Holding Out for a Hero

“Where have all the good men gone
And where are all the gods?
Where's the streetwise Hercules
to fight the rising odds?”

Things I understand: cause and effect, supply and demand, Will and Grace, and perhaps Tony Orlando and Dawn. I understand that sentences should usually have both a noun and a verb, and that conjunctions are used to bind clauses together. (You can thank School House Rock for that bit of grammar trivia.) I even understand a few phrases spoken in a foreign tongue, though unless a swine bursts in a French city, I may not be a useful foreign translator.

I completely understand the difference between internal and external locus of control, the theory of post-purchase dissonance and the concepts of ID, EGO and Superego as introduced by Sigmund Freud. On some days, I understand (and concur) why some foreign governments hate ours, and if I try really hard, I can even understand that there is a reason that some people voted for George W. Bush. I cannot, no matter how hard I try, BEGIN to understand advanced calculus, the appeal of Seinfeld, Bronte Literature, American Idol and this:

There have been created for no other purpose than our amusement, a group of trailer park action figures. I use the term “action” loosely. The caption underneath the above banjo boy reads:

“Meet Lil Billy Boy. Billy weren’t too good in his schoolin. But he has a special gift. Billy can flat out play some banjo…”

Oh. My. God. (Please pause between the words for special emphasis.) I found it (and the rest of the set) being sold in a gumball machine in a KFC somewhere in Podunk Northern Indiana. I was on a return trip from Holland, Michigan: Dutch Kitsch Capital of the US. A beautiful, charming city complete with all things cheesy Dutch: Dutch shoes, little kissing Dutch Dudes statues, windmills, and the ubiquitous tulip. They did NOT, however, sell the trailer park set, only true Hoosiers would see the value in THAT kind of cheese.

I have to admit though, the above-mentioned toy was purchased by me while on vacation. Yes, for 50 cents and a prayer (“Please let it be the banjo boy, please let it be the banjo boy, please let it be the Arrowood Action Figure that I can relentlessly tease Keith with”) you could be the proud owner of one, too. It frightens me a bit. I’m all for a good action figure, as my desk would indicate, but a Straight-From-Deliverance-Kid is rather scary.

What have we come to? Where have all the superheroes gone? You know, the ones with special abilities and accoutrements? My Johnny West had guns and spurs and a hat, and even had a horse. My French Foreign Legion Ken Doll had the ability to speak in French and make crepes, plus he donned a cool FFL cap. (Okay, most of that was in my mind, but still…) What can banjo boy do? He doesn’t even get shoes! And, a banjo, though a mighty fine instrument, is hardly a super hero tool. (I can see the bluegrass musicians angrily typing, even as I speak.) I mean I understand the appeal of the Sigmund Freud action figure, and we all know what super powers the Jesus action figure has (does it come with bread and fish, or thorns and a cross?), but banjo boy? What’s next? The Chicken Sexer Action Hero? Perhaps Captain History Geek? What action figure do YOU want to see? Perhaps I’ll put it next to my Guardian of the Necropolis statuette, and of course Billy Boy.

*Bonnie tyler of Footloose fame, and there are so many good folk parodies of it....

Do I Ever Cross Your Mind?

“And when I think of you and the love we once knew,
How I wish we could go back in time.
Do you ever think back on old memories like that,
Or do I ever cross your mind?”



I’ve moved on. At least physically. I’m in a different state, a new home, and pretty much a new life. On paper, this life is much more successful: more money, more prestige, a better chance for advancement. I still miss the old one a little. I’m a little scrooge-esque, being haunted by snippets of Christmas past, only it’s not Christmas I see. I see me sitting at my desk and co-workers coming in to chat, late night talks in the parking lot, coming in early and staying late (I miss that why?), the lunch bus, watching the kids (and adults) grow up, and knowing I had a place to go if the world turned cold.

We had a party this weekend with some co-workers. They were here and gone in a few hours. Where was the “sit and solve the world’s problems” conversations in the wee hours of the morning? They came and went en masse. I so looked forward to the weekend, preparing and making sure everything was perfect, but I felt the entire evening that something was missing. I know now that it was the familiarity I missed. I wanted my old friends. I wanted to have the comfort of knowing that I could be me, and that it would be okay, even preferred. I wrote once many years ago that good friends reminded me of my favorite sweatshirt: It warms me up, makes me feel happier, and well, COMFORTABLE. Like someone I love had her arms wrapped around me. I want that here. (Not the sweatshirt, I still have that. I wore it yesterday.) You can get a NEW sweatshirt, but it takes a long time to wear in, it just doesn’t fit right, and you find yourself going back to the old ones. I miss my “old sweatshirt” friends. We were a good team, we worked hard and played hard, the way it SHOULD be. Perhaps I’m old fashioned. Perhaps I’m not as good at connecting with people as I used to be, who knows. I just miss the warm fuzzy feeling that we had. We just used to all be so connected.

For example, two of the kids we worked with lost their father. It was during the busiest weekend of the year for us. We didn’t really know the dad, at least I didn’t, but funerals and wakes are not for the dead, they’re for those who are left. We buckled down and showed up in force for the kids. I would like to think that it mattered to the family that we were there. It certainly mattered to us. It was the right thing to do. When we were leaving the funeral home one of the guys said, “I hurt for them”. That’s what good friends do best. They feel for each other.

One of my oldest and dearest friends lost her father recently. I got the news while I was at a wedding out of state. I was calm and collected on the phone (We always had a rule that only one of us was allowed to cry at a time.) After the conversation was over, I sat on the plush Westin bed and sobbed. I hurt, not for me, but I hurt for her. She is an “old sweatshirt” friend.

Of course not all empathetic feelings are sad. Another friend is in a new relationship, and is blooming with all the happiness and giddiness that a new loves brings. We feel that happiness for her, too. If people could spontaneously combust from elation, she would be nothing but a pile of Canadian ashes by now. Somehow, we all feel a little happier just by being her friend.

Somewhere in Indiana, or maybe in Denver, I mawkishly hope there are a few people who in the middle of the day, just when they least expect it, perhaps when they see a pumpkin, or hear a Brian Joseph song, or wax poetically about Aengus Finnan, or ride in a golf cart in the rain, or play softball, or see a bullhorn (or a moron), or read an Emily Dickinson poem, or hear a mention of Halloween, or reach for an ice pack, or hear someone calling a dog named Barney or put on a special sweatshirt, that just for a few seconds they think of me. I know there are a lot of people who cross my mind often, just when I least expect it.