As Time Goes By

My uncle is a Fox News watcher. He's a old, white conservative of the standard Kentucky issue. (Just as a frame of reference, he joined the navy in 1946.) He's as right-wing, pro-'Merican as they come.

So, I was shocked when I visited Aunt and Uncle not too long ago, to find the tube tuned to PBS. Bemused (after the shock wore off) I asked, "Whatcha watchin'?"

"Summer Wine," he said. "My show's next," my aunt added, "I love that Hyacinth." Not only were they watching that pinko, lefty station, they were watching a British sitcoms on PBS! They were referring to The Last of the Summer Wine and Keeping Up Appearances; the main character on the latter is Hyacinth Bucket (she insists "Bucket" to be pronounced "bouquet"–great name!).

Now, I adore a certain britcom that I discovered via PBS. Though I'm sure I am thirty-plus years younger than the target audience, I have always loved As Time Goes By. The acting and scripting amazed me from the first time I saw it. The writing was so unlike sitcoms in the U.S. The scripts were tight and clever but very patient. The characters were well drawn and realistically quirky, and they are performed so believably. (I suppose having a true actor–Judi Dench–starring helps; we Yanks tend to cast stand-up comics in the lead roles…)

Seeing that I rarely have a topic of mutual conversation available, I seized on the moment. I said that, yes, I enjoyed both of their shows. The lady that plays Hyacinth is very funny, I agreed. "The one I really like, though, is As Times Goes By." Aunt immediately says, "that's because you are a romantic."

Screaming through cyberspace, I can hear friends' squealing at this thought. TonyN, a romantic! Ha!

You know what, though, Aunt was dead-on. Though I can rationalize my love for that show (writing, acting, etc.), the truth is that the story touched me. The story wasn't sappy or sachrine; it seemed real and beautiful and hopeful. Everyone needs a bit of hope.

Honky Tonk Heaven

Christine Wy's post (Stranger in a Strange Bar) brought back a similar "I should NOT be in this bar" memory from my time in college. Luckily, my experience was much less traumatic…

Though a Kentucky Boy, I was far from a redneck, and I viciously avoided any connection to things I perceived as such. Yet, one autumn evening I found myself in a bar that prided itself on its burgers, PBR, and western wear (yes, friends, the bar sold cowboy boots).

It was a dark and creepy place. Old men sat in the shadows, peering from underneath the rims of their cowboy hats. They were not modern cowboys, shot to mainstream by early 90s Pop Twang. These cowboys were not pastel and trimmed. They were ragged and tired and very drunk. They probably had very little in common with Clint Black.

Their eyes followed us three college kids as we walked into their bar. I'm sure I probably ordered something very inappropriate to the scene, something like a scotch and soda.

But, here's the punchline. My view of this place was being filtered through my own sensitivities and preconceptions. I hated country music; I hated everything I saw as "redneck." Beer even fell into that category for me. What can I say? I grew up in a small town where "Bud" was a synonym for "beer." I didn't know any better. (For the record, I still hate Nascar.)

Truly, the judgmental eyes that night were all mine. The bar, a fairly famous place in Nashville, had tons of traffic and was in a touristy part of town. It was a honky-tonk (said so, right on the sign!) but certainly not a dive. As the night went on, my tension eased. The regulars and the bartenders were very friendly. My friend, Camus^*, garnered the respect of the crowd by requesting the house band to play an obscure Johnny Cash song. In short, I had completely misjudged the place.

I guess it's all about perspective. Some things look so much worse in hindsight–many of my former apartments, for example. But some things, like Robert's Western World, become a fond memory.


^*Pseudonym used to protect his record collection…

Goal Keeping

I recently had a conversation about Goals. I, with quite frankness, told a friend that I "didn't have any of those things." I wasn't trying to elicit a response. I was just being truthful.

Okay, I suppose everyone has some goals–goals with a small "g." A goal of mine is to keep my job. A goal is to spend less and save more. But, those aren't Goals, ya know?

I know at one point I had some Goals, but I can't seem to find those darned things anywhere! And, truth be told, I'm sure I wouldn't want to find them. Most likely they would be haze-of-college goals, which means they are built on little more than haze…or pot…or whatever. (I had better press on from here; I'd hate this to become a "college angst" post!)

Now, I'm not saying that I'm happy about not having any Goals. That would just be sad. I just don't have any.

Which brings me to the point of this post. I have gotten two pieces of advice regarding Goals:

One friend said, "You should make 'Getting a Goal' your Goal." Now that's ridiculous. (Not to mention a vicious loop of logic.)

