Bar Mitzvah

That Dylan Thomas was not young when he wrote "Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night" is a mystery. As I sit at the ripe age of 43, I am already pretty sure I won't be raging "against the dying of the light". I went to my son's friend Erich's Bar Mitzvah last night, with my wife and son. It was a beautiful service, and it made me long for the sense of belonging that all Jewish celebrations evoke. After the service, there was a lovely cocktail hour (I made friends with a bottle of Woodford Reserve) for the adults, while the kids partied in the "kid room". At some point, I wandered over that way to see what the "kids" were up to. I stood at the door and watched my 14 year old boy work a group of girls, including some of the staff, like a seasoned pro, and I realized that I wasn't there for Erich's Bar Mitzvah--I was there for Riley's.

My son grew up last night in my mind, and I doubt there is any going back. I am the sentimental type (I cry during commercials), so the night was a bit tough. Riley is my oldest and his coming into manhood is a bit of a wake-up call. I've seen it coming for some time as the child is blessed with hair in all the right places (for now, boy) a four-thousand dollar, orthodontic smile and a quick wit. He was charming enough to ask the 18 year old bimbo, who had been hired to make the party fun, if she was a striper--and she smiled. As the night wore one, I saw him buzz from one flower to the next, and I began to wonder how long it will be before I get a call from some unhappy father regarding Riley's nocturnal activities. It's not a question of "if", but "when". Then I thought of my perfect "o-k-ness" with the whole thing. Riley's day in the sun is coming and mine is going. Vonnegut would say, "so it goes" and he'd be right.

I spoke to my dad this morning, to check in, to let him know I care. I don't sense any "rage" at the dying of his light. He's 71 and has had a good life. I have yet to meet someone of that age who had any real objection to the inevitable night descending on them, and I doubt I ever will. Riley grows up, I grow down and there's a quiet beauty in that. I will, with any luck, get to see many more milestones in both my kids' lives and I look forward to them all. The feeling that the world will go on, that some part of you will go with it is a comfort and I haven't had any real rage for a long time anyway. Mazel Tov.

Male and Female

I screened the 1919, Cecil B. DeMille directed Male and Female today in my Intro to Film course. Two days a week I get to teach an extension class for our local community college. Two days a week I get to use my graduate school education and, you guessed it, two days a week I love me as a teacher. I get excited about films. Some people look at a cathedral, a painting, a mountain and it fills them with a sense of the divine, a belief that we are not alone, that the dead speak. For me, it's film. I showed a movie made 91 years ago to a room full of people under the age of 25 and the laughed, cried and, fuckin' a Billy, they clapped at the end. They liked it and I felt like there was hope.
I get hopeful and excited at the start of every school year. My high school kids are just as fun and excited as my film students. We covered the first chapter of Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter today, and no question I could think of went unanswered. It was clear that at least two kids in every class had actually read the book--that's not bad. The rest were at least decent enough to pretend they had read it, which I think is a positive. I've decided that my job keeps me from getting depressed. When a city block explodes in San Bruno, when truly retarded people when primary elections, when my wife hates me or I can't take a shit, I have a room full of kids who are willing to at least try to figure out Hawthorne's syntax, even though they are taking 5 other hard classes. There is hope in this work. There is beauty in 90 year old images of a naked Gloria Swanson getting into a bathtub. I feel lucky today.

Slayer and Megadeth

Went to a Slayer, Megadeth and Testament concert on Monday--freakshow. That's right, it's Megadeth, not "Megadeath". They are so badass that they don't even have to spell well. The show was at the luxurious Long Beach Arena, a dying relic of 1960's toilet bowl Arena architecture. The building was in better shape than most of the crowd in any case.



Three metal bands was a bit more than I had hoped for as I really can't stand the shit, but I wasn't there for me. My friends Kris and John are true believers and my 14 year old son wanted to go as well, so here I was. I went to a Dave Matthews show two weeks ago, so this concert marked the second time in as many weeks that I went to a show out of kindness for someone I know. In any case, all three bands delivered what they promised. The crowd, 90% fat, tired looking white guys, was pumped and the pit churned. I knew enough to stay out of the pit, though I confess I was tempted. Chuck Billy, the lead singer for Testament, looked like he has had a few too many roadhouse hamburgers, but he can still play a mean air guitar, which he did throughout the show. Somebody buy him a fucking real guitar so he doesn't look like a fat guy playing guitar hero for an hour. Megadeth was better, because I actually know one of their songs. Everything you need to know about Megadeth can be assertained by looking at the home page of their website.
http://www.megadeth.com/home.php
Dave Mustain and his boys try to look like they kill people and eat the intestines, but they never quite pull it off. Mustain's claim to fame is that he once fell asleep (read passed out) on his arm and damaged his nerves so severely that doctors told him he would never play again. But he said, "fuck you man, I gotta rock" and through sheer will power regained his ability to bore the shit out of anyone with a shred of musical taste--which I now grant myself. In one song, "Symphony of Destruction" Mustain compares himself to the Pied Piper. By extension the people who buy his shit, or "follow" him are, metaphorically, rats--'nuff said.
Slayer sucked more than Megadeth, though the guy who pucked all over the floor in front of us between sets didn't seem to mind. Maybe I was just done, but Slayer didn't have a single redeeming musical quality. They could play loud and fast. How's that?
In fairness, this probably reads like a review of a steakhouse in a PETA publication, but there is nothing really redeeming about this kind of music. To each his own, but I really don't need to listen to songs about serial killers, the devil, or suicide--I think about these subjects too much as it is. Somewhere, among the tattoos of demonic goats, vomit drenched shoes, and NAZI symbolism, a lot of angry white people were trying to let out some pent up aggression. Perhaps metal is cathartic, but I'm not that pissed to begin with.