Well, at least I think I’m funny.

Only it isn’t really. Check out the startings of the Franklin Talk weblog - this is where all the episodes of Franklin Talk will be posted…

It was about 93 degrees outside. It’s the kind of heat that makes you grateful for an air-conditioner at home, and if you don’t have one, you’re grateful for a ride in the car. Battling swamp ass becomes a high priority.

Living through many summers in central Pennsylvania there’s a familiarity that comes with this kind of heat. It’s an intimacy that is quickly forgotten come winter, and quickly recalled come summer.

We pulled up to the train station, my family and I, and exited the car to stand under the shade of the train station’s shelter over the black tarmac. As we passed by a few people I over heard someone say, “yep, sure is slow today” to no one in particular.

His Pennsylvania accent was thick matching the tinted, but obviously prescription eyeglasses he was wearing. Standing about 5’3” with shorts on that weren’t dirty but looked like he had worn them a few days in a row, was Bob. His socks reached up from his shoes toward his knee caps but stopped just about three quarters of the way up his shins.

My initial reaction is “Great, another weirdo…oh well, at least he isn’t coming over here.” As if my inner-monologue was broadcast over the train station speaker, over walks Bob.

I didn’t like Bob from the beginning. Being in Lewistown, Pennsylvania (not Lewisburg, but just as remote, and much lower class) the certainty of awkward conversation hit me like a vodka tonic hits a Mormon.

My parents and sister actually talked to the guy at first. I couldn’t believe it. Here I was being perfectly New York: arms crossed, shoulders up, back turned, eyes pulled to critical slits and a look on my face that says “See those rocks down there? Leave soon or I will start throwing them at you.”

One of the other fellows at the train station tugs on my bag. I turn and look at him and he points to Bob with his right hand while making the crazy finger to the side of his head with his left.

Meanwhile, my dad is talking to this guy like they’re best friends. Dad is a bit of a train enthusiast and, according to Bob, he comes to the stations a lot to watch the trains. Because he’s interested in trains? Nah, because “there’s lots of pretty girls that get off them.”

It was at this point that my sister put on her long sleeve shirt and I stepped in front of her.

My dad continued to talk to the guy, which, in hindsight wasn’t the worst idea. He had him turned looking towards the train tracks and involved in conversation all about the trains (which my dad probably already knew).

Then the station attendant walks over and says “Train’s gonna be about 45 minutes late – should be here by 6.”

Awesome. Because having Bob’s company for another 50 minutes is exactly what was on my wishlist at this point.

Bob had managed to orient himself to face my sister more and proceeded to try and shake my hand and asked me my name. I proudly told him, “Ted.” Then Bob started to talk all about how he was so happy to have some pleasant civilized conversation and then mentioned how lucky he was to have gotten to say a few words to my sister.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I said “Look Bob, this is the last time I’m going to see my family before I go to Spain, and we’d like to spend the time together. Please leave.” He pretended not to understand. I expanded myself a little. He got the picture. “Let’s go drive someplace dad,” I said as I huddled the rest of my family off the train platform.

We spent some quality time at the local Burger King and headed back to the station about 20 minutes later. I said my goodbyes in the car and told my family I’d send a text message if Bob was gone (the station attendant had called someone to take him out of there), and he was. My family came out, I wished some more fare well’s, and I got on the train New York.

It’s not often I actually interact with crazy people. I avoid them like the plague in the city and I’m a big enough guy that I don’t get harassed when I’m out and about. Bob really pissed me off.

I understand that he most likely can’t help what’s wrong with him. I know it isn’t his fault. But you know what? It’s totally inappropriate. He made my sister feel gross, he got me super pissed off that I couldn’t have just spent some time with my family, and he pretty much ruined my day because he likes to hang around train stations being a pervert.

Having a problem you can’t help doesn’t mean it makes it okay. It also doesn’t mean that no one should take responsibility for this guy. Where is his family? He was obviously not too old to have no family members left. What about local authorities? The guy is literally at the train station every day, harassing people and ruining days.

