In part one of this post, I concentrated on deep album cuts that I had come across that I felt were so stupid that I couldn't believe anyone would spend the valuable studio time investment to save these songs for all eternity.
In part 2, I am going to be much more subjective. We have all come across songs on the radio that are musically disposable, for whatever reason. Yet in order to make my list, I wanted to focus on songs that not only are borderline terrible in the musical composition department, but contain lyrics that actually make the track worse.
Realizing that all music is subjective, there may appear on this list a song that you actually like. I wish I could say I'm sorry, but if I did I wouldn't mean it. In my humble opinion and with my well-traveled ears, these songs are dumb, and no amount of rerecording or tutoring will ever save them from the depths of stupidity in which they now languish for all measured time. So, with that in mind, let's start with an oldie, but a goodie:
"Dancing In The Street" - Various Artists - I have had discussions with people who truly like this song as a happy, celebratory song that makes them feel good. This song has been recorded by a number of artists, including Martha Reeves & The Vandellas, The Mamas & Papas (there they are again; what was John Phillips thinking?) and a particularly abysmal version by Mick Jagger & David Bowie from 1985.
I hate to break it to you, but this song is the epitome of stupid escapism and should never again be heard by human ears. The only type of event that would cause this kind of mass, communal dancing through the streets of all of the cities mentioned in the lyrics would be an oncoming nuclear bomb or chemical attack. Only we wouldn't call it "dancing". It's called a riot, and it's a BAD THING!
One last footnote: one of the cities mentioned is "Philadelphia, PA", a town where I once lived. How ridiculous is the assertion that Philadelphia would suddenly break into dancing? Well, dancing is prohibited by the Philadelphia Parking Authority in all parking lots prior to sports contests at the stadiums and arenas there. In reality, if a group of people start dancing in the streets of Philadelphia, the first reaction is to call 9-1-1 to get these idiots off the streets, or, failing that, a few sharp billy clubs to the back of the head. Philadelphia, PA indeed! This song needed a fact checker.
"Young Turks" - Rod Stewart - Ah, what would an article of musical criticism from me be without yet another pot shot at that legendary Acid-Throated Bard of All Things Mediocre?
Since 1974, we have had a LOT of musical crap from this one source. I am hoping that one day the powers that be give him a Lifetime Achievement Grammy inscribed with the words: "To Rod Stewart; ENOUGH ALREADY!". Until that day comes, his picture is on my mental dartboard.
There are a lot of truly stupid songs in the Rod Stewart "Canon", but "Young Turks" was dated, dumb and worthless a mere one day after first appearing on the radio in the early '80's. The main instrument in this song is one of those cheesy, Casio keyboards that were all the rage with New Wave bands of the time period. The story line of this song is a teenage couple who, acting on empty-headed impulse, run away from home. The song ends with the female half of the couple giving birth to a 10-pound baby boy. Way to encourage responsible behavior, Rod. Should we expect any less from someone who trades in the latest model he's nailing the moment she turns 30? If that wasn't bad enough, there's the chorus:
"Young hearts be free tonight
Time is on your side
Don't let 'em put you down
Don't let 'em push you around
Don't ever let them change your point of view"
Show me a teenager who is absolutely correct and set in his world view, and I'll show you a teenager with some form of mental disability. "Don't ever let them change your point of view"? Teenagers NEED a change in point of view. It's called pot, and they'll discover it in college. The National Institutes of Health has drawn a direct correlation between this song and a spike in teen pregnancies during the time period (well, not really, but I'd like to think so).
"Plush" - Stone Temple Pilots - My wife and I argue constantly about the merits of this band. To me, this song tells you all you need to know about how bad the results can be when a different record label is anxious to find an up-and-coming band with a similar sound to a band that has already hit it big. In this case, Pearl Jam had already made it, and Stone Temple Pilots were quickly pushed out into the world to be sound-alike pretenders to greatness.
Musically, there is just a bit too much of a similarity in sound between "Plush" and Pearl Jam's "Even Flow", from their multi-million selling debut "Ten". This song would be a bad idea if we stopped there, but then, Weiland (their lead singer; yea, like with his lack of talent and penchant for heroin, he earned the right to go by one name) put lyrics to this copycat song that may very well be the most incoherent and intelligence-insulting pile of fecal matter I have ever heard sung out of a human mouth:
"And I feel, I feel
When the dogs begin to smell her
Will she smell alone?"
Sorry to be profane, but what in the fuck does THAT mean? Stone Temple Pilots think so much of their lyrical abilities that they actually have the lyrics to this "song" currently posted on their website (Go ahead; they're there, I already checked). If I EVER write lyrics like this and show them to you, you have my permission to either bash my face in with a Louisville Slugger, send me to Bellevue or into rehab, whichever is most applicable at the time. The worst part of this song? It was a single TWICE, once electric and once acoustic, where you can actually understand the lyrics being sung. Why would a band do that with lyrics like these?
"All You Zombies" - The Hooters - Sweet Jesus, where do I begin?
I lived in Philly when The Hooters broke into the Great Beyond of airplay in the early '80's. I had to hear different incarnations of this song on local radio a full THREE YEARS before the rest of the country. Pity me. I'm still in recovery. I can barely get through "Night Of The Living Dead" without an indirect zombie flashback to this song.
After all this time, I am wondering what was so compelling about the Book of Exodus that it needed to be turned into an ersatz reggae power ballad. Worse yet, what the hell does Moses delivering his people from Egypt have to do with zombies? Note to Rob Hyman, Hooters lyricist: When attempting to write a political statement in song, draw a clear parallel between the point you're trying to make and the story you're telling. I don't get it. NO ONE gets it. Never sing about zombies again!
Footnote: My wife and I are viewers of VH1 Classic. Lately they have had a very nice program called "Pay To Play", where you can pay for a certain number of videos based on the size of your donation, with all of the proceeds going to Hurricane Katrina relief. We were watching it recently and at the top of the hour, the VJ is announcing who sent money in to see their favorite videos that were about to be played. The final name she said was "...and Eric Bazilian of Bryn Mawr, PA". I immediately recognized this name as being the guitarist for The Hooters, which was funny, because the VJ didn't seem to know who he was.What happened at the bottom of the hour? Three Hooters videos played back-to-back, beginning with "All You Zombies". It has truly come to this; The Hooters' music is so poorly regarded 20 years later that the only way you can hear it is for the members of the band to PAY to have it played. Unfortunately, Eric was a co-writer of the next song on the list, so the royalties he has earned may buy a lot of crappy music on your airwaves. Hopefully, VH1 Classic's program has been a success and can be ended as soon as possible to avoid this kind of whoring by washed-up musicians from my hometown.
"God" - Joan Osbourne - As if the madness of The Hooters in the '80's hadn't left a bad enough taste in all of our collective mouths, good ol' Rob and Eric kept writing songs together, resulting in this all-encompassing bowl of dried rhino snot disguised as a musical statement. Lyrics?
"Yea yea, God is great
yea, yea, God is good
yea, yea, yea, yea, yea
What if God was one of us?"
If you change the vocal inflections while singing these lyrics, it could very well sound like a 14-year-old boy beating off to the Bible. Was there really a need for this kind of statement?
I have never met a single person in my ever-expanding circle of acquaintances who actually likes this song, which, based on the model of the previous song on the list, leads me to believe that Rob and Eric had to have paid someone to break this compost pile of a composition to a wider audience. I truly think that this is a case where a video with a chick with a nose ring had more to do with the popularity of the song rather than any compelling merits of the song itself. I have to hand it to Rob and Eric. If you're going to write a dumb and pointless song that may not go anywhere, have a circus midget, a bearded lady or (if available) a chick with frizzy hair and a nose ring to record it. What's the old axiom? People are so scared of the Yankees because they're dazzled by the pinstripes. This song may be the most successful example of "bait and switch" ever inflicted on an unsuspecting and drooling public at large. Nice going, boys!
And thus ends my list. Add or subtract where you like, but these are the dumbest songs I've ever found. I am not so jaded as to think that dumber songs will not be created in the future. Rest assured that if it enters my ears, you and the composers will both hear about it in the strongest language possible.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Monday, February 13, 2006
The 10 Dumbest Songs I've Ever Found
Before I begin to catalog songs under this posting's heading, I feel that I need to come clean; I am quickly becoming an anachronism.
I do not yet own an IPod, and I have no plans to do so. I am a firm believer in the power of the album. I believe that ANYONE can catch lightning in a bottle once in their life, and that everyone probably has one good song in them. Having said that, the elevation to musical deity only happens when someone fills an album with more than one song you want to hear over and over.
Which brings us to this list I've compiled, Because I spend a lot of time listening to full CD's (dare I ask...remember those?) by artists I have come across, I have discovered songs that are fantastic that most people have never heard. On the other hand, I have discovered a lot of what is called "Filler", as in "We only have eight songs; can you come up with two more to flesh out the whole record?"
Most filler is harmless; average musical compositions that have mass, take up space and are easily bypassed by hitting the skip button on your CD player. Beyond that first line of filler are usually tracks that are of the Ed Wood variety. These songs are so dumb that you can't believe that ANY recording studio actually was reimbursed time to commit such a laughable atrocity to all posterity.
Because of my listening habits, virtually all of these tracks will be unfamiliar to you, which - trust me on this one - is a good thing. I consider this article as part of my community service sentence; I listened to them, so you don't have to.
"Spontaneous Apple Creation" - The Crazy World Of Arthur Brown - Arthur Brown was known for another song that appeared on his first album, the psychedelic nugget "Fire" ("I am the God of Hellfire, and I bring you.....Fire"). I put this song first because as much as I revel in the music of the psychedelic era, I am of the realization that there was a lot of very silly music on a lot of full-length albums of this time period. "Spontaneous Apple Creation" is one of the more egregious examples of this. The music track features a picked upright bass intro, what sounds like a xylophone, a Hammond organ and some kind of watery flying sound in the middle of it. The lyrics? Judge for yourself:
"...what could save mankind from man
when the blind, the blind overran
down from all this confused devastation
Came the great Spontaneous Apple Creation"
OK, I've smoked grass, and I don't even get that one. The funniest part of this is that Arthur Brown's first album was co-produced by Pete Townshend and Kit Lambert, the brains behind no less a masterpiece than "Tommy". How do things like this happen?
"Love and a Muscle" - The Northern Pikes - In 1988, I was listening to WIOQ in Philadelphia, a few months before it became a white rap station and I abandoned it forever. WIOQ was what we would call an Adult Alternative station today. Back then, they hadn't even thought of a label for what they played. On their playlist at the time was a song called "Things I Do For Money" by a band from Canada, The Northern Pikes. One afternoon, they were giving the band's album, "Big Blue Sky", away to the seventh caller, and I won. Upon receiving the CD in the mail and listening to it, I soon regretted that phone call. While "Things..." was an ok track, the rest of this album was so chock full of garbage as to go down in my personal history as one of the top three worst albums I ever heard beginning to end.
You would think that with so many awful tracks on one album that picking one that was worse than all others would have been a difficult task. Unfortunately, one listen to the song "Love And A Muscle" ended all debate.
