Essays of a Common Man

The Making of a Profile Picture

It wasn’t long after I started my blogging adventure that I realized there is an “About” page associated with it.  I also realize that it is a fairly important part of the overall blogosphere experience - as it establishes the bases of who you are.  In that; other’s delving in the blogging experience can recognize a like-minded individual and blog along with them.  (Sorry, I’m still not sure if I have the blogging “lingo” down yet.  At least it sure feels uncomfortable as heck for someone born and raised in Texas to be talking like this.  But I’m willing to give it some time if you are.)

After studying, for several minutes in a row I might add, I figured the perfect picture of myself is the best way to show who I am.  So I decided to set up a photo shoot.

The first two pictures below are some of the many blooper shots from my “photo shoot”.  Now mind you, just so we get our blogging lingo straight, a “photo shoot” in Texas is nothing more than just standing around a tree in your front yard as your brother fiddles with his new digital camera.

Another tidbit of info; it was my Mother who put the face on the tree because she thought it was cute.  What I liked about it is that it ended up scaring the hell out of the neighborhood kids.  Not one of them has put a foot in my yard since little Frankie froze stiff and pee’d in his pants after looking it straight in the eye.  Now, I’m known as the spooky old bearded guy who has a haunted tree in his front yard.  Hey… that works just fine for me - dang pesky little ankle bitters.

As I was looking over the results of the photo shoot my mind picked out these pictures, told me to add eyeballs to the face on the tree and post what you will see below.  I have to say, my writing coach told me something a little different as to what I needed to post. 

So, if you come back to my blog and see a comment by Shari on this  post, check it out just to see what a first class writing coach thinks about what your are about to read.

Everyone needs a little help form their friends at times - even if it is a tree.

Hey Jim, wake up!!! It's time for your shot.

That's it. OK now, 1, 2, 3,

SMILE

 
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“The New Magnificent Seven - a Texas Tall Tale. Or is it?”

(Let me start out by saying that this was a tall tale until I found a video on the internet that proved it to be fact - well, at least its proof enough for me.)

It seem a few years ago, so the story goes, a group of people where out camping deep in the Texas hill country.  After driving for an hour or so, down and old abandoned road somewhere northwest of Kerrville, they had found a small clearing in the woods.

It was the first day of the camp out; a day of loading camping equipment, traveling to the site and setting up camp.  Tomorrow was to be filled with fishing, hiking and just generally enjoying nature in it’s finest.  But, as the campers were to find out, nature doesn’t always go by the plans and wishes of the visitors to its domain.  Yes, nature can provide very exhilarating and unexpectedly joyous experiences but sometimes, in a seeming callous way, it can also put people in harms way.  Both were to be on natures agenda for these temporary escapees from civilization this weekend.

After enjoying a meal cooked over an open campfire, everyone started to take advantage of the first opportunity to relax.  Then as the evening gave way to a brilliant star filled night sky the campers all lounged around the warn glow of the campfire's light.  The conversation started to taper off until all that could be heard was the crackling of the fire and the frogs croaking in the near by pond - or tank as we call then in Texas. 
 
With everyone wrapped in their own thoughts, watching the fire's sparks rise ever so high into the starry night above, a gentle peace settled over the camp site.  As the smell of the campfire filled the night air, a slight breeze picked up out of the south.  The tree leaves rustling in the soft breeze caused a shimmering effect as the campfires light reflected off their shinny surfaces.
 
Damn!!!!, bellowed out one of the young men.  The exclamation split the calm like a meat cleaver as everyone jerked in shock.  "It is way too quite around here, I'll be right back." said the man as he jumped to his feet and bounded off into the darkness.  Expletives of disgust and slurs to his parentage muttered throughout the group.
 
In a few seconds a happy music could be heard off in the dark towards where the cars were parked. The pulsating Latin rhythm, highlighted by the sound of a cow bell clanking on the top of every beat, grew louder and louder as the young man bounded back toward the campsite.  The lid on one of the ice cooler was flung open and sounds of hands plunging into cold icy water and the pop of beer cans being open joined with the music.

Conversation and laughter once again started to fill the air as the young man - boom box in tow - enter back into the glow of the fire's light with the music now blaring.  A marshmallow flew over the fire and bounced off of his forehead as one of the girls stood up, whacked him on the arm and called him a name that refers to part of the neither regions of the human anatomy.
 
A big, playful grin then spread across his face.  After seeing that grin, no one in the group was able to hold anymore animosity toward him - although, the name of the neither region did ring out a few more times. 

Several more logs were tossed on the fire as an eruption of sparks flew up into the air. Everyone was now caught up in the beat of the music, the camaraderie of good friends and the joy of the evening. 
 
Then, off in the near by bushes, a ruckus started.  Only a few of the merrymakers heard it at first.  But as those few stood motionless looking off into the darkness, others stopped and became aware of the commotion.  Soon the flames from the fire, lapping up into the air and the happy, pulsating music was the only activity going on around the campfire.  Everyone was deed still, fixated on the bushes as they continued to thrash back and forth.  Fear then started to appear on the campers faces as they huddled together at the though of some sort of night creature jumping out at them.
 
