I've Just Told Mama Goodbye

I know, everyone is all boo-hoo teary-eyed about Michael Jackson (Richards, I am looking at you). But, I think you are all overlooking the real loss to entertainment-Irv Homer.

My father used to listen to the Philly Radio station WWDB throughout my childhood. I honestly don't recall him ever listening to any music except when my sister brow-beat him into letting her listen to Q102 or Eagle 106. Usually, my pops would crank up the Irv in the old Taurus or maroon station wagon and cruise. "Evil" Irv had a truly perfect radio voice and congeniality to his cantankerous anger that I remember fondly. He predated the absurdity of modern radio punditry and, sadly, his more conversant style made him seem outdated by the time I left for college. To me, his voice will always be talk radio. Evil Irv, you will be missed.

Ear Dis

The above-pictured abyss is my father’s ear. Dangling pendulums of skin and fur that hang off my father’s head, these massive floppy hearing discs often serve as a crystal ball into my future. For his 65th birthday he requested the top of the line, diamond tipped, Sharper Image ear and nose hair trimmer with (spelunking) light attached. I wept in my birthday cake after I gave it to him. He promised to leave it for me in his will. Even worse, within 6 months, he informed me the machine couldn’t handle the black forest that are his ears, and the motor burnt out. He was back to using the old scissors to help in his daily maintenance.

This past weekend I returned home to the Philly-burbs to celebrate in meat father’s day, my parent’s anniversary, and my sister’s birthday. It was there I saw that my father had purchased himself a bluetooth earpiece. I applaud the man for making an attempt at safety while driving (he still rarely uses his seatbelt), but watching him endeavor to put this in his ear was a bit like a toddler trying to slip onto the tilt-a-whirl at the amusement park. If they make an extra large device, my father didn’t get it, and he needed to not only put it in his ear, but to also constantly use his hand hold it onto the side of his head. I think he was hoping that with speed his ear hair and wax that can grow, it would, at some point, overcome the earpiece and lock it in place. I imagine the next time I see him it will seem that he has half an ear muff attached to his head with an Bluetooth device buried, like a lost treasure, beneath the soft pillow of hair, wax, and miscellaneous refuse caught in the air. If I am lucky, I too will have inherited this fine family trait.

Mule Train

Cathy and I will be heading to the great ethnic north of Philadelphia this weekend to celebrate (in order of stated importance, as dictated by my sister): my sister’s birthday, father’s day, my parents anniversary. All of these events happened either on the same day (June 26=Bek’s b-day, my folks forgetting to stay single) or within a week of each other.

Cathy is tearing herself away from working on the store space to join the ladies in my family for a day of spa relaxation. My father will be at work. My sister’s husband and I will probably watch TV, sleep, and make fun of my sister behind her back.

That evening my father will be taking us out for my sister’s birthday to a Brazilian churrascarria. This a thinly veiled gift from my father to my sister that is actually a gift from my father to my father. The man likes meat, what can I say. He also very much enjoys watching others eat foods he loves (read:meat). Bek’s husband writes of this meal, “Very excited. If I eat too much I am going to fall asleep. But if I don’t eat too much I am going to disappoint your parents. I am at a loss.”

It is a very hard decision to decide to become involved in my family. I wouldn’t recommend it. Anyway, we are not currently accepting applications.

Oh Death

Just a quick note to say how much I adore the Washington Post's "Post Mortem" blog:

http://voices.washingtonpost.com/postmortem/

I have always been fascinated with obits.

It is my goal to live a life that gets me into the NYtimes or Washington Post obit page. Which means I need to live a life completely out of the ordinary or do just one small odd feat that gets me noticed. One way or another, I think I can handle that.

Bully of the Town

Be afraid babies. Cathy is coming to steal your lunch money.

Polka Dot Ragged

What the hell, this will be my second post dealing with Polka music. I think any reader who does not know me would think I am some huge Polka fan. This is not exactly the case, although I do enjoy an occasional Mark Halata record and have co-produced a recording of Chicago push music for the Cracker Barrel chain. Cathy is not the biggest fan of the form (and truthfully, hates most of the music I like) and makes me listen to polka when she is out of the house.

It was announced recently that the Grammy's were doing away with the Polka category. As they say:

"To ensure the Awards process remains representative of the current
musical landscape, the Best Polka Album has been eliminated, which
brings the total number of Grammy categories to 109."

I can name a slew of very active bands, and gangs of fans who would
take umbrage with this statement.

It is sad that the foundation never did the work to support the
category and the field. A genre that once flourished across the U.S., especially in the Mid-West, New England, and parts of Texas, really has been on the wane for a while. But there are literally hundreds of active bands recording and making a living. Some of them extremely talented and fantastically creative. What the Grammy's have done is pronounced the genre, not only on the wane, but dead, with no active representative recordings being released.

The Polka category has been around for 24 years, and for 18 of them, it has gone to just one artist, the totally boring Jimmy Sturr. Maybe it is better that the Grammy's keep their paws off of the style. Their lack of care over the years, and seemingly purposeful dismissal of a field they were set to honor could have only hurt this once dominant American musical form. I guess we should say "good riddance." Still, I once worked with Karl & The Country Dutchman, whose drummer at the time (and possibly still), was a young lady who could drink any of you under the table and who worked in the field of pig castration when not on the road. If it is decided that the Academy made the wrong decision, I nominate her to go over there and set them strait.