I have absolutely no idea what this song is about as far as a story line, but the unforgettable first verse is its reason for inclusion on this list:
"She has a muscle
She has a muscle
She has a muscle
Flex it, Flex it, Flex that muscle"
When I'm out of fart jokes, I quote this verse at parties in my best poetry-reading voice. Notice that it stands below fart jokes in my sliding scale of Amusing. I think that tells you all that you need to know. If it was only a matter of the lyrics being dumb, I probably wouldn't have remembered this track, but the lyrics are paired with one of the worst trainwrecks of musical song structure ever committed to CD. Thankfully, this band never recorded a follow-up. Unfortunately, I'm left with the memories.
"Twist And Shout" - The Mamas And The Papas - Part of the charm of The Mamas & The Papas was the fact that they reinterpreted songs from the early '60's in the folk rock vein. This works marvelously when they covered "Dedicated To The One I Love", and I prefer their version to the original. When they covered "Twist And Shout", the revered Isley Brothers/Beatles classic, it was an absolute failure and a stupid idea. Denny Doherty sings lead on a song that requires a quick tempo, but was recorded as a slow dirge by one of my favorite vocal bands. No amount of perfect harmonies could save a song that is a straight rock and roll song recorded as a ballad. As the Beatles and the Isleys do it, I really like this song. This stands as John Phillips' worst production idea.
"Mona Bone Jakon" - Cat Stevens - I'll freely admit that Mr Stevens (Mr. Islam?) had a number of great songs, and the album of the same title that this song comes from contains some of his best work, such as "The Wind", "Trouble" and "Katmandu". And yet, in the middle of this admittedly great album is a major hiccup. I put this song on the list remembering that Elvis Costello was once quoted as saying that he didn't like to name his albums after a song on the album because he felt it put too much pressure on that song to be the best song on the album. "Mona Bone Jakon" may be the worst song that is also the title of the album that holds it. This one is a real headscratcher, because Stevens was in his songwriting prime at this moment in time. In the midst of songs that became legendary came this lyrical mess of ersatz acoustic folk blues. The opening lines?
"I've got a Mona Bone Jakon
But it won't be lonely for long"
Not only does he set a scene of us not knowing what the hell he has, but then he turns around and tells us that whatever it is he has is lonely. Sure, it's easy to think that he's singing about his schwantz whenever someone sings about anything containing the word "bone", but I find it hard to believe that any man, even in his most drunk and primitive state, would name his penis "Mona". Just ask that dear old friend between my legs, Cousin It.
"Warrior" - Wishbone Ash - And while we're on the subject of bones, I present this relic of rock's Progressive Era. Wishbone Ash was one of those "music for your head" bands like Yes, ELP and early Genesis, only not nearly as good. When I heard this song for the first time, I figured that this had to be one of the main bands that inspired Spinal Tap. I once tried to drag my wife to see this band (yes, they still tour; scary audience) at Summerfest here in Milwaukee a few years ago. She dragged us away after five minutes to go see Ben Folds instead. She hasn't forgiven me for the lousy seats we had for Ben folds because we showed up late.
"Warrior" was part of a suite of 6-minute fantasy medieval story songs from one of Wishbone Ash's records. Progressive era bands were known for this kind of Dungeons & Dragons-type lyrical sillyness, but of all of the ridiculous songs from that era covering this subject matter, "Warrior" stands out as the most bloated and juvenile. Here's a lyrical sample, straight from what seems to be a 15-year-old males's first diary:
"I had to be a warrior
A slave I couldn't be
A soldier and a conqueror
Fighting to be free"
The music that accompanies this chorus fits these extremely silly fist-tightening lyrics to a tee, as the power chords accompany the whole band singing these words in mock-battle anger mode. "Sex Farm Woman" anyone?
This will be a blog post in two parts. Coming up in Part 2, some more visible entries from some surprising sources. Stay tuned.
I do not yet own an IPod, and I have no plans to do so. I am a firm believer in the power of the album. I believe that ANYONE can catch lightning in a bottle once in their life, and that everyone probably has one good song in them. Having said that, the elevation to musical deity only happens when someone fills an album with more than one song you want to hear over and over.
Which brings us to this list I've compiled, Because I spend a lot of time listening to full CD's (dare I ask...remember those?) by artists I have come across, I have discovered songs that are fantastic that most people have never heard. On the other hand, I have discovered a lot of what is called "Filler", as in "We only have eight songs; can you come up with two more to flesh out the whole record?"
Most filler is harmless; average musical compositions that have mass, take up space and are easily bypassed by hitting the skip button on your CD player. Beyond that first line of filler are usually tracks that are of the Ed Wood variety. These songs are so dumb that you can't believe that ANY recording studio actually was reimbursed time to commit such a laughable atrocity to all posterity.
Because of my listening habits, virtually all of these tracks will be unfamiliar to you, which - trust me on this one - is a good thing. I consider this article as part of my community service sentence; I listened to them, so you don't have to.
"Spontaneous Apple Creation" - The Crazy World Of Arthur Brown - Arthur Brown was known for another song that appeared on his first album, the psychedelic nugget "Fire" ("I am the God of Hellfire, and I bring you.....Fire"). I put this song first because as much as I revel in the music of the psychedelic era, I am of the realization that there was a lot of very silly music on a lot of full-length albums of this time period. "Spontaneous Apple Creation" is one of the more egregious examples of this. The music track features a picked upright bass intro, what sounds like a xylophone, a Hammond organ and some kind of watery flying sound in the middle of it. The lyrics? Judge for yourself:
"...what could save mankind from man
when the blind, the blind overran
down from all this confused devastation
Came the great Spontaneous Apple Creation"
OK, I've smoked grass, and I don't even get that one. The funniest part of this is that Arthur Brown's first album was co-produced by Pete Townshend and Kit Lambert, the brains behind no less a masterpiece than "Tommy". How do things like this happen?
"Love and a Muscle" - The Northern Pikes - In 1988, I was listening to WIOQ in Philadelphia, a few months before it became a white rap station and I abandoned it forever. WIOQ was what we would call an Adult Alternative station today. Back then, they hadn't even thought of a label for what they played. On their playlist at the time was a song called "Things I Do For Money" by a band from Canada, The Northern Pikes. One afternoon, they were giving the band's album, "Big Blue Sky", away to the seventh caller, and I won. Upon receiving the CD in the mail and listening to it, I soon regretted that phone call. While "Things..." was an ok track, the rest of this album was so chock full of garbage as to go down in my personal history as one of the top three worst albums I ever heard beginning to end.
You would think that with so many awful tracks on one album that picking one that was worse than all others would have been a difficult task. Unfortunately, one listen to the song "Love And A Muscle" ended all debate.
I have absolutely no idea what this song is about as far as a story line, but the unforgettable first verse is its reason for inclusion on this list:
"She has a muscle
She has a muscle
She has a muscle
Flex it, Flex it, Flex that muscle"
When I'm out of fart jokes, I quote this verse at parties in my best poetry-reading voice. Notice that it stands below fart jokes in my sliding scale of Amusing. I think that tells you all that you need to know. If it was only a matter of the lyrics being dumb, I probably wouldn't have remembered this track, but the lyrics are paired with one of the worst trainwrecks of musical song structure ever committed to CD. Thankfully, this band never recorded a follow-up. Unfortunately, I'm left with the memories.
"Twist And Shout" - The Mamas And The Papas - Part of the charm of The Mamas & The Papas was the fact that they reinterpreted songs from the early '60's in the folk rock vein. This works marvelously when they covered "Dedicated To The One I Love", and I prefer their version to the original. When they covered "Twist And Shout", the revered Isley Brothers/Beatles classic, it was an absolute failure and a stupid idea. Denny Doherty sings lead on a song that requires a quick tempo, but was recorded as a slow dirge by one of my favorite vocal bands. No amount of perfect harmonies could save a song that is a straight rock and roll song recorded as a ballad. As the Beatles and the Isleys do it, I really like this song. This stands as John Phillips' worst production idea.
"Mona Bone Jakon" - Cat Stevens - I'll freely admit that Mr Stevens (Mr. Islam?) had a number of great songs, and the album of the same title that this song comes from contains some of his best work, such as "The Wind", "Trouble" and "Katmandu". And yet, in the middle of this admittedly great album is a major hiccup. I put this song on the list remembering that Elvis Costello was once quoted as saying that he didn't like to name his albums after a song on the album because he felt it put too much pressure on that song to be the best song on the album. "Mona Bone Jakon" may be the worst song that is also the title of the album that holds it. This one is a real headscratcher, because Stevens was in his songwriting prime at this moment in time. In the midst of songs that became legendary came this lyrical mess of ersatz acoustic folk blues. The opening lines?
"I've got a Mona Bone Jakon
But it won't be lonely for long"
Not only does he set a scene of us not knowing what the hell he has, but then he turns around and tells us that whatever it is he has is lonely. Sure, it's easy to think that he's singing about his schwantz whenever someone sings about anything containing the word "bone", but I find it hard to believe that any man, even in his most drunk and primitive state, would name his penis "Mona". Just ask that dear old friend between my legs, Cousin It.
"Warrior" - Wishbone Ash - And while we're on the subject of bones, I present this relic of rock's Progressive Era. Wishbone Ash was one of those "music for your head" bands like Yes, ELP and early Genesis, only not nearly as good. When I heard this song for the first time, I figured that this had to be one of the main bands that inspired Spinal Tap. I once tried to drag my wife to see this band (yes, they still tour; scary audience) at Summerfest here in Milwaukee a few years ago. She dragged us away after five minutes to go see Ben Folds instead. She hasn't forgiven me for the lousy seats we had for Ben folds because we showed up late.
"Warrior" was part of a suite of 6-minute fantasy medieval story songs from one of Wishbone Ash's records. Progressive era bands were known for this kind of Dungeons & Dragons-type lyrical sillyness, but of all of the ridiculous songs from that era covering this subject matter, "Warrior" stands out as the most bloated and juvenile. Here's a lyrical sample, straight from what seems to be a 15-year-old males's first diary:
"I had to be a warrior
A slave I couldn't be
A soldier and a conqueror
Fighting to be free"
The music that accompanies this chorus fits these extremely silly fist-tightening lyrics to a tee, as the power chords accompany the whole band singing these words in mock-battle anger mode. "Sex Farm Woman" anyone?
This will be a blog post in two parts. Coming up in Part 2, some more visible entries from some surprising sources. Stay tuned.
Monday, January 16, 2006
The Way Of The Voice
I haven't been regular at this particular sight in quite awhile, so I thought I'd just add a quick note about the human voice.
I have had discussions with people in the past about what constitutes a good voice and what constitutes a bad voice. To me, a good singing voice is one that is honest. At first listen, we may not enjoy the voices of Bob Dylan, Mark E. Smith of The Fall or Robert Smith of The Cure, but upon repeated listening, we realize that this kind of singing, while not technically perfect, has at the very least captured the spirit of what makes for good vocals.