The petrified group just watched as the thrashing bush with the fires flickering light upon it, surreally danced to the blaring Latin rhythm of the music.  One of the gentlemen then slowly squatted down to pick up a log as the only means of defense for the isolated band of weekend adventures.

Everyone’s eyes opened wider and wider as the thrashing of the bush grew more intense.  Then, in a final convolution, out popped a two foot bundle of green and brown rags that immediately tumbled to the ground.  Within the wink of an eye the fear pasted on the faces of the campers morphed into utter astonishment.  They all leaned forward in unison to see if what they were seeing was actually what they were seeing. 

It was Dopey, one of the seven dwarfs… and it seems he is a big time sucker for a good cumbia - as it turns out, all seven were.  So, instead of a fierce night creature getting ready to pounce on everyone, it was just Dopey dancing in the bushes.

Even though he now lay prone on the ground, his little soft brown leather clad feet still danced to the music.  Totally oblivious to his audience he hopped back up and kept moving to the clanging beat of the cow bell in the cumbia’s rhythmic pulsations.  Dressed in a soft green dwarf coat, that went all the way down to ground, his floppy dwarf hat bounced on his head as his floppy dwarf ears did the same.  The mouths of the campers started to fall open and absolute wonder replace the astonishment on their faces.  A bit of laughter started to trickle throughout the gathering.

Then another head popped out of the bushes.  It was Doc.  Unlike Dopey, he immediately saw that their presence and been observed.  Grabbing Dopey’s coat, Doc yanked him back into the bushes and as they hurried off his small dwarf voice was heard shouting in alarm, “Run everyone, we’ve been found out!”

Full fledged laughter then erupted in the camp.  Giddiness’ filled the women as the thrill of an upcoming hunt raced through the veins of the men.   Without a word being said the group unanimously chose to ignore the dangers of running recklessly through unknown woods in the middle of the night and all speed off in pursuit.  The only command being barked out at the last second was to make sure that someone was bringing the music.

No one is sure as to the exact turn of events after that.  Silence has been strictly observed by all party evolved.  No one is even really sure who was actually their; the story being past down as what someone heard from a friend of someone who knew someone that was their.  It is surmised that in exchange for the music and total silence as to the existence of the new Texas residence, the campers were invited to an evening of fun and merriment in the home of the seven dwarfs - or the Magnificent Seven, as they preferred being called now that they live in Texas.

Jim

*** End of the tale, now for the proof. ***
But you know what, even with the silence being strictly adhered to by the participant, in this new age of technology there always seem to be a video - doesn’t there?  Look what I found on the internet.  Now Robert (aka zorro69) claimed that he manufactured this video.  But to me, with these rumors flying around and then this video all of a sudden shows up, I’ve pretty well have it all figured out.  You see, Robert (aka zorro69) was actually one of the campers that night and snuck a video camera in to the party.  He is just saying that he manufactured this video in order to stay in compliance with his oath of silence.  Anyway, here’s the link to the video, see for yourself.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tAq3hWBlalU

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Just Too Darn Friendly

Yep, it’s true… Texas is a mighty friendly place.  Now mind you, we have our share of people who strikingly resemble the south end of a north bound horse - and some of them are just as smart.  But on the whole, if you smile at a local down here they will be happy to smile back.  If you stop one and ask directions, they will be as helpful as they can.  We even have some that are so friendly they would strike up a conversation with a fence post if nothing else was around.  The latter is what I figured I had come across in the airport a few years back.

It was a long fight back from where ever it was I was coming back from.  After several unexpended delays, another soft drink and several extra bags of peanuts, I had some pressing business to attend to first thing upon my arrival.  

Using the “facilities” on an airplane during flight is unnerving to me for some reason, especially when comes to the procedure explained by adding one and one together.  Somehow, the jerking undulation of the planes movement in flight and the sound of air screaming past the fuselage of the aircraft at 700 mile per hour makes for very intense experience - especially in the venerable position of sitting down.  I just know with the slightest rivet failure or an inadvertent flush I could be sucked out of the plane, though the toilet, whole. 

I don’t know why but free falling thirty thousand feet with my pants down around my ankles and my naked butt exposed to all of creation is just not how I what to leave this life.  Then I guess this is just a little phobia of mine that your probably are not really interested in hearing about. Sorry, let me get back to my story.

As I rounded the corner into the restroom and flew into the first empty stall I saw, a sense of relief came over me as I had made it.  I was barely sitting down when I heard a voice from the other stall saying in a long, slow Texas drawl:   "Hi, how are ya?"

Shocked at hearing the question I looked over in the direction of the voice.  What even shocked me more is that before I knew it I responded, somewhat embarrassed, “Doin’ just fine!”

I bend down as far a could to looked under the stall and saw these shinny new cowboy boots with a brand new pair of blue jeans draped over them.  My first thought was, “Oh Lord, Billy Bob’s done come to town.”  I would have been willing to bet that he was sitting there wearing his cowboy hat too. 

Then the other guy says: "So what are you up to?"

Allright!!!  That’s just too darn friendly if you ask me, but I figured he didn’t mean any harm and was just being a good ol’ boy.  So in an effort to be neighborly I said,   "Uhhh, I'm like you, just traveling!"

