Climbing Dunn River Falls

Posted on September 10, 2016 by Sheila Moss
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Dunn River Falls, Ocho Rios Jamaica – Diego Delso (Wikimedia) CC-BY-3.0 2008

I will never forget the last time I was in Jamaica. Yeah, it’s true – nobody believes me – but I’ve actually been there. I can hardly contain my enthusiasm at the thought of going back.

Is that the Caribbean Island where they drive on the WRONG SIDE of the road. you ask? Oh, no, that is Bermuda, I think. Incidentally, I was there also on the same tour. You just can’t imagine how scary it is for Americans as tour buses go flying down the roads, driving on the left side instead of the right. I must have died a thousand deaths on the bus in Burmuda, only to open my eyes and find nothing had happened at all. The tour guide called it driving on the “other” side or the “left” side. Ha, I thought, as I brushed imaginary glass out of my hair and checked for imaginary broken bones. I may not know Jamaica from Bermuda, but I do know wrong from right – at least when it comes to driving.

Unharmed by the many near misses in Burmuda, I had the biggest adventure of my life – climbing a waterfall. Yep, one of the big tourist attractions in Jamaica is Dunn’s River Falls. American tourists pay good money to get in rapid water and climb up sharp, slippery rocks. It’s called “having fun.”

Everybody was doing it; so I figured it couldn’t be that hard. Heck, I didn’t want to be the only tourist in Jamaica that hadn’t climbed the falls. I could have gone to the beach, I could have gone sightseeing, I could have gone shopping – duty free. (That has a nice ring to it.) But no, of all there is to do in Jamaica, I chose to climb a waterfall – now that’s either a woman determined to have FUN – or FUN determined to have a woman.

My mistake was being too cheap to buy special climbing shoes. I figured I could make it just wearing a pair of gym shoes. Wrong, wrong, wrong! Wet gym shoes weigh a ton. I didn’t think of that.

The tour guides pranced deftly through the roaring water showing the novice tourists how to climb. We formed a human chain, holding hands, the swift water making it nearly impossible to stand up otherwise. I flip-flopped along on the rocks through the rushing waters in my wet, 40-pound gym shoes. We reached halfway, a pool of green water where the others fell in backwards, laughing. I fell in with my heavy feet and went straight to the bottom.

Laying on the bottom of the river bubbling and waiting for death, it occurred to me that the water was NOT very deep. “STAND UP!” yelled the river guide.   Continuing to climb, we came to an overlook with stairs leading down the embankment to the river.  An escape! I looked up at the waterfall cascading rapidly towards me. Should I “chicken out” or plunge bravely on?

Setting on the bank, pouring the water out of my shoes, I knew I would NEVER be entitled to wear a T-shirt saying, “I climbed Dunn’s River Falls.” I later gave the tour guide a small tip anyhow. He gave me a tip too. “Next time, lady, don’t wear gym shoes.”

©2000 Sheila Moss
Edited
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Graceland

Posted on September 9, 2016 by Sheila Moss
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Graceland Memphis Tennessee by Joseph Novak (Flickr) – CC BY 2.0 2011

“I’m tired of staying home all the time,” I proclaimed.  “I wanna do something this weekend.”

“Well, what do you want to do?”

“I want to go to Memphis and see Graceland,” I said.  “I’ve never been there.”  I was halfway joking.

“Okay, let’s go!” said my honey. “We could do it.  It’s not that far.”

The previous week was the anniversary of Elvis’ death.  Guess that is what gave me the idea.  Everybody that wants to go has already been, so it’s a good time – no crowds.

I thought, “Why not?”

Graceland is the final and ultimate exploitation of Elvis Presley. Parking across the street, we are told to follow the red awning to the ticket office offering a variety of Elvis attractions, complete with a mini mall of restaurants and assorted gift shops with Elvis related items from records to coffee mugs, all in a theme-park-like atmosphere.

A shuttle bus transports us across the street to the “mansion.”  Actually, Graceland is much smaller than the vast southern mansion I have always envisioned.  The old home seems tired and weary as bus after bus pulls up, and load after load of tourists pour through the front door.  We are given tape players and head sets for a pre-recorded guided tour.