Conversely, we have the Mariah Carey problem. Mariah Carey is the Musical Riddle of the Sphinx; suppose you had the greatest voice in the world and didn't know how to sing? Verbal gymnastics get old fast, as they are usually masking lyrics that have no metaphysical or spiritual meaning.
So bring on the Captain Beefhearts of the world, bury the Whitney Houstons deep in the ground, and just give me something honest and compelling.
Laura Nyro; now THAT was an honest singer!
I have had discussions with people in the past about what constitutes a good voice and what constitutes a bad voice. To me, a good singing voice is one that is honest. At first listen, we may not enjoy the voices of Bob Dylan, Mark E. Smith of The Fall or Robert Smith of The Cure, but upon repeated listening, we realize that this kind of singing, while not technically perfect, has at the very least captured the spirit of what makes for good vocals.
Conversely, we have the Mariah Carey problem. Mariah Carey is the Musical Riddle of the Sphinx; suppose you had the greatest voice in the world and didn't know how to sing? Verbal gymnastics get old fast, as they are usually masking lyrics that have no metaphysical or spiritual meaning.
So bring on the Captain Beefhearts of the world, bury the Whitney Houstons deep in the ground, and just give me something honest and compelling.
Laura Nyro; now THAT was an honest singer!
Monday, December 19, 2005
So Long Gene McCarthy
I like the role of iconoclast. I believe that the fundamental difference between an iconoclast and a nihilist is that an iconoclast will suggest a solution, whereas a nihilist is mostly just talk without action.
One of my favorite iconoclasts died this past week. Eugene McCarthy died at the age of 89 years old. He ran for president a total of 5 times, only two of which were serious, and one of those - 1968 - ended up toppling a president and self-immolating the Democratic Party in ways that it still struggles with today.
My role is not as a history teacher, so the story of Eugene McCarthy's ill-fated 1968 presidential campaign is better left to someone who can tell it thoroughly (if it's possible to tell the story of 1968 without a little part of the relator dying inside). In this time of supreme falsehood, where we have a president who feels it necessary to spy on his own citizens to "protect America", I am struck by how few true iconoclasts are left among us under the age of 80. In my lifetime thus far, we've lost Hyman Rickover, Buckminster Fuller, Abbie Hoffman, John Lennon, Frank Zappa and now Eugene McCarthy.
What made McCarthy unique was his penchant for taking on the system from within. As has been the case far too often in history, those that try to reform the system from within usually become political martyrs. Sadly, McCarthy was martyred to a senator from his own state. This may have been the unkindest cut of all in Eugene's political life.
They have already named buildings across the land for Hubert Humphrey. That's what happens to people who happily sacrifice their morality to the system with artifice and bombastic language that is saved in small shreds on a plaque. There will be no stadiums or government office buildings or rotundas for Gene McCarthy. The honest man who fights the good fight in the common tongue and fails never gets a monument. If they did, every bridge in America would be named for Woody Guthrie. What the honest man gets is a historical footnote. The contemporaries who outlive the iconoclast usually can be found shaking their heads in confusion, and yet finding nothing but good things to say about the iconoclast when he or she is brought up in polite conversation.
The path of the iconoclast is a brave one, and history has shown that it's usually the right one, but that is only discovered through the perfect window afforded by the passing of time. Eugene McCarthy died knowing that in the case of the Vietnam War, he had it right. Who among us knew from the very beginning that America's latest misbegotten episode in the Mesopotamian Desert was a mistake? If you know someone, like me, who had it right all along, encourage them and nurture that person. The world is coming apart at the seams. In the times we now live, consisting of such total ineptitude among those who lead, celebrate the iconoclast, for the need for such individuals grows more dire with each passing day.
One of my favorite iconoclasts died this past week. Eugene McCarthy died at the age of 89 years old. He ran for president a total of 5 times, only two of which were serious, and one of those - 1968 - ended up toppling a president and self-immolating the Democratic Party in ways that it still struggles with today.
My role is not as a history teacher, so the story of Eugene McCarthy's ill-fated 1968 presidential campaign is better left to someone who can tell it thoroughly (if it's possible to tell the story of 1968 without a little part of the relator dying inside). In this time of supreme falsehood, where we have a president who feels it necessary to spy on his own citizens to "protect America", I am struck by how few true iconoclasts are left among us under the age of 80. In my lifetime thus far, we've lost Hyman Rickover, Buckminster Fuller, Abbie Hoffman, John Lennon, Frank Zappa and now Eugene McCarthy.
What made McCarthy unique was his penchant for taking on the system from within. As has been the case far too often in history, those that try to reform the system from within usually become political martyrs. Sadly, McCarthy was martyred to a senator from his own state. This may have been the unkindest cut of all in Eugene's political life.
They have already named buildings across the land for Hubert Humphrey. That's what happens to people who happily sacrifice their morality to the system with artifice and bombastic language that is saved in small shreds on a plaque. There will be no stadiums or government office buildings or rotundas for Gene McCarthy. The honest man who fights the good fight in the common tongue and fails never gets a monument. If they did, every bridge in America would be named for Woody Guthrie. What the honest man gets is a historical footnote. The contemporaries who outlive the iconoclast usually can be found shaking their heads in confusion, and yet finding nothing but good things to say about the iconoclast when he or she is brought up in polite conversation.
The path of the iconoclast is a brave one, and history has shown that it's usually the right one, but that is only discovered through the perfect window afforded by the passing of time. Eugene McCarthy died knowing that in the case of the Vietnam War, he had it right. Who among us knew from the very beginning that America's latest misbegotten episode in the Mesopotamian Desert was a mistake? If you know someone, like me, who had it right all along, encourage them and nurture that person. The world is coming apart at the seams. In the times we now live, consisting of such total ineptitude among those who lead, celebrate the iconoclast, for the need for such individuals grows more dire with each passing day.
Monday, October 10, 2005
SO........
Anyone else notice that I've been missing for roughly 7 months?
It's not that I've been missing so much as I've been busy settling into my new life at the new house in Milwaukee.
Currently, I'm looking for a new job, with 2 interviews this week. Wish me luck.
Also, I may be shutting this blog down and starting one on MySpace. It's easier to operate and MySpace doesn't ERASE A 10,000 -WORD POST YOU JUST TYPED DUE TO SERVERS NOT COOPERATING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT (HINT HINT).
Now you know the REAL reason I haven't been back here. I do have an urgent need to begin writing again, or shall I say creating in general. And it sounds like the trash truck is blocking me in from getting back to work right now (This is a lunch hour post). Must go spend my future children's inheritance on gas money now.
It's not that I've been missing so much as I've been busy settling into my new life at the new house in Milwaukee.
Currently, I'm looking for a new job, with 2 interviews this week. Wish me luck.
Also, I may be shutting this blog down and starting one on MySpace. It's easier to operate and MySpace doesn't ERASE A 10,000 -WORD POST YOU JUST TYPED DUE TO SERVERS NOT COOPERATING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT (HINT HINT).
Now you know the REAL reason I haven't been back here. I do have an urgent need to begin writing again, or shall I say creating in general. And it sounds like the trash truck is blocking me in from getting back to work right now (This is a lunch hour post). Must go spend my future children's inheritance on gas money now.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
The time has come to tell you all of an ending and a beginning....
On March 7th, Leslie and I flew out to Las Vegas to make a good, solid week of it. I know there are people out there who like Las Vegas, but I find the whole city exhausting. The traffic on Las Vegas Boulevard ("The Strip") is horrible currently, especially in front of Steve Wynn's new 2.7 billion-dollar (yes, BILLION) hotel which isn't finished yet. The hotels are monuments to themselves, as vain and plastic as the many Californians who make a quick weekend of Las Vegas on a regular basis. Because Las Vegas is a boomtown, you can spit and hit a crane. Something is being built virtually every moment of every day. Going hand in hand with that, because this is the gambling capital of the United States, if you look hard enough, you can find something - or more to the point, someone - that is simultaneously being destroyed. It is a city of extremes like no other I've ever visited in this country.
Leslie and I journeyed there with happiness in mind. We caught a flight out of Milwaukee on Frontier Airlines, an overly cute carrier featuring adorable rabbits, bears and wild cats on their tail wings and pilots and flight attendants who go out of their way to crack jokes right before takeoff. I don't mind this approach. If an enormous jumbo jet is going to plummet into the side of any given Rocky Mountain causing widespread destruction and a fireball rivaled only by Nagasaki, go down laughing. This almost made up for the fact that the snacks they offered being subpar. I'll stop now before I pontificate on the subject of their pay TV service.
After catching a connecting flight in Denver, we landed in Las Vegas on Monday afternoon. We had decided to rent a car to get around town for the week. As my inaugural rental in the Hertz #1 Club, they "upgraded" me to a Ford Escape, a smallish SUV that boasted abysmal gas mileage and a rather irritating repeating reminder that my seat belt wasn't fastened. For the balance of the week, I fastened the seat belt to itself and twisted it behind my seat. I don't wear seat belts. When I was younger, I hit a stone wall, spun around, hit a utility pole and flew out the back windshield head first. Luckily, I was thrown from the car, because it was crushed. I haven't worn a seat belt since that night, and I won't. And THAT is how I stick it to the man!
We stayed at the Las Vegas Hilton, former home of Elvis and current home -much to our mutual horror - of Barry Manilow. The absolute worst part of our stay in the Hilton was their insistence on playing Barry Manilow's songs in every square inch of the hotel as often as humanly possible. After three days of being pummeled by Manilow's syrupy odes, I felt like a fat, gassy Yenta. Leslie and I are still recovering from the sonic onslaught. On our trips to the Hilton pool adjacent to the 3rd floor of the hotel, we sunbathed and swam in the shadow of a banner on the side of the hotel featuring an 80-foot visage of Barry Manilow, as if we could stand the 6-foot version. The hotel also featured a Barry Manilow store, where you could purchase handbags and t-shirts that proudly displayed the bearer's love of all things Barry. As I passed this store daily on the way to the parking garage, I longed for a flame thrower.
Our room was on the 26th floor, and looked out on the mountains surrounding the city. I was amazed at how these enormous land masses just disappeared every day after the sunset. It was refreshing to have something natural as a view from the window. The king size bed in the hotel room had upon it a mattress pad which did not quite fit the bed or the mattress and made a nightly sojourn up my butt crack as a result. ..
(to be continued 3/16/05 11:25 PM CST)
On March 7th, Leslie and I flew out to Las Vegas to make a good, solid week of it. I know there are people out there who like Las Vegas, but I find the whole city exhausting. The traffic on Las Vegas Boulevard ("The Strip") is horrible currently, especially in front of Steve Wynn's new 2.7 billion-dollar (yes, BILLION) hotel which isn't finished yet. The hotels are monuments to themselves, as vain and plastic as the many Californians who make a quick weekend of Las Vegas on a regular basis. Because Las Vegas is a boomtown, you can spit and hit a crane. Something is being built virtually every moment of every day. Going hand in hand with that, because this is the gambling capital of the United States, if you look hard enough, you can find something - or more to the point, someone - that is simultaneously being destroyed. It is a city of extremes like no other I've ever visited in this country.
