A toast to all for the new year:
To my students past and present, I have the best job in the world because of you. I actually get excited when I go back to work. I love watching you grow and change and I want to be at your weddings.
To Robert, who told me to go see Hugo in 3D. Yes it made me cry, almost throughout. It also made me believe in the power of art, reminded me that there is beauty. If we are a dying planet, we are going out in style. There are a thousand other things to say. Thanks for being friend.
To Kris, who should have said no, but probably didn't out of friendship and a sense of duty that is rarer and rarer. I will not let you down.
To Brad and Natalie, what a great end to a hard few years. Here's to many more!
To Sean and Carol, I think I love you both more than ever. You only get one family and you're lucky if you happen to like them. You have handled the hardest of years with dignity and grace and I have learned from you.
To Kate and John, How did we get so lucky? For all the fun times, we thank you.
To Jeffrey and Alisa, I may have married Julie, but I gained a brother and sister. I have spent my life being adopted by other people's families. Thanks for taking me in.
To Robert and Michael, I have spent considerable time trying to forget the past. Thank you for reminding me of the good friends and good times.
To Hilary, There is life after divorce. For me, it has been better. I wish the same for you.
To the Boys, You won't read this, but can you ever know how much I love you. Parental love is expressed in a variety of ways. Remember that I care when I get mad.
To My Wife, There is nothing better than being understood, accepted--it is the essence of love. The fireworks are wonderful and the butterflies grand, but coming home to somebody you can talk to, somebody you want to be with is worth a thousand grand finales. My life would be far worse without you and you make me want to try to be a better person.
To All, Happy New Year! Even years are always better than odd. Here's to 2012!
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Friday, December 23, 2011
Men of a Certain Age
You reach a certain age and things don't make much sense anymore. You've heard similar things from enough of your friends and know, at your core, that you are not alone, the knowing of which does nothing to assuage your pain, fear, ennui, whatever the fuck it is that you can't put your finger on. There are phases in your life that have corresponded, roughly to the literary works you have poured over, memorized.
Phase 1, Tolkien:
In the Tolkien age, men believe in everything that is good and holy. At this age, you enlisted in the Army, believed, absolutely, in God and women. It was an age of somewhat reckless abandon, tempered by a sense of duty and country that only a young man can possess. You failed, on rare occasion, but considered your failures a test of your will, knowing that things were likely to improve, that you would accomplish those things you set out to: writing that novel, winning that girl, destroying the ring of evil, etc. You knew too that the world was in tune with your mission. Wizards and midgets would be there to assist you on your path; magic was real. This phase ended for you, as it does for most, in heartbreak. This phase lasts from 14 to 20 (longer for the mentally infirmed).
Phase 2, Hunter S. Thompson:
There is a phase in every reasonable man's life, when he loses his shit, takes to drinking and smoking too much, beating random people up, getting beat up by the wrong random people, puking in cars, elevators, buses, parks, too many bathrooms to remember. This phase invariably begins with the death of true love, the kind that you believed in during Phase 1, the Princess Bride variety--bullshit. During Phase 2, you put as much energy and fuel into your absolute belief that life is pain as you did into the good times of Phase 1. This phase lasts from 20 to 26.5 for the average man, though some never emerge.
Phase 3, Vonnegut:
Also known as the "so it goes" phase, Phase 3 involves an acceptance of things as they are, a lowering of expectations, a renewed sense of purpose to accomplish something, anything that will rise above the ephemera. Like Billy Pilgrim, you grow detached, obtuse at times, though your Phase 2 training has provided you with the capacity to always look like you're having a good time, which is not always a lie after all. It is in the Vonnegut phase, which lasts from 26 to 36 roughly, that you develop reasonable, if perhaps lofty, career expectations. You envision a life of worth, substance. The phase could very well be called the Fitzgerald phase too, though you're not much of a Gatsby (who was stuck in Phase 1). It may be, in the end, that all who get stuck in Phase 1 end up face first in a bloody pool, though you're not certain of this. You likely marry in Phase 3, though it's not a great time to do so for the above mentioned, "low expectations", reasons. If you do marry, and marry another Phase 3'er, it won't end well. Phase 3 invariably ends with a mild but persistent nagging, a sense that there must be more, an unwillingness to accept with quiet humility, your insignificance.
Phase 4, E.A. Robinson's "Miniver Cheevy"
You reach a point in your life, it could just as well be called the Network Phase, when you are mad as hell and unwilling to take it anymore. What you are mad at is hard to define, though there are no shortage of suspects. The post office is high on your list and this is telling. You begin to think that there is a universal conspiracy against your happiness, though you rationally know this can't be the case, because you also know, at the end of the day, that you are not important enough to warrant a conspiracy. You have more things during this period of your life, more money, newer cars, more computational capacity in your home than existed in the entire world 50 years ago, shit, more in your pocket. Though the more you have, the less it matters. Perhaps it's enough that you're not Richard Cory, but being Miniver is bad enough. You know that thinking about it makes it worse, which naturally makes you think about it, and there's the rub.
