Daniel Shore died Friday, as most of you must know. I won't bore anyone with the details of his heroic (I don't use this term lightly) life, except to say that the release of leaked military documents this week, showing that the government is lying to us about everything in Afghanistan, harmonically converges with the passing of one of the bravest, truest journalists of the last half-century. Shore had the distinction of being on Richard Nixon's enemies list, finding that out by reading his own name on air while reading a leaked copy of said list. He went on to report on a leaked Pike Committee report detailing illegal CIA and FBI activities. When called before Congress to testify, Shore refused to name his source and was summarily fired by CBS. He didn't curl up and go away at that point; he kept going, to CNN and then to, as a commentator, NPR, where I knew him as the voice of aged reason, the best example of the wisdom of unfazed, old intellect.
That Wikileaks has published the latest litany of lies from the govment is proof, as if we needed any, that the Shores of our world are the true heroes and that they are not all dead--thank God. Thank you Mr. Shore for making me think while I listened to your broadcasts. Thank you for making me feel less alone and less of a malcontent. Thank you for what you did for our country, world. Your death reminded me of a passage from Shakespeare's Richard the Second Act II, i:
O', but they say the tounges of dying men
Enforce attention like deep harmony
Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain,
For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.
He that no more must say is listen'd more
Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose;
More are men's ends mark'd than their lives before:
The setting sun, and music at the close,
As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,
Writ in remembrance more than things long past. . .
Goodnight Mr. Shore.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
The Bowl
Anyone who lacks faith, or a reason to keep living surely didn't see She and Him perform last Sunday at the Hollywood Bowl. They weren't the headliners (The Swell Season), but, like all warm up acts at the Bowl, they were better. It isn't that Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova were bad, it's just that I've seen them three times in the last two years and, I've been there. I bought these tickets because she and him were playing, along with The Bird and the Bee, who I thought included Eleni Mandell in addition to Inara George, but no such luck. The entire show was great, but it's hard to beat the sublime guitar playing and lyrical genius of M. Ward, especially when he has eye-candy, part-time actress Zoey Deschanel with him. The thing is, I like her look and her voice, but I would love to hear more of M. Ward's. His solo stuff is the best, and that's saying something. I saw him in Seattle with Monsters of Folk and I thought the same thing--let M. Ward have the stage by himself. My wife assures me that he's not bad to look at either, though I was bit to drunk to see very much anyway, which brings me to my real point: urinals.
I pee a lot. This is a natural bi-product of consuming 100 or so ounces of beer in a couple of hours, so I can't really blame the gods. My college roommate, who I went to the Monsters of Folk show with, is the only guy I know who pees more than I do, so we were a good pair. Now, I don't want to sound whiny, 'cause at least I don't have to sit to pee and am not forced to wait in ridiculously long lines at the bathroom, even at a big venue like the Hollywood Bowl. Still, I worry that with increased immigration and the natural changing of the generational guard, many of my fellow men are not aware of good etiquette when it comes to using stand up urinals or troughs. Enlightened self-interest compels me to share a small list of suggestions for your consideration. If you are a man (take a second now and check), or if you know one, please consider this list:
1. Never take the urinal next to a currently occupied place if possible. This is simple, don't stand next to me in an empty bathroom. It leads to stage fright, or, worse, the dreaded crossing of the streams. Besides, I frequently wear sandals to these things, and, while I have learned to appreciate my own splash back, I don't want to feel yours. The same rule applies to troughs, where you should keep a minimum of three feet the fuck away from me.
2. Look at the wall, or at your own junk. Never, under any circumstances, should you look down to your left or right. I have enough shit to worry about without wondering why you're looking at my dick. While we're on the subject, if you must talk to me while you're peeing, it had better be important. "Hey dude, the cops are checking people for drugs on the way out"--totally appropriate. "How's it hangin'?"--not so much. In any event, if you must talk to me have the decency to not make eye contact.
3. Don't judge me when I walk passed the sink. I didn't pee on my hands and my unit is clean. I have no need for soap and water. Similarly, don't announce loudly to your child that everyone should wash his hands, I know you're talking to me. I pee so much at a concert that my hands would be raw if I washed them every time.
4. Don't shit in a toilet near the urinals. Seriously, you have to shit at a concert. Lay off the dairy or jalapenos or whatever it is that makes it impossible for you to hold your shit for two hours. Here I'm having this magic moment with M. Ward and Zoey. I'm feeling great. But you have to interrupt the flow by taking a huge, grunting, paint melting shit while I take a pee. If you must shit, go all the way to the last available stall, do your business quickly, and, in this case, do wash your hands--an apology to everyone using the head on your way out is acceptable.