I could see in my minds eye the last time he was in a situation like this was down on the farm, sitting in an outhouse talking to the cows and chickens as they passed by.

I’m now concentrating on finishing my business in order to get out as fast as I could when I hear another question. "Can I come over?"

OK!!!. That question just crossed the line - good ol’ boy or not.
 As politely as I could I tried to end the conversation by saying, "No........I'm a little busy right now!!!"

Then his thick Texas accent took on a rather perturbed sound as he said… "Listen, I'll have to call you back.  There's an idiot in the other stall who keeps answering all my questions!!!"

I don’t think I have ever been quieter in my whole life than during the next few minutes.  As the other fella exited his stall I just sat.  I didn’t hear anyone else enter the restroom and I didn’t make any attempt to leave.  I wanted to make sure that my new friend not only had time to leave the restroom but the airport terminal as a whole. 

As I sat there in my solitude I became painfully aware that I was now officially included in that share of Texans who strikingly resemble the south end of a north bound horse - and I felt just as smart too.

Jim

Just so you know, I'm the on wearing the hat.

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Favorite Fishing Lures

Usually, whenever I hear someone refer to a fishing lure as their favorite I feel the statement is not based on sound scientific data but more on sentimentality and superstition.  Although there are the exceptions when someone has taken to a fishing lure based on the actual results obtained by its use.  If I remember correctly, these two opposing situations actually came head to head once in Texas when a Game Warden went fishing with his friend.  I believe the warden’s name was Wally, that’s it… Wally the Warden.  

Now Wally knew all about fishing and enjoyed the sport very much.   In fact he loved the outdoors life in general and preserving it for all to enjoy equally was a big reason why Wally wanted to be a Warden.   On the other hand Wally’s friend Fred, who also loved the outdoors, was more of a take what you want and to heck with the rest kinda guy.

Wally and Fred both had the same Friday off and decided to go fishing.  They agreed to take Fred’s boat on this trip because Wally felt like he had to make amends.  A week or so earlier, over a few beers at a bar, Wally referred to Fred’s boat as a floating piece of crap with a motor on it.  You see, Fred was not much for frills.  His boat met all the legal codes and requirements but that’s about it.  Wally on the other hand was more of a “state of the art” type fellow. 

The sun was just coming up over the horizon as the two were streaking across the lake headed toward their favorite fishing spot.  They were both in good spirits and had high expectation of the day’s catch, but Wally was a bit worried.  All Fred brought with him was a tackle box, large scoop net and an umbrella.  Wally couldn’t see a rod and reel anywhere.  Knowing that Fred could be a rather odd duck at times he didn’t say anything.  Besides, there was a friendly rivalry between to two when it came to fishing and usually a small wager of some sort was part of each outing.  Wally had no trouble at all in taking advantage of Fred’s eccentricities when given the chance. 

Wally was well ahead in winning the wagers at this point.  On this trip he had brought his finest rod and reel and a tackle box full of everything any fishing master could imagine.  And all of it was top of the line stuff too.  There sat Fred, one nondescript tackle box, umbrella and a scoop net. 

About half way to the fishing spot Wally could no longer ignore the situation.  He turned around and looked at Fred, who had a firm grip of the control arm coming off of the motor mounted on the back of the boat and his baseball style hat stuffed down on his head as far as it could go.  In a loud voice, in order to be heard over the buzz of the motor, Wally said, “With all the fish I’m going to catch I am sure glad you brought that net along.”  Fred just looked at Wally and with a supremely confident grin spread across his face just nodded back.  Seeing that was the only response he was going to get out of Fred, Wally turned back around and once again faced the chilly morning air rushing past his face.

As the boat started slowing down Wally readied his gear.  Before it came to a stop he stood up and made his first cast.    The lure landing right in the middle of a hole that had always produced a good size catch in prior trips.  Sure enough, “Wham” a three pounder pounced on the lure the second it hit the water.  Wally jerked back on the rod and a good size tussle ensued between fisherman and fish.

Before Fred even dropped the anchor Wally had hooked his first fish of the day.  Once Wally wrangled it on board he held the fish high, looked down at Fred, who was still seated, and gloated, “Now that’s one fine fish huh Fred.”  Fred looked up, scooted his cap back high on his head and said, “It’s a whopper Wally”.

Wally then whirled around and with a masterful whip of his rod cast the lure dead center into another prodigiously productive spot several feet from the first.  This time it was a three and a half pounder Wally latched onto.  As he flopped the fish into the live well he caught sight of Fred out of the corner of his eye.  Seemingly unconcerned Fred was fumbling for something in his tackle box.  With another cast Wally hauled in another fish as Fred frittered around, digging in his tackle box until he finally found what he was fumbling for - a cigarette lighter. 

With lighter in hand Fred started patting down his fishing vest now searching for something else.  Fred’s frivolous attitude towards this whole trip started to unnerve Wally.  Not hearing more than a handful of words since they started, Wally facetiously ask Fred, “So Fred tell me, you gonna talk all day or you gonna fish?” 

“All in good time my friend,” Fred retorted with another big grim as he pulled a cigar out from the inside of his jacket, lit it and leaned back. 