Graceland décor is frozen in the 50’s, a time when Elvis was at the peak of his popularity. I had heard that Graceland is tacky – Elvis being notorious for his flamboyantly bad taste. Still, the reality is nearly overwhelming. Old and worn, the white furniture of the main living room seems not quite clean. A large gaudy stained glass archway dominates the living room and looks like a relic from an ancient church.  This is an Elvis addition, as are the televisions sets located in almost every room of the house.

There are many small rooms, each decorated differently. It must have been crowded when Elvis was at home with his entourage, the “Memphis Mafia.” The game room with it’s faded fabric-covered walls and pleated ceiling has long ago seen its better times. Other rooms in the converted basement are also very unusual. One has a dizzying decor with a bright yellow color scheme and mirrored squares on the ceiling, reminiscent of a pimp palace. Green shag carpets decorate the floor of another room – as well as the ceiling. That was the style in the 50’s the tape recorder told us.

The real shocker, and granddaddy of all bad taste, is the infamous “jungle room” filled with burl oak furniture and carved wood. Elvis supposedly spotted the furniture in a store window and bought it all for Graceland because it reminded him of Hawaii. We are told by the recorded message to take as much time to look as we want. Thing is, we don’t want much time. Gasping for breath, unable to control my urge to laugh, I am more than happy to exit out the back door.

Numerous other buildings are located on the property. One has been turned into a “trophy room.” Another was a racquet ball court during Elvis’ life, but now has its walls covered with gold and platinum records. It is quite awesome.  Elvis is buried out in the back yard by the pool along with his beloved mama and his daddy. The graves are covered with floral tributes from the various Elvis fan clubs worldwide.

Shuttled back, we tour the automobile museum and see the pink Cadillac as well as Elvis’ other cars, golf carts, snowmobiles and other assorted wheeled vehicles that were favorite playthings for the filthy rich Elvis. His airplane, the Lisa Marie, named after his daughter and customized to his orders, is on display. Yet another museum holds his famous jeweled jumpsuits and one of the TV sets he shot with a pistol in a fit of rage.

Well, it is an experience I must admit. Graceland is the most visited home in America after the White House. What I will always remember most about it is the sight of all those gold records. Elvis had 149 top hit songs. He sold a billion records. Tasteless, wealthy, eccentric, extravagant, and generous are but a few of the adjectives that describe him.  He is a strange man with a strange legacy.

All the gold records, all the platinum records, so many of them. That’s what Graceland is all about and what Elvis was actually all about too, I guess. That is what makes him the biggest recording artist of all time, and forever the King of Rock’n’Roll.

“So, whadda ya want to do next week?” asked my honey.

“I’m hanging up my blue suede shoes after this one,” I replied.

©2000 Sheila Moss
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The Ten-Hour Oil Change

Posted on September 8, 2016 by Sheila Moss

garage

Drat! Just my luck! Getting ready to go out of town and the odometer in my car is on that 15,000 mile mark that means it’s time to change the oil. I’ve got a million other better things to do. I hate getting the oil changed! I hate anything to do with fixing or maintaining a car.

Oh well, guess I’ll take it to the dealership. I always let them do it, so there is no possibility of a problem with the warranty. Also, they know how to service it right. Some of these places I’m not so sure about. Besides, they talked me into buying that unlimited oil change package when I bought my car.

They have a 30 minute oil change policy, but I decided to drop it off on my way to work and pick it up on my way home. I can get a ride to work from a friend. They will have all day to change the oil and the car will be ready. No waiting. Good plan.

I get there in the morning at 7 am. The doors are closed and cars lined up waiting. “I gotta go to work,” I think. “I don’t have time for this game.” So, I put the keys in a envelope, write a note, “change oil & filter,” scribble my name, phone number, and car license number on the envelope, and I put it in their night drop box. I’ve done it before.

I work all day and, after work, my friend drops me off and I go in to get my car.

“What oil change?” says the service rep. “I don’t have any record of it.”

“But, I left my keys in the drop box this morning!”

“We didn’t get them.”

“Well, where are they?”

After much checking, hum-hawing, and head scratching, somebody decides to look in the drop box. There are my keys, untouched. I am beginning to loose my patience rapidly.

“Do you check the drop box?”

“Oh, we check it at 7 am when we get here,” he says, “and we don’t check after that. We must have been open when you got here.”