Leslie and I journeyed there with happiness in mind. We caught a flight out of Milwaukee on Frontier Airlines, an overly cute carrier featuring adorable rabbits, bears and wild cats on their tail wings and pilots and flight attendants who go out of their way to crack jokes right before takeoff. I don't mind this approach. If an enormous jumbo jet is going to plummet into the side of any given Rocky Mountain causing widespread destruction and a fireball rivaled only by Nagasaki, go down laughing. This almost made up for the fact that the snacks they offered being subpar. I'll stop now before I pontificate on the subject of their pay TV service.
After catching a connecting flight in Denver, we landed in Las Vegas on Monday afternoon. We had decided to rent a car to get around town for the week. As my inaugural rental in the Hertz #1 Club, they "upgraded" me to a Ford Escape, a smallish SUV that boasted abysmal gas mileage and a rather irritating repeating reminder that my seat belt wasn't fastened. For the balance of the week, I fastened the seat belt to itself and twisted it behind my seat. I don't wear seat belts. When I was younger, I hit a stone wall, spun around, hit a utility pole and flew out the back windshield head first. Luckily, I was thrown from the car, because it was crushed. I haven't worn a seat belt since that night, and I won't. And THAT is how I stick it to the man!
We stayed at the Las Vegas Hilton, former home of Elvis and current home -much to our mutual horror - of Barry Manilow. The absolute worst part of our stay in the Hilton was their insistence on playing Barry Manilow's songs in every square inch of the hotel as often as humanly possible. After three days of being pummeled by Manilow's syrupy odes, I felt like a fat, gassy Yenta. Leslie and I are still recovering from the sonic onslaught. On our trips to the Hilton pool adjacent to the 3rd floor of the hotel, we sunbathed and swam in the shadow of a banner on the side of the hotel featuring an 80-foot visage of Barry Manilow, as if we could stand the 6-foot version. The hotel also featured a Barry Manilow store, where you could purchase handbags and t-shirts that proudly displayed the bearer's love of all things Barry. As I passed this store daily on the way to the parking garage, I longed for a flame thrower.
Our room was on the 26th floor, and looked out on the mountains surrounding the city. I was amazed at how these enormous land masses just disappeared every day after the sunset. It was refreshing to have something natural as a view from the window. The king size bed in the hotel room had upon it a mattress pad which did not quite fit the bed or the mattress and made a nightly sojourn up my butt crack as a result. ..
(to be continued 3/16/05 11:25 PM CST)
Friday, March 04, 2005
Usually, I like to reserve this space for short stories, opinion and some of my songs, but I was inspired to write about something very special that happened to me this evening. Think of this is need be as a "male mea culpa", as I really don't know what else to call it.
As an American heterosexual male, I've always been physically attracted to women. It's hard to talk about this in anything but sexual terms, because, as any woman knows, testosterone often intercedes on behalf of true emotional connection. Having said that, I've always made the typical male mistake of mistaking physical attraction with emotional attachment. This has led me down a lot of incorrect trails in my life.
I came home from work today and fell asleep at about 5 PM. I slept for about four hours. In the interim, Leslie came home and accomplished some tasks while I was sleeping. Because of the type of work she does, she often tires early in the day, and at 9:15 tonight, she came to bed. I snuggled with her for just short of an hour as she fell asleep. Usually, when we snuggle together, the blood rushes to my waist, with obvious physical consequences. Tonight, something happened to me that has never happened before. As I held Leslie, I felt what could only be described as the purest form of love I've ever felt for another human being. As I held her in my arms, I felt my arms, hands, legs and chest melting into this beautiful human being, and I could only feel happiness. The best thing about it all, and this is the strange part, is that Leslie fell asleep, and didn't even realize how I felt.
Two Sundays from now, Leslie and I are getting married. Our journey to this point hasn't been easy by any stretch of the imagination, and we both realize that many hurdles still present themselves to us. Holding Leslie tonight gave me such an intense feeling of piece of mind and heart that I know that I'm doing the right thing. It's always been tough for me to picture my life after 40. When I think of Leslie, or hold her, or see her smile, I know that this is the person I'll grow old with, and THAT is the basis of my life going forward. I hope everyone else in the world finds that kind of happiness.
As an American heterosexual male, I've always been physically attracted to women. It's hard to talk about this in anything but sexual terms, because, as any woman knows, testosterone often intercedes on behalf of true emotional connection. Having said that, I've always made the typical male mistake of mistaking physical attraction with emotional attachment. This has led me down a lot of incorrect trails in my life.
I came home from work today and fell asleep at about 5 PM. I slept for about four hours. In the interim, Leslie came home and accomplished some tasks while I was sleeping. Because of the type of work she does, she often tires early in the day, and at 9:15 tonight, she came to bed. I snuggled with her for just short of an hour as she fell asleep. Usually, when we snuggle together, the blood rushes to my waist, with obvious physical consequences. Tonight, something happened to me that has never happened before. As I held Leslie, I felt what could only be described as the purest form of love I've ever felt for another human being. As I held her in my arms, I felt my arms, hands, legs and chest melting into this beautiful human being, and I could only feel happiness. The best thing about it all, and this is the strange part, is that Leslie fell asleep, and didn't even realize how I felt.
Two Sundays from now, Leslie and I are getting married. Our journey to this point hasn't been easy by any stretch of the imagination, and we both realize that many hurdles still present themselves to us. Holding Leslie tonight gave me such an intense feeling of piece of mind and heart that I know that I'm doing the right thing. It's always been tough for me to picture my life after 40. When I think of Leslie, or hold her, or see her smile, I know that this is the person I'll grow old with, and THAT is the basis of my life going forward. I hope everyone else in the world finds that kind of happiness.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
CONCERT REVIEW
Paul Thorn
Jen Chapin
Shank Hall, Milwaukee, WI
Ah, another night at Shank Hall taking in the music and the Guinness with Lovely Lady Leslie.
Let me first start off by saying that it is indeed ironic that I am about to write a lengthy posting about seeing a musician that hails from the deepest of Red States whom I actually admire. Two postings ago, I ripped Red Staters a new one about the hypocrisy of their moral values argument, but I believe that the best kind of music, when used properly and with great care, should bring people together.
Which brings us to last night's Paul Thorn show at Shank Hall. Thorn, from Tupelo, Mississippi, brings the colorful journey that is his life in story and song. I first caught him with a full band at last year's edition of Summerfest here in Milwaukee, and he impressed me immediately. His between song banter, although I was hearing quite a bit of it last night for the second time, adds an engaging dimension to his songs (all of which are available on Back Porch Records). This former tent revival singer, boxer and chair factory worker brings honesty-something in short supply in the current climate of recorded music- to his audience with his songs that touch mostly on gospel and blues. Thorn was alone with his acoustic guitar last night, and his songs lost nothing without the presence of a full band. It is rare these days that I can say that. I hope that Paul Thorn comes back to Summerfest this year. He goes so well with beer. If he comes to your town, check him out. You won't be disappointed.
Opening the evening was Jen Chapin, a singer/songwriter from Long Island who blends a jazz feel with quasi-poetic lyrics under a fairly strong voice. Chapin was helped out by Stefan Crump on upright bass (I hope I spelled his name correctly) and Jamie Fox on lead guitar (no, the other one). I was impressed by the musicianship of Crump and Fox, with Fox sounding quite a bit like fellow New Yorker Bill Frisell. Some of Chapin's lyrics were somewhat painful to listen to, with many lyrics crowding out any melody that she tried to get going. Her lyrical ideas more often than not went too far afield and distracted from some fine melodies underneath. With less pretention and more focus, Chapin could be a force to be reckoned with given the lineup she's sporting. What a shame.
Paul Thorn
Jen Chapin
Shank Hall, Milwaukee, WI
Ah, another night at Shank Hall taking in the music and the Guinness with Lovely Lady Leslie.
Let me first start off by saying that it is indeed ironic that I am about to write a lengthy posting about seeing a musician that hails from the deepest of Red States whom I actually admire. Two postings ago, I ripped Red Staters a new one about the hypocrisy of their moral values argument, but I believe that the best kind of music, when used properly and with great care, should bring people together.
Which brings us to last night's Paul Thorn show at Shank Hall. Thorn, from Tupelo, Mississippi, brings the colorful journey that is his life in story and song. I first caught him with a full band at last year's edition of Summerfest here in Milwaukee, and he impressed me immediately. His between song banter, although I was hearing quite a bit of it last night for the second time, adds an engaging dimension to his songs (all of which are available on Back Porch Records). This former tent revival singer, boxer and chair factory worker brings honesty-something in short supply in the current climate of recorded music- to his audience with his songs that touch mostly on gospel and blues. Thorn was alone with his acoustic guitar last night, and his songs lost nothing without the presence of a full band. It is rare these days that I can say that. I hope that Paul Thorn comes back to Summerfest this year. He goes so well with beer. If he comes to your town, check him out. You won't be disappointed.
Opening the evening was Jen Chapin, a singer/songwriter from Long Island who blends a jazz feel with quasi-poetic lyrics under a fairly strong voice. Chapin was helped out by Stefan Crump on upright bass (I hope I spelled his name correctly) and Jamie Fox on lead guitar (no, the other one). I was impressed by the musicianship of Crump and Fox, with Fox sounding quite a bit like fellow New Yorker Bill Frisell. Some of Chapin's lyrics were somewhat painful to listen to, with many lyrics crowding out any melody that she tried to get going. Her lyrical ideas more often than not went too far afield and distracted from some fine melodies underneath. With less pretention and more focus, Chapin could be a force to be reckoned with given the lineup she's sporting. What a shame.
Monday, February 21, 2005
First Warren Zevon, now this...
Hunter Thompson committed suicide today. Unfortunately, I can't say that I ever met the man. I've read almost all of his books, and caught his recent articles on espn.com.
As I read his final article last week, a typical offering about calling Bill Murray in the middle of the night about designing a new game that combined shooting and golf, I thought to myself that in this most horrible of times, in this cesspool of a country, where the will of the masses is being trampled by Bible-waving, redneck sheepfuckers in Red states, at least I can count on something. At least Hunter's still got it.
Is this the end of all hope as we know it? Did Armageddon not mention four horsemen, but rather a chemical-tinged scribe biting the dust by his own hand, that ushers in the end of the world? As the lemmings in America bumrush to the edge of that cliff like a Depression-era bank run, the wreckage of 9/11 behind them and fading in the distance, the carrion-like smell of rotting soldier's corpses from a needless war lining their path, with a cocaine-addled fratboy leading them, rattling the Ten Commandments in one hand and a tattered flag in the other, it is the duty of those people still left in America with a conscience to celebrate the pioneering spirit of the American Outlaw that Thompson represented to the literary community. Instead, all we get is an acceptance of voter theft, surveillance of our every move on highways both of information and automobiles and a blank check for big business to poison us all slowly, like an IV drip of Jonestown Kool-Aid.