Standing motionless for a few moments Wally just stared at Fred… then made his next cast directly over his head.  “Nice form.  I bet that rod and reel set you back a pretty penny?” Fred remarked.  Wally responded, “And it’s been worth every one of those pennies.”  After working the lure back in toward the boat for a few seconds a mighty jerk bent the rod almost in half, Wally reared back to set the hook, let out at big whoop, looked at Fred and said,  “Jumping frijoles Fred, that’s four fish in four casts.  Looks like I’m well on my way to wining the wager now. 

With the tackle box sitting between his feet Fred look up and boasted, “Don’t worry Wally.  I’m going catch three times as many fish as you will today.”  At that Fred pulled up the anchor and started setting up the trolling motor.

Finally Fred seemed like he was fixin’ to go into action.  He picked up the empty net and started passing it back and forth through the water.  Wally’s curiosity and concerned about Fred freaky demeanor started to get the best of him.  He blurted out, “Now what are you doing?” Fred replied with what had now become a permanent grin on is face “I’m getting ready to start hauling in all the fish I’m going to catch.” 

Wally’s wondering and worrying about Fred’s behavior had now turned into frustration.  With an errant flip or his rod he flicked his next cast into the trees, he then exclaimed, “What a freakin’ Friday fiasco this has turned out to be. 

As Wally tugged and pulled on the line trying to free his ensnared lure Fred suggested, “Just cut the line.” With a what’s-the-matter-with-you look Wally scolded in disbelief, “This is my favorite lure.”  Shaking his head Fred replied, “Whatever Wally” then reached into his tackle box and pulled out a cylindrical object that had a fuse sticking out of one end. 

In the middle of his tugging, Wally noticed Fred’s activity and turned to see what he was up to.  In shock he blustered out, “That’s a quarter stick of dynamite Fred.  What are you going to do with that?  Puffing deeply on his cigar Fred proudly said, “This is my favorite lure Wally.”  He then took the cigar, lit the fuse and as Wally’s mouth hung wide open in disbelief, pitched it about twenty feet out into the lake. 

Boooommmm!!!!  A torrent of water shot straight up into the air as the sound of the blast reverberated off of the opposite shore.  Wally immediately cut the line and wailed at the top of his lungs, JeesssuussChrist Fred!!!!!!, what in the hell do you think you’re doing.”  At that same moment the wash from the explosion slammed into the side of the boat knocking Wally on his butt.  Fred had just managed to get his umbrella opened as the wall of water falling out of the sky drenched Wally to the bone. 

As Wally coughed and gagged from the deluge, Fred started the trolling motor and headed out to ground zero.  In a few seconds, dead fish started popping up all over the place.  Scooping in his catch Fred then gloated, “Wow Wally, it took you for four casts to catch only four fish.  It only took me one to catch, well let’s see now, I count at least fifteen at the moment.”  With a big toothy grin, Fred looked up a Wally and said, “Boy that boom bait sure packs a wallop doesn’t it Wally.” 

Wally was livid.  With his back side planted squarely on the seat and his knuckles turning white from the vice like grip he was holding on with, Wally hollered back, “What is the matter with you.  Using any kind of explosive or electrical devise to kill fish is against the law.  I am an officer of that law and friend or no friend I will throw your sorry criminal carcass in jail for this stunt. 

Calmly puffing on his cigar Fred leaned back a bit and said, “Now how are you going to do that without throwing your sorry criminal carcass in jail along side of mine.  After all, we are fishing together and using the same tactics aren’t we?” 

Wally locked eyes with Fred and a bit lower in volume, but not intensity, asked, “What in the hell are you talking about.  I am not using the same tactics you are.” 

Fred looks down into his tackle box for a second and then glanced up at Wally.  Along with the ever present smile Fred now had a twinkle in his eye as he comments, “Oh Yeah”.  He reaches back down into the tackle box and brings out another one of his “lures”.  Wally goes into another tirade as Fred puffs intensely on his cigar. 

With the butt of the cigar glowing bright red Fred takes it out on his mouth, points it at Wally and in a loud commanding voice announces, “So Wally, tell me”… in an almost daze Wally shuts up and listens as Fred asks, “You gonna talk all day”… he then lights the fuse, pitches the stick of dynamite into Wally lap and continues, “Or you gonna fish?”

Jim

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Chasing Spandex

Okay, so there I was… running at Memorial Park around seven o’clock one fantastic spring evening.  Well… maybe not running, let’s just say jogging.  On second thought, let’s say moving forward with a jogging type shuffle.  After years of not being able to jog, because of several injuries, I had just started again several weeks earlier. 

During these weeks I had been jogging in the next door parking lot at my work and on the subdivision streets at my home.  This was my first return to the Memorial Park track where I had done most of my jogging before.  I was feeling good about my progress since my return to jogging and was even able to pick up the pace every second or third outing.  I got to were I felt like I was just flying pass the trees and cars in the parking lot and on the streets. 

As I trudged along the Memorial Park track that evening, it was made painfully clear to me that the trees and cars were all stationary objects.  Now that I was actually running with other people; I felt like a tree, rooted firmly in one spot as they all flew by me.  I did maintain my composure and keep my pace steady because I realized that I had just entered a higher level of performance.  In order to achieve my goal I had to run my race and ignore what was going on around me.

