Tanja Buzzi Moriarty

Category: TanJam Sessions

Thoughts

  • Good American Booed

    Good American Booed

    by Tan Moriarty

    I scanned the crowded room of people sitting at wooden tables and benches in the pub at the hiker’s lodge during a recent trip in Glencoe, Scotland.  The musician in the corner, a graying man in his early 70s, donned in plaid, flannel shirt and worn khakis, was asking his audience in a heavy Scottish accent, where we all were from. 

    “Let’s see who’s come the farthest?” 

    A young woman volunteered she was from New Zealand. Another person was from France, another from Italy. 

    “Anyone from the United States?”

    My hand shot up, and two men standing the bar said, “Texas.” 

    There was low, but audible booing! 

    Booing!

    Wait, what?

    I felt kicked in my gut. I didn’t even bother pipe in that I was from Connecticut.

    Then I registered anger. Not for those who showed distain for my country, could I blame them? But, yet again, for the awful leadership of my country and the mess we are in especially because of the current administration.

    Part of me wanted to shout out, “I do not represent him or those who are giving us a bad name. I am a good American!”

    But I sat there, my pulse racing, sipping my Scottish cask drawn beer.

    My husband said, “I knew that was going to happen.”

    One of my kids added, “I just tell people I’m from Canada.” 

    How sad that my thirty-something kids feel this sort of, what? Disgust? Shame? Even my veteran husband was affected and chose to keep still. 

    Maybe I am just naïve? Being booed as an American visiting other country these days shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. We didn’t stay long that night to listen to the music. While we had hiked several miles through beautiful mountain trails that day and were tired, the booing also dampened our evening. 

    Thankfully, that remote lodge was the only place and incident throughout our ten-day trip where we encountered anything disparaging being Americans. We found the rest of Scotland to be warm and welcoming. 

    The incident has made me think, though. I recalled my first experience of people’s perception of me as an American. I was in northern Italy, becoming acquainted with relatives in 2005. 

     “You are not loud like the Texans on the show Dallas,” a cousin said. She explained Americans were portrayed as wealthy, brassy and toting guns.

    I laughed then at that TV image stereotype. 

    I am not laughing now.  Instead, I am thinking of how to celebrate our country’s 250th anniversary, despite the current leadership, the divisions, and the general malaise. 

    A friend sent me a photo from 1976 of happy Americans gathered at the Reflecting Pool in D.C. to celebrate our country’s bicentennial.

    Reflecting Pool, 1976, 200th Birthday

    I remember my own town turned out to celebrate. There was large production at the local high school with pageantry, singing and dancing. Some of my fellow fifth graders and I were chosen to dance an 18th century minuet, complete with gowns and white wigs! Of course, there were picnics and fireworks. 

    Compare these images to Trump’s Freedom 250 Great American State Fair farce in D.C. today. A complete bust with very little attendance because of the sad state of our union.

    On our nation’s lawn, 250th birthday

    Yes, there will be other local celebrations on the 4th, but this is a big birthday for us! Things seemed much more subdued.

    I don’t want to add more sadness, anger or misery by dwelling on our current government and country’s serious troubles. Nor do I want to come off as a complete Pollyanna saying that everything is great, when clearly, we’ve had better times as a country. All I can do is keep thinking, “This too, shall pass.”

    So, despite it all, I plan to focus on things that still make me proud to be an American this July 4, 2026.

    1.     Our beautiful lands, parks, mountains, oceans, lakes, rivers and streams.

    2.     Our freedom of religion, separation of church and state, free speech

    3.     Free public libraries

    4.     Our good people: neighbors, organizations, clubs, schools, houses of worship that raise people up and help people in need. 

    5.     Our forefathers and foremothers who fought and sacrificed for us.

    What can you add to this list? 

    Wishing you, and our 250 -year-old care-worn country a happy birthday and healthier future! 

  • Kiss Left Me Cold and Wet: Confessions of a Cranky Concertgoer

    Kiss Left Me Cold and Wet: Confessions of a Cranky Concertgoer

    I wasn’t even meant to go originally. My husband Sean bought two tickets to the Kiss show at Hartford’s Xfinity Theater back in November of 2019 for he and our then 27-year-old son, Chris. The two joked about the over-the-top costumes, frenetic guitar stylings, and pumped-up pyro techniques promised at the iconic, four decade-old metal band’s “End of the Road World Tour.” 