“If you were open, why were the doors closed and cars lined up outside? You looked closed to me.” …But no point arguing. The oil hasn’t been changed.

“Can you change the oil now?”

He looked pained, “Well… okay.”

I’m aggravated, and so is he.

“We will have to get someone to stay late,” he says. Like I care. “But, we’ll take care of it for you!” Like it’s a favor. The car has been here 10 hours. I don’t care how much overtime they have to pay or whether they miss their dinner. I’m missing my dinner too.

So, there I am in the bland little waiting room with the day old coffee and plastic furniture, watching reruns of the Waltons on a crummy TV – just what I wanted to avoid. Why didn’t I call? Why did I think they could possible do the obvious thing and check their drop box? I should know that they can never do anything right without being told several times.

Finally, the service guy comes in the little room and says he is sorry about the mix up. I know he still thinks it is my fault. He is just trying to satisfy the customer. But, I’m starting to see the humor and beginning to feel a bit generous by now. I’m writing this very column in my head already. I’m gonna put him on the Internet and make him famous, I think.

“Oh, I should have called,” I say, smiling.

“It’s gonna be $70,” he says, smiling back.

“What happened to my free oil changes service package?” I asked.

“2 years or 24,000 miles, whichever come first,” he says.

Don’t get mad, I tell myself, as I mentally scratch his squinty little eyes out.

Finally, the car is done. I tell the coffee pot and John Boy goodbye, pay the ransom, and escape the oil oozing, automotive hell hole.

Why didn’t I call? Next time, I’ll call! No, next time I’ll go some place else.

Two days later the phone rings. It’s the good folks from the car dealership. “How was your service? Were you completely satisfied?” whines the perky female bimbo on the other end.

She had to ask!

“Well, the service was fine once I got some.” I snapped. “I left my car all day long for an oil change and still had to wait for it.” I wanted to smack her foolish face for even asking.

“I’ll report this!” she exclaims. “They may call you back about it.”

They never did call. Probably she put the report in their stupid drop box, and it was never found.

©2000 Sheila Moss
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Greetings from the Holiday Inn

Posted on September 7, 2016 by Sheila Moss

holiday-inn

Greetings from the Holiday Inn:

We at Holiday Inn appreciate the business you gave us with your recent First Annual Humorists Convention; however, there are still a few unfinished items regarding your accommodations that need to be attended to:

First: We would like to request that all the guests who took our towels and linens home, please return them. While Holiday Inn is able to deal with a few missing towels, 25 entire sets are a bit much and represent a significant financial loss for our company.

Second: We have received a large number of complaints from your group about the lounge running out of light beer on tap. That is not the fault of Holiday Inn. You should have warned us ahead of time that your party contained such a usually large number of dieters so that we could order extra barrels.

While we are on the subject of beer, would the person who threw up in the elevator while joy riding up and down please exercise better judgment next time. Otherwise, Holiday Inn may be forced to bill you for the carpet cleaning required. That also applies to the carpeting in the ballroom where you held the festivities Saturday night. While we are uncertain exactly what happened in there, it was reported that hysterical laughter ensued all evening and several people left with wet pants.

We regret that Holiday Inn was unable to provide your guests with views of the lake from all guestrooms. However, may we remind you that you were given a greatly discounted rate? Also, from the looks of the guests in your group, they were too imbibed to know whether they had a lake view or not.

Holiday Inn received many complaints from our other guests regarding the loud late night partying. You may be interested to know that the security guards have been fired for their part in instigating your beer fest. They have now gone into private convention planning and have requested that we notify you that they are available now for consultation.

Doggie bags and taking of extra food from the food buffet is against Holiday Inn policy; however, we are willing to let it go this time since you may not have been aware of these rules. We have the lady’s purse that was lost with the leftovers from the seafood buffet inside and are holding it at our front desk until it is claimed.

Thanks to your group, we have lost several of our most valuable employees. One of our waiters became a stand-up comedian on Sunday morning while attempting to serve your breakfast group. He was so encouraged by the gales of laughter that he handed in his resignation to Holiday Inn shortly after you left and has gone to California to get into show biz.

