Sugar, We're Going...Where?

Sugar, We’re Going…Where?

Confessions of a Future Rock Star’s Mother

Being the mother of an emerging rock star can pose several dilemmas. When it comes to the hair, how long is too long? When it comes to the music--how loud is too loud? The attention from the opposite sex--how much is too much? Granted, some of these quandaries are beyond a mother's control, but my maternal instincts tell me I should exert every last ounce of parental power I can before my influences are drowned out by the next “bigger is better” amp purchase. Call it intuition or just plain common sense: When my son's amplifier is taller than I am and outweighs me by fifty pounds, my days of motherly control are over. But until that day arrives, I plan to buckle up and hold on, trying my best to enjoy my son's proverbial ride to stardom. And if this past week is any indication of my ability to do just that, I think I can get through it—hopefully without puking.

Our week began with a conversation I should have had with Lane long before he and his buddies began practicing. However, staying true to my typical (lazy) parenting style, my opportunity for a preemptive strike had long since passed and I was left feeling two drum beats behind--like a singer off key, a menagerie of confusion, a tempo that was all wrong (I'm not sure where these metaphors are coming from...but you get the idea). It went something like this:

Me: (Closing my book of scripture, feeling uplifted, full of joy...and completely unprepared for the irony that was about to unfold) So, what song are you guys singing for the Stars Assembly audition?

Lane: It's called “Sugar We're Going Down.”

Me: (Long pause, accompanied by a look of motherly constipation)

Lane: What? Mom, why does your face look like that?

Me: Do you have it on your I Pod?

Lane: Yes.

Me: Go get it.

As I waited for him to emerge from the basement, my head began reeling. The lyrics to a popular Def Leppard song from my youth were made readily available in my mind.  Something about pouring sugar on me…name of love (ooh)…hot-sticky sweet, from my head to my feet (yeah)…Do you take sugar? One lump or two!

Was I really going from reading my scriptures one minute, to explaining the sexual connotations of “sugar” and what “going down” can mean the next? Just as I was beginning to taste bile in my throat, a moderately annoyed 15- year-old returned, handing me his earbuds. Hoping for the best but expecting the worst, I listened to the song, my eyebrows raised, trying to hide any signs of prejudice before the last note ended.

Me: (Turning to Lane and maintaining a hollow look of nonjudgment) Hey, I need you to go print the lyrics for me.

Lane: (Rolling his eyes and muttering under his breath as he makes his way to the office) No swearing......can't believe it......nothing wrong with it......so stupid...

Again, in his absence I was able to collect my thoughts: Okay, the “going down” reference isn't sexual but rather, suicidal. Not that there aren't plenty of other sexual innuendos that need to be addressed, but they aren't as graphic as what I had initially anticipated. Nevertheless, I have to divide my brain between an anti-sex and an anti-violence mindset. Here he comes...

Me: (Ignoring Lane's sighs of impatience and perpetual eye rolling as I read through the lyrics. Looking up at him, grilling commences). Okay, do you know what it means to be a notch in someone's bedpost?

Lane: No.

Me: It means you have had sex with them.

Lane: What? Nobody will know that!

Me: Do you know what voyeurism is?

Lane: It doesn't say that! I've never even heard that word before!

Me: It means that you watch people do private things in private places without their knowledge. It's creepy. And illegal.

Lane: So?

Me. So this song is about a guy who is stalking his ex-girlfriend (with whom he has had sex) and watches her and her new boyfriend do naughty things in her bedroom. Then, to top it all off, he is threatening to shoot himself in the head...and you want me and your father to approve this?

Lane: But it doesn't say those things! You are just reading into it. Nobody else will get that stuff.

Me: (Feeling both confused and delighted at my son's naivety but wanting to prove my point). You don't think junior high kids will know what it means to, and I quote, “be the friction in your jeans?”

Silence. Point made.

Obviously, this was not the only conversation we had about this song. There were several. We also talked about the need to approve upcoming songs with parents before the band spends weeks practicing them. I then took it upon myself to inform the other band members' parents that I would be responsible for lyric censorship in the future, since, according to Lane, I am the only adult on the planet who reads into words and analyzes their "hidden" meaning...

As for the 'Sugar' song, we fought back and forth and finally reached a compromise. They could perform the song after changing the “friction in your jeans” line, as it was deemed the most overtly crude and offensive. It was a weak compromise, I know, but somehow I felt okay about it. Perhaps I justified it by promising myself that from that point on, I would take a more proactive role and be more diligent in policing lyrics and song content. Another justification stemmed from the fact that I had witnessed, first hand, how much these kids wanted to perform for their peers, and I wasn't willing to thwart their efforts by ignoring the countless hours of practice and the determination they had invested. So at the risk of seeming more like a groupie than a mother, I conceded.

