Marty & Sheila (a divertimento in the key of dialogue)

  • No, Sheila, it’s not that. I want to know for a couple a reasons.
  • More than a couple.
  • No doubt, no doubt. I just need to know if I am the only one in this experience. Think of it as an alignment thing. If I’m out here standing on a rock by myself, having this experience, okay. I’m not worried about me, per se, but it’d be helpful if I could understand how I got standing on this rock by myself. I’m in my sixties. The mind can go, you know. I’d like to try to keep mine in the front yard. If I’m not standing alone on the rock, or you’re in sight of it, how do you explain this?
  • We’re friends, close friends. What kind of rock is it? Is it a nice rock?

Confessions of a Goofball – April 21, 2015

On or about the time I moved Massachusetts someone I love and care about called me a Goofball April 2015goofball. I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed being called a name as much as I enjoyed being called a goofball. 

The Merriam-Webster online dictionary defines goofball, in part, as one who is “silly”  and defines goofy as “being crazy, ridiculous, or mildly ludicrous : silly <a goofy sense of humor>.”  Guilty on all fronts, particularly that last part about having a goofy sense of humor.

I am firm in the belief that a sense of humor – even a goofy one! – is a sibling of courage. I know no one who is functioning well in life after taking some of life’s more formidable beatings who does not have a sense of humor.

These past three years the goofball part of me has seen a lot of action. First, I was determined to give community life another go when I moved here. Ever since the shooting – I was held up and shot in the head in 1984 – and the attending brain damage and PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) that ensued, living in isolated fashion has been my preference.

Re-entering community life has at times been terrifying. The thing is, each time I’ve climbed over or broken through a “fear wall” I am always glad I did. Now, three years since my arrival in Berkshire County I am more involved in community life than I thought was possible, for me. So much so that I find myself in rehearsals for a play by Samuel D. Hunter called “A Bright New Boise” produced by Mill City Productions.

Returning to the stage for me has, in more ways than I ever imagined, brought a large part of me back to life. I danced with the Joffrey Ballet years ago and was a member of the Quena Acting Company, an offshoot of Joseph Chaikin’s, The Open Theatre. By returning to the stage I’ve reclaimed a cherished part of life. Last night as we arrived for rehearsal the house lights were down and the stage lights were lit, the set well on its way to completion. There’s magic in them there lights.

When I got home last night I danced around the house with Charley, my black-lab mix, doing a rather admirable job of following suit. He’s a goofball too. Once a goofball always a goofball.

I’d have it no other way. 

Confessions of a Goofball – April 21, 2015

On or about the time I moved Massachusetts someone I love and care about called me a Goofball April 2015goofball. I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed being called a name as much as I enjoyed being called a goofball. 

The Merriam-Webster online dictionary defines goofball, in part, as one who is “silly”  and defines goofy as “being crazy, ridiculous, or mildly ludicrous : silly <a goofy sense of humor>.”  Guilty on all fronts, particularly that last part about having a goofy sense of humor.

I am firm in the belief that a sense of humor – even a goofy one! – is a sibling of courage. I know no one who is functioning well in life after taking some of life’s more formidable beatings who does not have a sense of humor.

These past three years the goofball part of me has seen a lot of action. First, I was determined to give community life another go when I moved here. Ever since the shooting – I was held up and shot in the head in 1984 – and the attending brain damage and PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) that ensued, living in isolated fashion has been my preference.

Re-entering community life has at times been terrifying. The thing is, each time I’ve climbed over or broken through a “fear wall” I am always glad I did. Now, three years since my arrival in Berkshire County I am more involved in community life than I thought was possible, for me. So much so that I find myself in rehearsals for a play by Samuel D. Hunter called “A Bright New Boise” produced by Mill City Productions.

Returning to the stage for me has, in more ways than I ever imagined, brought a large part of me back to life. I danced with the Joffrey Ballet years ago and was a member of the Quena Acting Company, an offshoot of Joseph Chaikin’s, The Open Theatre. By returning to the stage I’ve reclaimed a cherished part of life. Last night as we arrived for rehearsal the house lights were down and the stage lights were lit, the set well on its way to completion. There’s magic in them there lights.

When I got home last night I danced around the house with Charley, my black-lab mix, doing a rather admirable job of following suit. He’s a goofball too. Once a goofball always a goofball.

I’d have it no other way. 

BOOBS, PENIS, STREET SIGNS & A THANK YOU

The readership in the Kahrmann Blog has been increasing steadily and I want to thank all of you who visit here often, as well as those of who drop by from time to time. It is a humbling thing to see people give value to what you write. There are now regular readers in several countries in addition to my own: Australia, Canada, England, and Venezuela (countries listed alphabetically).

Recently a friend of mine, who knows I have a penchant for going off on comedic riffs, said why don’t you put that stuff in the blog? Even better, go do some standup. The idea of doing standup is scary – but I just might. If you ponder the fact that much of comedy comes from tragedy, there’s plenty of material in the world these days. Now that doesn’t mean all comedy comes from tragedy. Here are some examples of the latter, questions I’ve been pondering.

1) Why is the penis the only body part that has a name you can’t say out loud without sounding as if you’re whining? It has to be one of the most avoided if not the most avoided words in the English language, save for medical professionals, urologists and such. Moreover, no man in the throws of sex has heard the words; I love your big penis. If he did, it didn’t stay big.

2) What is up with the word boobs for women’s breasts? How do we know they’re stupid? They are the only body part given a name that defines their intelligence. And let me tell you what, given all the attention breasts get in the world, I’d say they are anything but stupid. Instead of boobs, why not say something like, nice pair of geniuses?

3) Lets talk about street signs. When I left New York City in 1987, I left a place where street signs made sense. SLOW meant slow and STOP meant stop. The NYC no parking signs were crystal clear in their meaning, so much so that there were no parking signs in the well-heeled neighborhood of Sutton Place that read, and I quote, DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT PARKING HERE.

In 1987 I leave the city and move to Sullivan County and everything changes. I love Sullivan County. The people are nice and the land is magnificent beyond description. However, whoever designed the street signs there (and it seems in all the upstate counties) smoked better pot than I ever did. The team that design these signs had passed the bong around a few times before getting down to work. How else can you explain the signs? . I would see a sign that said SPEED ZONE AHEAD and so I would do what I was told and hit the gas. I couldn’t figure out why on earth they wanted you to speed through the more populated areas. Later on I would find out SPEED ZONE meant slow down. Yeah? Then say slow down.

And then there was the sign that scared and confused the hell out of me the first few times I saw it until I finally asked someone what the hell it meant. I’m driving on a road that has signs that say 35 MPH. So, I do 35 MPH because I’m a newcomer to the area and I want to establish straight away that I respect the area. And then the nightmare sign. It says, END 35 MPH……….. And then…nothing…..no follow up sign, nothing. I didn’t know whether to come to a complete stop until someone came along who would tell me what to do next. I had no idea what the hell I was supposed to do. A week or two later I was told that when you see that sign it means you can then do 55 MPH. I thought, so why not have a sign that says that.

I can tell you one thing, the people who designed those signs, now they were boobs.

Thanks for reading the blog.

___________________________________________________________________