humor – Page 2 – Bifocals and Barbells

It really is a wonder that I wasn’t raised in a cult. Back when there were gyms and I spent time on treadmills, I watched a series about cults. Hopefully that’s normal-ish, and no, there wasn’t an episode about Crossfit.

The theme I noticed about all the ex cult members was that they all had indeterminable belief in the goodness of others. That’s precisely how my mom sees the world.

It occurred to me right then and there that my dad probably had to spend a fair amount of time making sure we didn’t end up in a cult. My mom is not gullible, but she wants people to be their best and will do whatever she can to support them. She’s known to buy from any number of the varied characters that have graced her studio over the years; Fuller Brush man, Schwann’s man, Avon ladies, the multilevel marketing vitamin people, you name it. Whether or not those things were “needed” in the household is open to debate. She does it because she believes in people and wants to help them.

Then there’s my dad.

One of his best attributes is how pragmatic he is. His realism is just about as opposite as it can get to my mom’s “everything is awesome” outlook. The way that their two perspectives work together is precisely how they accomplish all that they have.

My parents have been married 52 years. If that doesn’t impress you enough, I’ll add that my in-laws have been married 50 years. In a world where an accomplishment in commitment is more like “I was able to watch every episode of Breaking Bad,” the length of these marriages is astounding.

Anyone can be in a marriage (or committed relationship) when it’s easy. And, nothing can be easy for 52 years. Not even getting out a chair.

When they met, she was a 19 year old starry eyed waitress (that’s what servers were called back then). He was a 28 year old father and business owner. They dated a short time, and married quickly thereafter. You can ask them the mushy stuff. They’re my parents. I don’t need to know any of that.

I don’t know that they intentionally set out to push each other to succeed, but that’s how it looks from the outside. They both believed that the other was capable of whatever was needed to be achieved. Every single idea. Some of the things they’ve believed the other could pull off would test even a 1967 vintage marriage. The challenges of co-parenting, trying to have children, uprooting for a new life, career changes, family crises, recession, and more recession, the whole gamut.

Divorce happens a lot now. When I was growing up, not so much. I remember one story when so-and-so left so-and-so after 32 years of marriage. I was trying to gossip with my dad about it in that beautiful wood and corrugated metal shop on the ranch. Mr. Practical with a dry sense of humor, “Yea I don’t know what I’d do if you mom left me after 32 years.” Then a pause and twinkle, “I guess I’ll never get that lucky.” I’m sure he was joking. Pretty sure.

They didn’t get to 52 years without pissing each other off on the regular. Mom’s people don’t need to see my dad to know if he’s in trouble. My mom’s an artist. There’s a disturbing degree of realism when she draws a literal asshole with legs on her white board. It’s the unquestionable sign that he’s in trouble.

We are constantly barraged with images of what love is supposed to look and feel like. We measure ourselves and our relationships to unrealistic standards. Fuck you advertising and media.

Love isn’t hearts/flowers/diamonds. It’s not first kisses or 100% smiley days. It’s waking up every day for 52 years choosing to be married. It’s keeping your partner out a cult and making sure your partner knows when they are being an asshole. It’s being true to yourself and really being in partnership with someone who makes you want to be better. It’s seeing the other as you saw them when you fell in love with them. My dad turned 81 recently. My mom posted, “This gorgeous hunk of male flesh sitting right there in front of you. He still makes my liver quiver.” She’s back to the starry eyed waitress meaning every word of what she says. He’s back the young entrepreneur believing that there’s nothing they can’t do.

Conceptually, I understand how music is made. The person does the thing, the thing is recorded, yadda yadda, Britney Spears comes out my head phones letting me know I “better work, bitch.”

But knowing about music is no substitute for feeling it. I know that I over use the word “magical,” but it’s only because I over feel things and see them as magical. So it’s with that knowledge that I say; live music is fucking magical.

To watch the making of music is to me like watching wizardry. “So, seriously? You just strum your fingers on those strings and music happens? Whoa.” It really doesn’t matter what music it is, reggae festival, rock concert, marching band, bagpipes, even country music; it all sounds better live.

Watching the music unfold with other people can be almost transcendent.

I’ve been lucky over the years for all the music I’ve experienced. My first concert was when I was 14. I’d been grounded for my behavior. Rightously so. But we’d already paid the $16/ticket to see Howard Jones in Davis. You are instantly in my tribe if you have any idea who that is. His biggest hit was something along the lines of “whoa, whoa, whoa-oah, whao, whoa.” The only thing more 80’s than his frosty bowl cut and the broach he wore at the top button of his shirt was his overdependence on his synthesizer. Mom took me, offering a brief stay from my grounding. We were immersed in the smell of clove cigarettes and artificial angst. It was the kind of show you were supposed to look gloomy for. As if 80’s kids at a concert at a university really had any reason to be gloomy. Geez. Bless my mom for her patronage. She made the best of it. Did some hairdresser research by asking some rando what products he used to get his mohawk as rigid as it was.

That experience could’ve turned me against concerts, but it was the 80’s-90’s. Tickets were cheap and travel was easy. I saw some ridiculously good shows. Scorpions, INXS, Black Crowes, No Doubt, most of Lynrd Syknyrd, to name a few. Far and away during those days, the best was AC/DC.

I’d plotted for weeks. My outfit had to be on point, suitable for moshing, and also easy to travel in. I stuck with the black tank dress. I took the more conservative route by wearing leggings with lace on the bottom. Also, black. (Goth is not a phase). My work buddy drove us to Sacramento , and we were thunderstruck. It was so good. So loud. Such energy. It was perfect. We couldn’t hear for days. Luckily, Denny’s has pictures on it’s menu so we were able to at least nourish on our way home. It was *murmur murmur years ago, and yet I can recall exactly how it felt when they took the stage.

Live music frequency decreased, but appreciation has only increased. (The best show I’ve seen in decades, Highly Suspect, gets a post all of it’s own some day.) Nowadays, I mosh less. I dance less. But stare in wonder just as hard as I ever did. “How do they do that?”