As usual, I'm listening to the blues on the TV in the great room. I love the blues. Right now they're playing Mean Old World, 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 read the paper or watch the news to realize it. This version is by Little Walter and His Night Cats. I prefer the song by T-Bone Walker. Maybe 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*, 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 that I'm enjoying my early afternoon. The song changes, and it's a song I don't recognize. The singer sounds like he's 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 go from Dear Abby to the comics section of the newspaper. That's when my Dad walks into the kitchen.
"Hey, Dad," I say, but I keep my head down. I've already said hello to him this morning, not that I'm counting how many times I say hello to him in any given day. I can understand when people like Hilary Clinton and Sylvester Stallone 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 sell fiction to the general public.
My Dad mumbles something, but I pay him no mind. I know that sounds mean, but I've learned that when he wants to say something he wants me to acknowledge, he'll speak up.
He mumbles again, this time louder. And then he walks over to the TV set, stands in front, and looks at it. I still don't look up. He knows I'm listening to music on the TV. And I know 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 great room. 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 Dad finally speaks up.
Quite clearly, I might add.
I ignore him, but not in a mean way. More like a Clint-Eastwood-when-he's-not-busy-talking-to-a-chair kind of way. I know there's a game today. HE knows there's a game today. Even Clint Eastwood's chair knows there's 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 Dad asks again.
This time he even turns to look at me. He wants to make sure I heard.
I make the mistake of quickly glancing up.
Our eyes meet.
I can't pretend I didn't hear him.
"Did you say something, Dad?" I pretend anyway.
"Isn't there a game today?"
"A game?"
"Yes."
"Today?"
"Yes."
"I don't think so," I tell him.
He doesn'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'm thinking to myself, if he knew there was a game, then what was he asking me for? We're at a stalemate, of sorts. He's not asking me if he can change the channel to the game, and I'm not offering to let him change the channel to the game. If my wife were there, he'd already be sitting down in front of the TV, feet up, and being served champagne and caviar.
Unfortunately for him, my wife's not there.
Mumble, mumble.
I ignore him.
Mumble, mumble.
Dang! I briefly looked up, and our eyes meet again.
"Did you say something, Dad?"
"I think Cleveland's playing today."
"Cleveland?"
"Oh, yeah. Cleveland's my favorite team."
"You sure it's today?"
"Sure, I'm sure."
We're at a stalemate again. He stands there, looking at me. Tampa Red is singing When Things Go Wrong With You (It Hurts Me, Too).
I no longer have the heart to keep it up.
"Sit down, Dad," I tell him. "Let's see if the game's on."
He sits down. Doesn't even tell me thank you. Instead he says, not quite mumbling but not quite clearly, "Of course the game's on. I told you that already." And then he says "I know when the game's on." to the chair next to him.
My Dad.
The new Clint Eastwood.
I change the channel and put on the Cleveland game. His favorite team is 100 games out of the playoffs, losing 20 out of the last 22 games. There's no hope for them this year. The only hope is next year, or the year after that. Or the year after that.
My Dad settles down in his favorite chair watching his favorite team on his favorite TV set. I go back to drinking my luke-warm coffee, and finishing up the comics. Then it starts...
Smack!
I lift my eyes.
Smack, smack, SMACK!
My Dad 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 grab my coffee and leave the kitchen. I walk 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.
RaisingDad
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
JimDuchene.blogspot.com American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
*Z.Z. Hill. ZZ Top. See the connection?
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