Dad, you ever hear of The Tubes?

I always prided myself on thinking on my feet. In my family, it was a survival skill and often the result of the mercurial nature of my other three family members. 

It was a fine summer afternoon back in 1976 I was 13. Dad was firing up the grill in the backyard and turned on the radio for some summer tunes.

Unfortunately, my sister had tuned the radio to WMMS which other than being a Cleveland legend, earned it’s chops by playing music other stations wouldn’t play. 

I was up in my bedroom reading some random history of the Second World War when I heard the music start – it sounded like some kind of gothic biker anthem from the 50s.  

Oooo baby,
Move closer to me
I've had all that I can stand
Take hold of me with your hands

Ahhhhhhh, shit. 

My dad compounded the frightening embarrassment I was feeling by striking a pose with his arms spread wide pretending like he was singing to my mother – who was looking out the kitchen window at him, no doubt smiling. 

Dad obviously thought this was a forgotten oldie from his time with the greasers.

Oh baby,
You give me the chills
Whisper low in my ear
Let knows how it feels
just to know you are near

Aw, FUCK! I knew I had to get down there and distract both of them before they listened really close to the lyrics and found out what this song was really all about.

We probably wouldn’t be allowed to listen to the radio for the rest of the summer.

I flew down the steps, my fevered brain putting together a plan. I raced past mom, out the side door and must have looked like Secretariat rounding the home stretch at Belmont as I reached the backyard.

Your body gives me a thrill
as it leans against mine
I love how it feels
with your jeans against mine

“HEY DAD,” I was nearly panting out of breath. “HEY WHY DON’T YOU TAKE A DIP IN THE POOL AND I’LL GET THESE STEAKS ON FOR YOU!”

“Kid, why are you shouting,” said dad. “I’m not deaf.”

The smell of burning leather
as we hold each other tight
As our rivets rub together
flashing sparks into the night
At this moment of surrender darling
if you really care. . . 

“WHOOPS, SORRY I KNOCKED OVER THE RADIO,” I said sounding like a frenzied Kevin Arnold. “HERE, I’LL TRY TO GET THAT STATION BACK.”

My dad just looked at me. “What the Hell is wrong with you kid,” he asked.

“Sorry, just a little clumsy dad; too much reading in bed,” I said as I surreptitiously cranked the dial over to nice, safe, teeny-bopper G-98. 

“Ah, too bad that song is over, here’s another one,” I stammered. 

Gonna find my baby, gonna hold her tight
Gonna grab some afternoon delight. . .

I paused and my heart skipped a beat. Nah, they’ll never figure that one out.

The other song I stopped just in the nick of time? 

Turn the %#&*# Noise Down

I can sympathize

One of the more irritating ‘little’ things about my condition is noise sensitivity. I don’t think this topic gets talked about or studied as much as it should. Perhaps it’s because for most people, they can’t imagine the insane irritation the condition engenders.

The volume control in our home’s television is the main indicator of my waxing and waning sensitivity. Sometimes, I have the volume set on 16 and it’s perfectly fine. An hour later, it’s maddening. It can go down to 12. 

The even numbers are a leftover of the severe OCD I had as a child. That is another subject altogether but I have a comfort with even numbers which my wife tolerates. 

Commercials are the bane of my existence. I don’t monopolize the TV remote because I’m some kind of sexist pig but because my wife understands how disturbed I can get with the rising volume of TV commercials and lets me swing the volume up and down as it pleases me.

For this I am eternally grateful.

By the way, don’t EVER let anyone tell you the volume isn’t raised for commercials. My hearing is sensitive enough to make a strong case.

The worst are car ads but they are not the sole offenders. These ads usually come with a wall of noise provided by either shrieking electric guitars or some kind of machine press noise ratcheted up to the level of a jet plane taking off. Well, at least to me.

Pussy cow, pussy cow, pussy cow. Californians will get it

I know the trick is to grab the viewer’s attention. It certainly works with me but I make a mental note of the worst offenders and vow never to buy anything from them. 

One of my golden rules is this: never buy anything from someone who yells at you in the commercial. That goes for radio and Internet as well. Also, and this may anger some, be careful of any ad using country music as a backdrop – it indicates the audience they are looking to attract, especially with car ads. I like older country music (think Buck Owens, Edward Arnold, Conway Twitty, et. al.) but the nonsense that gets played is a transparent play for people who lack buyer’s sophistication. In short, they are insulting their intended audience, but if it didn’t work, I suppose they wouldn’t do it.

To wake you from TV stupor and BUY!

But I digress, obviously.

I’m amazed the lettering hasn’t worn off the volume buttons on the remote. 

The other problem is tinnitus. Most of the time, I’m aware of a low-grade machine-like whine in my ears but since it’s so constant I can ignore it. Except when I can’t. I have noticed that my noise sensitivity seems most pronounced when the tinnitus is at its worst.

I have never mentioned that to any of my doctors. I guess it’s because I never considered it worth complaining about, and besides, what can you do about it?

Well yeah, kind of like this

The strange thing is I rarely adjust the volume of the radio that controls the sound system in the house. I almost always play classical music on the radio so maybe that’s a clue. I don’t know.

Right now, the ringing in my eyes is pretty bad. It’s somewhere between a machine whine and a high pitched whistling wind. I have no idea why I have this issue or whether my medications impact it. 

