Being the father of an adolescent daughter, there are certain things that you come to suspect. Puppy love, crushes, broken hearts, make up, periods, and the such. These are normal things that a father can reasonably expect to have to come to grips with over the course of maturing, both his daughter’s and his own. But we live in a funky and paradoxical age.
Case in point is modern rock ‘n’ roll stars. Sitting around with friends and family members my own age we can rattle off a myriad of names and albums…Yes, albums. I go back that far…Straight up old school. Of course, not as old school as those who schooled me. Which brings me to my observation. When I was introduced to truly good rock ‘n’ roll music, most of the artists were deceased. Few were living, and even fewer were living with out some sort of pharmaceutical assistance. But on no, not my generation. We’ve had to go and listen to the medical establishment.
Most all of us can admit, painfully and reluctantly, that we all envied those glamorous rock stars of our youth. Big hair, grinding guitars, and huge hair were the hallmarks of the trade. And we wanted them all. Name a hit band from the ‘80s and you are hard pressed not to find two out of the three attributes I listed just then. It is nothing different that our fathers and uncles felt towards the rock stars of their generation. Albeit, the fashions were worlds apart…thankfully.
However, as we grew older and hopefully up, things changed as they often do. Fashions and fads fade from the brilliance that we once knew and celebrated. Sometimes this is a good thing. Names move from prominence into the subterranean shadows where there is still enough light to keep the shroud of history from completely enveloping them. Yet, Fate conspires in oddly subtle and mischievous ways to make sure memories do not completely fade from what we perceive as our present consciousness. Children are the supplest tool in resurrecting these memories.
My wife and I have never been shy in sharing our music and the memories associated with it with our daughter. Having come of age in the ‘80s, many of you can share and swap some of the same memories. Recently, I experimented with technology and downloaded a ring tone for my cell phone. An inconsequential action that was wholly dependent upon others as I am truly “all thumbs” when it comes to technology, or at least I thought it was harmless.
I decided I wanted a piece of music that came to close to describing my unique personality. Invariably, I selected Bon Jovi’s “Wanted Dead or Alive.” Classic ‘80s piece of rock ‘n’ roll. Our daughter thought it was corny at first, but began to ask me more and more to lay the ring tone. From there, she began asking what music I had on CD. Of course, I readily shared my dusty discs with her as I began telling tall tales of my youth. It truly was a bonding experience.
Yet, there was a sinister shadow lurking in this proverbial garden…adolescence. Somewhere along the way, during one of the many mornings that our daughter wandered into our bedroom as my wife and I enjoyed our morning coffee, she saw him. Our daughter actually saw Bon Jovi. No, he was not standing outside of the bedroom window or anything like that. She watched one of his music videos. It was some song about memories. A slow, sad love song that made teenaged girls melt. I stand corrected. It still does because she did.
It was down hill from that point. Every time a song of Bon Jovi’s came across the airwaves be it frequency modulation or satellite transmission everything and everyone had to hush and allow her to listen. I remember these days from my own youth. But, as the father of a teenaged daughter, I was none too happy in seeing my thirteen year old melt over a man singing who was older than myself…at least by a few years.
Some may wonder whether the predicament has improved. Perhaps her aural fancies have turned to another…? Well, I am still anguishing over this whole prospect. Yes, her repertoire has expanded in her appreciation of ‘80s music. But, not for the better I am afraid. Her passion has not waned in any amount. Actually it has grown to include other ‘80s artists. Most of which are suitable for me…as a father. Now, things would be different if we were discussing myself as a fan. However, the latest focus is now on the band Twisted Sister. Oh, boy!...
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Saturday, December 01, 2007
Evel Knievel's Last Ride
Certain events have transpired over the past few days that have caused me to seriously stop and ponder my life. Monday, I was taken to emergency room for chest pains and shortness of breath. Hours later, they determined that I did not have a heart attack. Thank God. However, the cardiologists are still scratching their heads and whatever else they have that itches trying to figure out what’s happening. The chest pains are still there, but not as painful or persistent. More alarming, is the shortness of breath I continue to wrestle with. But, this is not the focus of my post.
As you can well surmise from the title, this is another one of my tributes to a fallen hero. I am almost ashamed to keep writing and thinking about the passing of the daredevil, Evel Knievel. It has nothing to do with the man himself. Rather, where was my tip of the hat when the Man in Black left us? Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Mea Maxima Culpa…
Regardless, while recovering from this “episode” I thought about this tragic event. Friday, the day I returned to work in my stress-free environment of teaching junior high school, the news report came across the radio on NPR. In fact, it was my wife, Raquel, who shared the solemn news with me. We were meeting, as per our usual Friday morning rendezvous, at our local 7-11. She told me as soon as I got out of the car, with my trusty refill mug in hand.
We were sharing our laments and memories of this oddity of an individual as we walked into the store. Now we have known the morning crew at this particular 7-11 just about as long as we have lived in this town. Stories and bad jokes have been shared over coffee, Big Bites, and Slurpees. They have watched out daughter grow up alongside of us, and even jokingly offered employment to her as a Christmas gift one year. And yes, in her own adolescent sense of humor, filled out the application and returned it the following week.
Needless to say, we were greeted with usual banter of morning chatter as we entered the store. The overheard our conversation, which is easy to do in a 7-11. What happened next was like an awkward orchestration that can only come about in times like these. An odd, unannounced moment of silence fell upon all of us in the store at the time. The solemn silence was just as abruptly broken as another customer entered the store and one of the cashiers announced prophetically, “Bummer…”
It wasn’t until the following evening while talking to my best friend on the phone and sharing stories about Evel Knievel that his significance hit me. Greg and I were reminiscing about an Evel Knievel toy I once had that we loved to play with. It was one of those plastic action figures that was attached to a self-propelled motorcycle. You had to put the combo on this ramp and rev the motorcycle by cranking a small handle on the side.