I pee a lot. This is a natural bi-product of consuming 100 or so ounces of beer in a couple of hours, so I can't really blame the gods. My college roommate, who I went to the Monsters of Folk show with, is the only guy I know who pees more than I do, so we were a good pair. Now, I don't want to sound whiny, 'cause at least I don't have to sit to pee and am not forced to wait in ridiculously long lines at the bathroom, even at a big venue like the Hollywood Bowl. Still, I worry that with increased immigration and the natural changing of the generational guard, many of my fellow men are not aware of good etiquette when it comes to using stand up urinals or troughs. Enlightened self-interest compels me to share a small list of suggestions for your consideration. If you are a man (take a second now and check), or if you know one, please consider this list:
1. Never take the urinal next to a currently occupied place if possible. This is simple, don't stand next to me in an empty bathroom. It leads to stage fright, or, worse, the dreaded crossing of the streams. Besides, I frequently wear sandals to these things, and, while I have learned to appreciate my own splash back, I don't want to feel yours. The same rule applies to troughs, where you should keep a minimum of three feet the fuck away from me.
2. Look at the wall, or at your own junk. Never, under any circumstances, should you look down to your left or right. I have enough shit to worry about without wondering why you're looking at my dick. While we're on the subject, if you must talk to me while you're peeing, it had better be important. "Hey dude, the cops are checking people for drugs on the way out"--totally appropriate. "How's it hangin'?"--not so much. In any event, if you must talk to me have the decency to not make eye contact.
3. Don't judge me when I walk passed the sink. I didn't pee on my hands and my unit is clean. I have no need for soap and water. Similarly, don't announce loudly to your child that everyone should wash his hands, I know you're talking to me. I pee so much at a concert that my hands would be raw if I washed them every time.
4. Don't shit in a toilet near the urinals. Seriously, you have to shit at a concert. Lay off the dairy or jalapenos or whatever it is that makes it impossible for you to hold your shit for two hours. Here I'm having this magic moment with M. Ward and Zoey. I'm feeling great. But you have to interrupt the flow by taking a huge, grunting, paint melting shit while I take a pee. If you must shit, go all the way to the last available stall, do your business quickly, and, in this case, do wash your hands--an apology to everyone using the head on your way out is acceptable.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
A Note on My 43rd Birthday
Going bald and simultaneously growing hair everywhere else on my body (yes, fucker, even the bottom of my feet) has given me a certain gracefulness about aging, which is to say I don't care much. I am still able to drink, piss, eat and as Shakespeare said, "make the beast with two backs"--and that's all the matters more or less. This year, as I have for the past three years, I had my birthday at Manhattan Beach's Pollywog Park Sunday Concert. This week's band was a local Reggae outfit, so the stars were aligned. My wife, as usual, took care of most of the particulars, which she manages to do with a smile. I need birthdays and they don't depress me as much as they allow me to act like my inner child for one day. For one day, I can drink as much as I want, say whatever comes to mind (which gets to be a bit much even for me) and dance like a fool. I was surrounded by friends, family and a whole park full of reasonably happy people--and I smiled. My friends, Brad and Natalie, bought me a shirt with the picture of the baby that Zack Galifianakas had strapped to his chest in The Hangover on the front. The shirt elicited more comments from random strangers than anything I have ever worn. I walked through the crowd, as drunk as 10,000 men (thanks Ed Gillespie) wearing my shirt and a shit-eating, glad-to-be-alive look on my face. It doesn't suck to get old, it just hurts a bit more after a hard workout and a bit less after a personal setback--trade off.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Birdcage 2: LeBron aux Folles
Has it come to this? Do we now have to endure a live TV broadcast, 25 minutes long, to announce where a 25 year old basketball player will sign his next contract? President Obama has held two official press conferences since taking office, but Lebron can take a half hour of prime time ESPN coverage to announce that he will be moving to Miami--a town with less soul than a ten year old pair of Birkenstocks. I will not wax nostalgic about that time when players stayed with the cities who loved them out of a sense of obligation or home, as, frankly, I have never known that time. Free agency in every sport has been around for as long as I can remember, and I'm not sure what the big fucking deal is anyway. Lebron James is a businessman, not an elected official or spiritual guru. He gave Cleavland longer than you or I would have and he played well for them. Still, let's face it, no Cleavland team in any sport has won a championship for 50 years. From what I know of the town, having driven through it twice, they never will. Cleavland is like Detroit, without the charm. I understand why Lebron wants to go to Miami and play with the Dwayne and the other guy I don't know anything about. He wants to win a championship, be the best at his profession and become a billionaire--wouldn't we celebrate this under other circumstances? I would say he has a good chance at becoming the billionaire if he wins the championships and keeps his nose clean. I was in Macao on in April and the only symbol of the West I saw was one of those building size Nike posters of Lebron with the caption: "Nice". My wife was convinced that it was a typo, but I think Nike probably checked it before they put it down forty stories of a building. Good luck Lebron and stay out of the strip joints--you never know what you're going to get.
