Apples Peaches Pumpkin Pie! or, Are You Adequately Prepared to Rock?

Oddly enough, I was raised surrounded by accordions, and so harbor a tender spot in my heart for the wheezing little bestids.

You push it, you pull it, you play it like a piano: truly, the accordion has it all.

I played, in my teenage years, in an “Old Tyme” band: polkas, waltzes, schottisches, foxtrots, mazurkas, and, of course, our “rock” medley, which was reserved for the end of the night, just before “Autumn Leaves”.

You’re not ready to hear about the rock medley just yet. Trust me.

I loved Aloysios Derke and the Melody Artists. Whether there were three musicians or 18, whether we drove one hour or six to get to the ballroom, whether we played on a float in a parade pulled by Clydesdales and following a flock of goats or in a ballroom holding hundreds of people, we made $40 apiece.

Forty bucks.

The leader, Al, was in his mid-60s. Al had forgotten more songs than most people will ever hear. We had the sheet music for well over 500 songs, anything from a trio to a full-blown swing band. Al hired well; and aside from me and a talented friend, the rest of the band were college students, and, true fact! Eddie Berger.

Eddie had a drug problem, I believe. It was hard to tell, and frankly, who cared? His solos were sublime.

Have you been to a ballroom? An enormous dance floor, sprinkled with sand, the big lovely stage, center-front. Concessions were in the back corner: set-ups only. Men with hip flasks and women with bottles in their purses sidled up to the bar to buy ice, glasses of 7-Up and Coca-Cola. Somewhere in the building a popcorn machine has been fired up, and somewhere else the ladies of the P.O.L.K. of A are zipping up their flashy, patent-leather boots.

Ah. The Polka Lovers Klub of America. Average age: 60, easily. Check them out, though. The women, in their fashion boots and ruffled skirts – in my precious 17-year-old mind, they had faces that looked as if they’d been carved out of apples and left to dry, but their legs? Whoa, Nellie! “Check out the stems on that one,” I’d hear one 70-year-old point out to another.

The crowd was old, the band was young, and Al didn’t believe in breaks. What’s that? You need a band for four hours? Four hours it is then. What? No, the trumpet players don’t need a break! Their lower lips are supposed to look like raw hamburger. Her? Oh, she’ll be fine, she’s young – we need more Coca-Cola up here, that’s all.

Eventually, after an evening of “The Liechtensteiner Polka ” and “The Beer Barrel Polka”, the P.O.L.K. of A. got sufficiently riled up to let loose their inner rockers.

Enter the Rock Medley.

Krikava, the sax player, would lean into me. “I say we launch into Zeppelin’s “Black Dog” and see if the tuba player can keep up.” I would giggle because, one, the tuba player was a red-hot musician and, two, well, there’s a handsome college guy leaning into me.

We would talk, of course, about the rock medley that would be sure to drive the dancers to new heights of bouncy-spinny-ness: a little Zeppelin, a little King Crimson, a little Pink Floyd and drivin’ ‘er home with the Rolling Stones.

In reality, our rock medley started with Woodchoppers Ball (the theme from the Gong Show). The crowd would jump up, shouting, and the dance floor would fill, hips and legs a’swingin’. Woodchoppers Ball went to (You Ain’t Nothin’ But a) Hound Dog, whereupon the drummer/part-time singer, Craig, would shout mildly obscene encouragement in Polish for the ladies to lift their legs higher.

We took as many solos as we could get away with during the Rock Medley. Al would wave irritably at the drummer to wrap it up once he tired of us; but until then, it was anyone’s game.

Krikava stood.

“I’m gonna do it! I’m gonna do it!” Krikava would shout at me. Inevitably the opening notes of his solos were stolen directly from Led Zeppelin or Jimi Hendrix; and the band would grin knowingly around their mouthpieces.

Such clever children we were.

Hound Dog eventually morphed into Rock Around the Clock and back to Woodchoppers Ball again, and the crowd would drift back to their tables for a quick Seven-and-Seven and a cigarette before the last song, the last dance. The snow could be knee-deep in the parking lot - some of those cars may not even start - but inside we were flush with happiness, with drink and song and graceful men and women who smiled at each other from under the glow of chandeliers that were old even then.

I miss those days, and you know why?

Because there ain’t no stoppin’ a polka band’s rockin’ cuz a polka band’s rockin’ don’t stop.

Word.

Might As Well Borrow Some Money While I’m At It

I crept into the house the other night around 2:00. Willie had been asleep since, oh, two days prior. Willie likes his sleep, while I, for reasons unclear, still act as if going to bed is a punishment.

Miss out on the nightlife?

Hardly.

Still, I am nothing if not considerate when I crawl into the house at 2:00 a.m. I cease singing as I reach the second floor, have been known to remove my tap shoes before hitting the hardwood floor, and quite often muffle my bemused mutterings. This is difficult for me to do, as I think I’m terribly funny at that time of night and have been known to be laughing when I enter a room.