In any case, I have the same issue in the car. Again, I have to thank my wife for my volume fiddling habit which would drive most people nuts. Up and down, up and down. She can usually tell by the pained expression on my face.

It’s hard to say exactly what it feels like. It’s anxiety, yes, but a different sort than the normal anxiety which is more of a worry thing. What I feel from noise is like someone holding a joy buzzer to my head. That’s the best way I can describe it. 

The sad thing, at least to me, is that I used to like my music LOUD, especially rock. Whether at home or in the car, especially when I was alone I would crank up the Stones or Springsteen until it shook the floors. 

One night coming home from a party, my mom said she could hear my car radio 30 seconds before I got in the driveway.

I have no idea if the loudness of my youth hurt my hearing and left me with this condition. I don’t think so for another reason: I rarely listen to rock or pop anymore. On Sept. 11, I’m going down to Consul Energy Center to see Bruce Springsteen, consistently my favorite rocker. The Boss and I go back a long way and I’ve seen him and the E Street Band five other times throughout the years.

I’m hoping I can get the old feeling back – the excitement, the arousal, the enjoyment. I also hope I can take the noise level. 

Please let the magic happen one last time. . .

This whole issue started with the problems at work, circa 2011. To soothe jangled nerves, I started listening to the old standards like Sinatra, the big bands, the crooners etc. I also started listening to classical music. Never in a million years did I think I would have become a classical fan, but it happened. 

The depressing thing is, I can’t seem to go back to the rock and roll I loved so much just a decade or so ago.

Age? Or mental condition? Or a little of both. I used to make fun of my mom watching The Lawrence Welk Show after her devotion to the music of her youth (the 50s). Now I take it all back. I get it. 

If it's too loud, you're too old, right? No. At least I hope not. 

But still, I have a problem with silence, except at work, where I prefer quiet so I can think and chew gum at the same time. And yet, here I am, typing this blog entry with the TV on in the background.

I don’t get it. But I’ve already changed the volume six times in the last 30 minutes.

Epic Battles of Staying Awake to Watch Sports

In fact, it was this exact one!

It started with a transistor radio and an earplug.

Back in the day, we only had one plug to put in one ear. You decided which one. 

You know, when it was funny

Downstairs the Browns are on Monday Night Football playing the Chargers. My dad kept the sound low so up in my bedroom, I would sleep and not crawl out on to the landing to try and listen to Cosell, Gifford and Karras (at that time).

But I had the little radio and the earphone. The problem was the Browns were on WHK-AM, a 5,000 watts station that, at night, did not have the magical properties the 50,000 watt WWWE had.

Huddled against the cold bedroom widow, trying to turn the radio this way and that to hear Gib Shanley through the fuzz and static, I had to keep one ear open to make sure dad wasn’t coming up the stairs.

Yeah, he’d do that occasionally. The thing is, he was a big guy so you could hear the stair creak. So I had a few seconds to stash the radio under the pillow and pretend I was asleep.

You see, my parents were big believers in putting the kids to bed early so they would be rested and ready for school tomorrow so they could relax without us getting in the way.

Shortly before my mom passed, I asked her – why, why why, the 7:30 p.m. bedtime until third grade?

“Because we wanted a break from both of you,” she said.

Right that way up the stairs kids

So when Bob Barker said “good night and hoping all your consequences are happy ones, “that was the time to hit the stairs.

I can remember in May, lying in bed in broad daylight while kids younger than me were playing in the yard next door.

Kids have too much energy to sleep that early. So I would pile my news books under the bed to read until I fell asleep. If I had to, I’d read by night light.

My mom blamed reading by the night light for screwing up my vision which meant money spent in eyeglasses.

Browns vs. Namath in the very first MNF 1970.

Back in the 70s, all the NFL games were on Sunday afternoons except for Monday Night Football, which was as much as ‘show’ as a game. For any team to be showcased in front of a national audience was a big deal. Since the Browns were a mediocre to poor team (like now) they didn’t get many MNF games. 

Kings of the butthurt

In fact Browns fans would get butthurt if their Sunday game wasn’t featured on the MNF halftime roundup. In the typical ‘everyone is against us’ Cleveland mentality, we took it personally. Cleveland takes everything personally.

So when Monday night rolled around and the Browns were on, well, tough luck kid – it’s a school night.

So now that I’m old-er and faced with the prospect of sports I want to watch beginning at 8 p.m. or later (good God, why? Oh, right, West Coast ratings) and tomorrow being a work day (bright-eyed and bushy tailed at 7 a.m.) I wage a titanic struggle to overcome sleep.

I knew last night’s Stanley Cup game was going to be a struggle. I drank coffee all day but that elixir has lost its magic jolt and now I primarily drink it because my doctor said it’s good for my liver.

"I heard Gottschalk actually was thinking of going to bed!"

So I knew what to expect this morning when the opening strains of Roxy Music’s Avalon ‘jolted’ me awake at 5:15. You know the ‘shit, I was right in the middle of a dream/oh my God, I can’t believe I’m this tired’ feeling. 

Work, at least in the morning, will be a bleary-eyed experience, filled with Keurig coffee and head nods. Hopefully by the afternoon, I’ll be out of slumberland.

But of course, it was worth it. Pens up 2-0 and all’s right with the world. If they had lost, I’d be tired AND grouchy. 

At least in adulthood, I don’t have to furtively hide under the covers and sneak the play-by-play past my dad.