There was one thought in my memory that provided some solace and kept me going.  At least no one was walking faster than I was running anymore.  You see, when I first moved back to Houston and had just started jogging, I was really slow.  If fact, I couldn’t even out run the speed walkers.  I have to admit that was embarrassing.  People could walk faster than I could run.  There is one memory that will probably haunt me forever.  It happened on the running track that surrounds Rice University.  

I had entering into the ten minute mark of my jog and was feeling good.  I was warmed up, had my stride down and the trees seemed like they were standing still as I passed them.  (Which I guess they were but you know what I mean.)  Then this white flash came up from behind and started to pass me.  Startled, I look to the side and saw that it was a lady in her 70’s and to my surprise she was just speed walking.  Knees and elbow flying high she remarked, “Out of the way slow-poke” as she passed.  To top it off, she flipped me the figure once in front of me. 

Now one might think that a brazen attitude, such as that, was a little daring for a female in her 70’s to be accosting a male, almost thirty years younger than her with.  As I viewed her scraggly white jogging suit, speeding away, I realized that she had been observing her fellow running mates on the track for a long time and knew there was no way in hell I would be able to catch her.

I entered the half way mark of the track around Memorial Park that evening with at least the thought that I was now at least up to the level of being able to jog faster than someone could walk.  I was already starting to huff and puff though.  In jogging on the street and parking lots I was doing about two miles.  The track around Memorial Park is three miles.  I knew this was going to be a stretch for me but I was ready for the challenge.  Then this young female runner flies past me.  I didn’t pay any attention to her until she pulled up in front of me and started to power walk.  At that point, I realized that with her power walking, she must of caught up to me and had to break into a run in order to get around me.  I was dismayed and thought, “Not again.”  The difference between the power walking Mama at Rice University and the twenty-ish person that just passed me then struck me. 

She was lovely, at least her back side was.  A petite figure with nice straight shoulders and rounded in all the places I like to see rounded.  She had on snug navy blue running pants and a grey top with enough space between the two to see the tattoo in the small of her back - a tattoo that was only partially displayed and sort of disappeared into her snug navy pants.  I couldn’t see what the tattoo was but that only made it the more intriguing.  At that point, I picked up my jogging pace to match her power walking pace and I found myself in heaven.

We were headed west as the sun was entering its final stages of the day. When in the shadow of the tall towering pine trees lining the course, I could see the power walker ahead of me with splendid clarity.  But as our trek took us into the open sunlight, a sort of vision seemed to transpire.  As my eye’s squinted from the rays of the direct sunlight the only thing I could see was her silhouette against the brilliant light.  Her undulating, power walking motion played with the rays of sunlight emanating around her figure and inspired me to realize that I was jogging with a power walking angel.  (Now mind you, remember that I am close to the third mile mark of this jog and I am sure that all of the physical effects of this exertion are playing a part in my feeling as well.)

Because of the new impetus I received from my exercise partner, I had now hit a stride that was faster than anything I had accomplished since I started jogging after my injuries - and I was elated.   As my body became accustomed to this new level of performance my mind kicked in and told the rest of myself that this power walking angel was nothing more than just a carrot enticing the horse to run a little faster.  After all, she was a complete stranger.  There was no way I would be able to come up from behind her, tap her on the shoulder, stop her in the middle of Memorial Park, and with both of us gasping for air say, “Hey, my name is Jim.  What’s yours?”

“No, no, no”, I told myself, “She is just a carrot to get me to raise my performance up a notch.”  Then, as we rounded the final corner of the and headed into the third mile, the power walking angel kicked it up a notch, began to jog and started to pull away from me. I went into shock and in my mind exclaimed, “Whoa, Girlfriend… what the hell are you doing?” 

Without even thinking, I kicked up my pace to keep up with her.  As she weaved her way through the trees, I followed.  As she picked her way through the comings and goings of our fellow runners, I followed.  All the time of the increased pace I focused and thought, “OK, breathe deep and relax - that’s the key to keeping up.”  After several minutes, as I started to get light headed and passing out became a reality, I looked at my carrot angel, as she sped away from me, and said to myself, ”Sorry Sweetheart, I’ve got to let you go now. “

My pace then returned to what I was more accustomed too.  I still tried to maintain visual contact and watched those snug navy running pants darting in and out of the growing number of running between us.  Then a fat walking guy, with his white socks all the way up to his knees and plaid shorts, blocked my view of her completely.  I want to tell you, I would have kicked his butt if I could have gotten up there fast enough.

Just finishing the three miles returned to being my only goal - and that was good enough for me.  I was ahead of the pace I had initially set out on, had a rather titillating adventure in the process and was now headed home.  Listening to the steady rhythmic pulse my feet made as they pressed on the gravely surface of the running track became the focus of my the rest of this journey. 

Then the fat guy stopped, exited the track and I saw that my angel was walking, not power walking but just walking at a normal walking pace.  My mind immediately kicked in as told me, “OK, you are jogging and she is walking, that means you are getting closer to her.”  I then told myself, “Well hell, if I start running I will catch up to her even faster… so I started running again.” 