    Waiting for the Kiss curtain to rise.

    The tickets were $30 lawn seats. Not a huge investment if the show was lame, they reasoned. 

    As it turned out, Kiss was postponed twice. First, due to Covid (before vaccines), and then in September 2021 after front man Paul Stanley and bassist Gene Simmons tested positive for COVID-19.

    As the fateful rescheduled day finally arrived, Chris politely begged out of going. A high school chum was heading east from Colorado. He also wanted to see his girlfriend.

    “I’ll go with Dad,” I said, gallantly. Far be it from me to stand in the way of my adult children’s romances.

    Besides, how bad could it be? Sean and I make a point of seeing performers from “back in the day.” Age-defying performers like Pete Townshend, Roger Daltrey, Gordon Lightfoot, and Weird Al Yankovic impress us with their tenacity and longevity. Kiss deserved the same homage, right?

    On Saturday night, Sean and I sidestepped a sea of fellow cheap-seaters and set up our folding lawn chairs on the slope of the hill.

    Before the show, and the rain, on the hill at Xfinity Theatre, Hartford

    As we sat on the hill on an awkward angle, I noticed a twinge in my lower back. I noted to self, better stand and stretch on and off throughout the show or I could pay for it later. Peering ahead, I could just make out the dwarfed stage, rows and rows behind giant hanging screens meant for us lawn folk.

    Since both of us are counting calories, we decided not to have booze, though in hindsight, I think it might’ve helped. Instead, we sipped well-marketed sparkling water called, “Liquid Death” for $5 a piece. 

    While we waited for the warmup act, we surveyed our fellow lawn mates. Most were middle aged folk, like us, greying at the temples, thick-wasted. The majority were white, tired-looking guys with beer-belly paunches emphasized in their fifty-dollar Kiss concert t-shirts. A wiry, older thin woman, a few chair rows down, gyrated to every rock song blaring over the speakers, lit ciggie in hand. She was bump-dancing with a chubby little girl we couldn’t decide was her granddaughter or a very late-in-life love child.

    As it grew darker, the air around us became heavily saturated with pot smoke. In hindsight, again, maybe a contact-high would’ve helped.

    The clouds above thickened. We hoped the rain would hold off until after the show. 

    It didn’t. 

    A light mist began as the opening act, a muralist, David Garibaldi took the stage around 7:45. This was interesting. No warm up band, but a warm up artist.

    He painted three very large murals, very quickly as he engaged the audience. One was of Alice Cooper, the other the Statue of Liberty, and the third, a mural of Kiss, to be signed by the band. This piece was to be raffled off on an on-line fund raiser to benefit families of fallen soldiers. Sean entered. “Wouldn’t this go great over our bed, honey?”

    An example of David Garibaldi’s work.

    While Garbaldi’s art warm-up was captivating and the fund-raiser was noble, it was unfortunate he was also tasked with warming up/riling up the crowd as he painted. I kinda felt bad for him as he pointed his brush to each section in turn, to see who could make the most noise. “When Kiss asks me which section was the loudest, I can tell them!”

    What? It felt like a strange grade school pep rally. The crowd (around us and especially in the closer-to-the stage, sheltered-from-rain seats) were hot for Kiss as Garbaldi left the stage at about 8:15. 

    Any second now, I looked at my Fitbit, the huge Kiss curtain should rise. They’d be ready to rock since they didn’t have to wait for a warmup band to dismantle. They could get right on.

    Tick, tock. Drip, Drop.

    Here’s where I got cranky.

    15 minutes later, no Kiss. 30 minutes later, no Kiss.  45 minutes later, no Kiss. 48 minutes later, no Kiss. At 9:03 it starting to rain more-than-tolerable mist.

    I turned to Sean. “Do you think they had a geriatric emergency? Or are they just arrogant as f—?”

    Sean shrugged. 

    Even though we brought our raincoats, the front of my jeans were getting damp. Because I frequently stood up to stretch my back, my butt sopped up the wetness when I sat back down. “If they’re not on by 9:15, I’m out of here.”

    Sean frowned. “I want to see at least some of the show.”

    He texted his co-worker who was inside the sheltered area, much closer to the stage. “45 minutes from the warmup guy is getting a little ridiculous. My wife wonders if they had a geriatric emergency.”