The barmaid who was changing into her work clothes in a ladies restroom stall Friday evening would like to know who stole her vintage denim shorts? We cordially request that you return this personal clothing item immediately as good barmaids are in great demand and we at Holiday Inn would hate for her to leave us also.

The bartender has been given a leave of absence to recover from exhaustion. Fortunately, Holiday Inn was able to replace him on short notice by giving his job to a formerly homeless person who was hanging around outside at the time and was willing to work for food. Unfortunately, this person seems to be on a “liquid diet” and at this point, we are losing money.

Holiday Inn is presently taking bids for repair of the broken ceiling tiles throughout the motel and the peephole through the wall. Individual guests will be contacted by Holiday Inn regarding the missing irons, coffeepots, pictures, and television sets. Please be reminded that we have your credit card numbers. We will not charge you for the stains made by guests blowing soap bubbles in the lobby prior to your Duck Tour. After all, it was a humorist convention and Holiday Inn is willing to tolerate some friskiness.

May we take the liberty of commenting that Holiday Inn did not find all the humor columns about the unusual weather funny. We are innkeepers, not weathermen, and cannot be responsible for rain or uncooperative weather. We hope that tourism will not be affected by any negative publicity you bring us. The staff here at Holiday Inn deeply regrets that you all got cold and wet on the Duck Tour. (ha ha)

That pretty much takes care of the major unfinished business. We realize that you have a choice and we would like to thank you for choosing Holiday Inn. We would be remiss if we failed to inform you that we have generously opted not to put your group on the Holiday Inn “black list” at this time. But if any of you are ever planning to return to this area, please take our advice and do not plan to remain in this town after sunset.

Sincerely yours,
The Management
Holiday Inn

Copyright 2000 Sheila Moss
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If It Looks Like a Duck…

Posted on September 6, 2016 by Sheila Moss
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Duck Tour by Dwayne Tate (own work)  – CC-BY-NA 2.0 2005- Flickr

If It Looks Like a Duck and Quacks Like a Duck…

Dear Duck Adventure Tour Company:

This letter is in regard to the recent exciting Duck Adventure Tour our tour group took with your company. I’ll be the first to admit I didn’t even know what a Duck Tour is. Since I’m not into duck hunting or bird watching, I didn’t think it would be much fun; however, I was willing to give it a try. Besides, it was raining and I didn’t have anything else to do.

Imagine my surprise when I found out that the “duck” was an amphibious vehicle which could go on both land and water (just like a real duck, I suppose). I found out later that this type of vehicle was first used in combat in WWII and was known as a DUKW. As much as it rained that weekend, a “duck” adventure turned out to be appropriate in more ways than one.

I must admit we were a little bit unhappy when you forgot to pick up our group according to the prearranged plan and left us standing around the hotel lobby for an hour. We do understand that scheduling exact times is difficult, especially when dealing with low-paid and forgetful staff. But aggravating 20 people who post everything on Twitter and Facebook was probably not the best public relations move your company every made. We did, however, manage to pass the time by blowing soap bubbles from our own yellow duck-shaped bubble bottles, which got us into the spirit of the tour and shows how serious we are about our fun.

It was too bad the weather was so cold and wet that we had to view the city through the plastic enclosure flaps on the vehicle. We understand, however, that you are unable to give a poor weather discounts. Those vehicles must require a lot of gas, rain or shine, which isn’t cheap. We also regret that we were unable to get a discounted group rate for our large party, however, we do appreciate the yellow plastic duck callers that you gave us instead. They really came in handy for quacking at the locals, like a bunch of yokels… er… tourists.

We liked our friendly and courteous tour guide, Donald. His jokes were a bit stale, but we know that good material is hard to find. Actually, the one-liners from the group were funnier than his stuff. If we find any old comedy material around that is not being used, we will submit it for your consideration. Realize that we are not terribly motivated, however, because due to your low budget and high operation expenses, we could probably not expect any financial reimbursement and the satisfaction from having material heard by thousands of bored tourists only goes so far.

We hope that you will take notice of Donald’s driving. Was his previous work experience from driving a fire engine or from being a New York City taxi driver? We hope he is studying hard for his driver’s test and will soon have a genuine chauffeur’s license. His foot probably slipped on the accelerator when we got to the lake, which would explain why we hit the water so hard with the vehicle. That large wave that came inside was quite annoying. But, perhaps if we had bailed a little faster, we would not have been so wet.