I entered the bedroom on large, drunken cat paws.

“Shhhhh, Willie, “ I hissed. “I’m home.”

“????” Willie made what could only be interpreted as a questioning grunt.

“Me. It’s me. I’m home.”

Hunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnchunnnnnnnnnnnnnch.

This is an approximation of Willie’s snoring.

I got into bed, where the Hunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnchunnnnnnnnnnnnnch sound rose to decibels noted by the National Institute for Occupational Safety and Health to cause one to pull on one’s ears in confusion. Protective muffling of some sort is recommended.

I recommend a pillow over the nose and mouth.

“Roll over,” I whispered.

“Sphurbim?” It was Willie’s stock answer to anything asked while he’s sleeping. In my estimation it covers everything from “yes, dear” to “wallet’s on my dresser” to “no, no, absolutely you may take my car”.

“That’s right,” I affirmed. “Sphurbim. Roll over. Belly sleepin’ sphurbim time.”

Willie grunted softly, a sign either that he agrees, he disagrees, or that he’s unconscious. I don’t look too deeply into it.

He rolls onto his belly.

Of course, that’s the lovely bit about going to bed with a slight buzz. He’s sure to resume his snoring in the next few minutes – and I’m sure to be asleep.

Sphurbim.

Farbin Brabbin Rock Bill Reeber

2:47 already? Wasn’t it just midnight? What? You leavin’? Already?! You just got here! Oh, okay. Yeah – no, totally. I get it. I gotta get up early, too! Gonna clean a house tomorrow…

What? No, me and Kathy and Amy and Diana and Stephanie went to Barrio, home of the $9 margarita. What? No, it’s a great drink and it’s completely worth it, although I come close every time to licking other people’s glasses to get enough salt. Why is only half the rim salted? It’s weird.

Yeah, you’ll be pleased to know I did not drive. We took the bus in and it was completely above board. Of course we paid our fare and whatever was said by the bus driver later was complete hearsay. Okay, well, it might not be hearsay, but I’m finding it inadmissible for some reason and that’s all I got to say about it.

We didn’t take the bus home, though. Stephanie drove to Surdyk’s for beer for Kathy’s deck and then to Kathy’s afterwards and I remember that ride clearly. What? I do, too! She drives like a controlled maniac, and I respect that. I would drive like that if I could.

Another beer? Okay. I’m just sitting here with Kurt’s guitar, picking out Black Sabbath tunes. The Wizard? NIB? Of course!

Oh , man, maybe that last beer wasn’t such a good idea. I gotta catch a ride with Kurt and Willie – they can run me home on the way to Area 52, right? No, go ahead, you guys! Area 52 is a great place for musicians to gather. Play your little black hearts out. I gotta go home and write my blog.

I got some great ideas.

Oh, man. An empty house and an empty screen. I’m in trouble.

Huh? Sphurbim? Fribbin locka danke schoen?

Ahhhh.

Maybe if I just close my eyes for a little while…

Hunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnh shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Hunnnnnnnnnnnnh shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Hunnnnnnnnnnnnh shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

I Can’t Believe You Don’t Know That

I am what is euphemistically known as a job-hopper. In other words, while you may hire me, you can’t count on that sticking.

Dull work; difficult, patronizing people; ridiculous commutes? Time to go!

The job before this one was a poor fit for a number of reasons, including vocal homophobia, boisterous and confrontational political righteousness, and small-town cronyism.

Located in a small town and employing people from surrounding and much smaller towns, many of the employees had known each other since kindergarten; and they saw no reason to meet anyone new: they knew everything they needed to know, knew all the people they’d ever need to meet…

One daily aspect of my job was to post, on the corporate “intra-web”, the lunch special at the diner across the street from the warehouse (30-some miles away from the corporate headquarters). Every morning I called the diner and asked them what the specials were.

The warehouse people appreciated being able to know what lunch was without actually crossing the street.

I never cared much for the woman who answered the phone at the diner. Have you seen the movie Fargo? That is the accent you should be hearing in your head for the following dialogue.

“Small Town Feed Seed and Mercantile.”

“Hi, Cheryl. It’s Pearl. What are the specials today?”

“We’ve got a hot ham-and-cheese sandwich with chips and a pickle; we’ve got chicken and wild rice soup with a roll, and we’ve got a hot beef commercial.”

Until she mentioned the “hot beef commercial” I had been typing furiously. This made me stop. A hot beef what?

“What?” I said. “What’s a hot beef commercial?”

An explosive puff of air escaped her lips. Obviously, poor Cheryl was dealing with an idiot.

She didn’t bother trying to hide it in the tone of her voice.

“A hot beef commercial*,” she explained, exacerbated, “is the same as the hot turkey commercial, only beef.”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what ya get for asking what passes, in some circles, as a stupid question.