On the morning of the Stars Assembly, their first 'official' gig, I walked into the school auditorium, wondering whether or not I had made the right decision. Ten years ago I would have said that any mother who would allow her son to perform a “Sugar” song was an idiot, a naive dunce who was practically leading her child to the path of moral corruption. But, when that curtain opened, and I watched Lane and his friends live what they had deemed their “junior high dream,” all doubt washed away.  With every strum of the guitar, with every flip of the hair, with every croon of the indecipherable lyrics, I knew I had made the best decision concerning my son.  I didn’t need a roaring crowd of rowdy junior high students to confirm it, but admittedly, their screams of affirmation only echoed the pride I felt. And, when Lane wouldn't let me leave his school that day without hugging me in front of his friends and whispering, “Thank you, Mom,” another little voice told me that my motherly influence is, and perhaps always will be, louder than any amplifier my rock star can ever buy.

I know. I know. Who's being naive now...

The Day an Angel Came to Play

Your dad was first to notice the sparkle in your eye
He watched you for a moment and then said with a sigh,
"I feel as though someone is here, playing with our son."
Yes, someone from beyond the grave your heart had surely won.

Your smiles, coos, and gurgled laughs directed in the air
Let me and your father know, indeed, someone was there.
Then without hesitation, I answered your cheers of glee,
Inquiring of this visitor whom only you could see.

"Is your Great-Grandma Thompson here with her smile so sweet?
Is she pulling funny faces? Is she tickling your feet?"

Then the room got quiet, and the smiles began to fade.
Your gaze was suddenly broken from the new friend you had made.
Yes, we know who that new friend was, and this is why we say,
The veil was oh so thin the day an angel came to play.


Another Kyle poem--a haiku

Blue like the ocean
They dance on his soft round cheeks
My son's laughing eyes

Urban Cowboy--a critical analysis

Urban Cowboy—a critical analysis

(if that's not a paradox, I don't know what is)

I am not sure what possessed me to do it. Was it the award-winning soundtrack?  Was it my one-time affection for fine fitting Wrangler jeans? Perhaps it was the fact that I was never allowed to watch it as a kid. Whatever the reason, last night I took a detour from my usual shrewd regimen and sunk below the depths of honky-tonk hell, watching every last raunchy minute of the once popular movie Urban Cowboy. As a result, my IQ suffered a (minimum) ten-point drop. In addition, it left me feeling a little dirty and wondering how on earth this particular film was ever deemed a pop sensation with its PG rating.

Set in the late seventies when bras were optional, bad hair was in abundance, and the phrase “Woman, make me a sandwich” was a socially acceptable imperative, Urban Cowboy offers its viewers a detailed account of what happens when two people who have the maturity (and vocabulary) of seventh graders are allowed to marry.

In case it has been a few decades since you've had the privilege of viewing this piece of...work, allow me to refresh your memory. Bud Davis (played by John Travolta) moves from a small Texas town to a thriving industrial Houston in search of a good-paying job and a new life. Thanks to his Uncle Bob (Barry Corbin), Bud quickly secures employment and is introduced to the iconic Gilly's bar and nightclub where most of the movie's action (and I do mean action) takes place. It is there Bud meets Sissy (played by Deborah Winger), a tough talking tow truck driver who has an affection for tank tops and an aversion to wearing bras. After their first dance, which is seemingly conjugal, Bud and Sissy fluctuate between flirting and fighting for a few days before deciding to wed. From there the flirting and fighting escalate and the flippant use of the middle finger begins. Can you feel your IQ dropping yet? Bear with me, it's about to get worse.

A substantial rift forms between the two when Sissy out rides Bud on a mechanical bull--the new nightlife attraction at Gilly's. Both characters take this opportunity to capitalize on one another's jealousy by hooking up with someone else: Bud with a beautiful, wealthy bar slummer (who shares his wife's aversion to bra wearing), and Sissy with an ex-con who satisfies her quest to find a “real cowboy.” After a series of overtly ridiculous, jealous-inducing incidents, the two lovers reconcile when Bud proves his cowboy prowess by winning the mechanical bull riding contest. His celebration is cut short, however, when he discovers that Sissy has been smacked around by her new guy (played by Scott Glenn). In true redneck fashion, Bud beats the crap out of his wife's boyfriend and the formerly estranged lovers live happily ever after.

In the end, viewers are left with this astute observation regarding life and relationships : If ever faced with the dilemma of deciding between two losers, a woman should always choose the better dancer over the man who hits her the hardest. If they happen to be the same person, a new dilemma arises, in which case, said woman must take matters into her own hands, choosing the "company" of a mechanical bull over either aforementioned losers.

After the credits rolled I wasn't sure if I should laugh, cry, or just take a shower and beg forgiveness for wasting two precious hours of my life viewing the world through a trailer trash lens. Baffled, I began to reflect on life in the late seventies and early eighties, drawing comparisons to our society today. That's when the film's appeal started making sense, sort of.