We would like to take this opportunity to apologize for the international incident that we created by blowing our duck quackers at the group of demonstrators. Who knew that they would be such bad sports about it? We were also sorry to learn about the two old women who were hospitalized for heart problems when we quacked at them and the construction worker who fell three stories when we quacked our duck quackers at him. While we regret any embarrassment it may have caused, you may rest assured that Donald made us do it!

Other than the minor annoyance listed above, we were very pleased with the adventure tour and it was one of the highlights of our trip. We hope this letter has not ruffled your feathers too much. Next time, could we just put the charges on your bill? (I had to get a little lame duck humor in some place.) And next time, could we have a just little less soup with our quackers?

©2000 Sheila Moss
Edited
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Are You Too Old for Theme Parks?

Posted on September 3, 2016 by Sheila Moss

Coaster.jpg

Take the Quiz

  1. Do they give you the senior citizen discount without checking your ID?

  2. Do you detest your hair and clothes getting wet?

  3. Would you like the rides better if they ran them in slow motion?

  4. Would you rather go to a restaurant for a meal than eat corn dogs at an umbrella table?

  5. Do you think there should be a law against the prices they charge for soft drinks and plan to write your congressman about it?

  6. Do you get nervous when there are no adults in line except you?

  7. Do your eyes get crossed from watching the racing coasters?

  8. Did you notice that none of the other women are carrying a purse?

  9. Do you stop at all the restrooms because you don’t know if you will find the next one soon enough?

  10. Do you go inside gift shops and look around just because they are air-conditioned?

  11. Do you complain because customer service does not have blood pressure machines?

  12. Do you end up walking around in circles all day because you can’t figure out the map?

  13. Is your favorite thing about the park all the pretty flowers?

  14. Do you buy your sno-cone with cherry syrup instead of lime, lemon, grape, strawberry, orange, tangerine, blueberry, raspberry, boysenberry, blackberry, kiwi, or watermelon?

  15. Does your back hurt? Your neck hurt? Your kidneys hurt? Are you are sunburned? Or do your feet have blisters?

  16. Do you spend most of the day planning how you will get even with the person that talked you into coming here?

  17. Could a 30 second thrill ride be long enough to last you for a lifetime?

  18. Do you buy your souvenirs long before closing time to beat the last minute rush?

  19. Do you tell young people with baggy pants to pull them up?

  20. Are you are offended by the suggestive slogans on tee shirts?

  21. Have you ever learned a new swear word while on a thrill ride?

  22. Have you lost your glasses, your wallet, your hat or your false teeth, while upside down?

  23. Do feel you can’t make it to the front gate without oxygen?

  24. Did you ever buy a three-day pass just to get a free teeshirt, and then never use either of them.

  25. Do you think that the generation gap is bigger on a roller coaster than any other place?

  26. Is your favorite phrase: “Let me offfff!”?

  27. Can you remember where you lost your camera, as well as your supper?

  28. Will the soles on your tennis shoes melt on hot asphalt?

  29. Have you ever ridden the tram around the parking lot three times because you couldn’t remember where you left the car?

SCORING 

  • Under 5 answered YES: There may be hope – get some vitamins or hormone therapy.

  • 6-15 answered YES: Over the hill, and we don’t mean the one on the roller coaster.

  • 16-20 answered YES: Senility is peeking around the corner.  See your estate planner soon… very soon.

  • 21+ answered YES: Why are you reading an article about Theme Parks?.

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See Ya Later, Alligator!

Posted on September 2, 2016 by Sheila Moss

Hurricane

I’ve been watching the weather channel again and have come to a basic conclusion: People who live in Florida need to get out – permanently. That entire state is a storm magnet. What possesses people to live in a place that sooner or later is going to end up under water? It’s beyond me!

Equally stupid are television weather reporters who fly to the target areas to be in the big one. They stand outside in the rain with trees blowing behind them or waves crashing over a seawall and tell us that it is not safe to be outside. That is right before they are cracked on the head with flying debris, which gives them an even better reason to warn people to stay inside.