My big question is, how am I supposed to react? Ignoring him might’ve worked but for some reason the others in my family decided to talk to him a little – which we all know just invites crazy people and weirdos to bother you as long as you don’t say “You know what? You’re creeping me out. Get out of here or, you remember those rocks? I thought you did.” I can’t just hit the fucker, although I really wanted to, but violence solves nothing. It also brings me a down a level and I am not prepared to degrade myself on the account of some pervert. So assuming ignoring them doesn’t work, what action is there to take? Call the police? Their response time would be to long to be effective. Leaving was okay, except we didn’t want to leave. He MADE us leave. What do you do?

I can’t imagine being a female in New York. I see the construction workers and the crazies and I wouldn’t be able to deal with it. You can’t travel alone. You can’t be out late alone. It’s terrible.

I hope someday Bob gets what’s coming to him. I’m sure he will as this big wheel we’re on tends to turn things out right in the end. I’m not sure what may befall Bob and I’m certainly not wishing anything tragic – but I am hoping for some sort of reckoning. Maybe a situation in which Bob isn’t so comfortable so that maybe he’ll seek some help for his problem.

I watch American Idol ((though unlike the rest of the straight males out there, I do not need to come up with an excuse like “I flip to it during commercials for the NBA*” (which, as we all know thanks to White Dade, is completely bogus since an NBA game is entirely made up of commercials). That’s right, my reason is totally built-in due to my college degree AND master’s degree and I’m glad to know they’re finally doing me some good)).

I’m also complete music snob as I majored in Music Performance (Trombone) in undergrad and Music Business in graduate school. I feel it’s my duty to completely berate the talentless hacks that the industry throws our way. I know the public won’t do it, that’s for sure.

Before I continue I’d like to explain that I’m not a snob for the fact that I only listen to “indie” music (or, as I like to call it, bands that no one else has ever heard of). On the contrary, I actually don’t like most indie music because, well, most indie music is complete trash. I am a music snob in the sense that I like music that has lots of chord changes (jazz), takes real skill to play (jazz), and has meaningful or thoughtful lyrics (jazz). That being said I don’t only listen to jazz, I do listen to lots of popular stuff.

At any rate, as I’m sure most of you know, the other night was the finale of American Idol. The winner? Taylor Hicks.

I must admit I hadn’t really heard the contestants sing all that much on the show. Sometimes I’d get home late and miss everything but the little clips at the end before Seacrest signs off for the night, so last night was one of about 3 times I’ve actually heard Taylor Hicks sing. What complete garbage.

First of all he sounds exactly like Michael Bolton. I’m not sure that Michael Bolton would get any votes had he gone on the show ((and my good God, I heard him sing about 3 seconds of a lousy big band arrangement of a GREAT Stevie Wonder tune on a late night show and I almost threw up. Mike was performing to promote his new album…and I guess if you’re an idiot and think that Bolton singing…you know, not the best choice of words, Bolton butchering…still not quite there…Bolton pooping on a CD and ruining a bunch of great standard jazz tunes and the name of one of the greatest singers of all time (Frank’s phrasing is not to be matched - his voice only sounded good through the 40’s), then maybe you’d buy the CD after hearing this)).

I feel much the same way about Taylor Hicks. The song he sang at the end was atrocious. He had no idea what pitches to sing until he started singing loudly and higher…at that point he did have an idea of the pitches to sing and they were the worst ideas I’ve ever heard in my life.

Also, the show is called American Idol. Idol. Based on looks and “talent,” I will tell you right away you would be very hard pressed to find people who idolize Taylor Hicks.

Child: I want to grow up to be portly, southern, and a shameless promoter of my shitty rock band! I’d also like to be terrible at singing!

Mother: Come here. (Child walks over, Mother slaps him right in the mouth) You have two choices. You can never speak again, or you can go murder yourself in the back yard.