It was working.  She was walking and I was running.  My heart rate went up again… my breathing went up again, but I thought to myself, “Hey, maybe I will get to see her front side with this effort and be able to put a face to the back side I have grown to know and love in these last few minutes.” 

This was good enough reasoning for me and I was now sprinting.  It was just about ten feet before I was able to see her front side that she turned at a ninety degree angle away from me, exited the track and headed towards her car and the end of our encounter.  As I passed her I made the decision to indulge in the inappropriate behavior of ogling at a woman more than half my age and turned to look upon her face.  I was pleased with the decision because her front side was just as appealing as her back side and I was able to finish my run in satisfaction.

As I started to drive out of Memorial Park in my mini van that evening, all of the excitement of the jog had faded.  I had a successful warm down and stretching period immediately after my jog.  But now, because of the extra excretion on my joints, the bone spur under the Achilles tendon ached, the old injury to my right knee ached and throbbed and both my ankles were hurting just because they just wanted too.  Driving down Memorial Parkway, as I headed toward the 610 loop, I thought to myself, “All this and I still didn’t get the girl.” 

Currently, I have to say, I don’t know if “L” stands for the word love or lust in my life. With the way I was feeling after this encounter, all I wanted to say is that I am getting to old for this sh*t.  But now, as I comfortably sit here typing on my computer keyboard, reminiscing about my power walking angel, an intriguing thought is playing with my mind, “I wonder what kind of tattoo that was?”

You know what; I think I’ll go jogging at Memorial Park right now.  And I do hope there is going to be a lot of people jogging and running and power walking right along with me.

Jim

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Dog Paddling in the Labyrinth - my SA Symphony audition experience

Upon entering, the room didn't look like a labyrinth – the definition of a labyrinth being; a place constructed of or filled with confusing intricate passageways… although the sign over the entry door clearly stated The Labyrinth.  But it was just a room – a big room I will admit; nicely decorated with ornate white crown molding offsetting the soft grayish walls on three sides, the forth being fully mirrored.  There was a handsomely crafted solid oak table in the middle with a shimmering chandelier seeming to hover over it.

Seeing this I realized the room was just called The Labyrinth.  But, as the events started to unfold in that room I found myself entering into a mental and emotional labyrinth of sorts - the seeming labyrinth of major symphony orchestra auditions.

Bass Trombone for the San Antonio Symphony was the position being vied for that day.  I was feeling pretty good about myself too.  It was only three months earlier that I had auditioned for the Houston Symphony Orchestra.  So my "chops" were better than ever for this audition.  And besides; San Antonio offered only half the salary as Houston so I was sure the competition wasn't going to be near as tough.  Oh little did I know.

One person was already in the room as I was lead in by the polite and charming audition volunteer.  Seated at the table was a young man in his twenties; as I had presumed by his appearance.  Dressed smartly in a causal shirt and slacks; he exuded an air of confidence equal to mine.

We exchanged cordial head nods as I proceeded over to the row of chairs along the mirrored wall – wearing my usual symphony audition garb of white shirt, black pants and this great tie I had found several years earlier.  I can still remember seeing it peeking out from all the flamboyant, colorful, bold print ties on the rack.  As I pulled out this black and white tie with abstract like swooshes into the light of day I exclaimed, "This is going to be my symphony audition tie from now on.  And so it is.

I set my trombone case down on one of the chairs; opened it; assembled the instrument and started blowing deep slow breaths through it.  My fellow auditioner, with his trombone out on the table in front of him, sat in an almost trance like state preparing his mind and body for the Oh so few minutes we have on stage to show the audition committee our best.

As I sat down in the chair next to my trombone case I noticed the gentleman starting to stir so I asked him where he was from.  He answered Abilene.  Ah good, I thought to myself.  A very nice town smack dab in the middle of Texas with a good Christian University and an excellent music school.  But, in all my college years I studied with the principal trombonist for the Houston Symphony so I thought this shouldn't be too much of a problem.  Then he went on to say he was now a graduate student at De Paul University working towards a doctorate.   This meant he was currently studying with the bass trombonist of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra – probably my most favorite bass trombonist and orchestra of all time.  Seeing as how I figured the competition wasn't going to be that much; the confusing intricate passageways started to take shape in my mind with turn of events.  The chat tapered off as both of us went into semi meditations preparing our minds to be calm and focused during the upcoming moments of shear terror.

Another trombonist entered; with trombone case slung over his shoulder he exclaimed, "Labyrinth?  What the hell."  Recognition lit up the face of the fellow at the table as he stood, stretched out his hand and greeted the new comer saying, "Why, I haven't seen you since the Navy Band audition.  How are you?" Reminisces then ensued.

The next guy to enter I myself recognized - another twenty something young man who auditioned along with me for the Houston Symphony months earlier.  He was the one sent to the second round out of our group.  I then had the sensation of water starting to inundate those confusing intricate passageways of my mind.