Some people decide to evacuate and spend the hurricane in a hundred mile long traffic jam looking for a motel that is not full of people escaping the hundred mile long traffic jam. If they get to Tennessee, we will be having yard sales along the evacuation route to take advantage of the extra traffic.

Some people defy the storm who don’t even work for the weather channel. Surfers ride the hurricane waves on closed beaches. Others decide to weather it out. They overwhelm the grocery stores buying supplies like bottled water, gas for their grills, plywood for their windows and Spam for the alligators. “It isn’t going to be that bad!” they declare, as a two story tidal wave rolls up behind them. “We don’t want to leave our home and possessions.”  Folks, you don’t need a home and possessions if you are dead.

In a state with a 100% probability of being hit by a major storm, why are there more mobile homes than in any other state? And where are these mobile homes? Usually in low lying areas not suitable for building permanent structures. Mobile homes are not mobile, for Pete sakes! They are temporary structures, at best. I just don’t get it! It is sure thing that they are going to blow away if a storm comes, but people continue to buy them as “low cost” housing.

As soon as the disaster is over and the state is once again reduced to piles of mud and splinters, the reporters will descend like ants to interview the weeping residents. Without electricity there is no air conditioning in the heat. Sewers fill up with storm water and back up. Looters pick through whatever is  left. The rest of the country rushes to their aid with shovels and bottles of water to help them rebuild, hopefully in time for the next hurricane.

Florida defies the weather like the surfers who ride the waves before a hurricane. They enjoy the pleasures of a tropical paradise and forget the agony of the price that is paid in loss of property and lives.  It seems to me that they would rethink the wisdom of a lifestyle begging for disaster.  I suppose as long as there are a few years to grow complacent between storms, people will forget and continue to move there thinking it won’t happen to them.

alligatorI saw only one person on television that seemed to have any sense at all. A new resident of Florida, he proclaimed while packing his car, “This is it – I’m out of here.” That’s my kind of guy! Give it back to the alligators and move to dry land!

©2004 Sheila Moss
Posted in Humor, News & Current Events, Weather | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

15 Minutes of Fame

Posted on September 1, 2016 by Sheila Moss

newspapers-and-glasses

I was famous for a week.  Bet you didn’t even know, did you?  Ah, it’s true then what they say about fame being fleeting?  It all started when I wrote a pretty good column – at least it was to me.  Of course, I feel that way about every one I write.  Each creation is a little part of the self that hurts to give up, kind of like a hangnail.

“This article really deserves to be read,” I thought, knowing I was going to put it on my webpage.  But this time I went a stretch further.  I’d been reading the editorial page of the local paper earlier, the Nashville Tennessean. “I’ll give ’em a chuckle,” I figured. This article is timely.  Before I thought much about it, I’d shot off an email to the editor of the biggest paper around.

Later that day I checked my email and there in my inbox was a reply:  “Did you write this or get it off the Internet?”  Get it off the Internet?  My child, my creation, my own smiling offspring?  Irony of ironies.  Somebody writes everything – even that stuff on the Internet.  Or maybe it just grows out there in cyberspace someplace, mutates and reproduces itself?

Do people really do that?  I mean, steal stuff off the net and put their own name on it?  Don’t answer.  I’m sure they do.  Not much respect for the word “copyright” on the net.  Not much concern about the word “plagiarism” either.  Well, anyhow, this one was my own baby – those who know my writing could see the family resemblance at first glance.  It had wit and wisdom, just like its mama. Had my nose too.

Sunday rolled around and I sat down at the computer to check my email.  “Loved your letter,” said one email.  “Great stuff in the newspaper!”  said another. Uh oh! I figured I’d better get off the computer and go buy a paper – fast.  Besides, the car needed gas, I logically and non-egotistically reasoned, as I rushed to hurry to the corner gas station, the closest possible place with papers.

As I paid for the gas, I asked, “Where are the papers?”  “Oh, we keep them outside in a machine,” the clerk replied.  He didn’t know I was famous.  Should I tell him, I wondered?  I settled for just asking for change for the machine. Removing all the advertisement inserts and putting them aside in a big pile, I finally found the real paper.  Sure enough there, there was my letter, right there on the editorial page. Yep, that settles it, I’m famous!

