TMI: My Tangents
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Hello, Mr. (not Gerald) Wilson!

For a person who remembers minutiae and crags, your writer finds it convenient to choke back context. Forgetfulness has a major ingredient in distraction, and there are lots of glowing screens to distract these days. When one glowing screen, approximately, dominated a lot of childhood and I still wonder why I watched so much.

I never liked the show "Dennis The Menace" but unlike the usual result of antagonists and protagonists being pounded into us I always felt empathy toward Mr. Wilson. Maybe he wasn't that likeable but he was literate and complex compared to the impudent brats---and adults egging brats on---assailing him.

I felt like him, especially Sunday, at the jazz festival. The lone guy at the end of the row; "Y'all ready to party?" is not an expression high on my stimulus list. Practically no dancing, waving a hankie, or desire to join a conga line here. I screamed at one character who certainly had a booming voice. "It carries," he said. No, now you're using a catapult. This guy had come down to carry on a conversation with a fellow behind me and it was about who wanted what drink, a girl who couldn't show up from taking her Dad out . . . 100 decibels for seemingly 100 minutes.

First I kept glaring and people noticing this ranged from incredulous to "Oh, well" on their faces. Yes, I sit still, sometimes read the paper when a great solo is going on but I'm not butting into anyone. An eccentric.

The Playboy Festival---ought to say it all, Dan---has always had this raucous and distracting atmosphere. Between many acts and audience devolution the last two have been working on a deepening nadir. Every now and then I got a little chat with those around me; while I draw nasty conclusions about personal demeanor (like a Briggs ENFP) perchance the party people do somewhat better outside this yearly bacchanalia.

But it's a rising tide, the attention deficit manner in which music is treated as a social event. Poor little lonely guy.

It came to light that Jay North, playing menacing Dennis, was an abused child. His Mom cuffed him around on the set, and crew people recalled, "Oh, how we tried to help." But you don't shut down money. The show goes on, none of [your] business. The Hollywood in the bowl exemplified by the Hopper's and Bacon's.

Ah, the complexity of a situation. I have enjoyed it in much rock, jazz, and what-have music. But the narcissist minds are blanked out to this, even as it seems they sop up a louder and more hollow mess of stimuli.

Back later, hopefully in more vignette form. I have a lot to explain.

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