Movie Movies

A friend came over the other night bearing software as a gift, always appreciated. He wanted to give me a chance to try some high-end stuff and give me a lesson or two while he was at it.

And as I waited for these sophisticated programs to install, I finally understood. Understood something about myself, and about my feelings about certain things. Cheap therapy, all in all.

I’m opposed to removable media. There. Picket me if you have to.

And I know why. Because each time I slip a disc into my DVD drive, it feels like I’m rewinding a tape.

Remember? Wasn’t that like the coolest thing about DVDs? No more rewinding. No more tedious fast-forwarding and backing up to find a specific scene. No more whirring. I hate whirring.

I may be ahead of the curve on this, hard to say. I just know that I’ve been using virtual drives and image files and DVD folders and…you either know or you don’t, I guess. But I’ve come to resent removable media, resent its fragility and its noise and the time involved. I want my software, my programs and my movies and my music, all digital and stored on my hard drives, on my iPod or my laptop or any of my external drives, and all backed up to the cloud somewhere, far from my chaotic home, just in case.

And this is why I love broadband, and NetFlix’s Instant Viewing with their thousands of titles, and Amazon’s Video On Demand service, and even the iTunes store on rare occasion. I like the immediacy, the instant gratification, the sideswiping of the entire Late Fee Industry, and the lack of whirring. Particularly.

Farhad Manjoo has a good piece up in Slate this week about Blockbuster and Redbox kiosks, about the whole DVD rental industry and the future. Worth your read if you’re interested.

I’ve never used Redbox, although that may change. It’s always seemed a little pathetic to me, people lined up on a Friday night, often outside in bad weather, little kids tugging at them, waiting their turn at a vending machine for a little entertainment. And then there are the late fees, of course, and the limited selection and the time involved. Get into the century, I want to say to them; go home and stream it from Amazon. What, you don’t want to watch it on your computer? You mean you haven’t long ago connected your PC to your big screen yet? People, people.

Of course, there’s less tech snottiness here than laziness. I get it. I get Redbox. DVDs will be with us a long time, probably longer than VHS was (about 15 years, if you shave off early users and DVD resisters). We’re already a decade into digital, at least.

Anyway. This came up, not only with the article but in a personal, whiny sort of way. As the piece points out, in case you were unaware, the major movie studios have recently made a deal with Redbox and NetFlix. New releases are delayed from these services for about a month, giving the studios a chance to reap the dollars from DVD sales, in exchange for certain concessions. In the case of NetFlix, one of those is an expansion of titles available for streaming. This is a good situation for me, I approve, I don’t care all that much about new releases usually, and already I’m finding great back titles ready for immediate viewing. This is a win for consumers, a loss for maybe those who can’t wait.

Which was me, the other night. I’d had a long and difficult evening, very intense, dealing with work issues, and come 11pm I was not only wired but in need of some relaxation. I’d noticed that “It’s Complicated,” the romantic comedy with Meryl Streep, Alec Baldwin and Steve Martin, had just been released to home video. I figured it’d be a disappointment, knowing what kind of films the director likes to direct, but I like the actors and was curious to see if they rose above the material. And it seemed like light entertainment.

Of course it was nowhere to be found. Our local video store, a Hollywood Video, closed its doors a few weeks ago. I refuse to go to Blockbuster and it’s not handy anyway.

But there it was on Amazon, ready to watch, $3.99 for rental. That’s $3.99 I shouldn’t have to spend on renting a video, already paying NetFlix. And much more pricey than a Redbox rental would be, if it existed, which it wouldn’t, of course, not for a month.

This isn’t unfamiliar territory for me, getting bogged down by a couple of bucks, seeing all the trees and none of the forest. It’s just 4 bucks. I never rent from Amazon; buy sometimes, but don’t rent. Still, it was probably a pretty flawed movie. What to do?

Click, is what.

And now I’ve written over 800 inefficient, clunky, VHS-style words to get to the point, which was I liked it.

I have a low tolerance for this crap, and a lot of it was crap — contrived, predictable, derivative (duh). And still. It’s Meryl frickin Streep. And Alec Baldwin. And Steve Martin (whose eyes look funny, not sure about that, either ordinary aging or aging resistance). There were a couple of scenes that made me laugh out loud in the middle of the night, and by the end I was moved. Moved by 60-something actors not afraid to play their age (and in Baldwin’s case, playing older than he actually is) and show their sagging skin and expanding guts (Alec. I love this guy), to portray love among the not-quite ruins and say something, to me, ultimately, about marriage and romance and passion and the uncertainty of it all. It’s complicated, in other words, and so is everything else.