A big smile came across his face as he saw the other two - naturally, acquaintances all.  In fact, three more trombonists followed in close proximity; not only in the time of arrival but their station in life – trombonists who traveled the country from audition to audition.  So; gathered in front of me were six trombonists, in their middle twenties, all working on master degrees or doctorates from major universities and studying with the top trombone professor around.  Here I was, my college way behind me, lucky to get two to three hours of practice in after working all day at my full time non music day job.  By then I was just amazed though.  Somehow, I had been placed in the same audition time slot with some of the best young guns in the orchestral auditioning world.

Gleeful chatter filled The Labyrinth.  Amongst the cacophony of two to three simultaneous conversations I could pick out statements like, "I made it through the first round of the LA Phil audition last month"; "Yeah, I went all the way up to the final round at the Navy Band audition."; "What's up with the Labyrinth?"; "The guy who won the LA Phil job was a person nobody had ever heard of."

Just minutes earlier I had entered The Labyrinth head high and full of confidence.  Now I felt like I was having to dog paddle just to keep my head above water.  But I did maintain my composure and joined in the conversation as much as I felt comfortable.  Even though they were all of an age I wasn't, my conversation was accepted as part of the groups.  I guess, in the big picture of things, once a trombonist always a trombonist.  But for some reason, I didn't get up and join my fellow trombonists at the table they were gathered around.  No… for some reason I steadfastly held to my self appointed position of Old Fart along the Mirrored Wall.

The din diminished as the audition volunteer entered caring a small cardboard box containing seven slips of paper with numbers written on them.  We were to draw one slip of paper and the number would determine the order in which we auditioned.  As I looked at my slip I saw the big number seven on it.  Great, I was to audition after the committee heard all of the young guns play.  I thought to myself, "Well, my audition won't take long."  But at that point I was just honored at still being invited to auditions such as this.  Now, I was there for the experience and simple pleasure of seeing this new generation of trombonists as they start out on their journeys in life.

From what I had heard; the auditions started at 8 am and continued until 6 pm for two days.  All musicians were assigned to a certain hour in which to audition.  As our hour came close the first trombonist was escorted to a warm up room for his final preparation.  As the process started a more serious atmosphere enveloped the room; some playing softly on their instruments; some seated off by them selves in contemplation; some in quiet conversation.  About every ten minutes the next auditioner was lead to a practice room as the one who just auditioned re-enter the room to wait until the end of the hour.  At which point the winner or winners of this round would be announced.

Relief is usually the first thing noticed on the faces of the people re-entering; sometimes exaltation at knowing they just nailed their audition; sometimes reserve at not being sure how the committee would vote on their performance.  In one instance on that day, a trombonist re-entered the room totally flustered, snatched up his trombone case and set it on the table with a thud.  Then without a word, packed up his horn and left before the hour was up.  We all sat in quiet respect through the ordeal.  All of us understood the emotions of being under the gun for just those brief few minutes… minutes in which months of diligent preparation can go haywire in a second.   Maybe that is the bond that holds us who put our egos and pride on the chopping block of symphony auditions together – no matter how much distance there might be in our years.

We sat waiting for what seemed like an eternity after the last person in our hour returned… which, if you remember was me.  In the next few moments, one person's life was just about to take a step closer to the dream of becoming a full time professional orchestra musician.  An almost reverence marked everyone's demeanor as the audition volunteer entered the room.  After thanking us for taking the time to audition for the SAS she read the name of the one person that was passed on to the next round.

I looked at the faces of all those who had done so well in big time auditions before; their faces filled with disbelief and confusion.  Especially the ones face who just months earlier made it through the first round for an orchestra with twice the annual budget of the SAS.  "What do we have to do to win an audition?" seemed to be the general look on everyone's face as they mentally started scurrying through those confusing intricate passageways of the labyrinths in their minds.

As far as I could tell, although very capable and respected, the winner wasn't one of the ones expected to make it.  But this seemed to be his day - which he gratefully accepted with a reserved fist pump.  Sincere congratulation then spread as everyone adjusted to and accepted the outcome of this hour.  We gathered our belongings and made way for the next round of trombonists and their turn in The Labyrinth.

Once in the hallway, on our way to the front door, the six of us now conversed about the future – the immediate future that is.  Questions filled the conversations like, "What hotel are you staying at? When are you leaving? Hey, you want to go down to the River Walk later and get something to eat?"   I was staying with my son who lives in San Antonio that night so I wasn't able to be a part of the evening's activities.  But for those few brief moments though, headed out the front door walked five young guns and one old gun.  All had just taken part in one of the most gut wrenching, mind numbing events in professional music – a symphony audition.  Now, we were comrades in arms – so to speak.

I don't know, maybe the person who named the room was a bit of a prophet or something; maybe they had a premonition of what would happen one day in that room; or maybe they were just eating one of those funny mushrooms and named the room after what they psychedelically perceived upon entering.  Who knows?

All I know is that with the hundreds of highly qualified and talented musicians all competing for just a hand full of positions it can seem like you have to struggle just to keep your head above water.  This over all abundance can also make the selection process seem inconsistent and even flawed at times – leaving the musician wondering just exactly what do I have to do to win.   My heart does go out to the judges for having to choose just one person out of the scores and scores of people auditioning.  With all of this though, it is almost certain that at some point, all musicians reaching for that elusive dream on one day becoming a full time professional orchestra musician will feel as if they too are dog paddling in the Labyrinth of life.