Thompson represented the last of the writers influenced by the Beats, celebrating a time on America when you could jump in a car and drive the long, dusty, undeveloped highways, the wind in your hair, a drink in your hand and only the faintest notion of a destination. It was a time when only J. Edgar Hoover's FBI had you under surveillance and only then if you were a rabble-rouser, rather than every paranoid Christian freak on the street. There were no cameras at intersections, there were no Wal-Marts polluting the landscape and the signs hanging over businesses in any town were either neon or hand-painted. Hunter Thompson putting a bullet in his head is the ultimate sign that America can never hope to recapture the freewheeling spirit that it still futilely markets to the rest of the world. America is officially lost in a morass of gun violence, depravity and false gods in cheap suits. There is nothing left to conquer in this country. There is no hope for a brighter tomorrow on the other side of the hill. Manifest Destiny is just a buzzword for that cliff that the lemmings climb a little more every day. Goodbye America. It was fun while it lasted.
Hunter Thompson committed suicide today. Unfortunately, I can't say that I ever met the man. I've read almost all of his books, and caught his recent articles on espn.com.
As I read his final article last week, a typical offering about calling Bill Murray in the middle of the night about designing a new game that combined shooting and golf, I thought to myself that in this most horrible of times, in this cesspool of a country, where the will of the masses is being trampled by Bible-waving, redneck sheepfuckers in Red states, at least I can count on something. At least Hunter's still got it.
Is this the end of all hope as we know it? Did Armageddon not mention four horsemen, but rather a chemical-tinged scribe biting the dust by his own hand, that ushers in the end of the world? As the lemmings in America bumrush to the edge of that cliff like a Depression-era bank run, the wreckage of 9/11 behind them and fading in the distance, the carrion-like smell of rotting soldier's corpses from a needless war lining their path, with a cocaine-addled fratboy leading them, rattling the Ten Commandments in one hand and a tattered flag in the other, it is the duty of those people still left in America with a conscience to celebrate the pioneering spirit of the American Outlaw that Thompson represented to the literary community. Instead, all we get is an acceptance of voter theft, surveillance of our every move on highways both of information and automobiles and a blank check for big business to poison us all slowly, like an IV drip of Jonestown Kool-Aid.
Thompson represented the last of the writers influenced by the Beats, celebrating a time on America when you could jump in a car and drive the long, dusty, undeveloped highways, the wind in your hair, a drink in your hand and only the faintest notion of a destination. It was a time when only J. Edgar Hoover's FBI had you under surveillance and only then if you were a rabble-rouser, rather than every paranoid Christian freak on the street. There were no cameras at intersections, there were no Wal-Marts polluting the landscape and the signs hanging over businesses in any town were either neon or hand-painted. Hunter Thompson putting a bullet in his head is the ultimate sign that America can never hope to recapture the freewheeling spirit that it still futilely markets to the rest of the world. America is officially lost in a morass of gun violence, depravity and false gods in cheap suits. There is nothing left to conquer in this country. There is no hope for a brighter tomorrow on the other side of the hill. Manifest Destiny is just a buzzword for that cliff that the lemmings climb a little more every day. Goodbye America. It was fun while it lasted.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
The New Reality: Blue Props Up Red
It has been over 3 months since the semi-believable results of the 2004 Presidential elections have been foisted on the American people and one question remains:
Where's General Sherman when you need him?
We are told by the media at large that the reason the Republicans won the majority of the votes in the 2004 election was because of something they keep calling "moral values". Let us set aside for a moment the fact that the American media seemed more concerned about fair elections in the Ukraine than in the United States in the last three months, despite overwhelming evidence that Diebold fixed this election for the Republicans in at least Florida and Ohio. Let's take a closer look at this "Moral Values" argument.
Let's start this analysis with these questions. Choose either Red States or Blue States as your answer:
1) Who has the higher rate of divorce and out-of-wedlock pregnancy?
2) Who ranks lower in education?
3) Which part of the country is the home to more predatory corporations (predatory corporations being defined as companies who routinely make it a practice of abusing their employees, either through reductions in basic benefits or not paying for overtime)?
4) Which part of the country has the higher percentage of depraved guests on "The Jerry Springer Show"?
If you selected Red States for all of the above answers, you obviously live in a Blue State. Unfortunately for you, you'd also be 100% correct. I say unfortunately because the latest studies of who gets more government benefits per tax dollars spent has Red States at the top and Blue States at the bottom. The undisputable conclusion drawn from this analysis is that those of us in the educated part of the country are propping up our so-called "moral superiors" in the Red States with our hard work, educated minds and - more than anything else - our tax dollars.
How is it that Red States, with their focus on Old Testament punishment and racist symbols such as the Confederate Flag, take the moral high ground from those of us who actually lead productive lives and have the nerve not to stand on street corners and proselytize?
Red States are afflicted by an inferiority complex. The North beat the South in the Civil War, The North had to come down and teach white Southerners how to be tolerant of people who weren't white Southerners, the biggest claim to fame of Dallas, Texas is the murder of an American President in broad daylight in 1963 (which has led in time to Dallas' women wearing more makeup per capita than women in any other city), and places like our vice-president's "home state" of Wyoming have shown what kind of tolerance they have for people of different sexual orientations . With a track record like that, you'd do anything to rally the ignorant masses at your disposal and try to recapture some kind of high ground. What better way than that tried and true anesthetic that we in the reasoning Blue States call Religion?
Our current president loves playing the Bible card, and having slept with half of the women in the South while he was drinking and snorting coke in the '70's gives him a unique window into the nature of the people who vote for him blindly. The most evil of manipulators know exactly which buttons to push. Our president-and mainly his handlers- know the buttons well. Those that use moral issues love to talk a big game in terms of superiority to those of us who choose not to prop up charlatans like Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson. The problem, as we see by the current moral, economic and environmental decay of the Red States, is in the follow-through of all of those well-stated -if not well-practiced- beliefs.
So for those of you in Red States, you'll have to excuse those of us in the Blue States for laughing at you when you claim moral high ground. Statistics don't lie, and when it comes to hearing you pat yourselves on the back for being "better" than we are, you would do well to learn that talk is cheap.
Friday, February 11, 2005
Fanatic
The crowd was only now beginning to build for the concert, but Jenna Quinn had been here all day, braving the biting January chill from just after Noon. She didn't seem to mind, as the severe cold took her mind off her left hand. Standing outside reminded her of the day she bought tickets to the show. She had arrived three days prior to tickets going on sale in order to be the first in line. On the first night she was in line, the police had actually shown up to ask what she was doing there,
"I'm waiting in line for concert tickets", she said, which was an odd statement given that she was the line at that point in time.
"Who's coming?", the cop asked, thinking it to be someone famous.
"Miles Roberts"
"Who?"
Rather than be frustrated with the cop not knowing who Miles Roberts was, it made her happy. That was one more person who wouldn't stand in the way of her someday forever being with her idol.
Jenna could still remember the first time that she heard Miles Roberts' voice singing just to her. She was up late one night. She had just finished studying for the night and a thunderstorm outside her dorm room window was not allowing for sleep. She grabbed her portable radio and looked for something to drown out the thunder. She was used to hearing the latest hits of the day, but she was looking for something a little quieter to help her sleep. She began to turn her radio dial to the left. It had almost run out of room when a voice pierced the darkness of her room. After hearing one line of Miles Roberts' song "Natural Love", a bolt of lightning lit up the walls of her room. She kept listening to his voice in front of a lovely , flowing piano accompaniment as if listening to the voice of God himself, her pupils and her heart dilating in unison as her head rested on her pillow. When the song ended, another song by someone else followed it, and then another, and yet another. She wondered if she would ever find out whose voice it was that had made her feel this way. At last she heard the DJ's voice deliver words that would change her life forever.
"...and before that we heard Miles Roberts from his debut album 'Night Songs', and that was 'Natural Love'.....".
She jumped out of bed and scrambled over to her desk. She fumbled in the darkness for the switch for the lamp on her desk, grabbed a pencil and paper and wrote down what she had just heard. She promised herself that she would find this album at all costs, which was strange for her, as she usually wasn't given to buying music on a regular basis. She somehow knew instinctively that this album would be something she needed to hear.
After classes the next day, she ran into her friend Tanya, who had a car, and convinced her to drive to the CD store in town. She asked the clerk if they had the Miles Roberts record.
"I'm not sure. It would be in 'ROCK' if we have it", the clerk said. Chain store CD clerks were always worthless when it came to information.
She went to the R's and frantically looked through the rack. She found it right in front of a reissue of Rockpile's "Seconds Of Pleasure". The cover had Miles Roberts' picture on it, with his name across the top, and the words "Night Songs" ethereally drawn at the bottom. She was immediately drawn to Miles Roberts' face on the cover. He had thick dark hair, somewhat tossled, with dark eyebrows to match. His face had a days's beard growth on his face, making him look rugged in a downtown poet-artist kind of way. He had the face of a musician. Miles Roberts did not have the face of someone you would trust with your tax return, but he'd be the first person you'd connect to the piano in the corner of the room.
Jenna turned the album cover over. The album contained 13 songs. There was another picture of Miles Roberts next to the song listings. He was leaning against a wall, a leather jacket in his left hand hanging over his left shoulder as he leaned, looking off to an imaginary point in the distance. Jenna was already happy that he didn't have a cigarette in his hand.
As she walked to the counter to purchase the CD, she held it with her left hand and gently stroked the CD case in a petting motion with her right hand, as if holding a recently-discovered buried amulet. She nearly tripped and fell over a discount cassette display because she wasn't paying attention. Tanya giggled at her as she stumbled, with Jenna soon joining her in spite of herself. They shared a capuccino at the coffee shop two doors down from the CD store and chatted after her purchase. She kept the small bag containing the CD on the table in front of her, never letting it out of her sight. As she sat at the table talking to Tanya about the upcoming end of the semester, she kept thinking to herself that she was being incredibly juvenile, but the excitement drowned out the self-reproach in her mind.
She had purchased the Miles Roberts CD on a Thursday. She went home that night, put the CD in her portable CD player, and began to listen. Every nimble piano note made her tremble inside. Every word that poured out of Miles Roberts' mouth seemed directed to her or related to her life situation. Unforced smiles beamed from her face at some moments, and at others she displayed a look of dreamy longing brought about by the feelings and moods of Miles Roberts. When the CD ended, she started it again, thankful that she had purchased an A/C adapter for her CD player. The same moods and expression enveloped Jenna again, this time going just a bit deeper. Five hours later, as Jenna listened to the record again, she did it staring at the pictures of Miles Roberts in the CD booklet. One photo of Miles Roberts showed him looking directly into the camera. Jenna pretended that Miles Roberts was looking her right in the eyes, telepathically singing and playing his songs to her. It was just the two of them, and they were completely in sync with one another. No one else in the world could disturb their moments together now. Between tracks five and six, Jenna made sure that no one would disrupt her moments with Miles Roberts by turning off her cell phone and unplugging her dorm room phone from the wall.