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Good (Sometimes) Humor Men

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On the sidewalk ahead of me, surrounded by nothing, all by itself, was a bright yellow, perfectly splayed and arranged banana peel, a cosmic cartoon, a metaphor for the unseriousness of my life, a message from the universe, a reminder that existence, or at least my existence, can be easily boiled down to a sight gag. There I am, from birth to death, frantically waving my arms, trying to prevent my fate, which is to look awkward and foolish, flailing against the inexorable forces of nature.

I could be overthinking this.

Still, I had to smile at a banana peel in my path. The late Harold Pinter once said, in response to a question, that “Everything is comedy. The thing about tragedy is that it’s just not funny anymore.” This says a lot, mostly about Mr. Pinter, but I take his point. If I define “funny” as anything that makes me laugh, and I do, and all sorts of things make me laugh, then we have the beginning of some sort of unified theory of humor, and life. This is nothing new.

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The Spectacle

I went to get my eyes examined the other day, and not because I accidentally pepper sprayed myself two nights before. Although it was on my mind.

(I was running late and ate a piece of chicken with my fingers. The chicken had some residue of habanero pepper sauce, which I use on everything. My fingers therefore also had residue. My fingers rubbed my eyes. It was an interesting night.)

I also didn’t go because of everyday vision problems; my vision has barely changed in the last few years.

In fact, the optometrist gave me a nice report card in terms of eye health. Good pressure, firmly attached retina, peripheral vision intact, no macular warning signs. She told me I had young eyes. Well. Sure.

But bad eyes, of course. When I was 12 years old, I noticed that when I closed my right eye, everything got real blurry. Opened it, not blurry at all. The optometrist, as I recall, referred to this as “lazy eye” (amblyopia) but I don’t think it was, since amblyopia by definition can’t be corrected by lenses, and mine got corrected fine. Whatever the name, though, I started wearing glasses. Intermittently. And contacts, also intermittently. In fact, I was well into my 20s and could still feel comfortable driving and doing other things without correction, although it wasn’t perfect vision. The bad eye was dragging the good eye down.

So I have experience wearing glasses and I’m used to it. I haven’t worn contacts in at least 15 years, maybe more. I’m comfortable with them and lost without them, like Burgess Meredith in that “Twilight Zone” episode. Submitted for your approval: I might not be legally blind but then again I might be. There’s a signpost up ahead. Don’t ask me what it says, at least without my glasses on.

Not bifocals though. My near vision sucks as much as anyone’s, or anyone much past the age of 40, but virtually all of my reading is distance, done a few feet from a computer monitor, and I’ve always had the feeling that bifocals would drive me crazy. I have to look over or under my glasses when I read a menu or a concert program, but that doesn’t come up a whole lot and I’m fine with it. Pretty much fine with everything on the corrective lenses front.

Except for sun. You good vision types don’t appreciate it, I’m sure; you can buy a pair at the drugstore, lose them, buy another, wear them, don’t wear them. For people like me, there aren’t a lot of choices this side of contacts (which, by the way, you can’t look over or under when trying to read a menu, and thus not a great option anymore, even though I always consider them). Last summer, driving across the country, I bought and lost two pairs of those big, bulky, fit-over-your-regular-glasses-but-not-so-well sunglasses.

I live in the Pacific Northwest, of course; the sun is quite often theoretical. Still, I’m outside a lot and I’m aware of straining and squinting, even on cloudy days, so for the first time in my life I bought prescription sunglasses.

And I appreciate them, I do. They make long walks more comfortable, surprisingly so. And I’m heading for Arizona in less than two weeks, so I assume they’ll come in handy.

I walked in with them, coming home from picking up my new glasses, and John laughed at the novelty of seeing me with sunglasses on. “You look like that guy from The Matrix,” he said, so I obliged and did my best Mr. Smith voice.

“And so, Mr. Anderson, we meet again,” I said, and Julie passed by at that moment and said, “You sound like Rod Serling,” and maybe so. It could be worse, I could be squinting, and I don’t really need to see a menu, I know what I want.

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Left To My Own Devices

I don’t mind weeds, not really. For one thing, they’re a sure sign of spring, and spring is one of my favorite seasons. Easily in my top five, anyway.