I told my honey, who was watching the Tennessee Titans game on TV at the time.  You can just imagine how interested he was.  Get between a man and a football game if you really want attention.  Of course, it will probably not be the sort of attention you are craving.  “I’m famous!”  I told him.  “Huh?”  he said, “Can it wait till halftime?”

I’ll call my mother and tell her.  Mother’s are great, always so proud of their children.  She is a bit suspicious about my writing on the Internet, though.  “Mom, I’m famous!  I’m in the Sunday newspaper.  “Really?  That’s nice, dear… and how are the kids doing?”  Well, she just doesn’t understand, I thought.

I told the dog, “Dog, I’m famous!”  Dog didn’t care either.  She just stood by her bowl wanting to be fed, whether I was famous or not.

I expected hate mail.  I wanted someone to disagree, but no one did.  How boring!  It was Wednesday night before I heard that someone had finally written a reply in the paper.  Gee, how good of them.  Sorry I missed it.  At least I was able to inspire one response.  If everyone could agreed on everything, we wouldn’t need elections, would we?

Boy, this fame is getting to be a problem.  I just don’t have time to be famous.  Oh well, it will be forgotten pretty soon.  My 15 minutes is slipping into oblivion already, another column moved to the archives, another clipping for my tearsheet collection.  There is one bad thing about being a columnist.  You are famous for a week, and the next week you gotta go out and do it all over again.

 © 2000-2016 Sheila Moss
Updated
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Opry at the Ryman

Posted on August 31, 2016 by Sheila Moss
Ryman_Auditorium.jpg

Ryman Auditorium – User:DSchwan (own work) CC-BY-SA-4.0 2007 – Wiki Commons

Well, I did it again.  I went to the Grand Ole Opry. Just shut up about it – this is Nashville, after all.  Cheapest entertainment in town – they really give your money’s worth with a long continuous show.  Ticket prices are low to stay in the price range of us “common folks,” the ones who supposedly support the country music industry.

Somehow, I always seem to find my self defending country music just because I live in Nashville.  It seems to be a love or hate sort of thing, and country music makes an easy target for criticism, music with a Southern accent and rural roots.  I couldn’t stand it either when I first moved here, but eventually it did get through to me.  In Nashville, you either listen to country music or you don’t listen to anything.  I’d like to report that I saw the entertainers with my very own eyes.  That twang is really natural and they do not hold their noses or use clothes pins to sound like that.

Probably the most interesting aspect of this particular show was that it was at The Ryman Auditorium, the “mother church of country music,” as we were reminded numerous times.  To tell the truth, we didn’t really need much reminding as the hard wooden church pews that we were setting on was reminder enough that the old auditorium, traditional home of the Opry, was once a church in another life.  After the Opry moved on to better digs, the Ryman fell to near ruins.  It was rescued and refurbished and is now mostly used for other functions.  It still seems old, but the restoration seems miraculous after seeing the seemingly impossibly decomposed old building that dominates Nashville’s old downtown entertainment area.  By popular request, the Opry did a three day stint back at the old place. It was such a success that they decided to do it on a regular basis.

The show itself was the usual fare, county singer after country singer.  Seems they dug up even more of the older performers than usual, and they all wanted to do their oldest songs in honor of being back at the Ryman.  The new Opry house out on Briley Parkway is a much larger place and holds a lot more people.  So moving to the Ryman for a brief period of nostalgic rerun severely limits the size of the audience.  As usual, the Opry was broadcast live on radio, complete with commercials.  Promoters like a lot of enthusiastic cheering in the background, and we were prompted to add appropriate audience sound effects.  Guess they figured country music fans were not smart enough to applaud on our own, or perhaps they figured the music wasn’t good enough that we’d want to.

We munched popcorn out of boxes that looked like miniature cardboard versions of the Ryman and watched the show, trying to figure out which lady had the biggest hair and wondering how much those sequined outfits cost that the guys all seemed to favor. They twanged away on guitars and sang into numerous microphones that occasionally screeched and squawked.  There were giant speakers for their sound system with numerous electric cables and cords and running every which way.  I missed the talented square dancers that are usually a part of the show, but the stage was much smaller and there was less room for dancing and more room for breaking your neck by falling over something.

