My English Teacher

I fell in love with my English teacher
For reasons intellectual and aesthetic
She was a lodestone of learning
And also of love
She was, in fact, magnetic

She introduced herself to one and all
“Miss Swan,” I echoed softly
She was a goddess, well, like a goddess
I loved her instantly and awfully

She had a look, a manner, a way
There were many great qualities about her
She said, Make friends with grammar today
Not for a moment did I doubt her

Her vowels drove me crazy
Of each sentence, she was the subject
And after that first day
Her definition was my ubject

Her consonants were endearing
And her syllables most alluring
And when she alluded to her participles
It was torture worth enduring

She was a walking dictionary
With a little slang thrown in
Each day eager, with pencil sharpened
I’d wait for class to begin

Her nouns were always proper
Her tense was unconditional
But when she got excited
She was certainly untraditional

Conjunctions were all I thought about
Both in and out of class
To study, together, our great language
Was a pleasure unsurpassed

Her adjectives were so affecting
That I felt like rushing to her
To declare my love, then and there
And, with verbs transitive, try to woo her

I memorized each complex phrase
And pondered about gender
I wrote a thousand poems of love
I was too shy to send her

Her articles drove me wild
As did her tone (so parenthetical)
Her pronouns were so personal
But our positions antithetical

Our stars were crossed
Our fates confused
Our classroom time
So much misused
I loved her singular
I loved her plural
Indented, in brackets
As woman, as girl
As teacher, as guide
As exclamation
As simile, as metaphor
As inspiration

The parallel construction of our love
That I hoped would now surround me
Turned out to be just single-spaced
For she never thought about me

I could fashion a paragraph with the best
But my love remained unrequited
For only in my imagination
Were we to be united

What sort of life could we make together
Simply, one so sadly imprudent
Equals we could never be
For she, the teacher
And I, the student

Geezer Rock

Keep on rockin’ me, baby, and take it to the limit, you witchy woman, because I get around and, Roxanne, there’s a man downstairs, and he just might be Jimmy Buffett, I don’t know.

They’re back. They only look like they’re on loan from the other side. It’s no one’s fault. We all get older. Even, rockers. Maybe, especially rockers. Just look at their lifestyle – traveling, late hours, sex, and drugs. Come on.

These poor guys were young once. Hey, so were we. They made music, much of it great. But now, they’re back, touring, being featured on Public Television for fund-raising, on covers of magazines, whose reporters are astonished by their continued existence, and in business sections, where their bottom lines are making guys in suits jealous.

Everything changes. That’s what they all say, but, whether because of our refusal to let go or our need to revisit those thrilling days of yesteryear, or because of their need for money, it seems like every old Rock and Roller is out on tour this summer and nothing has changed. You can see everyone from The Allman Brothers to ZZ Top. From Barry Manilow to Neil Diamond. Just like 1979. Iam;I cried. I can't go for that. No can do.

Last week, on my way to see Steven Colbert, I passed Channel 6, our public TV station, and the words, Never my love, came softly toward the couch I was on. The Association!? No! Please! Please let them sink beneath the waves of memory! Their hair was perfect, but the rest of them had fallen and filled out. The lights were not helping. A close-up revealed their undiminished sincerity, but they were still cheesy. I would rather forget.

Some guys are always going to be worth seeing – Dylan, Santana, Aretha, Stevie. But, most of the others should leave our memories alone. I love the Beach Boys, but, besides half of them being dead, Hot Rods and Surfing just don’t hold the same interest they once did.

Oldies has a new definition. Antique. Even Old School is old. But it doesn’t change the music. There’s power there. There’s beauty. I love to hear it. The music has never stopped in my house. And, never will, but, please, everything in its place. There’s something disturbing about seeing Leon Russell hobbling, with a cane, across the stage or Stevie Nicks, shuffling up to the mike.

In other genres, age works. In jazz, Doc Cheatham, Count Basie, and Dizzy were all doing it, until they keeled over. Lee Konitz is still out playing and playing better than ever. In Bluegrass, Bill Monroe and the Stanley Brothers were/are revered masters. In Blues, you aren’t legitimate, unless you are seasoned by several decades, and classical players age well, just like their instruments.

But, for Rock and Rollers, the sound of rebellion, or Motown, the Voice of Young America, it just seems creepy when white-haired, wrinkled guys perform these songs. I hate it when the audience and I are praying that one of the original remaining Temptations will hit that ecstatic high note.