Weeds also represent Life, Nature and The Cycle of Everything, although maybe I’m thinking of “The Lion King.”

At any rate, my attitude towards weeds varies from year to year. There are summers when I have a lot of energy and time, when I spend hours outside messing with lawn stuff, mowing, planting and trimming. Other years, I settle for a more passive, humanist philosophy. Sometimes it depends upon what kind of season the Mariners are having.

But it’s spring at my house and there are weeds, and once again I have some major decisions to make. Once again my neighbors wait anxiously for me to make them.

A few years ago I bought a gas-powered weed trimmer, unusual for me. I tend to go with electric, not because of environmental concerns (although I do think of this) but because of a natural suspicion of power tools. Sure, they LOOK nice, but my reservations come with solid credentials (on my birth certificate, for instance, is a small notation that says, “Do not use while operating heavy machinery”). If you’ve ever seen me try to dance, you’d know. You’d KNOW.

So I’m cautious, but that year the weeds were killing me. I bought this fancy piece of equipment, then, and began a frontal assault. It did the job, although it was noisy and I’d end up with a sore back, and then of course I slacked off and eventually my weed trimmer stopped working. It just sat there in my garage, looking powerful, while I asked my tool-using friends for advice and read many Web pages on weed trimmers, more than really necessary.

The consensus eventually was that I’d broken it. Maybe I hadn’t quite grasped the sensitive oil-gasoline mixture process, something. The possible solutions included getting professional help or rebuilding the carburetor, neither of which I was interested in, so I did nothing.

And one day I noticed it was gone. I guess it’s possible it ran away from home, but since I’d left the garage door open I assumed that a prowler had been snooping around for something of value and made off with my still-shiny weed trimmer. It gave me a lot of pleasure to picture some lowlife skulking through my neighborhood in the dead of night, hauling a stolen gas-powered, heavy and awkward piece of lawn equipment that didn’t, in fact, work. I think it may have been the best day of my life.

I’m comfortable with my tool limitations, and I’ve yet to find someone who knows me and thinks I should expand my inventory. I’m good with a shovel. I’m comfortable using a garden hose. I’ve been known to use a rake. From time to time I throw caution to the wind and take out a hoe.

All of these are sufficient to deal with a few weeds. On the other hand, I have blackberry bushes in my yard, on which no power tool has an effect anyway. I don’t have to tell you about blackberries. We’ve all had to deal with them, fight them, fail and eventually just live with them. We’ve all heard the stories of small children wandering into the brambles and getting lost, stumbling back out 15 years later, grunting like an animal and looking sort of scratched. Blackberries are a superior life form and in all likelihood will be here long after humans have become extinct, if they don’t get ambitious before then.

People in other parts of the country don’t understand. “But I like to eat blackberries,” they say, and I have to assume they’d also eat a shiny apple given to them by a nice old woman who stopped by their cottage in the woods. You and I, we understand. We know that no fear — not earthquakes, not terrorism, not axe-wielding maniacs wearing hockey masks – can match the fear we experience on spotting a blackberry vine nonchalantly wrapping itself around a piece of lawn furniture or a small animal.

I had a neighbor once who noted my blackberry problem and offered to loan me his machete. I declined, not wanting to make them mad and having some concerns about accidental amputations. I did wonder why he owned a machete in the first place, and whether he might also have a hockey mask somewhere around the house.

Anyway, I’m a noncombatant, and so far I’ve survived. My tools remain simple, powered by either electricity or me. My weeds stay manageable, my neighbors seem content, and I still smile, all these years later, when I think about the weed trimmer thief. Being incompetent has its own rewards, life is too short to spend it pulling cords, and I’d like to note for the record that I for one welcome our new blackberry overlords.


(Column published this week, not online for some reason)

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Seeing The Water

[T]here’s no bad day that can’t be overcome by listening to a barbershop quartet; this is just truth, plain and simple. – Me

I got a note from a stranger the other day, wanting to know if the above quote was correctly attributed to me. This happens sometimes, and I always confess immediately, why not? I told him the name of the essay it came from and when it was written. Just for the record.

“Thanks Chuck,” he wrote back. “All my Barbershop friends really like the quote.” My pleasure.

Lots of them do, apparently. There are several of these…things…floating around the Web, little aphorisms lifted by thoughtful people and shared, but this is probably the most prolific. Type my name into a search engine and it’ll come up on the first page, probably. It did for me.