Monday, July 5, 2010
4th of July
I'm a sucker for fireworks. I suppose this is not a terribly revelatory statement--but I have it bad. At the end of the my first marriage, I took the boys to Denver where my dad lives, without my soon to be ex, for a week. I drove straight through to Green River the first day, through Barstow, Vegas, Mesquite and even St. George, where any sensible person would stop on the first day out from L.A.. The boys were tired, and I had pushed them too hard. I was clearly getting the fuck out of Dodge with the two things that mattered most two me, one of whom convinced his brother to put a half-full juice box on my seat while I pumped gas at one of our "leisure" stops. I sat down in the car and felt a lukewarm rush of shitty apple juice hit my face and cascade down. This was a low point in my life, but I was surprised to find that I wasn't pissed. I laughed, Riley laughed and Spencer has never stopped laughing. If they were happy enough to fuck with me without real fear of physical harm, then I must be doing something right and life would go on.
Fireworks, sorry. We made it into Parker the next day on July 2nd and passed a hundred fireworks stores on our way to the Pinery. The kids noticed them. The next day, I took the boys back into town with my father's blessing and spent $150 on fireworks, which is a lot. I bought everything they had, not because I was trying to make the kids happy (juice boxes are cheaper), not because I wanted to drown my pain, not because I can't find anything to do with my massive teacher's salary, but because I like to blow shit up. I like to see colored fire, hear dog-deafening whistles and know that I lit the match. It just feels good.
On the way back from Denver (there were no juice boxes involved) we stopped at a Paiute Indian reservation between Mesquite and Las Vegas for one reason. These Indians don't have casinos, they have fireworks, and not the kind of "safe and sane" crap that we had in Colorado. The Paiute know how to party and must have a vacuum transit system to China, because this place is the final scene of Citizen Kane crane shot, only with fireworks instead of statues. We bought bottle rockets, M80's, and a brick of Black Cat firecrackers. When we got back to California, about a week before I moved out of the house I bought and painted and crawled under, replaced the toilets and killed the rats in, we had a little fun. I blew some shit up, illegal style. It was a final fuck you to my neighbors, my ex and the life I thought, at the time, was surely coming to an end. The juice box incident taught me that the kids would be fine, but it would take longer for me. As each Black Cat exploded, so many that the neighbors threatened to call the man, I blew up a little more of the dream.
It's been 7 years since that day, and therapy, age, a new (decidedly better) wife, have made things better. Look, we all have these stories. The fucked up times even outnumber the good for many of us, but, I swear, as I lay under the fireworks last night and watched shit explode with my second wife, my mother, her mother, my sister, her "dude who fathered her children", their kids, and not my children,who were two miles away with their mother, I know that it gets better. I'm happier today than I have ever been in life. Now if I could just stop people from wanting to play Lee Greenwood, but that will take longer.
Fireworks, sorry. We made it into Parker the next day on July 2nd and passed a hundred fireworks stores on our way to the Pinery. The kids noticed them. The next day, I took the boys back into town with my father's blessing and spent $150 on fireworks, which is a lot. I bought everything they had, not because I was trying to make the kids happy (juice boxes are cheaper), not because I wanted to drown my pain, not because I can't find anything to do with my massive teacher's salary, but because I like to blow shit up. I like to see colored fire, hear dog-deafening whistles and know that I lit the match. It just feels good.
On the way back from Denver (there were no juice boxes involved) we stopped at a Paiute Indian reservation between Mesquite and Las Vegas for one reason. These Indians don't have casinos, they have fireworks, and not the kind of "safe and sane" crap that we had in Colorado. The Paiute know how to party and must have a vacuum transit system to China, because this place is the final scene of Citizen Kane crane shot, only with fireworks instead of statues. We bought bottle rockets, M80's, and a brick of Black Cat firecrackers. When we got back to California, about a week before I moved out of the house I bought and painted and crawled under, replaced the toilets and killed the rats in, we had a little fun. I blew some shit up, illegal style. It was a final fuck you to my neighbors, my ex and the life I thought, at the time, was surely coming to an end. The juice box incident taught me that the kids would be fine, but it would take longer for me. As each Black Cat exploded, so many that the neighbors threatened to call the man, I blew up a little more of the dream.
It's been 7 years since that day, and therapy, age, a new (decidedly better) wife, have made things better. Look, we all have these stories. The fucked up times even outnumber the good for many of us, but, I swear, as I lay under the fireworks last night and watched shit explode with my second wife, my mother, her mother, my sister, her "dude who fathered her children", their kids, and not my children,who were two miles away with their mother, I know that it gets better. I'm happier today than I have ever been in life. Now if I could just stop people from wanting to play Lee Greenwood, but that will take longer.
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