    His friend joked that someone must’ve spiked the prune juice. He did say he could see their big boots peeking out from under the curtains, “They should start soon.”

    FINALLY, the stage opened. Kiss was introduced as “THE Hottest Band in the World!” 

    Gads. What? There was no apology or explanation for the interminable wait? Did they even care if a good number of their suckers (I mean their Kiss Army) were out in the elements waiting a whole 48 minutes for them after their warm-up guy? I certainly got cold…and damp!

    Assessing the close-ups on the mega-screens, none of the four septuagenarians looked as though they had just suffered an age-related incident that evening. Instead, thanks to the face make-up, leather, and studs, they all just looked as if they stepped off one of their 70s albums.  Once or twice, though, you could see the tell-tale loose skin on their necks if you weren’t distracted by the frenetic flames and lasers. Still, they were as spry as 20 year olds! Good for them, but how was that possible? A deal with the devil, perhaps?

    Impossible not to see, and hard to “unsee” Gene Simmon’s
    giant codpiece!

    Sorry, I just wasn’t impressed. I was cold and wet, and peeved at their real or put-on arrogance. They cupped their hands to their ears, demanding for louder cheering, adoration. They badgered for more applause. I get that it was supposed to be their over-the-top theatrics. What I registered was lowbrow and wrestling federation tricks.

    And I know that Gene’s super long tongue waggling is his schtick, but I got totally grossed out, seeing it blown up several times its already unnaturally lizard length on the big screens. I was disturbed with his Demon character, blood dripping from his mouth. 

    To their credit, as musicians, they played extremely well for dudes in their 70s. I’m sure die-hard fans were lit up with their stage presence, prowess, and cultish behaviors. I’m not completely above sophomoric lyrics—Lick It Up, and Doctor Love—I love the rock parody documentary Spinal Tap. It had to be inspired by Kiss!

    Spinal Tap is an awesome movie and has fantastic sound track!

    I felt bad for Sean but was relieved when he asked if we wanted to make an early exit.  We weren’t the only ones leaving before the finale. There was a small stream of others who would also miss “Beth” and “I Want to Rock and Roll All Night.” Later, as we checked the set list, we discovered we did see about 3/4s of the show.

    After we got home, I began to wonder about myself. Am I getting too old to sit at on an odd-angled folding chair in wet pants waiting 48 minutes for an iconic band to grace us with their greatness? Am I a snob? Am I too impatient? Maybe we should have upgraded our lawn seats?

  • Home Haircut: Husband Trusts Me with Clippers!

    Home Haircut: Husband Trusts Me with Clippers!

    He’s so trusting!

    New adventures in this Covid19 climate. My husband has a barber in Middletown. He goes every six weeks or so, usually very early in the morning because the shop fills up quickly. Sean, like many guys has a preferred cut, a fade, or in the summer, a high and tight style. He is pretty particular about his hair.

    Though, I told him I wouldn’t mind at all if he let it grow out the wavy way he wore it when we dated in the 80s.

    What a hottie! Springfest at SCSU 1985

    After Covid19 protocols closed the barbershop, Sean combed the internet for a decent hair clipper set. Hard to find on-line, like rubbing alcohol, hand sanitizers, or fluffy toilet paper. After two failed attempts for home delivery from two different companies, Sean donned mask and gloves and picked up a good set at a local box store.

    On an appointed day, Sean who is a very careful reader, laid out the pieces end-to-end and announced,

    “Honey, you can do this!”

    Trusting Sean.

    “Are you sure?”

    “Yes! The worse that could happen is that I’ll just have to buzz it all off.”

    “But what if I cut you? ”

    “You really can’t.”

    So I read and re-read the directions as he got a chair and towel.

    The zzz-zzz of the clipper reminded me of bees. I nervously and lightly ran the clipper guard over his thick hair. Nothing happened. We decided I had to go use a smaller clipper guard. He pushed my hand hard into his scalp with the clipper to illustrate I needed to apply A LOT more pressure to make any hair come off!

    I sucked in my breath and felt like I was jamming it into his head. It didn’t shred him so I loosened up and started to play a little.

    Ooh, look at me! I’m a hairstylist!

    Sean got up and looked in the mirror and came back laughing. Wasn’t what he had in mind!

    Embracing the challenge and with even more instruction from Sean, I managed to blend or fade, or whatever it’s called. He didn’t have to shave it all off and start from a cue-ball.