It makes sense, too. People have all sorts of passions, and you can imagine that those with affection for sweet harmony like to see some affirmation. It’s on a bunch of Web sites, and probably other places.

And this is what I think: In the Big Picture, the history of humanity, the lives and the stories and the events, this is the size of my splash. A quote about barbershop.

This pleases me. First, it could be a lot worse. Second, if these are the only words I’ve written that have any life left in them, I would note that there’s nothing sarcastic, whiny, insulting, threatening or snotty about them at all. Just a feeling (and honest, I’d add) that a little music can make up for a multitude of sins. I am so OK with my legacy.

This all comes from a place, today, that is mildly frustrating but mostly just curious. By most American definitions of success, I haven’t made it, seen it or even had a glimpse of it, but look at me – I can’t make a good living writing whimsical stories about my lawn but I can make something, and the rest I fill in with wordsmith business, mostly editing and moving commas around. Not a great living but hey, I sleep well and I sleep when I want to, mostly. I have no commute, a lovely wife with fulfilling jobs (plural), a good neighborhood and some nice places to walk. I have time, too, what feels like lots of time, and I can wear stupid clothes all day long if I want.

And I can do what I do, from a vocational point of view, anywhere in the world. My crosscountry road trip last year? Worked. Sometimes on the actual road, too. The wedding week in Santa Fe? Worked from the hotel. It’s nice.

As it turns out, I’m trying to get to Arizona soon. I want to visit my mom, but I also could use a break from routine and the change of scenery, and then there are friends and family in Arizona I wouldn’t mind spending a few minutes with, just to keep the bonds up. It’s all very doable and easy, very affordable flights, a flexible schedule, laptop ready to travel.

But it’s been complicated, and it struck me today – I’m a 51-year-old man with grown children who can work from anywhere, write from anywhere, go anywhere (in theory) and return at will, and here I am, trying to fit calendar pages together like a puzzle because I have a 20-year-old son who needs me.

This is where that glass at the halfway mark shatters into a million pieces, where frustration and gratitude have a summit meeting and gratitude has a funny smile.

I mean. He needs me.

I could come up with an aphorism for that, I guess, but you get it. This is the size of my splash, as it turns out.

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Sweet Nothings

This is my fifth day without sugar. It’s sort of an ongoing process. My final report will take a while.

And by “without sugar” I mean “not so much sugar.” I can be careless with words sometimes.

Primarily, I guess, this is only to shake things up, break out of a rut and greet the spring, which at this moment is pretty nice up here, although it changes. I tend to stomp my foot down on habit, out of self preservation, knowing myself better than I used to, although some habits are worth hanging onto. Saving money. Mouthwash. Others.

My sugar blues come naturally but also nocturnally, given my schedule. I’m up late at nights, almost every night, for good reasons. I don’t mind at all, but sometimes, late at night, when things are slow, my thoughts turn toward getting something to eat, and I don’t know about you but at 2am I’m not thinking about salad.

So there’s been sugar, too much, and a couple of stomach aches, and some concern that all this late-night ice cream was busy building kidney stones, and then there’s insulin resistance, and some lethargy and love handles. Last summer my weight hung somewhere south of 175; after a winter of sugar, it circles 190. I mean. I couldn’t be less concerned about this from a health, vanity or comfort standpoint, but it’s a sign of relentless habit so I decided to stop. For a bit. One day at a time, and so on.

This has followed a predictable course, something I’m not a stranger to. About seven years ago I went on a low-carb diet and I remember. The first two days were sort of murky, low energy, jaw clenching, minor headache, irritability. At some point on the third day, I assume, my blood sugar realized things were going to stay nice and calm and I got a nice euphoric feeling, plus energy. This can all be explained by modern science; I only note it for posterity.

And yesterday, having gone to sleep around 4:30am, I woke up before 10, sensing sun and a day off. I hopped up, made some coffee, walked up to the store to retrieve a Dr. Pepper for John (he has his own issues), and just generally messed around. Loaded the dishwasher. Cleaned a little. Completely dug up a flower bed. Walked about 8 miles on a couple of different excursions. Listened to some interesting music and a couple of podcasts. Took a shower, took out the trash, etc. A full Sunday, not stressful, productive, and I was ready for bed.

And I’ve been up since 4:30am, wide awake, completely screwed now, although still a little euphoric, and still not thinking about salad at all.

