I see no reason to keep silent about my enjoyment of the sound of my own voice as I work. Muriel Spark
I worked my way through college at the performing arts center located on campus. For the most part, I worked in the box office during the day taking ticket orders by telephone and keeping the place as organized as possible, slowly advancing to Assistant Box Office Manager before graduating with a bachelor’s degree in anthropology/sociology within a three-year period (bragging rights after graduating high school in three years as well). Cell phones (let alone smartphones) and the internet didn’t exist to waste my time. Nor did we have a computer (that didn’t arrive until after I graduated and hung on for a few more months). Everything was done by hand, so, needless to say, I always seemed to have something to do. Up until a few days before an event, most of my time was spent in solitude studying, with the occasional friend stopping by to say hello or asking to score free tickets on their way to class and/or another work-study student coming in after realizing they had hours to make up in order to get their tuition paid.
I enjoyed the solitude…most of the time. However, I preferred having someone at my side to chat up a storm. Throughout my three years in that box office, there was a steady stream of work-study students coming and going on a regular basis, all assuming it would be a cake job and loads of fun…until their first event. At least I had the radio to keep me company in between co-workers, a habit I still hold today to ward off the loneliness.
I don’t like empty silence (which is why I would’ve made a terrible outpatient therapist). One of the numerous secretaries at the performing arts center described me to a tee the day she met me.
Secretary: You’re that four-year-old kid standing in the middle of the room, stomping her feet and waving her fists, shouting, “Pay attention to me!”
Yeah, she pretty much nailed it. I was the youngest of five children, seventh on the list of priorities. By the time I had anything important to say, my three oldest siblings were out of the house, leaving me mostly alone to my own thoughts.
Very often I am told I talk too much. From my parents and siblings to distant relatives and close friends (and the occasional stranger), I am fully aware that everyone thinks I talk too much. For years and years, I allowed my feelings to be hurt by this one criticism. And ya know what? I don’t care anymore. I know I talk too much. It’s who I am and for as long as my voice can be heard, I will continue to talk too much. Get over it.
So, now for that radio habit…
Music has always been present in my house, regardless of where and with whom I lived (which includes living with a coke-addicted rock band in Arizona that never left the ground). Of course, as a child, and most definitely as a teenager, my eyes couldn’t have rolled higher when forced to listen to my parents’ choice of music on the car radio, especially on long road trips in the family station wagon. Now, as a middle-aged adult, I find myself listening (and actually enjoying) “the classics” of my parent’s generation – Perry Como (mom’s absolute favorite), Tony Bennett (my secret fantasy husband), Andy Williams (the King of Christmas) and Mel Torme (the Velvet Fog). My musical palate is much like my taste in wine – it’s all over the place. My godsend was when Alice Cooper finally admitted he liked the Bee Gees. If that Alice could like the Bee Gees, this Alice could like anything.
My radio is on (99% of the time to WXPN, the other 1% Pandora) from the time I open my eyes in the morning to the minute I go to bed at night, the only sound supplementing the silence being my sound machine of crickets chirping. Music has helped me through many a hard time in this life of mine. But now it serves a greater purpose – I suffer from chronic tinnitus…24/7, every second, every minute, every hour, every day of every week for over 25 years. Music pleasantly drowns out the incessant noise emanating from my brain. So nowadays, when the music isn’t playing, I talk too much to distract my ears from hearing my brain’s babel. Plus, I’m just a social creature. Deal with it.
On January 21, 1989, the hubby and I had our first date at the performing arts center where I had worked a year before, me then working at a drug rehab in Atlantic City. It was the Hartford Ballet. They sucked (sorry guys). Their stomping feet so loud above the orchestra and smoking backstage in between scenes just didn’t do it for us…but it’s a story we tell to this day, thirty years later…thank you Hartford Ballet!
I’ve met some famous people because I talk too much. But, of course, I don’t have pictures to prove it because there weren’t any smartphones hanging around in those days…you’ll just have to take my word for it (wink, wink)…
Gossip, gossip, we want gossip!
Arlo Guthrie is a beautiful human being. He performed at the PAC when his son, Abe (in his teens), first began touring with him, and Arlo made sure no one was getting anywhere near his kid. I actually had a picture taken of me with Arlo but the photo didn’t come out. Despite his refusal to sing Alice’s Restaurant, Arlo was very polite and a majorly decent human being. He later played the PAC again in the fall of 1987…and played Alice’s Restaurant…while I was studying in Ireland. However, me, the hubby, Kathy and her husband, Joe, went to see Arlo during the 50th Anniversary tour of Alice’s Restaurant. I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of the show…except Alice’s Restaurant. Dude, I totally get why you don’t wanna sing that song no mo’…
What can one say about Richie Havens? He is one of the most-humble human beings I’ve ever met. One of my closest friends at the time was a member of the Lenape tribe. He swore he was best buds with Richie since the Civil Rights Movement…and he wasn’t lying! Richie, you are so missed. A beautiful spirit.
When I heard that Judy Collins was coming to the PAC, I immediately called Kathy, who was a big fan. At that point, our tickets were free (wink, wink). I had arranged for Kathy to meet Judy in person (wink, wink). Prior to bringing Kathy backstage, I met with Judy to let her know how much my sister loved her and how much she wanted to meet her…and she was a total bitch. Not wanting to ruin the moment, I didn’t dare tell Kathy about my meeting with Judy (I apologize Kathy that you have to hear this now, thirty-five years later).
Unbeknownst to me, the hubby was in the audience when Miles Davis performed at the PAC. We had to create a private space for Miles because of his active recovery and chronic shyness. He only came out to perform. It was enough for both of us. One of the best jazz musicians of all time.
Marvin Hamlisch…I don’t really want to say anything else.
Pilobolus…I saw you practice naked…oy!
Sophomore year I told the school photographer that my name was Alice Cooper. She believed me…and my mother worked in the attendance office…too funny.
I met Glen Buxton in 1984 at a party somewhere in Arizona…maybe the Phoenix area? Either way, he was seriously f***ed up and had no idea how he ended up at the party and ultimately passed out in a chair while I stared at him. Alice Cooper seems to be my legacy.
Okay, so I didn’t get to meet my fantasy husband, Tony Bennett, but I did meet his son at the Bat Mitzvah of a friend of the kid’s because he was married to her aunt (not the kid’s, the friend’s). This was the year that we took the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon challenge.
- my daughter was friends with
- the daughter
- of a woman
- whose sister was married to
- Danny Bennett, the son of Tony Bennett,
- who met at the Spirit of Independence honoring Clint Eastwood in 2007.
I said you talk about this, and you talk about that
When the cat took your tongue, I say you took it right back