actually, that might be a little bit harsh. Allow me to rephrase: Songwriters write the song, and no radio station executive can take over after the job is done because he thinks his listeners don’t want to hear the whole thing. Most radio station executives aren’t going to have the songwriter’s best interests at heart, and should not be allowed to fool with the finished product at will to see if he gets more listeners.
If he wants more shorter hit songs to play, he can write ‘em himself, as far I’m concerned. Then he could see how very hard it would be to write a top 10 billboard hit in under two minutes.
10 years from now, are we gonna have any radio stations? Any record companies? Any mass produced physical recordings of anything, much less music? (CDs, records, tapes, etc) Any top 40 billboard charts?
I don’t doubt people will still play guitar on their back porch at sunset, or that boyfriends will still serenade girlfriends in the cheesiest way possible with a ukulele just to evoke an indulgent smile, but will there be a mainstream music industry?
It must sound insane to speculate on the idea, and maybe I’m wrong. I sure as heck hope I’m wrong. Regardless, I think it’s a possibility. A scary one at that but still quite real.
Now, let me finish up by quoting Joe Walsh from that interview:
“Records, record stores, record sales, it’s all gone. And it’s up to the young musicians to try and figure it out. There’s no money in it, there’s no record companies, it’s free- you can download it. Nobody gets paid so they can afford to make music…. that’s what happening. And uh, they’re just cranking out music that is like, just, a recipe. Nobody’s playing at the same time. Everybody’s adding on virtual instruments (that don’t exist) onto a drum machine. That somebody programmed. And you can tell, in the music that’s out there now. It’s all been programmed. There’s no mojo. There’s nobody testifying, there’s not the magic of a human performance. Which is never perfect. And the magic of a human performance is what we all know and love in the old records. And it’s all gone. So we’ll see what the digital age has in store.”
You can see that interview here, on Live From Daryl’s House (ya know, Daryl Hall? Hall and Oats? Your Kiss Is On My List? Yeah, he does a live music show and puts it on the internet, and Joe Walsh was on there). It’s at the part called “Wrecking Ball Intro” if you go to the drop down menu below the video player. (Unless it starts there by itself…. I don’t know if it will).
A long, long time ago, I can still remember how that music used to make me smile
And I knew if I had my chance, That I could make those people dance, And maybe they’d be happy for a while
But February made me shiver, With every paper I’d deliver, Bad news on the doorstep, I couldn’t take one more step
I can’t remember if I cried, When I read about his widowed bride, But something touched me deep inside, The day the music died
Songs I talked about:
Bye, bye Miss American Pie, drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry Those good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye, singin’ this’ll be the day that I die….
My favorite kind of flower is definitely the balloon flower. I don’t know what the official name is, but if I could grow one in the house I would. In reality, they only bloom in tue late summer and only grow outside.
My second favorite? Wisteria, but unfortunately we don’t have any of that growing. 😉
And….yeah, another one for the road. A thrid one for the road to be more exact. Now how about a song posting?…
As promised. Here’s another one!
For some odd reason known only to my camera, it made the pale peach underlining on the words florescent orange. Oh well. *shrugs*