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The Other Sure Thing

I owed money yesterday, April 15, although I owed it before then, surely. This wasn’t a reflection of increased income but a withholding error, something we should have seen coming but then. It happens. It was painful but not as painful as owing money after April 15, which I’ve also done. Write the check, suck it up, do better next time.

There are a couple of stories that pop up this time of year; you’ve probably seen them. One is the polling data, repeated every once in a while with pretty much the same results, that seems to demonstrate what appears obvious to some of us: People who complain about “taxes” don’t really like math. They do like complaining, and sometimes imagining. So when you ask them what programs and services they’d like to cut in order to have lower taxes, they come up with “foreign aid” (about 1% of the budget) and shy away from defense spending and entitlement programs (about 104% of the budget).

Then there’s the story about how nearly half of Americans don’t pay any income tax at all. This makes the people who don’t want to pay taxes but don’t want to stop programs very angry, which is ironic in a Lewis Carroll sort of way. It’s also true, as far as that goes, but David Leonhardt explains why it’s not quite as shocking as you might think. If you’re interested.

I’ll admit to some eye rolling here. I imagine shopping for groceries, filling my cart, getting done with check-out, seeing the total and getting all Tea Party outraged.

“But it’s MY money! I earned it!”

Anyway. It’s just on my mind, not only because I had to write a check yesterday but also because I deal with tax money on a very personal basis these days. My 20-year-old son is the recipient of community largesse, helped out by state and federal agencies. With education opportunities, job placement, health insurance. Some slight income.

This is temporary, in all likelihood, a little bit of help for a young man who got dealt a raw hand by nature but has many attributes that society needs and wants. He tends to surprise people with his endurance and strength, and I have great hope along with a fair amount of frustration, but I’m grateful for the services.

So, if you had a bad April 15, or you just generally like to rail against the unfairness of taxation, I wanted to say thanks. Appreciate it. I think you’ll be glad you helped.

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Back To The (i)Future

New column:

I headed south to downtown Seattle. I’m a comfortable suburbanite but I like shaking my world up occasionally, crossing the county line and doing things slightly out of my comfort zone (this would be parallel parking, mostly).

So I walked through sunny city streets, mingled with hordes, listened to some musicians of the street variety, and didn’t see a single iPad. I looked, too.

You might think that downtown Seattle would a great place for a little high-tech voyeurism. Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe the product that will finally Change The Way We Do Things hasn’t been out long enough.

Maybe Seattle has a resistance to jumping on the Apple bandwagon, being sort of a company town, even if that company is in Redmond. Maybe, with iPods and iPhones, people have run out of pockets. Or else they’re just tired of that lowercase “i” (it’s driving my spellchecker crazy).

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Critical Stuff

I resubscribed to The New Yorker, first time in years. It feels quaint, really, to get a magazine in the mail. Next thing you know I’ll be sticking rabbit ears on my TV.

I did it for digital reasons, though. Not only were certain articles not available online, but a subscription gave me access to TNY’s entire archive. If I want contemporary commentary on, say, Calvin Coolidge (and who doesn’t, sometimes), it’s a click away.

I just like the idea of this, of course. This sort of open, searchable history is a rabbit hole for me, an invitation to overdue bills, overgrown grass and obesity. Be very, very afraid.

What I have done, though, is skim through movie reviews, and that’s been a lot of fun. I’ve read Pauline Kael’s first take on “The Godfather” (“The movie is on the heroic scale of earlier pictures on broad themes, such as “On The Waterfront,” “From Here To Eternity,” and “The Nun’s Story.” Seriously? “The Nun’s Story”?), and David Lardner’s 1942 review of “Casablanca” (“…although not quite up to “Across The Pacific,” Bogart’s last spyfest, (it) is nevertheless pretty tolerable…”).

Ignoring the snotty writing that comes with a New Yorker subscription (and a tote bag, apparently, although not yet), I do love to read about movies. Some of my favorite writers these days, in fact, are film lovers who stun me sometimes with their talent. And most of them are true amateurs, too.

And certainly I like to write about movies myself; it’s a good muse for me.

I just don’t watch that many movies.

You’d think that I do, but I don’t. I mean to, I’ve got a lot of resources for spontaneous watching, I’ve got the time and surely the inclination, but I don’t, not lately. Maybe one a week. Lately.

This past week, though, I watched three, almost in a row. All of them tolerable, too.

I was completely surprised by “Greenberg.” I knew it was about an annoying man (Ben Stiller), a dog, a young woman and L.A. I was prepared to be irritated by it, or by him. I just didn’t expect it to be such a good film.