Taylor also happens to look like a retarded person when he sings. In fact, here’s a pretty good picture of what it would look like if Taylor were to compete in the Special Olympics (definitely a possibility) and win a medal (not very likely):

Way to go Taylor, pump that fist! Apparently this is what Americans truly look for in a pop sensation. Lack of talent, lack of faculty control, and pre-maturely gray hair.

The guy also screamed “Soul Patrol” constantly. I think Soul Patrol might have been his band back in Alabama but I’m not entirely sure. Either way I don’t care. I would never actively listen to Soul Patrol, and if it came on the radio I’d most likely turn off the radio…and then break the radio, and then send the bill to Taylor Hicks with a little note that says “Thanks for ruining music.”

Finally I’d just like to pose the question, how on earth did he get so many freakin’ votes? There’s no way that young teenage girls thought he was cuter than some of the other dudes. Here’s my theory: Taylor hails from Alabama. Alabama is where people marry their own sisters and cousins. My guess is that Taylor’s sister/wife and all their children/cousins which are all married to each other, have a tremendous amount of “family.” I’d be willing to put my money on the fact that Taylor is related to everyone in Alabama. He’s like the Kevin Bacon of Alabama. If you ask someone in Alabama if they voted for Taylor, they’d say yes, then you’d ask why, and they say something like “well his son/uncle had sex with my dog/sister so I’m kind of related to him…woof.”

Good job America. When your kids grow up to be doughy and gray-haired and sing Michael Bolton tunes all day long, I will laugh long and hard at you as you try to obliterate your own eyes and ear-drums.

* See paragraph 2, line 1

A poem about how much I like cheese:

Cheese can be holey,
and smelly and green.
Cheese can be yellow,
or orange, or ‘tween.
Cheese comes from cows,
who give up their milk,
so we can make sandwiches,
for all of our ilk.

Cheese can be firm,
and cheese can be mushy.
Don’t give your cheese,
to that bully who’s pushy!
Instead give a punch,
Aye! sqaure in the jaw.
He won’t take your cheese,
(which is breaking the law).

Cheese makes some sick,
Lactose makes them ill.
Instead they get lactaid,
or a calcium pill.
It’s too bad for them,
but delicious, you see?
because in the end,
it’s just more cheese for me.

So whether its smell,
or whether its texture,
I say you like cheese!
and it’s not just conjecture.
Now go to the grocer,
and fare to isle’s end.
to buy up some cheese,
Because cheese is your friend.

What is it that makes people good at what they do?

I’ve just finished watching House, one of my new favorite shows of which I didn’t get to see too many episodes this season. The show is very well written. Banter that is smart makes me feel smarter and sometimes even inspires a bit of thought on my own part, at least something other than Franklin’s newest stupid scenario* or a poem about how much I like cheese***.

But I digress. What makes someone a stud doctor (other than shapely abs and biceps complimented by a sharp mind and sharper scalpel) or a great attorney or a good salesman? What defines a great athlete or musician? What type of person is looked upon as an amazing mechanic?

The fact is that every one of us can recognize it in some way. I have a friend Ian who is typically one of the best Ultimate Frisbee players within about a 300 mile radius of wherever he goes. Anytime I’ve gone somewhere and say I’ve played with him, there seem to be at least a few people who know who he is, and then say something to the effect of “that guy is insane.”

You can’t really pin point it though. Sure I could say “well he’s 5’10” and could dunk, easily, if he could jump as high in basketball as he does on the Ultimate field” or “he can throw a flick** about 110 yards” (which is the farthest I’ve ever seen anyone throw) but in the end that isn’t what makes him great, at least not in my opinion.

Another buddy of mine from college, Jim, can play literally any instrument at a very high skill level after spending about two weeks on it. I’m dead serious. He learned to play guitar well in two weeks. He wanted to work on singing, concentrated on it, and now has a great voice. I won’t go into his piano playing (the instrument he actually “plays”). But if you ask people what makes him great they won’t say “because he can play anything he wants and is musical” and they sure as hell won’t be able to point out a particular riff of music or tune he sounds good on – bottom line is he sounds good on everything.