Another friend said, "Goals are not acquired. Goals are born." Yikes! That's pretty depressing. (And if I think something is depressing…)

So, I put it to you, dear commenter, "What's the deal with Goals, anyway?" I know I'm supposed to have some of those things, but–too bad–I don't.

Feelin' My Age (Maybe Not Acting It)

To nick the old cliché: "I'm gettin' too old for this stuff."



Since relocating to my new town of residence, I've experienced a statistical age shift in the people I hang out with. For most of my life, I've been the child of the group, one of the Pups. Now, I find myself more and more being the Old Dog.

I'm sure this is a function of being unmarried. I don't hang out with many (okay, any) married people. I have many married friends in the world; the significant phrase here is "hang out with."

Hanging out with people who are on the approach to 3-0 (unlike myself, rocketing away from it), I sometimes become involved in behavior I haven't indulged in since college.

In a lot of ways it's very fun; in a lot of ways it's very painful.



I'm proud that I could keep up with the marathon of beer that was Saturday night. I never was much of a sprinter, anyway, I just haven't been in training for a long, long time.

The sky was just starting to glow on Sunday morning as I was desperately crashing out on a near-stranger's couch. Next to me, my friend lay on my shoulder mumbling, "I have to warn you. I'm feeling a bit nauseous." Experience told me it was a false alarm, and soon enough her breathing was regular. Fast asleep.

The Old Dog looked around the strange surroundings and thought, "Man, I wish I had a toothbrush."

This is not…

This is not René Magritte's birthday.

For Sexism, Press 4

Being the pessimist that I am, you would think nothing could surprise me…

There are four individuals in my office: three males (Mr. Difficult, Buck Buck, and myself) and one female (the Veggie Pirate).^* Our phone system screens all calls ("Press one for Buck Buck, press two for Mr. Difficult…"), because the nature of our business involves so very little interaction with the general public. Truly, it is a very rare week that a single cold-call rings into our office, but they do happen occasionally.

We started to notice a pattern with the random calls. The number is completely unscientific, but I would surmise that 85% of the cold-calls press number four: Veggie Pirate. (Her number is last due to order of hiring.) The first few times, we thought little of it, but a year and a half later, it is very obvious that she is being singled out. The guys' names are fairly masculine names (though a caller could think "Toni" instead of "Tony," I suppose); the Veggie Pirate's name very obviously belongs to a female.

So, dear seller-of-office-supplies, if you ring our office go ahead and be a schmuck: press four and listen to the Veggie Pirate politely dismiss you. The do-not-buy-from-piggies list grows ever longer…

*As always, for the sake of privacy, a couple of chat-handles and a fantasy football name substitute for the real names.

Sitcom Moment:A Handwashing Incident

I had a classic sitcom moment at work this week.

Sitcoms, that mixed bag television staple, fail or succeed based on how well they walk that ordinary moment becomes absurd line. Great ones (Seinfeld) tread the line masterfully; they know exactly when normal people and situations must become absurd. Terrible ones (look for the CBS logo) do not know the line even exists. (Quick aside: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia tap dances along some silly-straw line that travels into some other dimension. Fantastic!)


…I am a thorough hand washer. I mean, you'd think I was heading into surgery. But, I'm a haphazard hand drier. We have paper towels in our restroom at the office. One is not quite enough; two is overkill. Usually, the Poor Richard in me only grabs one towel, and the damp hands resulting are between me, my jeans and my desk chair. No big deal.

I exit the restroom. In the hall stands Buck Buck^* and some other guy. "Hey, TonyN, this is Chris from LargeCompanyThatIsAnImportantClient." Reflexly, I extend my hand, "Nice to meet you," and they move on down the hall. Back in my edit bay, horror careens through my head. "Wet hands. Just water! Why didn't I use two towels!?! Oh, god, he'll think-- Obviously, that's what I would think. Go apologize; go explain. Don't be an idiot! Do something to explain it away: hey, this new waterless hand cleaner stuff is neat-o! No, no wait. Gotta have a plan. Maybe I could-- Oooh, I know! First, I'll go back into the bathroom. Then, I'll get a bucket of water…"

Luckily, I fought off the impulse to become a sitcom character. Instead, I went back to editing my little T.V. show, accepting the fact that some stranger thinks that I just pee-shook his hand. Sure, it sucks, but I think I've seen enough sitcoms to know that the outcome of attempting some scheme of explanation or cover-up would have gone sorely awry. I mean, who knows? I could have lost my job, gotten arrested, and been deported had I followed through with sitcom behavior, right?


*Co-owner of company; signer of paychecks. (His fantasy baseball handle is used here for the sake of privacy…)