I have often wondered why country music was not ruined by music video.  If you think they sound bad, you should see how they look.  Each one that came out seemed uglier than the one before.  Trisha Yearwood was the big name talent of the evening.  If you aren’t familiar with country music, she is one of the “new breed” of country singers, with big selling records and a more modern sound.  Many of the newer country stars still belong to the Opry out of some sense of professional obligation, I guess. Can’t knock her singing — she can sure belt em out.

Well, my rear is still numb from the benches and my knees may never quit aching from being stuffed in those tight quarters all those hours, but I won’t say I’m sorry I went.  It was professional entertainment at a bargain price.  It was country music finding it’s mother and remembering where it came from.  As long as there is hard drinking and forlorn love, there will always be material for county musicians to sing about.   What more could anyone want – especially in Nashville?

©2000 Sheila Moss
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Painting the Town Green

Posted on August 30, 2016 by Sheila Moss

bucket of green paint

In the continuing saga of home ownership, it becomes obvious from time to time that certain menial tasks are necessary for maintenance and often such tasks are not worth the time and expense of hiring a professional. Such was the case with my patio furniture and me recently.

Over the past several years, I’ve watched the furniture slowly depreciate, putting the inevitable in the back of my mind. Finally, I could no longer deny the obvious – the wrought iron furniture was desperately in need of a coat of paint, AND it was a do-it-yourself type project.

“Maybe we could just throw it away and get new?” suggested my partner when I brought up the subject.

“Why? It’s perfectly good!” I replied.

That wrought iron stuff is indestructible. It lasts forever. It has survived three children and years of major abuse. It has moved with me from one end of the country to another several times. It is like part of the family. How can I even speak of throwing it away? Besides, it is so old that it is back in style again. I’ve been seeing practically the very same thing down at the fancy garden and patio shop. Painted green and antiqued with black like the high-priced stuff, it will look great!

I don’t know why I’ve procrastinated so long. One short morning of manual labor and it will be over. I already have a large selection of slightly used brushes; some of them even have bristles. Down at Discount Depot, I select the paint carefully: Gloss or semi-gloss? Latex versus oil based? One quart will do the job – I know from years of experience.

I’m in danger of being thrown out of the store for fondling the paint cans by the time the perfect shade is finally selected, hunter green in latex semi-gloss. Clean up for latex paint is with soap and water, no mess versus the turpentine or paint thinner required with an oil base paint. You can see that I am very knowledgeable in these things, practically having a degree in the study of paint charts since the time I repainted the interior of the house.

This furniture has been painted so many times in the past that I scarcely remember the original color. It has gone back and fourth, black to white to black. Green is a totally new experience – a venture into sheer decorating madness. The first coat goes on as smooth as water and covers about that well. “A second coat won’t take long,” I think, barely able to wait the 30 minutes for the first one to dry.

Three coats, four coats, and I wonder, “How many coats do I need anyhow?” I don’t know if it is the choice of latex for painting metal or just cheap paint, but hours later I am still painting. Afraid of vapor lock if I stop for even a few minutes, I send my honey back to the store to buy more paint for me.

How is it that some people paint and never spill a drop? I try to avoid stepping the green drips, but it is impossible. Paint is on my hands, my clothes, and my hair. The plastic drip cloth sticks to the bottom of my feet. I’ve given up even trying to stay clean and am beginning to look like I stirred the paint with my elbow. If the Jolly Green Giant comes by, I could easily be selected as a suitable mate. On second thought, he could never see me with all this camouflage.

After the fifth coat, the paint is starting to dry up in the bucket. I’m afraid to close my eyes as I remember what happens when you paint around windows and forget to break the seal. I finally decide the furniture looks good enough. The bumps and drips are hardly noticeable from a distance. Move over Picasso and make room for another masterpiece. With all those coats of paint, I’m no longer sure if there is furniture inside at all, or whether it has disintegrated into rust and we are using a hundred layers of twisted and hardened paint.

I found out that latex does not wash off with soap and water if it dries long enough on the skin. Soaking in the bathtub and scrubbing myself with a Teflon pot scrubber and a can of powdered cleanser, I know I will never, ever have a second career as a professional painter. Those dudes earn every penny they make.

The thing that really worries me, however, is that today I noticed some rusty spots were starting to develop on the garage door.

©2000 Sheila Moss
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