What people will admit to, and quite readily, is that they have found a Way. More specifically, they have found their Way. I am witnessing more and more that to truly be great at something you have to own it.

All of Ian’s teammates will tell you they don’t always like playing with him. They’ll admit he’s amazing but at the same time say “don’t watch him if you’re trying to learn our offense.” Why? Because Ian doesn’t like the offense they run and therefore pretty much does what he wants. Ian very much just plays his own game. If he thinks you should run somewhere to catch the disc, he will throw the disc there first and expect you to go get it….then get mad if you miss it.

Similarly, Jim is now using his talents to be a Junior High choir director and work at his church. I tell you this right now, he is so good at piano that he could easily (if he practiced) be recording with any jazz player out there right now. But you know what? Jim doesn’t care. Jim doesn’t want to be a jazz piano player. He’s just playing his own game. Did I mention he is one of the most inspiring teachers I’ve ever seen? I’m only a few years younger and the guy still blows my mind whenever I get to talk to him.

The question then is what resolves people to do that? It certainly isn’t being stubborn and it isn’t being egotistical. In fact if you asked me which two people I thought the most would be humble and point at all the other greats without even considering themselves, I would point to Ian and Jim.

I don’t think its luck either. Sure maybe they’ve stumbled into being themselves or maybe there’s an inner strength there that is somehow imparted from childhood learning, but everyone can find their own Way somehow.

For me the solution doesn’t stem from something like “what am I good at?” or “what do I do better than anyone else,” those answers would render one woefully pompous and still struggling for some unreachable rung on an invisible ladder with a made-up gnome steadying it and being tickled by a fat, make-believe elf who eats clams casino on his lunch breaks.

The question that gets me is “What is it I do that I pour myself into so much that the action becomes a part of myself?” I’m starting to get an inkling and I’m starting to understand that all actions can be injected with self in order to make them my own, but I’m still working on it. Hopefully I will get there sooner rather than later, but I guess until I can figure out my game, I’ll ride the bench and marvel at the all-stars.

* Old timey Mississippi river-boat captain
** Also known as a forehand. For you non frisbee players (probably all of you), it’s basically a side-arm throw.
***See post above this one.

Just a quick note for all my dedicated readers out there (Erik and J-Will) to let you know that I can take it no longer. Trying to do a blog dedicated entirely to nonsense humor, while fun, gets difficult (mainly because I can’t write about even half the stuff I want to and the ‘real world’ is killing my creativity).

I’m switching back. My blog will again be about anything and everything and left entirely up to my choosing. Will it continue to be hilarious? Well, at least to me it will.

I was walking up 7th Avenue returning from my lunchbreak. I had my Jamba Juice in one hand and was crossing over 26th street when a limo slowly rounds the corner and pulls away.

I have this strange fascination with limos. Whenever I see one I think “Wow that car is really long! I mean seriously…probably a little too long to be practical. I wonder what kind of gas mileage it gets. I’ll bet it isn’t very good. Maybe its better than I think though. It’s possible. I’ll have to ask someone that knows that kind of thing next time the opportunity arises. It probably won’t any time soon. Ugh, I’ll never know. Maybe I can google it and find out. I’ll have to remember that for later.” And I never remember. But then I think “I wonder who’s in there, who’s so important that they’re driving around in a limo.”

All of sudden, from out of nowhere like…like so many dogs…no like two, two dogs, like two dogs running after a mailman, a man moving slightly faster than others runs up and pulls me aside:

Man: I saw you staring at that limo, sun.

Andy: Don’t call me son! I mean you could at least spell it right!

Man: How did you…?

Andy: …

Man: Anyway I saw you staring at that limo. Do you know who it was?

Andy: No I don’t.

Man: It was Regis Philbin.

Andy: Cool. I really like Regis. I think he’s a class act.