The weeks that followed moved like a blur. In no time at all, the posters in Jenna's dorm room had been converted from cute posters of animated unicorns and kittens with their paws playfully resting on a ball of yarn to different posters all showing the dark and mysterious visage of Miles Roberts. All of Jenna's spare time was spent researching the many wants, needs, desires and the other little wonderful ingredients that made up that one great mass of certifiable genius that was Miles Roberts. She joined internet discussion groups about Miles Roberts. She downloaded Miles Roberts wallpaper for her computer. Her computer design class web page became a tribute to the music, life and times of Miles Roberts. She learned that Miles Roberts was the son of Dale and Fred Roberts of Mission Viejo, California. She learned that Miles Roberts' favorite food was anything Italian, and that Miles Roberts' favorite restaurant was DeLucci's in his hometown of Mission Viejo. She learned that Miles Roberts' greatest influences were The Beatles, Carole King and jazz pianist Keith Jarrett. When she learned this, she decided to listen to music by these three artists, but she found that even after repeated listens, they simply didn't measure up to the groundbreaking sound that was Miles Roberts. She was a frequent visitor to Miles Roberts' official website, checking it almost hourly for any news or updates or announcements of new concerts added to Miles Roberts' already busy touring schedule.
Seemingly overnight, her grades and her focus on her studies began to slip. Suddenly it seemed that everything around her began to become less and less important. Papers were left incomplete, if commenced at all. She missed more than a few classes. She had less and less contact with friends, the better to spend her spare time listening to the increasingly-familiar sounds of Miles Roberts. Had it not been for the invention of headphones, the other people on her dorm floor would surely have gone slowly mad along with her.
She wrote home and told her parents that she wouldn't be coming home for the semester which ended a month from now. From recent visits to Miles Roberts' website, she discovered that he would soon be touring. It would be a short ten-city tour of the East Coast, but Jenna was determined to follow Miles Roberts to all of his concert dates. Her parents were distressed that she wasn't planning to come home for Christmas and the New Year. They hadn't heard from her since she left for Thanksgiving. She seemed out of it during that weekend to everyone who came across her, spending most of her time in her room with her headphones on, barely noticing the relatives around her who had come to town for the holiday. Jenna was too busy. There had been plans to make, and she wasn't going to let something as unimportant as turkey bog her down.
Jenna thought about all of this as she continued to wait outside the concert hall in Washington, D. C. It was the last stop on the tour. The tour had been through Burlington, Boston, Hartford, Providence, Albany, two spots in New York City, Trenton and Philadelphia. Miles Roberts was scheduled to take four months off after this show to work on his follow-up to the now-Grammy-nominated "Night Songs". As Jenna waited in a stiff Potomac wind for the doors to open, she smiled to herself. Tonight was the night. She had lurked in the shadows for nine shows, but tonight, in the nation's capital, this would be the place that she would finally introduce herself to Miles Roberts. She had been sending him letters for about a month now. At first, they were the usual fan letters. After her first two, she received the same autographed photograph from Miles Roberts' publicity department. Not content with that, she continued to write letters to him. She would only sign it "Love, Jenna", so as not to attract undue attention from anyone who might be reading her letters to Miles Roberts. That was not to say that anyone other than Miles Roberts was reading her letters. Of course Miles Roberts was reading her letters. And only her letters.
At the first nine concert stops, she just knew that Miles Roberts looked right at her as he sang his songs. She knew all of his songs by heart, and sang them along with Miles Roberts with her whole heart and soul. Something inside her told her that that simply wasn't enough. Miles Roberts, being generally shy by nature, never stayed after the show to sign autographs, prefering the relative safety of his tour bus and his bandmates to the group of twenty or so people who waited at the back door of his concert venues desperately wanting an autograph. Miles Roberts liked to relax and sleep after shows. Jenna knew this by reading it on his website, but she always held out hope that she would meet him after the show. After nine venues, nine misses. Her need turned slowly to desperation. Her desperation morphed almost overnight into anger. It had been three days since the show in Philadelphia. Another long wait by the stage door by Jenna had turned into yet another meaningless sighting of the back of Miles Roberts' head as he jumped onto his tour bus. She knew that there would be a brief pause beetween the last two shows, so she decided to lag behind Miles Roberts' bus by an extra day.
After the Philly show, she drove south and stopped at a hotel in Northern Maryland to rest for the night. Her anger and sadness melded into one, Why hadn't Miles Roberts acknowledged her as she followed him around on tour? He just had to know that Jenna Quinn was his biggest fan, and yet he showed no sign of even knowing of her existence after each show ended. Desperate times now called for desperate measures, as Jenna saw it.
One night before the show, she treated herself to an early dinner alone at the local steak house. She asked for a table for one in the non-smoking section as far away from the bar in the middle of the floor as possible, which at this time of the day was easier to get than at the peak of dinner hour, when the line was out the door. She ordered buffalo wings for an appetizer, and a 12-ounce sirloin for her entree. She knew that she had all night, so she asked Dave the Waiter to take his time bringing the entree. Carefully, she ate her way through her appetizer and then the rest of her dinner. She took her time with the entree, stalling as much as she could. She enjoyed watching the blood run from the medium rare steak as she carefully sawed every small bite with her steak knife. After some time, Dave the waiter brought the check and she gave him her credit card while still eating her entree. Dave the waiter brought the check and credit card back, thanked her for letting him serve her and stepped away from the table. Jenna told him that she wanted some time to finish her entree in the restaurant, as she had no place to store leftovers while traveling on the road. That much was true. She signed the credit card slip after adding a generous gratuity for Dave. Then, while no one was looking, she carefully took the bulky steak knife, placed it in her handbag and nonchalantly left the steak house. No one followed her to her car as she got in and drove back to her hotel. Desperation made theft look easy.
She saw a drug store that was still open on her way back to her hotel and stopped in to buy some isopropyl alcohol, sterile gauze, medical tape and an 8X10 padded mailing envelope. The clerk didn't bat an eye at the purchase as she paid for the items and left. She now had everything that she needed as she got back into her car.
She walked through the lobby with everything she needed. The desk clerk barely noticed her passing through to the elevators up to her room on the third floor. She reached her room, unlocked her door and threw all of her things onto the bed. She reached into her handbag for the steak knife she had taken from the restaurant. She took it into the bathroom and washed it off. As the hot water ran over it, taking with it microscopic bits of sirloin down the drain, she went across the room to the desk, where she had placed her notebooks upon checking in. She grabbed her favorite pen and wrote another letter to Miles Roberts.
Dear Miles,
Tonight is the big night. Your final stop on the tour. I've followed you all the way from Vermont to our nation's capital. It has taken me a long time to realize that you are everything I've been looking for in my life. It doesn't make any sense for us to be apart for another moment.
I have been looking into places where we can get married. We can settle on a date when I see you when I see you after your final show, but I've been thinking that Dale and Fred would want to be there, along with my parents, so I was thinking about someplace special to you in Mission Viejo. We could just go back to your place for the honeymoon. You could play your songs to me after I bring you breakfast in bed.
I only have one problem. Since I've never worn jewelry, I have no idea what my ring size is. As tradition dictates that it is the groom who chooses the ring for his wife-to-be, I have enclosed by ring finger for you to size. If I had my choice, I think white gold would be my choice, but I trust your judgment.
I'll see you after the show, my love. Our future lies ahead of us like the vast open road in your song "Sunset Desert". Someday we'll see those mountains in the distance, so beautiful. Like our love, dear Miles.
All My Love,
Jenna
She took the piece of paper, folded it in half and placed it in the mailing envelope. With a magic marker she carried among her possessions, she wrote "ATTENTION: FOR MILES ROBERTS URGENT!!!!". She underlined the word "URGENT" with three thick lines.
Taking the steak knife, she returned to the bathroom. She unscrewed the cap to the rubbing alcohol, and began to tear 3-inch strips from the small metal roll of medical tape. She stuck them to the edge of the sink in a short line, numbering ten in all. She unpacked the gauze and placed it next to the tape. She washed her hands in the sink with the hotel soap and dried her hands with a white hand towel. She placed a washcloth next to the sink and placed her left hand on top of it. she poured some alcohol onto the base of her left ring finger, and followed that by sawing off her ring finger with the steak knife. In her mania, she felt no pain as blood poured from the wound. She placed her left elbow at the edge of the sink and knelt down, putting her now-altered hand above her head. She poured more alcohol into the wound and quickly covered it with as much gauze as could fit over the wound. she then proceeded to tape it all in place.
Feeling slightly dizzy, she took her severed finger and placed it in the envelope and sealed it. It wouldn't be long now before Miles Roberts would be with her forever.
The January wind continued to blow as people waited for the doors to open. Jenna was the ninth person in line. She waited to savor every vocal note and every piano arpeggio from the great Miles Roberts. In short order, the doors opened. Her ticket was in her right pocket. Her left hand was covered with a glove and hanging at her side. Inside the glove, the gauze was completely soaked with blood from her still-bleeding hand. She stepped inside the theatre and handed the ticket to the box office attendant. They searched her and found nothing.
One minute after she arrived, an announcement was heard over the loud speaker.
"Attention please.....attention please....will Jenna Quinn...Jenna Quinn...please report to the box office.....Jenna Quinn, please report to the box office. Thank you."
Her heart and head raced as she made her way back to the box office. Maybe this would be the night that she got a front row seat. Maybe she would be escorted back stage to meet Miles Roberts after the show. All of these thoughts raced through her head as she approached the box office. She hadn't noticed the two police officers waiting by the box office.
"I'm Jenna Quinn", she said with excitement.
"Why don't you come with us tonight, Jenna. We need to take you to get some help".
Before she knew what was happening, and despite her protestations, the police had removed the glove from her left hand. They delicately handcuffed her with her hands in front of her, taking all of their might to restrain her. She began to kick and scream as they led her outside to a waiting squad car. The other concert patrons watched wide-eyed, never learning exactly what happened in front of them.
"We better get her to a hospital for her hand, Dan", one cop said to another, as they placed her in the back of the squad car with force equal to her kicking and screaming. The siren wailed as they took Jenna away from Miles Roberts for the last time.
Friday, January 28, 2005
I really have to get back to this.
Thus far this week, work has been going rather smoothly. My unit is losing one person tomorrow, but I think we'll adjust nicely. We're in great shape on my side of the building.
Tomorrow night, I take part in the mid-winter talent contest. I hope I do well. I have no idea what I'll do for my first of two songs. I've chosen a song called "Undefeated" for the second song. I love playing the chords in that song. It feels right.
Leslie's wedding ring arrived by mail today. All we need now is something to wear and we're completely and totally ready to get married. I have a hard time expressing just how right this feels. I'm reaching a point of peace in my life at long last. My time is upon me. Enter The Spencer!!!
http://www.buyblue.org
Thus far this week, work has been going rather smoothly. My unit is losing one person tomorrow, but I think we'll adjust nicely. We're in great shape on my side of the building.
Tomorrow night, I take part in the mid-winter talent contest. I hope I do well. I have no idea what I'll do for my first of two songs. I've chosen a song called "Undefeated" for the second song. I love playing the chords in that song. It feels right.
Leslie's wedding ring arrived by mail today. All we need now is something to wear and we're completely and totally ready to get married. I have a hard time expressing just how right this feels. I'm reaching a point of peace in my life at long last. My time is upon me. Enter The Spencer!!!
http://www.buyblue.org
Thursday, January 20, 2005
It's been a few weeks since I last posted, so let me bring everyone up to date with what has been happening in my life (before I take another crack at FINALLY finishing "Fanatic").