If this movie were released today, a few changes would need to be made in order for contemporary audiences to relate: a fully furnished, three-bedroom starter home would replace Bud and Sissy's double-wide because two newlyweds with decent paying jobs are entitled to life in suburbia (or so say the banks of today). Likewise, the use of credit cards (perhaps government issued) would allow Sissy to buy more groceries to keep her man happy and the excess cash could then be used to purchase more cigarettes, tattoos, and upgraded cell service. A subplot revolving around Uncle Bob's death would also need to be added, wherein Bud and Sissy encourage Bob's widow to file a wrongful death suit and take the company for all its worth. And for that matter, Bud's arm breaking incident could also provide a look into today's healthcare and insurance coverage (or lack thereof). On a lighter note, the braless beauties in the film would have to discover Victoria's Secret, squeezing every ounce of their back and belly fat forward and upward until it seemingly becomes part of their "pushed up" cleavage and obnoxiously overflows from their spaghetti-strap tank tops. And finally, as with all films depicting the lower echelons of today's society, the f-word would need to present itself in every other sentence—functioning as no less than five of the eight parts of speech.

(The original music, nice truck, and ridiculous cowboy shirts, however, could stay.)

Once I considered the changes necessary for this film to survive in our current society, I realized that the (1980) Urban Cowboy I missed out on as a child, speaks volumes about a time when the lines between white trash and middle class were distinct, and both sides seemed happy to be a part of the group with which they associated. Neither made apologies for who they were, nor did they overspend and incur debt they had
no intention of paying off in an effort to pretend they were somehow upper class. So, unfortunately, the answer to the question, Could this film possibly get any worse? is Yes. Yes, it can.

I know, I am probably giving the film far too much credit in an effort to justify watching (and now writing about) it because let's be honest, as Americans, we don't really seem to care about the quality of a movie's moral message, especially when it features a little bit of love, some smooth dancing, and a killer soundtrack.

That said, I hope anyone considering a remake of Urban Cowboy will ponder the disastrous re-creations of Grease, Footloose, and (soon) Dirty Dancing and just say NO! Some things--like a hairy John Travolta lying spread eagle in bed, hiding his essentials with nothing more than an ice pack--are better left alone...

Excuse me now, I gotta go make my man a sandwich.

Perspective

Perspective
(Daniels Summit, Sept. 2013)

When I look at you, I see a welcome place to stop and rest along the trail—a refuge—a comforting reprieve from the past and present as I consider what may lie ahead.

Some may look at you and see only a roadblock—an inhibitor of progress, an end to a journey just begun—a hindrance to complain about, a bully to blame.

Others may look at you and see a challenge—a hurdle to overcome—a   barrier adding welcomed variety and excitement to the monotony of the trail.

Still, others may look at you and see the potential that lies within, imagining all that could be created from the qualities you now posses while giving nod to what you used to be.

And yet, others may look and see only a fallen failure—especially when compared to the lush life that thrives in your midst.  Too cumbersome to move, too wet to burn, too lifeless to consider of use.

But I, when I look at you, I see a welcome place to stop and rest along the trail—a refuge—a comforting reprieve from the past and present as I consider the possibilities that lie ahead.

The Legacy of a Mean Girl

She was a mean girl, full of bitter, angry,
I'm-not-even-going-to-bother-talking-behind-your-back,
Bold meanness.

"Whacha lookin' at, B? You gotta problem?
Maybe I oughta come over and pound your ugly face.
Doubt it can get any uglier."

I never heard her laugh
Unless it was at someone,
Drawing attention to out-of-style jeans,
Hair that refused to lay flat,
New glasses, or a flake of dry skin on someone's nose.
An innocent flake, instantly deemed a booger--
A booger that by the end of the day,
Everyone would know about.

Her voice was siren-red,
Offering  fair warning
But never allowing escape.
Its shrill, ear-bending reverberations 
Captivated bystanders, who couldn't help but be drawn  in
By the carnage left behind in her critical wake.

I often wondered how someone could be so full of
Hate-filled, over-the-top, animal-sneering meanness...

Then, one day, while in the office
Getting a Tylenol,
I overheard her mother talking at to
Mrs. Carter, the nicest secretary
God ever placed behind a desk.

After that day, I have never again wondered how
Hate-filled, over-the-top, animal-sneering
Mean girls are created.

Funny Ha Ha or Funny Awkward? You Decide.

Funny ha ha or funny awkward...

Like the time you were bragging to a friend about being rude to your mother, only to realize Mom was listening in on your teenage phone conversation. "Yeah, my mom was pretty pissed off and got all mad, but now she's trying to be all buddy, buddy with me..." [click] "You still there?"
"Chris, that wasn't me.  I think it came from your house..."