Jim

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                            On a Personal Note:                                       My Journalistic Endeavors:
                                My First Gig                                                     On the Indie Road - Monday night
                                Man of La Mancha - with trombone              On the Indie Road - Tuesday night

                         The Audition Papers:                                                                   In General:
                          Thoughts on a Major Symphony Orchestra Audition              Yard Eggs and My Writing
                          Thoughts on a Major Symphony Orchestra Audition #2          Chasing Spandex
                          This Ones for you Mr. Lube                                                          Favorite Fishing Lures
                          Thoughts on a Major Symphony Orchestra Audition #3          Just Too Darn Friendly
                                - Visualize the Entire Performance.                          Texas & Tall Tales - Thanks Davy
                          Thoughts on a Major Symphony Orchestra Audition #4           The New Magnificent Seven
                              - Writers Have Recourse                                                        Strange - Yet Wonderful
                          Last Thoughts on a Major Symphony Orchestra Audition              - An Airport Experience
                              - Back to Corn Cob Island                                                      Chasing Chickens
                         Dog Paddling in the Labyrinth                                       
                               - My San Antonio Symphony audition experience          
                                                                    
                                                       A Texan in LA with a Bunch of Okinawans
                                                           Memories of a Wonderful Weekend
                                                       Review of the musical  “Pigs from the Sea”
                                                         My Close Encounter of an Alluring Kind
                                                                        Nihongo and Me
                                                                 My Adventures in Nihongo

                                                                        Special added bonus
                                                                The Making of a Profile Picture

Yard Eggs and My Writing

Back when I was just a boy; chickens and their eggs had already established a place in my life.  For generations, even way back to when my ancestors lived in the old country, my family had been farmers.  My Dad tells me that forty acres, a mule and a whole bunch of kids was all it took to make a good honest life back in the good old days… days that he experienced first hand as a youth.  Although, most of the stories my Dad told us kids about his youth centered on dealing with that ornery old black mule to the point of giving it a few stiff shots to the head with his fist.  Then in turn, my Grandpa would give my Dad a few swift boots to the backside for pissing off the mule to the point where it wouldn't pull the plow.  I guess the term "Good Old Days" can be a bit relative.

My Dad was the first in the generations of our family to stray from the farm life - although, he didn't stray far.  He went into the livestock feed business.  But this did mean I grew up in a town and just spend part of the summers on my Grandpa's farm – warm sunny summer days of which the memories still glows warmly in my heart.

That's when I learned about farm chores; feeding the cows, shucking corn, slopping the hogs, painting the barn, pickin' cotton and my favorite; feeding the chickens and collecting their eggs.  Basically I would have to say that chicken eggs are my favorite because, to me at least, I see somewhat of a correlation between chicken eggs and my artist endeavors.

You see, I learned a lot about chicken eggs when I was a young man.  Part of my Dad’s feed business was to set up the farmers he sold livestock feed too in the chicken egg laying business.  By doing this he would then be able to sell more chicken feed, buy the eggs from the farmers and sell them to grocery stores and restaurants.   So you see, I not only dealt with chicken eggs in the summers on my Grandpa’s farm, working at my Dad’s store I also had to candle (check each egg individually to see if it was good or bad), sort, package and deliver eggs the rest of the year.

Now here’s the point to the life lesson I learned from this experience and how it pertains to my artist endeavors of playing the trombone and writing.  As far as I know, there are two ways to raise chickens.  You can put them in a cage about three feet off the ground, shelter them from all the bad experiences in life - like disease, neighbors dogs and the farmer’s grandkids – feed them only the things you want them to eat and you will get nice white, uniform, commercially acceptable eggs as a result.  This is what my Dad and his farmers strived for.

Or, like on my Grandpa’s farm, you can just let the chickens run loose in the yard, eating whatever they find, having them fend for themselves against disease, neighbors’ dogs and the farmer’s grandkids.  Now, this will get you a slightly off colored to totally brown egg.  Something that is not quite as appealing to the commercial market.  But the chicken egg connoisseur (if there is such a thing) will tell you these eggs have much more flavor, are a lot healthier to eat and refer to them as a yard egg.  (Although, I do believe the health food industry has taken to calling them “organic eggs”.)

The Correlation: I have a college education - which sort of corresponds to my Dad’s kind of chicken egg - and I did go through the ordeals and sacrifices of raising a family.  But then, I have to admit that I never graduated and, even though the kids got raised, all I have to show for it is a failed marriage.  So, like the chickens on my Grandpa’s farm; I am now having to fend for myself against disease, neighbors dogs and grandkids.

So to me, as far as my artistic endeavors go, this all adds up too; I might have started life off in the cages but I ended up out in the yard.

Oh well, if I ever “lay an egg” on stage by missing a lot of note while playing my trombone during a performance, at least it will be an organic one.  Actually, what I am really trying to say here is that my music and writing probably does not have the spit and polished finish of a life long seasoned professional.  At times, things might even seem a little ragged around the edges.  But I do believe this just might help to make my work a little more flavorful.  And who knows, being organic and all, it just might even do someone some good.

Jim

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