King Pong

Greetings again, one and all!

Here we are in the dead of summer. Heat indexes here on the Alabama Gulf Coast will be 110 today so I thought it would be a good idea to clean up my old recording studio and writing room to get it ready for painting. I found boxes of old recordings by my former band, “Quits” and old radio air checks from my broadcasting career. I started thumbing through a filing cabinet and found some remarkable treasures I forgot I had – scripts and ad copy I wrote during my radio days, old short stories from as far back as my high school days, and one story I forgot I had written that I really loved but never had it published.

I thought I’d share the story with you in this entry in the old Blog. This is a story written probably around 1990 or so. I think all parents – maybe even their kids – can relate. It was titled “King Pong” (ok, so it needs a better title.)

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Ugh. I shudder when I think about it. I used the most dreaded phrase ever uttered by mankind the other day. A phrase that I swore I would never use against my own offspring, but there it was, flowing from my mouth like Niagara Falls. It was like a tsunami – it just couldn’t be stopped.

            “When I was your age…”

            How could this have happened? I shake my head now as I think about it. I have become my parents with their constant barrage of, “When I was your age I had to shovel snow in Antarctica!” I had become my grandparents, ramming the phrase into my parent’s heads like a Monty Python sketch gone awry.

            “When we were your age, we had to get up three hours before we went to bed, put a roof on the shed, repaint the barn, and that was all before breakfast.”

            And odds are, I’ve become my great-grandparents as well. I can hear them now as they travelled across the Atlantic, looking for a new life away from Eastern Europe:

            “Vina minda yaga, du hast mina bitta gooda.”

            Loosely translated, “When we were your age, we lived in a shoebox in the middle of the street with only a candle for heat in the dead of winter and the only school we had was the school of fish in the aquarium.”

            In one single breath, I officially became old, stogy, and – GASP! – uncool. It was innocent enough: a simple argument with my daughter about her getting a video game, a Sega, I think it was. In the heat of the battle the phrase came coursing from my lips. I recoiled as the sound of it echoed through the room. But that’s not the worst of it. Not only did I utter those immortal words, I finished it with an equally stupid remark:

            “When I was your age, all we had was Pong!”

            Please pay the gravedigger after he finishes digging this hole for me, won’t you?

            I winced as I waited for the inevitable, the retort from my daughter, the response that has been the guaranteed comeback for countless generations of children over the centuries, “I can’t believe you said that.” But there was nothing. Not a sound. It was quiet. Too quiet.

            I opened one eye, then the other, only to see her staring at me, her head cocked to one side like an inquisitive puppy. Her expression had question marks written all over it.

            “What’s Pong?” she asked.

            “It’s a game,” I answered. “A video game.”

            “You had video games?” she asked surprised.

            “Ah, yeah,” I responded sarcastically. “Do you think I’m from the Dark Ages?”

            I threw my finger up and pointed at her. “DON’T even go there!” I said.

            “You had video games?” she asked again.

            “That’s what I said,” I replied getting a little irritated. “Do I look like Mel Tillis?”

            “Mel…”

            I cut her off mid-sentence. “Do you think I stutter?” I asked. “Oh, never mind.”

            Truth be known, this wasn’t the first time we had a discussion like this. The dialogue usually centered on music. From time in memorial, parents and children have never agreed on music. The classic musical battles over the decades have included parents vs Eminem (“In my day it was M.C. Hammer!”); parents vs the Beatles (“Give me Frankie Avalon any day!”); parents vs Frank Sinatra (“Al Jolson, now there’s music!”). Heck, I imagine that even in the Middle Ages parents were getting onto their kids about listening to some roving minstrel show and a madrigal they didn’t approve of.

            “Brickenden! That lute player is a bad influence! I don’t want you listening to him anymore!”

            And so it was. I was perpetuating the parental idiom and I didn’t like it. No sir, not one bit. But one day, the unexpected happened. It came out of nowhere. It caught me quite by surprise. One day my family came full circle and it all happened innocently enough.

            I was walking down the hallway past my daughter’s bedroom when I heard a seemingly familiar song playing. I paused, cocked my head to get a better listen, and then knocked on the door. She cracked it open and the muffled rap music playing from within became quite clear.

            “So I took a big chance at the high school dance with a missy who was ready to play. It Was it me she was foolin’? Cause she knew what she was doin’ when she told me to walk this way.”

            My face lit up. My daughter turned the CD off.

            “Go on,” she said. “Say it. You don’t like it. Back in my day, blah, blah, blah.”

            “Who is that?” I asked.

            “It’s Run D.M.C.”

            I grabbed her by the hand and whisked her downstairs. Rushing into the den I ran up to a CD player that was sitting on a bookshelf, rifled through a stack of discs, then finding what I was looking for, I plugged it into the machine and hit play. The music came roaring out. It was a favorite of my generation from back in those halcyon days of high school in the 70s. It was Aerosmith singing, “Walk This Way”.

            My daughter started stammering. “But…but…I thought Run D.M.C. wrote it!”

            “No, ma’am,” I said proudly. “Steven Tyler and Aerosmith.”

            “Wow!” she exclaimed. “What else do they sing?”

            I hit the track button and on came another song:

            “Got me the strangest woman, believe me this trick’s no cinch. But I really get her goin’ when I get out my big ten-inch…record of her favorite blues.”

            “That is so cool!” she said.

            Just then my mother, who happened to be visiting at the time, entered the room. She paused, cocked her head, then her face lit up.

            “Hang on,” she said and ran from the room.

            Returning, she turned off the CD, plugged in an old, yellowed cassette tape, and hit play. The sound of a deep, husky male voice swept over us. The sound was undeniably from the 50s:

            “Last night I tried to tease her, I gave my love a little pinch. She said now stop that jivin’, now whip out that big ten-inch…record of your favorite blues.”

            My God! The impossible had happened! In this one, fleeting moment, a bridge spanning the generations was built. It was: Run D.M.C. to Aerosmith to Big Moose Jackson, as beautiful of a combination as Tinkers to Evers to Chance turning a double play. For that brief moment, three generations stopped bickering over which generation was the best.

It wasn’t long before the music faded away, the last note clinging to the air for a moment before my daughter turned and scurried out of the room.

“Still not as good as Green Day!” she shouted.

“Artie Shaw, Missy!” my Mom shouted back. “Now THERE’S music!”

Ripping the cassette out of the machine she stormed from the room.

“Huh,” I said out loud to no one in the room. “That went well.”

I hit the CD play button and the sound of Aerosmith once again filled the room. As the music swelled I realized that for as much as the generations are different, we are all the same, and though we fight it and try hard not to be like the generation before us – our parents – we are the same, cut from the same cloth, or in some cases, vinyl.