On Sunday January 9, Leslie and I went to The Coffee House, a localmusic and activism venue to experience their once-monthly "Living Activism Night" Leslie wanted to go to hear the musical act of the evening, Dorothy Scott, whom she had seen before. As a bonus, we met an extraordinary gentleman by the name of Ralph Bronner, who through the sale of soap and a touch of social responsibility is trying to make this world a better place (visit his website at http://www.drbronner.com for more information). Dorothy is a quirky singer who you can't help but like. She gives it her all on every song, which is a refreshing change from the type of product that's out there currently.
Next came January 13th, which was the big Project I Am show at Roshambo Coffee & Tea House. There were seven acts in all, and thanks to the help of a few close friends of the Project, not only were all of our sets recorded, but we were also filmed onto a DVD which should be posted shortly to the Project website. Perhaps next time, we can actually get paid.
I did my taxes, which should result in nearly paying off one of my three remaining cr4edit cards. Nice bonus.
The wedding plans have been solidified. We will spend a week in Las Vegas from March 7th to March 14th, with the big date being March 13th. Thank you God for my second wife. Hopefully I get to say that a few million more times before I die.
Today America gave a barely-reformed substance abuser the keys to the country's proverbial liquor cabinet. From all of us that didn't choose this "man" to be our leader, I ask the world to exhibit patience and a healthy dose of obstruction for the next four years until this nightmare is expunged from his seat in power.
Buy Sirius satellite radio...PLEASE! Our stock is getting killed.
On Sunday January 9, Leslie and I went to The Coffee House, a localmusic and activism venue to experience their once-monthly "Living Activism Night" Leslie wanted to go to hear the musical act of the evening, Dorothy Scott, whom she had seen before. As a bonus, we met an extraordinary gentleman by the name of Ralph Bronner, who through the sale of soap and a touch of social responsibility is trying to make this world a better place (visit his website at http://www.drbronner.com for more information). Dorothy is a quirky singer who you can't help but like. She gives it her all on every song, which is a refreshing change from the type of product that's out there currently.
Next came January 13th, which was the big Project I Am show at Roshambo Coffee & Tea House. There were seven acts in all, and thanks to the help of a few close friends of the Project, not only were all of our sets recorded, but we were also filmed onto a DVD which should be posted shortly to the Project website. Perhaps next time, we can actually get paid.
I did my taxes, which should result in nearly paying off one of my three remaining cr4edit cards. Nice bonus.
The wedding plans have been solidified. We will spend a week in Las Vegas from March 7th to March 14th, with the big date being March 13th. Thank you God for my second wife. Hopefully I get to say that a few million more times before I die.
Today America gave a barely-reformed substance abuser the keys to the country's proverbial liquor cabinet. From all of us that didn't choose this "man" to be our leader, I ask the world to exhibit patience and a healthy dose of obstruction for the next four years until this nightmare is expunged from his seat in power.
Buy Sirius satellite radio...PLEASE! Our stock is getting killed.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
I'm taking time out from a not-so-busy lunch hour at my desk at work. I didn't go home for lunch today. We're expecting roughly 7 inches of snow here in the next 24 hours. I decided that I only wanted to make the trip home once today. Poor Rocky. He probably has his legs crossed right about now.
We had a really good Project I Am meeting last night. I furiously played bongos after the meeting, reducing everyone to laughter. I've now been told that I will not be able to sit in front of Jennifer next Thursday when we play the Rochambo gig. Seems she doesn't want to laugh in the middle of her songs.
I had a jalapeno and black olive pizza for lunch. I'll pay for that later. I'm very thirsty right now. I didn't have a beverage to go with my lunch and this office has tap water that is so bad it would probably result in the growth of a third eye if consumed.
For now, I must return to working. There's monitoring to be done, people to lead and virgins to sacrifice.
We had a really good Project I Am meeting last night. I furiously played bongos after the meeting, reducing everyone to laughter. I've now been told that I will not be able to sit in front of Jennifer next Thursday when we play the Rochambo gig. Seems she doesn't want to laugh in the middle of her songs.
I had a jalapeno and black olive pizza for lunch. I'll pay for that later. I'm very thirsty right now. I didn't have a beverage to go with my lunch and this office has tap water that is so bad it would probably result in the growth of a third eye if consumed.
For now, I must return to working. There's monitoring to be done, people to lead and virgins to sacrifice.
Monday, January 03, 2005
I'd like to interrupt my usual creative posts with a vent about the credit card industry.
It seems that if you have an account with MBNA, when you pay your bill in full, you haven't REALLY paid your bill in full. Last month, I paid off the entire balance of my account (or so I thought) before the next billing period. Because I did it over two payments, they decided to charge me for every single day that I had a balance on the account. I got a bill in the mail for $8.20. Instead of help from their call center, I got condescending attitudes and two loads of crap from a call center employee and her manager. In response to this shoddy treatment, I would like to share with all of you a letter I just wrote them which will accompany my last payment to MBNA.
January 3, 2005
MBNA "America"
PO Box 15289
Wilmington, DE 19886-5289
To Whom It May Concern:
Enclosed is my last payment of $8.20 for the account referenced on the bill.
I would like to take this opportunity to tell you that MBNA is by far the absolute worst credit card company I have ever had to deal with. When I called your call center, I received, instead of help, an overly patronizing explanation and attitude from your call center employee and your account manager regarding this balance.
In the future, you should communicate clearly to your customers that even if the balance is paid in full in the span of your monthly statement, you’re still going to fuck them in the ass for every blood-red cent of interest you can squeeze out of them. I shall tell all of my friends and acquaintances, as well as the world at large with the help of a blog posting, that MBNA is nothing but a den of thieves cleverly disguised as a bank. I hope all of your jobs are outsourced to India and you all collectively end up in a welfare line in oh-so-exciting Wilmington, Delaware, whose motto should read “Speed Bump To Someplace Better”. Take your $8.20 check and stick it up your collective asses.
No Thanks,
John Paul Spencer
I feel better...........you?
It seems that if you have an account with MBNA, when you pay your bill in full, you haven't REALLY paid your bill in full. Last month, I paid off the entire balance of my account (or so I thought) before the next billing period. Because I did it over two payments, they decided to charge me for every single day that I had a balance on the account. I got a bill in the mail for $8.20. Instead of help from their call center, I got condescending attitudes and two loads of crap from a call center employee and her manager. In response to this shoddy treatment, I would like to share with all of you a letter I just wrote them which will accompany my last payment to MBNA.
January 3, 2005
MBNA "America"
PO Box 15289
Wilmington, DE 19886-5289
To Whom It May Concern:
Enclosed is my last payment of $8.20 for the account referenced on the bill.
I would like to take this opportunity to tell you that MBNA is by far the absolute worst credit card company I have ever had to deal with. When I called your call center, I received, instead of help, an overly patronizing explanation and attitude from your call center employee and your account manager regarding this balance.
In the future, you should communicate clearly to your customers that even if the balance is paid in full in the span of your monthly statement, you’re still going to fuck them in the ass for every blood-red cent of interest you can squeeze out of them. I shall tell all of my friends and acquaintances, as well as the world at large with the help of a blog posting, that MBNA is nothing but a den of thieves cleverly disguised as a bank. I hope all of your jobs are outsourced to India and you all collectively end up in a welfare line in oh-so-exciting Wilmington, Delaware, whose motto should read “Speed Bump To Someplace Better”. Take your $8.20 check and stick it up your collective asses.
No Thanks,
John Paul Spencer
I feel better...........you?
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Another late night of typing and musical appreciation. I am challenged in my typing not only by the darkness that surrounds me, but the bandaid on my right mddle finger.My hands tend to dry out in the cold of winter.
I must apologize to the readers out there who've been waiting patiently for an ending to "Fanatic". It really is developing, but my mind is lazy and undisciplined lately.
I've reached the letter "G" in my CD collection listening project. I've hit my mini-collection of albums featuring Steve Goodman. His music makes me reflective and happy all at the same time. I'm lifting a Guinness to my mouth and taking it all in.
Leslie and I had a great Christmas. We went to her sister Cindi's house in Elgin, Illinois for what always seems like too brief a stop. On Christmas Day, we spent the day at Leslie's sister Kim's place in Woodstock, Illinois. I got a lot of music this year for Christmas, as well as two shirts, a few gift cards that I turned into music, a book on astronomy, some dark chocolate and a book light for reading. I have another day off next Monday, then nothing until March. Herein lies the intrigue....
After tearing our hair out about going to Hawaii for a wedding, we decided to go to Las Vegas instead, based more on the airline reservations than on any other factor. The magic date is Sunday, March 13th, 2005, which is the fifth anniversary of the two of us meeting online. An aura of calm fills me and everything around me just thinking about it all. We finally get to seal the deal. I'm not quite the person I want to be yet, but just having Leslie in my life makes the journey to that place quite a bit shorter. We'll spend about a week out there with assorted friends and family until the big day. It should be quite a week.
Tomorrow night (later today by now) is a meeting/practice at Studio 305 for the big Project I Am gig on January 13th. I'm looking forward to that. I must keep playing and singing to survive. For now, A Guinness and Steve Goodman will send me to bed to lay next to Leslie with every happiness. I wish the readers the same.
I must apologize to the readers out there who've been waiting patiently for an ending to "Fanatic". It really is developing, but my mind is lazy and undisciplined lately.
I've reached the letter "G" in my CD collection listening project. I've hit my mini-collection of albums featuring Steve Goodman. His music makes me reflective and happy all at the same time. I'm lifting a Guinness to my mouth and taking it all in.
Leslie and I had a great Christmas. We went to her sister Cindi's house in Elgin, Illinois for what always seems like too brief a stop. On Christmas Day, we spent the day at Leslie's sister Kim's place in Woodstock, Illinois. I got a lot of music this year for Christmas, as well as two shirts, a few gift cards that I turned into music, a book on astronomy, some dark chocolate and a book light for reading. I have another day off next Monday, then nothing until March. Herein lies the intrigue....
After tearing our hair out about going to Hawaii for a wedding, we decided to go to Las Vegas instead, based more on the airline reservations than on any other factor. The magic date is Sunday, March 13th, 2005, which is the fifth anniversary of the two of us meeting online. An aura of calm fills me and everything around me just thinking about it all. We finally get to seal the deal. I'm not quite the person I want to be yet, but just having Leslie in my life makes the journey to that place quite a bit shorter. We'll spend about a week out there with assorted friends and family until the big day. It should be quite a week.
Tomorrow night (later today by now) is a meeting/practice at Studio 305 for the big Project I Am gig on January 13th. I'm looking forward to that. I must keep playing and singing to survive. For now, A Guinness and Steve Goodman will send me to bed to lay next to Leslie with every happiness. I wish the readers the same.
Monday, December 20, 2004
I'd like to take this opportunity to let everyone in BlogreadingLand know that I have NOT abandoned this space. It bears noting that "Fanatic" has left me drained and a bit flummoxed. I promise to finish this story, plus another one which is in the bullpen, in short order very soon. All IS right with the world. I'm just a little mind-congested. This too will pass.
