I’ve always disliked writing a blog because it always felt like writing a journal to me. Except this journal, everyone could see. Now I realized that they are two separate things.
I find it interesting, the everyday conversations we have in life. Now I get to start have a lot of conversations with everyone from around the world due to the nature of my job.
Today, I sat next to a gentleman from Branson, Missouri. He wore tattered jeans, sunglasses, and a button up shirt that he allowed to hang open one too many buttons, revealing his sun-soaked skin. The yellow stains on his fingers and his fidgeting suggested two things: one, he was a smoker, and two, he hadn’t smoked all morning. Now I’m grateful for the latter because we crammed ourselves into the petite airline seats in which only a twelve-year-old would be comfortable and I was not interested in trying to keep out the rank odor that accompanies that habit. He propped his feet up against the bulkhead to reveal his sockless feet clad in woven sandals. He opened up today’s copy of USA Today and roamed through the headlines with no interest until he paused at the purple Life section to read an article that grabbed his interest.
He immediately turned to me, “Woah, look at that,” he said pointing to a photo of Sting. “The Police are getting back together.”
Now I’ve heard of The Police and I know I like some of their songs, and I definitely like Sting, but when you ask me who sings what song, that’s like asking a quadriplegic to pass you the salt. However, before I could stop myself, I replied to his comment, “Wow, that great that they can do that at their age.” It was a harmless comment and I didn’t even think about what I was saying until the man guessed my age exactly.
“You’re 24 aren’t you?”
“Yep.”
“So, you think they’re old?” He said, again gesturing toward the photo.
“Uh…” My mind raced to correct the possible insult. “I think anyone that is older than me is old, I guess it’s just how my generation is.” I only dug the hole deeper with this comment. I was way past recovery.
“What, do you like Greenday?” He asked with mild interest.
“Not really.”
“What bands do you like?”
“I don’t really like bands, I’m more of a song kind of a person.” My mind raced to find something, if anything to help me get back on an adult level with him. “Today there aren’t really any great bands like The Police, you just don’t hear about them.”
His demeanor changed with an agreeing nod and then he began to lecture me on the bands of the past. And then it moved to movies. He asked if I had ever seen The Godfather. I asked which one.
“All of them.”
“I’ve only seen the first one.” He hung his head disapprovingly.
“Have you seen Goodfellas?” I nodded my head affirmatively, not really remembering if I had or not. “Oh good. I actually had a small part in that one.”
Oh, he’s an actor, now that I can relate with. “What do you do for a living.”
“I’m a musician.” It was all starting to make sense: the attire, the appalled attitude, the businessman-hippy demeanor. This guy has to be a guitarist. “I play the guitar.”
“You really think The Police are old?” I let that question be rhetorical.
The airline bell sounded, I put on my headphones and the conversation was over.
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