Like at your twenty year reunion when an ex-bf adamantly apologized to you about something rude he apparently said to you at the ten year reunion and you spent the rest of the night trying to imagine what he could have said about you that had prompted ten years of guilt.

Like the time you got home from work and looked in the mirror only to see that a button had come undone and your not so conservative leopard-print bra was conspicuously beckoning from your blouse.

Like the time you got whiplash by hitting a parking block in the high school parking lot because you were trying to spin donuts, not realizing that you had front-wheel drive and should have been doing them in reverse.

Like the time you supported and even engaged in a colleague's rant, only to realize that your family member was the target of the discussion. "You two are sisters?!"

Like the Valentine's Day you drew a funny nude self-portrait for your husband (complete with “strategically placed” Hershey's Kisses), only to have your “salt of the earth” mother-in-law come across it and erupt in uncontrollable laughter, calling it “cute.”

Like the time you realized that the customer smirking at you in your check-out line was someone you had made out with in college on a dare and all of your current co-workers were watching him as he had now returned to embarrass you by recollecting your previous encounter.

Like the time you got half way through the day before realizing you were wearing one brown boot and one black.

Like the time you used the word 'supposively' in a college essay because you had been using the word your entire life and Word Perfect spell check just didn't know anything.

Like the time you tried to sell D-Con to a gentlemen who was looking for “rattin' tablets” (writing tablets) and manure to the nice Spanish speaker who just wanted a money order.

Like the time you questioned the gentleman coming out of the stall, only to realize that it was you who was in the wrong restroom.

C'mon, share some of your "funny" moments with me in the comments, so I don't feel like such a moron!

Note to Self: Don't be a Double Dumper

Are you a sip stealer? Or worse, a double dumper? Do you drive barefoot? How 'bout braless? (I’ll bet you didn’t even know that one of these is grounds for a citation). If you’ve ever been a little deceptive, did you justify your actions by referring to yourself as an “opportunist” rather than a liar? If you answer “yes” to any of these questions, you are a dishonest slouch. Just kidding. Well, sort of.

In a society which encourages self-promotion and looking out for number one, it is sometimes easy to abandon our moral character, even momentarily, in order to make our lives a little easier. We “euphemize” this, we rationalize that, and before we know it--BAM! We are down-right-total-jerks. And I don’t know about you, but I know enough of those. So, in order to do my part and help reign-in what President Bush might call our country’s, kinda crazy and outta control standards, I would like to address two dishonesty rituals which are, to me, the most intriguing: sip stealing, and double dumping.

Sip stealing has become such a common practice in this country that it is the subject of a recent t.v. commercial which points out that sip stealing is not a felony in any of the fifty states. The vivid portrayal even goes so far as to show a teenage boy engaging in this seemingly harmless practice at a self-serve soda fountain. He serves...he sips...he serves...he sips, eventually walking away, leaving the topless cup without an owner. What’s worse is that the ad fails to show the restaurant worker who is then required to refill the syrup in the soda machine three-point-five-seconds sooner than he would have needed to otherwise. Did you hear that? Three-point-five-seconds! That’s the same amount of time it would have taken the worker to fill the customer’s cup in the first place!#@*!

So, what about the innocent people who are affected by the selfish acts of the sip stealer? Who’s looking out for them, huh? Sure, it might seem like a trivial breech of honesty, but think about it. They are not only stealing soda. They are stealing others’ precious time!

Moving on to yet another peevish practice...
I have been wanting to speak to the issue of double dumping ever since I realized it was taking place in my neighborhood. Yes, I hate to admit it, but there are some of my friends and associates who are guilty of this less-than-honest practice on a weekly basis. Ironically, it all begins late, Sunday evening. First, they overstuff their gagillion gallon garbage cans full of the week’s trash. Next, they use the wheels (which are provided for their convenience, mind you) to roll their cans across the street for the early-morning pick up. Then, around nine o’clock the following morning, they tiptoe (usually barefoot) across the street, and, using the same wheels of convenience, roll their garbage cans back to their own curb for the afternoon pick up. Now, I know they are probably tiptoeing because their feet are cold on the morning-chilled concrete, but it gives such a sneaky, deceptive appearance that I can hardly bear to watch it. Thank goodness my kids are in school when it all takes place! I would hate to try and explain to them how ones integrity can be easily discarded for eight bucks—the price of a second trash can in our city.

Now, I know that every day is filled with moral dilemmas for each of us. I just hope the next time you are faced with one, you will ask yourself this question: Am going to I let my integrity slip away, sip by sip, or will I dump it--one load at a time? You can also take a less sentimental approach by asking yourself, Just how big of a jerk am I?

P.S. Barefoot driving is grounds for citation in some states--bras, completely optional in all fifty.