Then I came home and watched “The Men Who Stare At Goats,” a satire that didn’t work for me, although the actors all were quality (George Clooney and Kevin Spacey in particular) and more importantly knew what kind of movie they were making. It ended up feeling like a script the Coen Bros. bailed on at the last minute and somebody had to make anyway, but without the blood. I stuck with it because it was only 90 minutes and I was watching the Blu-Ray version (I swipe John’s PS3 sometimes), and even the desert looks interesting in high definition.

And on Monday night I finally sat down and watched “Everybody’s Fine,” with DeNiro, Drew Barrymore, Sam Rockwell, Kate Beckinsale and some woman’s voice on an answering machine, a woman whose life and death drove the film.

You can find the plot in the trailer: DeNiro, a widower, hits the road to visit his kids, all of whom bail on a planned family reunion at the last minute.

It’s a brave movie, skirting what might have been popular sentimentality by the use of a first-person device I won’t mention but that felt like one of those choices filmmakers make that in retrospect maybe they shouldn’t have. I appreciated this, actually; it let me concentrate on the story, which was about awkward family dynamics, but mostly I watched DeNiro.

I see my father a lot these days, in a lot of places. Give me a guy in his 60s with gray hair and some wear and tear on his face, and my head turns, whether I’m watching a screen or walking down an aisle in Albertson’s, and this was my dad. In superficial ways only, but then that’s all I’m left with. Pictures. Memories, shorthand and isolated moments that function ultimately only as shadows of who and what he was. But it made me think of him, it made me think about me and my family, it moved me and at the end it was my favorite, not the best but the best I could do, really, if you understand why I like to watch movies and why I do.

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Spring Singing

First, full disclosure: I have principles. Shaky, but there. And one of them regards copyrights, intellectual property, unintellectual property, unintelligible property, etc. This is murky in the age of file sharing and mash-ups (which I love), but I stick to my guns as much as possible. If, for example, you write a blog and paste swaths of news stories or writing that is not your own, I stop reading.

Anyway. This will be pertinent a bit later.


I am mildly musical. I can say this with a straight face and a pure heart, having lived with, hung out with, slept with (legally!) and sired genetically musical people. I know where I stand on the staff and scale, which is toward the bottom. I can fake around on the piano and fool you if, like me, you’re mildly musical. I can play the guitar. I can, or could, after a fashion, and with limited success, sing.

I always could. And, again, in a mild way. On key, mostly. With a pleasant sound, mostly. But nothing special. In fact, back when I was wandering around stages in costume and makeup, you could have called me an actor who could sing a little, and that would be perfect. With a lot of study and work I could have been better, but probably not that much better.

And I stopped at an appropriate time, which would be when I married a singer and before I procreated one. We finished our last summer dinner theater show in September 1983, preparing for the move to Seattle, and in a casual conversation I told someone, “I’ll never sing again” and they were shocked and guess what? It was true. In the sense of public singing with no one else singing around me. I retired my cords. I was good with that, too.

Fast forward. Twenty-seven singless years. A friend is producing a television commercial, with a jingle and everything. He’s looking for a new sound. He calls me up. I demur. Defer. Stutter, something. He continues.

“I remember,” he says. “You have a good voice.”

In 1973,” I explain. A while ago. Much has happened. Much in the way of abuse and age and cobwebs.

But he was persistent. Brought over his recording equipment and everything to my house. Just a short little segment, a tiny singing experiment, a few words. I mean. He’s a friend.

And it ended well, by which I mean he used another singer.

But he sent me the demo he’d produced, both the audio and the video versions. Actually, two different versions of each. And I played them and Julie, John and I laughed and laughed. Not that it was funny, but it was…funny. Chuck as jinglemeister. Gotta laugh.

And now we get to principles again.

My friend assured me the other night that I could do whatever I wanted with the demos, post them, share them, burn them. But they involve other professionals, and in particular the video involves actors, who were probably paid a flat fee but in theory might expect to get residuals every time their bodies (mostly legs; it’s for Pure Silk shaving cream) are displayed. So not gonna post that.

What I did do, eventually, was put the MP3 in video format so my daughter could listen (she’s currently without a computer to download stuff onto, so YouTube was the only option for her iPhone computing habits). So this is what you get. About 15 seconds total, with my part accounting for maybe 20% of that. At the end.

And feel free to laugh. I did. Still am.

Chuck from Chuck Sigars on Vimeo.

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