It's A Mean Old Me

I was in the kitchen sitting at the island. Reading the morning newspaper, disagreeing with everything the local Dear Blabby had to say (her answers are a little too politically correct for my taste), and enjoying my noon coffee. I had the dimmer switch to the lights set on low.

As usual, I was listening to the blues on the TV in the den. I love the blues. Especially Mean Old World, which was playing, one of my favorite songs. Maybe I like the song so much because I like the title so much. It is a mean old world. You only have to follow the news to realize it. This version is by Little Walter and His Night Cats. I prefer the song by T-Bone Walker. Maybe, like George Constanza, I just like the name T-Bone. There may be a dozen other songs called Mean Old World, but those are the only two I know of.

In a way, the blues have ruined my appreciation for the music I grew up listening to in the sixties and seventies. When I first began listening to Eric Clapton or Led Zeppelin I thought they were geniuses. Forty years later, when I widened my taste in music to include the likes of Buddy Guy or Z.Z. Hill* (*Z.Z. Hill. ZZ Top. See the connection?), I realized that everything I loved about rock-n-roll was stolen from these guys. I have a CD box set of all the Led Zeppelin albums. I haven’t listened to it since.

But that’s neither here nor there. The point is I was enjoying my early afternoon. The song changed, and it was a song I didn’t recognize. The singer sounded like he was drunk, as if Richard Pryor’s old wino character was given a guitar and microphone and told to earn his next bottle of Thunderbird.

I went from the advice column to the comics section of the newspaper. That’s when my father walked into the kitchen.

“Hi, pop,” I told him, but I kept my head down. I’d already told him hello earlier, not that I’m rationing out the times I say hello to him in any given day. I can understand when people like Hilary Clinton and Ellen DeGeneres tell their employees not to look at them, talk to them, or make eye contact with them when they pass each other. Otherwise they’d be spending the whole day acknowledging people they feel are beneath them, and they wouldn’t have time to do important stuff like bamboozle the general public.

My father mumbled something, but I paid him no mind. I know that sounds rude, but I’ve learned that when he wants to say something he wants me to acknowledge, he’ll speak up.

He mumbled again, this time louder. And then he walked over to the TV set, stood in front, and looked at it. I still didn’t look up. He knew I was listening to music on the TV. And I knew that he has a TV in his room. He can watch whatever he wants, whenever he wants, but what he usually wants is to watch TV on the big TV in the den. It drives me nuts, because it means I can’t watch what I want to watch or listen to what I want to listen to.

“Isn’t there a game today?” my father finally spoke up. Quite clearly, I might add.

I didn’t answer, but not in a mean way. More like a Clint-Eastwood-when-he’s-not-busy-talking-to-a-chair kind of way. I knew there was a game today. He knew there was a game today. Even Clint Eastwood’s chair knew there was a game today. We have a dozen or so baseball channels. Even if there wasn’t a game, there would still be a game.

“Isn’t there a game today?” my father asked again. This time he even turned to look at me. He wanted to make sure I heard.

I made the mistake of quickly glancing up. Our eyes met. I couldn’t pretend I didn’t hear him.

“Did you say something?” I pretended anyway.

“Isn’t there a game today?”

“A game?”

“Yes.”

“Today?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think so,” I told him. He didn’t buy it.

“I’m sure there’s a game today.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Cleveland’s playing.” Cleveland’s his favorite team.

“Then I guess there’s a game.”

“I knew it, I knew there was a game.”

I was thinking to myself, if he already knows there’s a game then what’s he asking me for? We were at a stalemate, of sorts. He wasn’t asking me if he could change the channel and I wasn’t’ offering to change the channel for him. If my wife had been there, he’d have already been sitting down in front of the TV, feet up, and being served champagne and caviar. Unfortunately for him, my wife wasn’t there.

Mumble, mumble.

I ignored him.

Mumble, mumble.

Dang! I briefly looked up and our eyes met again.

“Did you say something?”

“I think Cleveland’s playing today.”

“Cleveland?”

“Oh, yeah. Cleveland’s my favorite team.”

“You sure it’s today?”

“Sure, I’m sure.”

We were at a stalemate again. He stood there looking at me. Tampa Red is singing When Things Go Wrong With You (It Hurts Me, Too).

I no longer had the heart to keep it up.

“Sit down, pop,” I finally gave in. “Let’s see if the game’s on.”

He sat down without even a thank you very much. Instead he said, not quite mumbling but not quite clearly, “Of course the game’s on. I told you that already.” Then said, “I know when the game’s on.” to the chair next to him.

My father. The new Clint Eastwood.

I changed the channel and put on the Cleveland game. His favorite team was 100 games out of the playoffs, losing 20 out of the last 22 games. There was no hope for them. The only hope is next year, or the year after that. Or the year after that.

My father settled down in his favorite chair, which happens to be my favorite chair. and watched his favorite team on his favorite TV set. I went back to my lukewarm coffee and finished up the comics. Then it started...

Smack!

I lifted my eyes.

Smack, smack, SMACK!

My father has the nasty habit of smacking his lips whenever he watches TV. He smacks, he moans, he yawns, he sighs, he oohs and aaahs, but what he mainly does is annoy me. I’ve tried, but I can’t sit down with him to watch anything on TV, because his constant noises are so distracting.

“You should try,” my wife will sometimes admonish me.

“Why don’t YOU try?”

“He’s not MY father

“Yeah, but he’s YOUR father-in-law.”

“What does THAT have to do with anything?”

“Nothing, but he’s still YOUR father-in-law.”

“Why are you trying to drag ME into it?”

“Because YOU brought it up.”

“WHAT have I ever done to you?”

It was worth a shot.

Oh, well. Back to the present...

“Ahhh... ohhh...” Big sigh, followed by an even bigger SMACK! “Ohhh... ahhh...” Smack, smack, smack. Mumble, mumble.

Shoot me. Please.

I grabbed my coffee and left the kitchen. I walked upstairs to watch the TV in my bedroom. That TV doesn’t have a converter to play music.

It’s a mean old world, indeed.