    Not bad! He’d tell me or would have buzzed it off!
  • Love & Marriage

    Love & Marriage

    You have to have fun in your marriage. Travel, hike, binge watch shows. Honor your anniversary with alone time. Play and dance to your wedding song or favorite couple’s song. Go through your wedding album together. Pray together.

     

  • The Hardest Part of Parenting: Realizing Our Kids are Only On Loan To Us

    The Hardest Part of Parenting: Realizing Our Kids are Only On Loan To Us

    OH MY! Chris Moriarty just moved up to Burlington, VT on Sunday to start a new job. I can’t believe what a gut punch that was. Thought I was ready for it—didn’t even think about it leading up to it, really. Erin Moriarty has been out of the house for three years. We see her almost every month and we’ve gotten accustomed to this. She loves where she lives. Now Chris is going to check out Burlington, too.

    Yet, after he pulled out of the driveway I was a mess. I know it is so good for him to spread his wings, so good for all, but those first few hours after he left were almost unbearable. (A weird kind of birthing process?)

    It is NOT written in any of the baby books how fast childhood goes or how bittersweet (translation, “wrenching”) it is when they fly out of the nest. It can be mind-blowing to realize that our children really are meant only to be “loaned” to us. In time, they should be encouraged/let go to have their own life to probe, discover, embrace…

    I am proud beyond words for him for taking this step. My heart is so full that he and Erin have such a good and solid sibling relationship that they are there for each other.

    I know I speak for Sean Moriarty when I say we are so grateful for the many blessings we’ve been given in raising both Erin Moriarty and Chris Moriarty. God has granted them and us two decent (not saying perfect), but two (plus) decent decades growing up as a family. Because of this, every time we get together it will be richer and more precious still. God is so good and merciful…and is watching over them.

    e-c-in-ireland
    Chris 23, Erin 25, in Ireland 2016

    Life is Beautiful by The Afters :

  • Tann-ya! Tahn-ya! Banana! Bah-nah-nah!

    What’s in a name?

    Tanja Buzzi Moriarty's avatarTanja Buzzi Moriarty

    Welcome to my website!  I am  Tanja, pronounced “Tann-ya.”  (Nevermind the “J”, it’s silent. Think Scandinavian, like “Yumpin’ Yiminy” for “Jumpin’ Jiminy”.)   It’s  “Tann-ya”, like “Can ya?” not “Tahn -ya”,  that rhymes with lasagna. Think Sun-Tan, or tan as in beige.

    This is all a bit laborious to explain every time I hear my name read from an attendance sheet, a roll call, or resume.  I wince when nine of ten times it’s, “Tahn-ya” I hear, and not my given pronounciation, “Tann-ya.”

    Most of the times I just deal with it—like the momentary scratch of nails on a chalkboard.  It’s easier to take it if I know that I’ll probably never have to deal with the person again, say at the DMV when my renewed, still warm driver’s license is ready, “Tahn-ya, your license is ready,” or I am alerted from a librarian that a book I am picking through library loan is in. “Tahn-ya, your…

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  • The Great Flying Swings by Tanja Buzzi,1975

    Tanja at ten. My fifth grade teacher, Lance Hall encouraged our class to write stories. He would then read them to the class. Though my home life was very stressful at this time, school was a haven to me. Before puberty and peer pressure set in, I was creative and comfortable with myself—and recognized as a writer!

    One fine Saturday, I went down to the carnival.  I bought two rolls of tickets.  First I decided to go on the Ferris Wheel. It was high up, but I didn’t care.  I saw the whole carnival.  Then I went over the concession stand to get some cotton candy and a soda.  After that I went on the Round Up but that was pretty short.  Then I went on the Moon walk and stayed on two tickets long.  Then I was tired.

    So I hopped on the Scrambler.  Then I noticed the Flying Swings.  I got off and went on one of the outside swings.  The motor started and I was going around and around.  For some reason, I felt the bottom of the swing, something that felt like a knob.  I pushed it. All of a sudden the chain unhooked and I started to go up, just as if I was a balloon and someone let go of my string.  Well any way, I went up about 10 feet.  Everyone stared at me even the guys that ran the rides were looking up at me. I went up a little higher so I was even with the Ferris Wheel.  I said, “Stop!” and the swing stopped.

