Mark My Words

Does that phrase mean anything to you? It is the title of the theme song from the 1970s disaster epic, “The Poseidon Adventure.” Disaster movies were all the rage in the early 1970s. I hadn’t thought of it in decades, but the “news” coverage following the midterm elections triggered a wacky word association game within me.

Disaster movies were popular and commercially successful in the early 1970s. Was it because their themes echoed the dire opinion many Americans held about the state of our country at the time? Was there a didactic intent in those stories of disaster, struggle and hopeful recovery? After watching terrible things happen to the poor ole characters portrayed by Red Buttons, Shelley Winters, Frank Albertson, Carol Lynley and Stella Stevens—was the intention to make us feel better about our dire “real lives” by having us conclude: “Thank God that’s not me: [fill-in-the-blank] in that towering inferno, earthquake, being chased by a swarm of killer bees or possessed by a demonic invader.

But if you believe what you see and hear these days, the 1970s do not hold exclusive claim to the condition of malaise. The incessant drumbeat of talk, talk, talk says these times are surely as dire as the 1970s. Do you believe there is any purpose behind the news we are presented these days? Are the pundits and analysts deliberately portraying the state of our nation so glumly in order to have us collectively ratchet up our good-old-American fortitude and prove them all wrong? It would be lovely to think there is some point to their yammering beyond advertising sales quotas.

What there is, first and foremost, is the media’s relentless need for content to fill the screens in your home, on your desk, on your cell phone and everywhere else you look. The monster to which we are all now enslaved is the insatiable creature named “I need to know now.” This creature that lives within us must be fed day and night. Feeding the monster means someone has to crank out the “news” non-stop. It’s enough to make a journalism degree holder conclude that his or her career track might have been better served by instead studying to become a farrier. (Actually, that’s probably not a bad occupation in these parts.)

It is important to remember that there is “a morning after” for all of us, regardless of your personal perception of the state of our Union. One of the benefits of having reached a certain age (hint: in Asian cultures we are referred to wise elders) is having been around long enough to see that life is somewhat cyclical. There are echoes of times past in the situation in which we now find ourselves. But history rarely repeats itself exactly as before, so new answers and solutions must be found.

The “if-it-ain’t-broke-don’t-fix-it” school of thought won’t work here. Nor will turning back the clock. And the process of finding answers is the point of stress for many of us. The confrontational approach of elected officials and the nonstop blaring by media outlets is disconcerting, but try to remember that a fundamental part of our identity as Americans is allowing others to express their opinions, whether or not we agree.

Like passengers on the U.S.S. Poseidon, societal upheaval and widespread discontent has hit us like a rogue wave. Like soaked passengers climbing through the labyrinth of a capsized luxury liner, we have to “hold on through the night.” May I suggest the ultimate stress reliever: simply unplug for a little while. Put down your cell phone, turn off the news and try reading blogs by columnists who want to make you laugh…and think.

An online news source reported a meeting between President Barak Obama and British Prime Minister David Cameron with the headline, “New Frenemies: Is the U.S. – U.K. Special Relationship Doomed?”

Being a word-lover, the term “frenemies” immediately caught my attention. Have you heard it? The word “frenemy” first began popping up with regularity around 2007. It is, according to Wikipedia, “a portmanteau of “friend” and “enemy” which can refer to either an enemy disguised as a friend or to a partner who is simultaneously a competitor and rival.”

Its first recorded usage was in 1953 by columnist Walter Winchell, who used the term to suggest the status of the relationship between the U.S. and the Soviet Union.

According to a CNN news report on the subject of frenemies, experts explained that women sometimes idealize their friendships –believing they should only be loving and supportive – while men are culturally enabled to display the inevitable competitive feelings openly, without feeling ashamed or guilty.  

While every friendship — no matter how solid or tentative — has mixed feelings of support and antagonism, women are more likely to put up with fair-weather friends because they perceive that they have invested a lot in the relationship and will work to salvage it, despite the rocky moments.

Jan Yager, author of “When Friendship Hurts: How to Deal with Friends Who Betray, Abandon, or Wound You” says, “Males, having a much lower threshold for complications in friendships, will disengage themselves from a negative friendship more easily, and faster, than the typical woman.

Do you need a quick litmus test to tell if someone is friend or frenemy?

To validate a healthy friendship, you should answer “yes” to the following questions:

Do you have a healthy, reciprocal friendship based on honest and trustworthiness?

Do you work out any differences or conflicts that arise?

Do you and your friend try to put the time and effort into your friendship that it requires?