Hey, it’s only rock and roll, but I like it and I like it as it is: a moment in time, a sound that inspires memory and imagination, and a feeling that will never grow old, even if we do. The good guys will always be good, but, if you are reaching for a height that was never very high to begin with, please stay home and don’t tempt me to revisit those past moments of triumph, humiliation, and Three Dog Night.

Let the good times roll, keep on dancin’, and let’s twist again, like we did last summer.

I Love A Parade

Americans used to be big on parades. Every holiday had one. The Fourth spoke to everyone. Columbus Day for the Italians. St. Patrick’s Day for the Irish. The Rose Parade for rose growers and football players. Thanksgiving Day for Macy’s. Memorial Day for remembering, and Labor Day to allow everyone to make a personal statement about work.

There have been parades for special events – protest, pride, and some for plain old exhibitionism. That exhibitionism is a big part of the military. They march in formation to show that there are a lot of guys defending us. Once individuals, they now, after extensive training, have been forged into an impressive single body, ready to turn left at a moment’s notice or sling their guns around, as one. They have become a force to be reckoned with.

Back at the dawn of time, a bunch of guys from one cave wanted to visit some other guys at a cave across the valley. One of them, we’ll call him, Ugh, was kind of bossy and wanted to impress the other cave’s inhabitants. As they began their walk across the valley, it became apparent that this was just a bunch of guys in skins, and not uniform skins, a motley group shuffling in a general direction. Some had stopped to investigate an unknown flower and some were chasing each other and squealing like animals.

This wasn’t going to impress anyone. Ugh was upset. This would not do. He cried out, he gestured, he bullied, he threatened. No one understood, but it seemed to mean a lot to Ugh, so they lined up, matched Ugh’s stern expression, and moved forward as one, all the time chuckling and nudging each other behind Ugh’s back. Let Ugh have his fantasy. The funny thing was that it did impress the other group. They cheered Ugh and his buddies as they came by. It’s funny how things can affect you. Everyone had a good time and they decided to do it again, later. Next year, whenever that was.

To accompany groups such as this and groups with a more basic and combative purpose, a form of inspirational music was composed – Marches. Germans were especially good at this. In Sweden, it was more like a group of florists humming to themselves as they marched along. In America, which was founded on an odd mix of principles and violence, John Phillip Sousa wrote the soundtrack that moved the country forward.

His marches resonate deep in our psyches, whether we know it as Sousa or as that catchy tune from the movies. It gives our steps a lift. If you have ever been in a parade, you know that after marching a couple of blocks, your step could definitely use a lift.

I know, from personal experience, that introverts are just not right for parading. It’s crowded, everyone is looking at you, and it’s hard to keep your feet straight. I prefer parades with a much looser agenda. Ones that don’t take themselves too seriously.

In our town, we have the world’s shortest St. Patrick’s Day parade. It’s half a block long. I remember when this grand tradition started. We were celebrating inside. Toasting, singing, and laughing. Some one had one of those ideas that seem so appealing at certain moments of weakness and we spilled out of the bar. We only made it half a block. In later years, there was a real leprechaun – green, short, and bearded – and then little girls step-dancing and, eventually, guys performing syncopated maneuvers with lawn chairs. My friends and I cheer them on. Tradition revered and respected.

You have to hand it to the Shriner’s. Yes, they are a throwback to a more populated parade era, but they are another group that knows how to have fun. I mean, those hats. Come on. They are big, middle-aged men, wearing little hats, riding in circles, in miniature convertibles and tiny motorcycles. They may look silly, but it is well known that the expertise they have with these vehicles is unrivaled and takes much practice.

Another of the many parades in this town is in honor of Fairies and Spirits. These are represented by children, dressed by their parents. The little ones waddle down the street, looking alternately quite pleased with themselves or puzzled.

I’m not sure which town is the top parade spot in the nation. At times, it seems everyone is vying for the title and, at others, as if everyone has forgotten what day it is and simply want to sit quietly on the porch.

Once, in Minneapolis, I saw a parade of 5,000 tap dancers in costume, tapping three blocks to the tune of “I’ve Got Rhythm”. They were attempting a world record and their tapping was heard over the traffic, all the way to St. Paul.

I’m looking forward to the day when all parades are like that – just a bunch of people with a good idea, getting together to walk around and have fun. To the traditionally patriotic, this might seem the height of ungodly humanism, but it might just signify an evolution of collective behavior, higher purpose, and the celebration of a most human step forward. No more marching to war, but one happy, light-hearted step after another. Let the parade begin.