    I heard a fat lady say, “What shall we do, should we call the telephone company?” That really helps matters, doesn’t it?  Everyone was worried all except me.  I was having a ball!  I could see almost all of Higganum! The people of the Middletown Press and the Hartford Courant came to take pictures and to write articles on me.

    The Eye Witness news team came down and did a report on me.  Then a special telegram went to the President of the United States.  Mr. Ford came by helicopter.  He landed on the Higganum Green.  Then he saw me and said to me, “How on earth did you get up there?”  I started to explain but everybody started shaking hands and asking him for autographs.

    So I pushed the bottom and said, “Take me back home.”  So I went back home.  “Don’t believe me then.”  That’s what I said when I told my family.  Then my sister said, “What do you have to prove it?”  Then I went to my room and got the swing then told it to glide down the stairs and go straight to the family room.  It did.  My family was astonished.  “It was all run by a machine, see the knob and wires?” I said.  I looked around at the swing’s bottom seat.  On it was a mark that said, “Hollywood California, filming.”  It must have been in a place where they had made movies. I wrote to The Middletown Press and to the Courant to get things cleared up.    The end.

    Do you remember when you were ten? What were you like? What did you do for fun?  Write yourself a letter from your ten year old self to your present day self.  What would he or she say to you? Advise you to do?

  • Tann-ya! Tahn-ya! Banana! Bah-nah-nah!

    Welcome to my website!  I am  Tanja, pronounced “Tann-ya.”  (Nevermind the “J”, it’s silent. Think Scandinavian, like “Yumpin’ Yiminy” for “Jumpin’ Jiminy”.)   It’s  “Tann-ya”, like “Can ya?” not “Tahn -ya”,  that rhymes with lasagna. Think Sun-Tan, or tan as in beige.

    This is all a bit laborious to explain every time I hear my name read from an attendance sheet, a roll call, or resume.  I wince when nine of ten times it’s, “Tahn-ya” I hear, and not my given pronounciation, “Tann-ya.”

    Most of the times I just deal with it—like the momentary scratch of nails on a chalkboard.  It’s easier to take it if I know that I’ll probably never have to deal with the person again, say at the DMV when my renewed, still warm driver’s license is ready, “Tahn-ya, your license is ready,” or I am alerted from a librarian that a book I am picking through library loan is in. “Tahn-ya, your book is in.”

    But what really peeves me is when I just introduced myself to someone who I will likely see frequently, socially, or professionally who seems to completely disregard the proper pronounciation of my name. I start out with high hopes, extending my hand first. “Hi, I am Tann- ya,” I say with firm emphasis on the “ann” part. “Oh, hi, Tahhhhhhhn-ya, I’m so and so.”  Wince, wince.  I am so distracted by the mispronunciation of my name and secretly cursing the person, that I have to really work to remember his or her name.

    Conversely,  if a person says my name correctly on first meeting, I am instantly delighted and already like them.  Many times though in subsequent meetings or  if they immediately introduce me to someone else, they fall from grace because they identify me as, “Tahhn-ya.”  Ugh!

    Why can’t a person take an extra half brain cell in the audio department of his or her head to recall the correct sound of “Tann-ya”, instead of falling back on the stock, generic “Tahn-ya”?

    What’s fun too,  is that people say more times than you’d think, “Oh, you’re Tann-ya! My friend has a dog named Tahhn-ya. Great! It’s usually some shih tzu or stuck up poodle.  Figures.

    One of my college professors, a communications department head no less, actually admonished me once at the beginning of a semester.   He called my name the wrong way in class and I shyly corrected him,  “Please call me Tann-ya.”

    “Tann-ya? Why Tann-ya?” he sneered the short ” a”  through his nasal cavity. “Tahn-ya is so much more sophisticated!”

    “You’re an ahhhs-hole,” I thought to myself, too self-conscious back then to say it.  “My mother named me Tann-ya. I am not a Tahhn-ya.”

    On occasion I bump into a woman who is wearing “Tanya” on a name badge, or some variation of our troublesome name.  I almost always ask, “Do you pronounce it Tahn-ya or Tann-ya?”  Inveribly she says she’s a “Tahn-ya.”    I say, “I’m Tann-ya.  Do you ever get called Tann-ya?”  There’s a pause and I recognize the kindred sparkle in her eyes. “I get called “Tann-ya” all the time!”