Band of Brothers with Moves Like Jagger

I like the music that's out now. I am a big country music fan. But there is music out now that is pretty good with actual lyrics you can hear-one, I never really pay attention to and two, with age, is increasingly hard unless I turn my head. We had a real dry spell with rap with artists who were swallowing their microphones and, unless you were fourteen, couldn't understand what they were saying.

My older brothers have moves like Jagger as the jaunty tune says. When the three of us go to weddings, we form a small herd, have a nice, aged, beverage, and wait for our song-Shout. Then, we are called to the dance floor like the aged left-handed pitcher of twenty years, being called out of the dugout to save the last inning of the World Series; like George Blanda driving the last five minutes of the Super Bowl, throwing the touchdown pass then taking his forty-seven year old leg and kicking the field goal.

We're like Stormin' Norman.

The crowd doesn't know we've been carbo loading for these events for the required forty-eight hours before and two of us are wearing knee braces. We've talked seriously about whether or not we should do Depends or just double up on our underwear. We come from the darkness and the crowd circles and we bless the wedding. No, really, marriages have the possibility of being a train wreck without us dancing to Shout. Shamans from all over the world write us and ask us to come. If only Arnold and Maria had us at their wedding, they'd still be married and opening a food kitchen somewhere.

But the Band is getting, well, old. I'm the youngest at fifty-three then you got the other two at sixty-two and sixty-five. The brother at sixty-five is in better shape then the other two. He is fighting age with hammers in both hands. We go to weddings and he never leaves the dance floor. Makes me tired just watching him. He doesn't listen to the lyrics either. None of the brothers do. We can't do that and concentrate on not getting hip-displasia. If we fall, we ain't getting up. Its a survival thing, but every once in a while, some words come through that are simple, concise, to the point, and sometimes will make us snort corn out our nose.

You got artists like Lady Gaga and Katie Perry leading the way. It's funny anyone can make a zillion dollars off the the various forms of the words yeah...yeah or hey, hey, hey the latter of which always has to be said in three's. The Band, if nothing, is hip, we're in the groove; in the know; we know what's shakin'.

We know that ...yeah tonight baby... means that something is going to happen tonight. Why can't it happen during the day, when we're awake? We're with you, we know-as long as it happens before nine. See, at nine, its bed time, sleepy time. Maybe that's what they mean. Oh man, bed with cold sheets and a good book, unconscious by nine-fifteen. Oh, yeah baby.

Then you got ...locked up like Lindsey Lohan...which is just a reminder to live a good life instead of one with the constant threat of DUI's and cavity searches. Frankly, when that song comes on the radio, you can't help but tap the dashboard of your Audi (when you're over fifty, you buy Audis).

Sometimes, just because its old doesn't mean its washed up. The great philosopher and money manager, M.C. Hammer with his classic, Can't Touch This causes the listener to ask 'touch what?'

What Katie or Lady should think about is maybe replacing such enigmatic word combos as ...fill me with your poison... with ...passion burns like never before.... Both seem to require a series of antibiotic booster shots. But we need to keep it real. Music listeners are smart people, we know what is true and what isn't, come on.

No twenty-five year old believes they are a tiger she wants to tame and if you are over forty-five, you are tamed. You just want to curl up with a good book or find a comfy chair with two fingers of Jack Daniels (black label of course) and an old John Wayne movie.

Lyrics like ...all night long...have no application to the older set unless we're flying high cover for a patrol in the Sandbox, waiting for our granddaughter to be born, or are having a serious discussion about the number of trips to the bathroom during our sleep cycle. And for the young, come on, who are you talking to? We use to be young once. Nothing has changed. When your talking about all night long, nothing goes past thirty minutes and then you're just like the rest of us, forming a drool pool on your pillow and developing that slight snore that is cute at twenty-four, but at fifty-four causes your spouse to leave you brochures to sleep clinics on the counter.

So, take heart my young friends. We're as good once as we've ever been. The old warrior stock, that is at least twenty years ahead of you, have your back. Just help us up off the dance floor if we go down and can't get up. Lend us a hand or maybe two, get us back to our chair, pat us on the back and thank us for coming out of the dugout, then check your watch. If its nine, call us a cab, will you?

I'm Beginning to Miss It

I'm beginning to miss it. Actually, I've lost it some time ago. It comes and goes but as time passes, it mostly has faded. Over the last ten years, it has wandered away, and sometimes I find myself looking for it, trying to revive it, spontaneously trying, most of the time in vain.

I remember, probably like every other living adult, where I was when I heard. I was riding my bike to work, west on Indian School, making the eight mile trip to my new high school after I had retired from twenty plus years in law enforcement. It was a new school year, part of a very long year dealing with not only a career change but my wife's cancer. Over my headphones, on a local country station, they started with 'there was a plane crash....' which changed to '...there was another plane crash....' It was the start of an incredible journey for all of us. Some, more than others. Unbelievable crippling, pain of loss and incredible, near-panic fear of trying anything to contact loved ones, only to find the phone lines were down.

Then another crash into the Pentagon.

I remember I couldn't peddle fast enough, trying to get to school to turn on the television in my room.

Then another crash into a corn field.

I miss it. I miss what happened after. I remember thinking about calling my family. The three kids were in their late teens and already knew about it and Joni was going to school. Writing this, I don't remember if we cancelled school or not. I don't think so. I think we tried to teach. If we did, I know it didn't work well.

I miss what happened-later. After the fires were out and the smoke cleared. Once we, collectively, could start thinking clearly again. It was funny. It was different then, I think, every other nation on the planet would have done it differently.

We turned in, on ourselves, and what counted most to us as humans, as Americans. I don't remember any drum beats, any chest pounding. I never saw a foreign flag burned in protest or a foreign embassy overrun and trashed. Maybe it happened, memory fades, but I don't think it did. I still, to this day, don't know how to spell Al Qaeda and just let Spellcheck fix it.

I remember sleeves being rolled up, flags, oh the flags-everyone had a flag out. There was even a house in our neighborhood that was vacant and someone jockeyed one on the front porch. Commercials on TV had them. Country songs said it all, asked it all.

And we prayed. Not only for those that died, or their families who were left without them, but I heard prayers for those that flew the planes, their families, their loved ones and friends, that they may see someday with clear eyes and their hearts may someday be turned.

Now, I write this the night before the tenth anniversary. I am tired and worn, no thanks to the last ten years. All three of my children are married. My only son survived two tours to the Sand Box. There are four grandchildren here, just getting back from taking two of them to the Scottsdale Quarter to let them play in the un-chlorinated fountain, which, I am sure, will generate some type of strep thing in their collective throats. The site was not there ten years ago. The parents of some of the other kids, were, by the looks of them, children themselves and don't have any real feelings about what the sunrise will bring tomorrow.

For some, it will be just another day. Someday, as with all significant days in the human run, the memories will fade and time will wear away on the mind and heart. Healing takes place and the young and parentless find a way through the days and grow to be parents themselves. But if I close my eyes hard enough and think long enough, I remember those weeks and months after that day. I remember crying, not with sadness but with so much pride of having been in the same career of those that ran the opposite direction. I think about that and realize every cop, every fireman, every person wearing a uniform was represented so well that day. Even those who didn't stand a watch, American people, for months, helped each other just to cope and reached out to each other and loved. We loved well those months after.

'...the greatest of these is love.' A guy wrote that in a letter a long time ago, told to him by someone else. That's what we do so well, we Americans. Almost to a fault some would say. '...the greatest of these is love.' Hmm, not sure I could ever find fault with that. Today, as I wake to a new day that happens to have a special significance, I will dwell on those words. They seem to work.

Always.