*OK. I’ll tell you. According to Kim in Accounting, the “commercial” is regional-truck-stop-speak for an open-faced hot beef sandwich and a side of mashed potatoes, all smothered in beef gravy (commonly known as a Hot Beef Sandwich).

Personally, having been a truck-stop waitress in Minnesota, I have never heard anyone, ever, refer to a hot beef sandwich as a “commercial”. I have yet to meet one single person who, after hearing me tell this story, said, “Oh, my God, that’s what we call them back in Insert Your Town Here.” If you’ve heard of this term would you please, please tell me about it? It’s killing me.

Happy – Hic! – Oh, Never Mind…

I’ll admit to having been just a trifle hung over on the first of January. Not debilitatingly so, but enough that I was prone to staring straight ahead, blankly, every couple minutes or so…

William Throckmorton the Third and I had gone to a New Year’s Eve party at Kurt G.’s house the night before, where we were surrounded by friends, platters and platters of attractively arranged food, and conversations regarding the veracity of decisions made whilst under the influence, the beauty of curse words, and stupidity (Vinnie, the group’s token Brit, had a cashier ask him, upon checking his passport, where, in Australia, the “UK” was. Vinnie told her “the south”).

We celebrated the ringing-in of the new year by forming a horn-blowing conga line of silliness, running out the back door, around the house in the snow, and back into the house through the front door.

For some reason, that had seemed like a really good idea.

It was clear, however, when Willie and I woke up in our beds Thursday morning, that we were not the only ones that had had a good idea or two.

Because while the cats were both still curled into two fuzzy, nonchalant balls of sleep at the foot of the bed, the evidence of last night’s kitteh-based debauchery was everywhere.

There were long-tailed stuffed animals scattered about the floor, the backs of their necks bearing tiny little teeth marks. Balls of string had been rolled around and around the living room furniture, evidence of high-spirited frolicking.

There was catnip spilled, spread, sprinkled all over the kitchen table. A shallow bowl of heavy whipping cream sat in the middle of it.

Willie and I stared, open-mouthed.

Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys) and Dolly G. Squeakers (formerly of the Humane Society Squeakers) have a lot of ‘splaining to do.

The Winningest Year in The English Language

The English language is a moving target. Just as soon as you think you have your first language down pat, you find that it’s changed. I, for example, still use the word “groovy” as if it had been coined last week.

This isn’t as cool as it sounds.

Wait. Cool? That was just uncool.

Ack.

What can I say? I happen to think that “groovy” is a perfectly cromulent word.

And therein lies the give and take nature of the American version of the English language.

On the one hand, you have the creativity, the playfulness. On the other hand, you have a cheap, self-referencing manipulation of how things are perceived, ie., “instant classic” or “a virtually unanimous decision.”

Ack.

My very first post bemoaned the use of the song “Let the Sunshine In” to sell a car.

I’m still complaining about the music, believe me, but my mind keeps returning to the scene of the earlier crime.

The car mentioned in the above-named ad offered both “Precision Steerology” and “Cabinocity”.

“Precision Steerology” and “Cabinocity”, you say?! Well, hell, son! Sign me up! I mean I know my current car’s got Cabinousness – and that its got Frontseattitude – but maybe it isn’t about that anymore, huh? Maybe I need to upgrade my Cabinocity?

What do you think?

And Mazdanomics. You know – the economics tied to, um, Mazda. Sure! Why not? Create your own course of study and tell us all about it. Use it to sell me a car.

The American language is a slippery and clichéd slope, mixed with Ad Man Speak and a raw egg as a binder; and it’s also delicious with BBQ sauce and cold beer.

But is it accurate?

Is it such everywhere? Where are you, anyway? Are the English hacking at the English language the way the Americans are? Are the French spoofing themselves silly? Are the Indian and the Irish and the Australian and the Belgian messing about with their native languages?

Wherein I Temporarily Swear Off Alcohol

William Throckmorton the Third – Big Willie, as he’s known by those who know –pointed out to me this morning that the majority of my bloggings have made reference to alcohol.

Which is funny, considering that today’s topic is my overwhelming and well-deserved hangover.

Ohhhhhhhhhh. Let’s go to the 331, says I. Let’s have another beer, says I. Come on! There’s time for one more, says I.

Ohhhhhhhhhh.

And now I seem to be missing bits of my skull; not because I’ve found them lying about the house but because, clearly, I am not the woman today that I was yesterday.

Today’s Pearl is 45% slower witted, 75% more mascara-caked, and 100% sure she won’t be having another beer for quite some time.

Numbers are estimated and not to be used for gambling purposes.

On the plus side, an evening of laughter, true stories and sub-zero cigarettes with Amy, Becky, Kathy, Pam, and Pat is something worth paying for, even if it may have been with brain cells…

I may want to re-think that.