When you thought you had enough potential energy ready, you pulled the release trigger and the motorcycle and rider would shot off and do tricks. It was an awesome toy. I remember it sparking stories from my Dad about his days when he owned a motorcycle. A time that resulted in him having pins and screws surgically inserted into his leg after laying down the bike. Anyway, Greg and attempted to see if we could actually break the speed record without breaking the toy itself.
What was even better was the set came with a replica big rig, tractor-trailer combination you could set up the plastic ramps and have the toy Evel Knievel jump on his motor cycle. One afternoon we came up with the bright idea that we should set up the jump so that Evel landed inside of the open trailer. It was sheer genius. I believe it was divinely inspired by the then hit television show, “Knight Rider.”
So we set up the jump. Over and over again, it failed. Miserably, it failed. Nonetheless, we were not going to call it off. Evel Knievel wouldn’t have, neither would we. Of course, we both were unaware of the obvious. Yes, the opening of the trailer could in no way possibly fir the airborne Evel Knievel on his cycle. We were not to be deterred. We did what any other adolescent boys at the time would have. We removed, forcibly, Evel Knievel from his trusted motor mount. We thought this might help get the cycle into the trailer after arcing beautifully through the air in my parents’ garage. That didn’t work either. Okay…everyone in unison…The bike wasn’t weighted correctly. Is it surprising that neither Greg nor I ended up as engineers, even though we both thought that’s what we wanted to do with our lives.
But I am neglecting the bigger picture, and my duty as a teaching historian. The legacy of Evel Knievel was enacted in that same garage as we foolishly attempted to overcome the forces of gravity, inertia, and weight through sheer force of the will. We knew we could do, just a Evel Knievel was sure he could make all of those jumps. And he did complete most of them. But it was his cavalier response of bullshit whenever he was told something couldn’t be done. This, ladies and gentlemen, is what this particular individual has left us with in living the life he did.
As you can well surmise from the title, this is another one of my tributes to a fallen hero. I am almost ashamed to keep writing and thinking about the passing of the daredevil, Evel Knievel. It has nothing to do with the man himself. Rather, where was my tip of the hat when the Man in Black left us? Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Mea Maxima Culpa…
Regardless, while recovering from this “episode” I thought about this tragic event. Friday, the day I returned to work in my stress-free environment of teaching junior high school, the news report came across the radio on NPR. In fact, it was my wife, Raquel, who shared the solemn news with me. We were meeting, as per our usual Friday morning rendezvous, at our local 7-11. She told me as soon as I got out of the car, with my trusty refill mug in hand.
We were sharing our laments and memories of this oddity of an individual as we walked into the store. Now we have known the morning crew at this particular 7-11 just about as long as we have lived in this town. Stories and bad jokes have been shared over coffee, Big Bites, and Slurpees. They have watched out daughter grow up alongside of us, and even jokingly offered employment to her as a Christmas gift one year. And yes, in her own adolescent sense of humor, filled out the application and returned it the following week.
Needless to say, we were greeted with usual banter of morning chatter as we entered the store. The overheard our conversation, which is easy to do in a 7-11. What happened next was like an awkward orchestration that can only come about in times like these. An odd, unannounced moment of silence fell upon all of us in the store at the time. The solemn silence was just as abruptly broken as another customer entered the store and one of the cashiers announced prophetically, “Bummer…”
It wasn’t until the following evening while talking to my best friend on the phone and sharing stories about Evel Knievel that his significance hit me. Greg and I were reminiscing about an Evel Knievel toy I once had that we loved to play with. It was one of those plastic action figures that was attached to a self-propelled motorcycle. You had to put the combo on this ramp and rev the motorcycle by cranking a small handle on the side.
When you thought you had enough potential energy ready, you pulled the release trigger and the motorcycle and rider would shot off and do tricks. It was an awesome toy. I remember it sparking stories from my Dad about his days when he owned a motorcycle. A time that resulted in him having pins and screws surgically inserted into his leg after laying down the bike. Anyway, Greg and attempted to see if we could actually break the speed record without breaking the toy itself.
What was even better was the set came with a replica big rig, tractor-trailer combination you could set up the plastic ramps and have the toy Evel Knievel jump on his motor cycle. One afternoon we came up with the bright idea that we should set up the jump so that Evel landed inside of the open trailer. It was sheer genius. I believe it was divinely inspired by the then hit television show, “Knight Rider.”
So we set up the jump. Over and over again, it failed. Miserably, it failed. Nonetheless, we were not going to call it off. Evel Knievel wouldn’t have, neither would we. Of course, we both were unaware of the obvious. Yes, the opening of the trailer could in no way possibly fir the airborne Evel Knievel on his cycle. We were not to be deterred. We did what any other adolescent boys at the time would have. We removed, forcibly, Evel Knievel from his trusted motor mount. We thought this might help get the cycle into the trailer after arcing beautifully through the air in my parents’ garage. That didn’t work either. Okay…everyone in unison…The bike wasn’t weighted correctly. Is it surprising that neither Greg nor I ended up as engineers, even though we both thought that’s what we wanted to do with our lives.
But I am neglecting the bigger picture, and my duty as a teaching historian. The legacy of Evel Knievel was enacted in that same garage as we foolishly attempted to overcome the forces of gravity, inertia, and weight through sheer force of the will. We knew we could do, just a Evel Knievel was sure he could make all of those jumps. And he did complete most of them. But it was his cavalier response of bullshit whenever he was told something couldn’t be done. This, ladies and gentlemen, is what this particular individual has left us with in living the life he did.
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