Man: Me too. I feel he really gets overlooked when you consider he goes out there
day in, day out, working his butt off.

Andy: Oh definitely. I like Kelly too but feel she needs to prove herself more.

Man: I’ll agree with you there too. Kathie-Lee is a tough act to follow.

Andy: Yeah, but I mean Kelly is hot, and it’s been a few years now.

Man: Has it? Wow, time really flies doesn’t it?

Andy: Yes, it sure does.

Man: Yeah.

Andy: Yep…

Man: …yeah….

Andy: Kelly and Regis…

Man: Regis and Kelly.

Andy: …

Man: …

Andy: …

Man: …they have a great chemistry.

Andy: Yes, they share a tremendous chemistry.

Man: I always hated chemistry in high school.

Andy: Really? I was pretty impartial to it. I mean I skipped a lot but, it wasn’t
so bad.

Man: I think I was really just reaching out for a challenge and when it wasn’t being presented -

Andy: Wait! How did you know Regis was in the limo?! That’s incredible!

Man: Because, I am a member of humans -

Andy: SUPER humans?!

Man: Well not SUPER per se -

Andy: Oh. Average?

Man: No. We call ourselves the Slightly Above Average Humans. SAAH for short.

Andy: SAAH? That’s not the greatest acronym. I mean you couldn’t have been like, The Almost Impressive Mortals. At least that kind of makes TAIM.

Man: Look, I’m not here to debate our acronym.

Andy: No, I know, I’m just saying.

Man: At any rate, we all have powers. Not super powers, but just like, above-average powers.

Andy: Well that’s somewhat impressive. I mean it’s not REALLY impressive, but it’s kind of impressive.

Man: Yeah we get that lot. Say, if you’d like to meet the rest of the group I’m fairly busy today. I mean I have more appointments than most people but I’m not THAT
busy.

Andy: Yes! An adventure!

Man: …how old are you, like 6?

Andy: I’m sorry I just really like adventures.

Man: Oh.

The man, whose name I soon after found out was Tint-See-Througher-Guy (I’m guessing this was just an alias, as giving his real name would’ve resulted in a decent amount of fan mail…though not really a huge amount), directed me through some streets blind-folded so I wouldn’t be able to find it again unless I tried really extra-hard. And honestly their place was nice, but it wasn’t SO nice that exert that much effort but, it made him feel better.

Upon arrival I was introduced to the rest of the group:

Van Man: Van Man has the ability to always get a van whenver he needs one. If you ever need to move a bed in the city or to pick up something you can’t fit in a cab, you should be on the lookout for Van Man.

Subway Timing Guy: Subway Timing Guy’s subway timing is slightly better than most peoples’. His nearly-keen subway sense allows him to get to the track just as the train is arriving…most of the time. Occassionally he has to stop for a bagel.

B-List Celebrity Imposter Girl: I call her B. LeCig (Bee LaySig - like French.) for short. Want to surpass that line at the club that used to be really popular but now is just kind of popular? Need to get some non-expensive free swag? B-Cig may just be able to help you. I saw her turn into Soleil Moon-Frye and totally get a “1-dollar off” coupon from some poor sap at Arby’s. It was amazing…well not amazing, it was alright I guess. Honestly I was just happy to be getting a Beef’n'Cheddar. I still would’ve paid the extra dollar.

Crazy Deal on Belts Dude: Nicknamed Seedy O’Beedy for obvious reasons, chances are this guy has done his work when you hear someone running down the streets of New York proclaiming “I totally got this CRAZY deal on knock-off designer belts!” and then their friend says “really?!” and then they say “Well, kind of.”

French Slammer: French Slammer’s talent is to always be able to take anything you say and make it bust on the French. He was my favorite member of SAAH. Man I hate the French.

After taking it all in, I decided that while all of their talents are useful, they’re only handy once in a while and even if you can’t find one of them you can usually just pay someone 15 bucks to accomplish the same thing. Needless to say it was a slightly better afternoon than I’m used to having, but it wasn’t anything great.