I wasn’t “cool” growing up, but comforted knowing I was in the cool group. The luster of the Bobbys and Joels and Julius’s and Ermines inured to my benefit, rubbing off on me to the extent that as I walked Brush halls, I figured others knew if I was friends with them, I must be OK. (At least that was my perception. It didn’t quite generate the “street cred” playing swift pitching with Fromin and Simmerson had years earlier, but it worked wonders on this insecure product of a broken home).

Nor did I date back then, (except for Homecoming or proms— events that might render me conspicuous by my absence). So I never saw a Bond movie—ever—‘though my friends did. Indeed, the closest I came was my Dad taking me to see Dean Martin in a Matt Helm movie. At least I wasn’t home watching Star Trek, still years from catching on. I shot hoops indoors with Alan, played one-on-one tackle outdoors with Codgie, spent every other weekend with our father… and smiled. No, I wasn’t Bobby Snyder, but I wasn’t Sheldon Cooper either.

I knew my place in the system.

I clung, frankly, to the reality of it all. So did Wido, I think. Never discussed it with Alan, but I’m guessing he too had a sense of the food chain…and, like me, thrived on his insecurities. For contrast, think God Damn Will, our buddy found at the 40th reunion throwing shoes in the center of the crowd of frontline girls. Really Will? Really? (We had no choice but to hide his loafers). Give it up Will. You’re not Snyder either—or even Fenton.

Semi-nebbish that I was, I not only knew the drill, but got it. Though not on the A-list, I knew how to read it. Embracing then, my place in this realm, I was…in my own way…in touch.

I loved the Beatles, sang Motown, and accepted the Stones. Played decent ball, did the AZA thing, evaporated with my father every other weekend, was a eunich through high school, but thought I knew what I’d do if I ever did date…

(I was wrong).

So what happened? Forty years on—somewhat self-assure —I’m (for lack of better words….……..out of touch.

The list or Rock Hall Of Fame inductees emerged this week. Not one artist conjured memories for me. Can’t name a Peter Gabriel song, to start. And the rest? One’s known for his tongue, one for his suicide—-yet another for his ban from our country. And Linda Ronstadt? Don’t get me started. The Cellmates were a better cover band than she was.

I’m either old or out of touch or both. Do I care?

I used to read TMZ, peruse Perez and scour the Enquirer. No longer. Don’t know the names; don’t watch the shows; don’t share the piercings.

I AM out of touch. I …

Watch Letterman nightly, never switching to Kimmel. I like Jimmy and often his guests are better. But it’s 2013 and somehow after all these years I’ve morphed into Grandma Bogart clinging to Ed Sullivan. (Or as she called him: Ed Solomon).

Love movies, but rarely go. Sci-fi ain’t me. Nor The Hobbit, nor vampires…nor Rocky X (God forbid). Where have you gone old Woody Allen comedies? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you.

And yet I try—try to relate…to stay in touch.

I’m on Pandora, (due to Stacy’s “head’s up”). Quibble if you must about my stations, but for every Fogelberg, Denver or Dylan you’ll Daugherty, Adele, Maroon Five….

And I Facetime, don’t skype…

And I tweet—here and there.

I’m not in touch, and I know it. In field goal range, though—and I’m in the game. Content not to be PC; proud to be anti-DH.

SECURE…after all these years….being a semi-nebbish.

2 Responses to “OUT OF TOUCH”

  1. Mark Ermine says:

    A semi-nebbish……….. in some ways aren’t we all? Even semi-nebbishes are great friends. Thanks for being one!

  2. Aunt Helen says:

    My nephew is not a semi-nebbish. He is 100% nebbish

Leave a Reply