That’s the headline in a new ad showing a woman holding a “new, high-tech atomizer that converts water to a smoke-like vapor, generating a cigarette-like look and feel without the thousands of chemicals and the nasty smell of cigarettes.

For the love of God, can America’s tobacco addicts not find another way to engage their hands and mouths other than sucking on a battery-powered fake cigarette? Of course, my indignation and disdain is of a degree that only ex-smokers may rightfully claim. Count me in, 1972-1986.

Oh to smoke! There was no better outward indicator of being a grownup when I was a child. My first attempts at buying cigarettes were during neighborhood campouts in the fourth grade. We’d ride our bikes to the Pure station on Ocoee Street and I’d stage a little one-act drama beside the vending machine.

“What kind of cigarettes did your Dad say he wanted?”

“Kents.”

  “Oh, that’s right, Kents.”

Insert coins (probably about 55 cents). Pack secured. Pedal away. Puff away. Feel awful.

A smoker’s first clue that smoking is bad for you should be how he or she felt after their first time. That campout wasn’t my first time. My first time was when Evelyn Adams came to pick up my Mom for a golf outing. She flicked her lipstick-tinged Parliament (with the recessed filter) onto the concrete driveway as she put her turquoise T-Bird into gear and drove off.

As the lady golfers drove ‘round the corner, I picked up the half-smoked fag and did what I had seen grown-ups do. Yes, I inhaled. Of course I had a coughing jag, but that didn’t stop me. I inhaled again. And then I began to experiment, holding it in different hands and in different ways. Too bad I didn’t have a mirror in which to admire my smoking prowess or a pair of sunglasses to model as I smoked! 

Any pretense that I possessed any maturity or sophistication vanished when the world spun so violently that I had to put myself in a horizontal position for at least 45 minutes. I felt so bad I didn’t even ask Arlena what we were having for dessert that night.

For the first 40 years I had a driver’s license, I almost always played music in the car, the louder the better. But these days, while I usually relish the absence of sonic assault while driving, I occasionally fire up Sirius satellite radio to stave off boredom and sleepiness.

Musically speaking, my choices are all over the map. My spouse is a classical pianist so we listen primarily to classical, but sometimes I seek out other types of music in a feeble attempt to disprove that I am becoming a stodgy old coot.

On a recent trip, I turned on Sirius XM1 satellite radio, which features the most popular 20 Pop songs as chosen by their listeners. Driving along, somewhere between Monteagle and Chattanooga, one song made me respond as if I was a judge  on Dick Clark’s American Bandstand Rate-A-Record segment. “It’s catchy, it’s got a good beat, and I probably could [or could have, at one time] dance to it.”

Then, seconds later, I was jolted back into 2010 as the chorus of the song was semi-yelled out, “Blah, blah, blah, blah, so F.U,” followed in short order by “And F. her, too!”  Here’s the song narrative: the singer is upset with an ex-girlfriend and her new man. He is telling the new guy just what he thinks of both of them. To his credit, the “artist” singing this song, Cee Lo Green—or, as those more conversant in “popular” culture than I refer to him—“Cee Lo,” did not pronounce the other three missing letters of the first word. Even someone of grandpa-age could easily figure out this code. OMG, another barrier of decency, GONE! What is this world coming to?

I only pondered this for a nano-second because my observation was instantaneously proven erroneous as I experienced a flashback to 1967.        The Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels hit, “Sock It…To Me Baby” played on the poolside juke box as my mother and three other 40-something matrons held a lively discussion on how “awful” it was. About 30 of us seventh graders danced exuberantly, even though we were absolutely clueless what it was Mitch wanted socked to him.

 “Boogaloo, my baby, across the floor. Every time you shake it girl, I like it more. Gimme, gimme, gimme gimme gimme, something sweet. Knock me, ooh, off my feet. Sock it to me baby, baby. Sock it to me baby, baby. Sock it to me, baby. Sock it to me, baby. Sock it to me, baby. Sock it.”

Need more proof that seemingly salacious lyrics are nothing new? Give a listen to  “Jungle Fever “ from 1972, a top 10 disco song by The Chakachas. It features a catchy Latin beat punctuated by a female breathing heavily, moaning and attempting to feebly say,  “Ah…no…no…I..I…” three times during the song. Hint: she was not simulating a workout on Mama’s belt-driven “reducing” machine!

Yep. That was almost 40 years ago. So, Cee Lo, you aren’t the first to sing provocative, racy lyrics.  I wonder if people thought Cole Porter’s songs ““Let’s Do It” (1928) and Love for Sale” (1930) or were scandalous when they were popular? Too bad my grandparents aren’t available to ask.