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September 27, 2008
I Left My Hat in San Francisco
The summer of 1977 my family took a two-week vacation. We drove, my parents and four kids, ages 11, 10, 9, and 5, from Chicago, south and west across the US to Los Angeles.
We went to Disneyland, and there I bought two hats, exactly the same - one for me and one for my best friend. I had my name stitched on one, and Michelle stitched on another.
The next day, or maybe two days later, don't recall, the family went to San Francisco. One may think the stench of Fisherman's Wharf would be what stuck in my 9 year old head.
No.
I was proudly wearing my Disney hat when we got on the boat to tour Alcatraz. My mom said I should take my hat off because it was windy.
I, being 9, didn't want to take my hat off.
So Mom gave me one of those little folded-up plastic snap-under-your-chin rain bonnets to put over my hat to hold it on.
Being 9, I decided I looked like a dork, so I took the bonnet off when I was out of my Mom's sight.
And, of course the wind instantly took my hat, carrying it up above me, floating on the wind, before dropping it down into the ocean.
And of course I began to shriek as only a wronged 9-year old can.
So on the drive home, Mom had out her little sewing kit and ripped the stitching out of Michelle's hat.
Dad would start to sing, "I left my hat in San Francisco," and I would bawl.
I'll admit that any time he did that for the next several years I would bawl.
So this past week, I found myself standing on Fisherman's Wharf, looking out at Alcatraz.
I called my Dad.
I told him where I was, and asked him whether he thought I should try to find my hat.
He laughed really loud, and we talked about that trip so many years ago. He was still laughing when he asked whether I remembered him singing that song.
I said of course, and that all these years later it now makes me laugh too.
Posted by Angela Tanner at 01:14 PM | Comments (0)
September 17, 2008
N Does Not Equal B
There have been times when I wished the alphabet had more letters.
This is not one of them.
***
I go to work for Bob.
I marry Bill.
I get a new job. Working for another man named Bob.
I divorce Bill.
Then meet Bruce.
I quit working for Bob. And go to work with Bruce.
I meet Brett.
I tell Bruce about Brett.
I meet a guy who lives down my street. Also named Bruce.
I play golf with the first Bruce the day I meet the third Bruce. We all three work for the same company.
I date the third Bruce for over two years.
My job moves to Boston. I don't.
The third Bruce decides he wants out. I now call him the bad Bruce.
I get a new job. Where I meet the second Brett.
The first Bruce, still around after all these years, can’t keep them straight.
Then the bad Bruce shows back up.
And my neighbor Bruce rejoins the picture.
For one very confused time all four of them were here.
Three Bruces and one Brett.
I quit my job.
Brett, well Brett turned out to be like the first Brett. A scenic overpass, so to speak, on the trail of Bruces.
Through the land of men whose names start with B.
I realized the bad Bruce hadn’t changed a bit, so this time I left.
Then my neighbor Bruce left. Moved to another state. He needed a change.
Then I moved to another state. And was down to one Bruce to give a forwarding address to. And, even with his help fixing up my house up north, I didn't like it enough to stay, so I moved back.
And went back to working with Bruce. The first Bruce. The only Bruce still around after all these years.
If you've been paying attention, then you already know how that worked out.
Posted by Angela Tanner at 11:20 AM | Comments (0)
September 12, 2008
So Much to Say
Hello, again.
It seems like forever between now and then.
How have you been.
So, a little hiatus for me.
I don't think it's exactly writer's block.
It seems like the opposite. I don't know what that would be called, however.
After a brief trip to dictionary.com, which, behind Google is probably my most-frequented site, I find that it may in fact be writer's block, in the traditional sense, namely the inability of a writer to continue writing. Usually temporary.
So I tripped a bit on the word writer. I like to write. And type really fast.
It's just that the word writer conjures something for me.
So did writer's block until I looked it up. Only the later definition, which wasn't really a definition but more an example, said something to the effect that the writer wouldn't write because the words wouldn't come.
See, I don't have that problem.
Words, I got.
Melancholy (in the soberly thoughtful sense) ones, every time I hear that blazing sax, from about minute 4:30 to the end of the Warehouse. That magic flute on Say Goodbye. And his part in Proudest Monkey tells a whole store by itself, methinks.
Methinks too, to comfort myself, that LeRoi is playing now to a much larger audience, on a different plane.
With John Denver.
Words.
Words, words, words
Have you heard
A word in hand is much better than
Any number free to ponder.
Come to think of it, you probably have heard that before.
Words. Back to the dictionary. Words: one or more morphemes and are either the smallest units susceptible of independent use or consist of two or three such units combined under certain linking conditions.
I wonder if the word count feature of Word takes into account these linking conditions. If it doesn't, the cumulative count in the document folder might be off by a few thousand words.
But since I got over a million of them, I think it will be okay.
It's remarkable how many of those words start with B.
So I think I'll start with B.
As in Barry. Manilow.
I played his songs on the piano as a kid, so I grew up with a fondness for his music. One of his songs is on my all-time favorite list.
I don't mind admitting that.
In fact I think I'm about not to mind admitting a whole lot of things.
I think, therefore I am.
Words. Metaphoric therapy. And just the way they come to me.
You've probably heard me say that before too.
Words, people. Words.
You had all the warning in the world that we’d have words, so to speak.
Or rather that I would have words with you. Well, properly put I’d have more words for you.
What do you think that wit and to whit stuff was here for. I hoped you’d figure it out.
Not sure how many of you did.
Don’t guess I really care.
To quote me, it’s not subject to post-fact debate.
It’s my story.
And I'm starting with the Bs.
So back to Barry. I believe the lyrics are by a man named Jim Steinman. Barry sang it though.
If I could only find the words then I would write it all down
If I could only find a voice, I would speak
It's there in my eyes - oh can’t you see me tonight
C'mon and look at me and read 'em and weep.
Posted by Angela Tanner at 09:42 PM | Comments (0)