Oh yeah.......and Bush sucks balls!!! You knew that.
Oh yeah.......and Bush sucks balls!!! You knew that.
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
It was right about now....
1980. I was 14 and living in Philadelphia. My mother was falling asleep in front of the CBS Late Movie. Back then they didn't have a talk show in that time slot. They would just show old reruns of old TV shows like "The Saint" and "Harry-O". I could here the television from my bedroom. I was reading or laying in bed trying to fall asleep.
A news bulletin came across the television. It was the familiar voice of Larry Kane, a long time Philly news anchor. He came on and said John Lennon had been shot outside his New York apartment building and was reportedly fighting for his life at a New York area hospital. He repeated himself and sent us back to the CBS Late Movie.
I turned on the light in my room. I looked to my wall. On it were the posters I pulled out of my copy of the White Album. I looked at the picture of John; stringy hair, the famous round-rimmed glasses, the dungaree jacket and blank expression. I pictured him months later giving his first television interview with Yoko by his side, saying that it had been a long recovery, but that he was getting better. Yoko would say that the get-well wishes keep coming. John would say that the whole experience had strengthened his resolve to fight for a better world.
About five minutes later, Larry Kane came on again. John Lennon was dead. A suspect was in custody.
In my experience, kids tend to discover The Beatles between the ages of 12 and 14. I was in full-on Beatle mode at the time. I was, and still am, devastated by the loss of one of my heroes. It happened in December. For the rest of that month, the main Christmas song that was played on all the radio stations in Philly was "Happy Xmas(War Is Over)". That song still makes me cry. Every time I hear it, all those memories come flooding back to me. My brothers and sister, not understanding my sense of hero worship, made fun of me for being so sad for so long. I don't think I ever truly forgave them for that.
John would have been 64 this year. If only the world could recapture just a little bit of the love he left behind for all of us. It's a dark time in the world right now. There's no love out there. There's no peace being given a chance. For all of you who read this out there in the world, and for all of you who create rather than destroy, I pray that we all band together as one and shine the light of truth into the hearts of the seemingly heartless. Throw down your guns, live a little, laugh a little and be tolerant of one another. Go out of your way to make this a better place.
1980. I was 14 and living in Philadelphia. My mother was falling asleep in front of the CBS Late Movie. Back then they didn't have a talk show in that time slot. They would just show old reruns of old TV shows like "The Saint" and "Harry-O". I could here the television from my bedroom. I was reading or laying in bed trying to fall asleep.
A news bulletin came across the television. It was the familiar voice of Larry Kane, a long time Philly news anchor. He came on and said John Lennon had been shot outside his New York apartment building and was reportedly fighting for his life at a New York area hospital. He repeated himself and sent us back to the CBS Late Movie.
I turned on the light in my room. I looked to my wall. On it were the posters I pulled out of my copy of the White Album. I looked at the picture of John; stringy hair, the famous round-rimmed glasses, the dungaree jacket and blank expression. I pictured him months later giving his first television interview with Yoko by his side, saying that it had been a long recovery, but that he was getting better. Yoko would say that the get-well wishes keep coming. John would say that the whole experience had strengthened his resolve to fight for a better world.
About five minutes later, Larry Kane came on again. John Lennon was dead. A suspect was in custody.
In my experience, kids tend to discover The Beatles between the ages of 12 and 14. I was in full-on Beatle mode at the time. I was, and still am, devastated by the loss of one of my heroes. It happened in December. For the rest of that month, the main Christmas song that was played on all the radio stations in Philly was "Happy Xmas(War Is Over)". That song still makes me cry. Every time I hear it, all those memories come flooding back to me. My brothers and sister, not understanding my sense of hero worship, made fun of me for being so sad for so long. I don't think I ever truly forgave them for that.
John would have been 64 this year. If only the world could recapture just a little bit of the love he left behind for all of us. It's a dark time in the world right now. There's no love out there. There's no peace being given a chance. For all of you who read this out there in the world, and for all of you who create rather than destroy, I pray that we all band together as one and shine the light of truth into the hearts of the seemingly heartless. Throw down your guns, live a little, laugh a little and be tolerant of one another. Go out of your way to make this a better place.
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
Cancel
It had been another one of those nights at the house. He and his wife had argued again. Money. It was always about money. For some reason, people who are good with money always pair off with people with no fiscal discipline. In this particular marriage, he was the one with the money sense.
This fight had been particularly bad. Jimmy was on schedule to get paid the next day, which was a good thing, as the rent was due three days from now. Doreen was between jobs, which was the way people politely tapdanced around the fact that she was unemployed. To add to the fact that Doreen was now suddenly not generating revenue into the house, any money within her reach disappeared as if scattered into the ocean like an urn full of ashes. As much as Jimmy tried to make ends meet, Doreen was foiling his every good thought with one of her own. Today, Jimmy had walked through the front door of their modest rented house and was greeted with a new television set. Doreen, unbeknownst to Jimmy, had decided to rent to own without telling him. He blew up like he had so many times before. How were they going to afford the payments on this, in addition to the payments on his truck, the rents, the utilities, the phone?
Doreen countered by telling Jimmy that as long as she was out of work, she might as well have something nice to watch. Jimmy vainly tried to explain that her energies should be focused on finding a job. Doreen began to nearly cry, following her tradition of not fighting fair to the utmost. Jimmy yelled that the television was going to be returned tomorrow. Doreen yelled twice as loud that it was staying. Jimmy stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him, the vibration on the paper-thin walls knocking one of Doreen's collecible plates off of the living room wall.
Seven hours had passed. Jimmy now found himself in front of a drive-up automatic teller machine. It was almost 1:30 in the morning. He had been here for fifteen minutes without completing a transaction. The screen welcomed him to the bank with the entreaty "PLEASE INSERT CARD" in big, green computerized letters. His wallet was in his lap, beaten and fat with business cards, photos he never looked at, his ATM card and assorted five- and one-dollar bills, which were stuffed into it in no particular order.
He sat with his truck in park, staring straight ahead, tapping his wallet on his right leg. He had been here before after midnight. He had trouble finding a place to think after he and Doreen quarreled. He had a recurring dream when he came here. He told himself that he was going to put his ATM card into the machine, take all the money out of the checking account and leave. He and Doreen had no children yet, so he would just leave and not look back. He would teach Doreen a valuable lesson about what is was like to really not have money. By the time her credit was irreparably damaged and she was living out in the street, she would beg him to come back, and he would say no. That would show her.
The plan only had one small obstacle to overcome. For her many faults and through her appalingly poor judgment, Jimmy loved Doreen. It wasn't a poetic love made of a young man and woman, full of life and happiness, running across flowery fields into each other's arms. I was a love of habit and comfort. They had been together so long that they would hardly know what to do with themselves if the other suddenly wasn't there. As much as Jimmy yearned for peace, far away from Doreen's impulsiveness and fiduciary recklessness, he knew that they were meant to be together. They had been together since they were 16, never leaving the town they grew up in, knowing each other as familiarly as their surroundings. Jimmy;s heart was out beyond the town and back in the living room with Doreen at the same time. Left to his own devices, he could never leave. Anyone who knew him would have a hard time believing that Jimmy would be in any other place.
Jimmy saw headlights in his rearview mirror. Another car would soon want to use the ATM. If he were ever to put his well-practiced fantasy into action, now was the time. He put his card into the ATM. It asked him for his PIN number. As always, he punched in 1-1-0-9. November 9th was his wedding anniversary. The gravity of entering those numbers struck him for a moment.
He pushed the button next to "RECEIVE CASH" and paused as the account choices appeared on the screen. His face turned sad and full of regret. Tonight, like so many nights before it, wouldn't be the night. He hit the button marked "CANCEL" and took back his ATM card. He rolled up his window and began the three-mile drive home. Doreen would be up and waiting when he got home. They'd both apologize, with Jimmy deferring his dreams in silence for another day.
Monday, November 29, 2004
Hey everyone!!
I haven't received a word lately (AHEM! you know who you are....), but the songwriting germs are beginning to flow. I'd like to share with you a song I just finished about five minutes ago. I was inspired tonight by the story of Les Harvey, a singer with an old band called Stone The Crows. One night, he went out in front of the audience and touched a live mike, electrocuting himself. The trouble was, the audience thought it was part of the act for a minute until they realized that he wasn't getting up. For songwriting purposes, I changed the venue from concert hall to circus tent, played with the plot line a little and before you know it, I had the following magnum opus.
Burn Clown Burn
The spotlight shines down on the entrance stage left
As the happy clowns take to the floor
Some faces have smiles; some faces have frowns
And their shoes are all size twenty-four
Then Buggles the Clown runs away from them all
To a little red car in the center ring
And then a flash of light, an explosion of flame
And the crowd begins to sing
CHORUS:
“The elephants smell, and the acrobats fell
Burn Clown Burn
We paid 20 bucks, and the ringmaster sucks
Burn Clown Burn
Who’d think that a car with such little tires
Could turn all at once to a funeral pyre
And there’s nothing so funny like make-up on fire
Burn Clown Burn”
Coming to Buggles’ aid, from entrance stage right
More clowns come to do the right thing
A fireman’s truck about the size of a deer
Rushes straight out into the main ring
They spray him with seltzer until the flames die
But Buggles just lay in a heap on the floor
But the crowd doesn’t see that poor Buggles is toast
They just start to sing like before
(Chorus)
I need to write more songs like this. I definitely see improvement. I hope everyone had a Happy Thanksgiving.
I haven't received a word lately (AHEM! you know who you are....), but the songwriting germs are beginning to flow. I'd like to share with you a song I just finished about five minutes ago. I was inspired tonight by the story of Les Harvey, a singer with an old band called Stone The Crows. One night, he went out in front of the audience and touched a live mike, electrocuting himself. The trouble was, the audience thought it was part of the act for a minute until they realized that he wasn't getting up. For songwriting purposes, I changed the venue from concert hall to circus tent, played with the plot line a little and before you know it, I had the following magnum opus.
Burn Clown Burn
The spotlight shines down on the entrance stage left
As the happy clowns take to the floor
Some faces have smiles; some faces have frowns
And their shoes are all size twenty-four
Then Buggles the Clown runs away from them all
To a little red car in the center ring
And then a flash of light, an explosion of flame
And the crowd begins to sing
CHORUS:
“The elephants smell, and the acrobats fell
Burn Clown Burn
We paid 20 bucks, and the ringmaster sucks
Burn Clown Burn
Who’d think that a car with such little tires
Could turn all at once to a funeral pyre
And there’s nothing so funny like make-up on fire
Burn Clown Burn”
Coming to Buggles’ aid, from entrance stage right
More clowns come to do the right thing
A fireman’s truck about the size of a deer
Rushes straight out into the main ring
They spray him with seltzer until the flames die
But Buggles just lay in a heap on the floor
But the crowd doesn’t see that poor Buggles is toast
They just start to sing like before
(Chorus)
I need to write more songs like this. I definitely see improvement. I hope everyone had a Happy Thanksgiving.
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