Phase 5:
To be determined
Phase 1, Tolkien:
In the Tolkien age, men believe in everything that is good and holy. At this age, you enlisted in the Army, believed, absolutely, in God and women. It was an age of somewhat reckless abandon, tempered by a sense of duty and country that only a young man can possess. You failed, on rare occasion, but considered your failures a test of your will, knowing that things were likely to improve, that you would accomplish those things you set out to: writing that novel, winning that girl, destroying the ring of evil, etc. You knew too that the world was in tune with your mission. Wizards and midgets would be there to assist you on your path; magic was real. This phase ended for you, as it does for most, in heartbreak. This phase lasts from 14 to 20 (longer for the mentally infirmed).
Phase 2, Hunter S. Thompson:
There is a phase in every reasonable man's life, when he loses his shit, takes to drinking and smoking too much, beating random people up, getting beat up by the wrong random people, puking in cars, elevators, buses, parks, too many bathrooms to remember. This phase invariably begins with the death of true love, the kind that you believed in during Phase 1, the Princess Bride variety--bullshit. During Phase 2, you put as much energy and fuel into your absolute belief that life is pain as you did into the good times of Phase 1. This phase lasts from 20 to 26.5 for the average man, though some never emerge.
Phase 3, Vonnegut:
Also known as the "so it goes" phase, Phase 3 involves an acceptance of things as they are, a lowering of expectations, a renewed sense of purpose to accomplish something, anything that will rise above the ephemera. Like Billy Pilgrim, you grow detached, obtuse at times, though your Phase 2 training has provided you with the capacity to always look like you're having a good time, which is not always a lie after all. It is in the Vonnegut phase, which lasts from 26 to 36 roughly, that you develop reasonable, if perhaps lofty, career expectations. You envision a life of worth, substance. The phase could very well be called the Fitzgerald phase too, though you're not much of a Gatsby (who was stuck in Phase 1). It may be, in the end, that all who get stuck in Phase 1 end up face first in a bloody pool, though you're not certain of this. You likely marry in Phase 3, though it's not a great time to do so for the above mentioned, "low expectations", reasons. If you do marry, and marry another Phase 3'er, it won't end well. Phase 3 invariably ends with a mild but persistent nagging, a sense that there must be more, an unwillingness to accept with quiet humility, your insignificance.
Phase 4, E.A. Robinson's "Miniver Cheevy"
You reach a point in your life, it could just as well be called the Network Phase, when you are mad as hell and unwilling to take it anymore. What you are mad at is hard to define, though there are no shortage of suspects. The post office is high on your list and this is telling. You begin to think that there is a universal conspiracy against your happiness, though you rationally know this can't be the case, because you also know, at the end of the day, that you are not important enough to warrant a conspiracy. You have more things during this period of your life, more money, newer cars, more computational capacity in your home than existed in the entire world 50 years ago, shit, more in your pocket. Though the more you have, the less it matters. Perhaps it's enough that you're not Richard Cory, but being Miniver is bad enough. You know that thinking about it makes it worse, which naturally makes you think about it, and there's the rub.
Phase 5:
To be determined
Friday, November 4, 2011
Willet Rye
There is something more holy, more wondrous, more bitchin than a good Manhattan, the kind a friend of mine makes (always better than I can) so well that I'm convinced my wife wants to sleep with him, and I would let her--they're that good. Still, I digress, there is something better than a good Manhattan, Willet Rye on the rocks in a buckettt. I don't normally resort to that "repeated letter for emphasis" shit, but I had to here. I am sitting, as I write this, in a sweatsuit, with the window wide open on the first rainy day of the year, watching college football I don't care about and drinking whiskey I can't afford. The wife and kids have given me the day off, an evening to myself and I am grateful for their sacrifice.
It has been a shitty month, in a shitty year, or two. My paycheck has gone down for three years in a row. The house, as of today, is worth $200,000 less than it was four years ago, and everyone, even the nice good ones, is pissed at work. Pissed at the kids, pissed at me, pissed at God, pissed. There is a near total breakdown of government at all levels in our country. One side unwilling to do anything because the President is black, if not liberal or progressive and the other side too afraid to be what they fucking claim to be. That was not a good decade, the "zero's". I'm tired, a bit melancholic, middle-aged, and starting to wonder if this is it. Alright that's bullshit, I know this is it. This is all we will have, will be, and we'd better make the best of it. Which brings me back to Willet.
115 proof, small batch Rye Whiskey is the Crack of alcohols. One sip and you're on that wax encased glass tit for the ride, and the ride is smooth. Whiskey has always been a man's drink. It tastes like straight gasoline the first time you drink it, but gets better with age--yours and its. You develop a taste for the stuff because you know, below the belt, in your man eggs, that it's right. Your father drank it, his father made it, and it's your birthright/responsibility to drink it and enjoy it. So you work it, 10, 20 years. You mix it at first with 7up, though you discover that this is for pussies, so you move to the Manhattan, The Old Fashioned and so forth. At some point, the time is different for everyone, you find yourself pouring a three finger bucket of the stuff, on ice (you don't need to be a fucking cowboy), and lifting it to your mouth, smelling, tasting in addition to drinking. Then you need better shit, because you can taste it; it won't be mixed, or even fucking stored, with 7up. You know, because you can't go back, that you are ready to spend $35 on a bottle of Rye and not think too much about it. You know too, that it will be around for a month, you won't be drinking it all tonight and puking it all over Howard Miller's driveway (sorry Howard, did I ever say that?) So here's to you Willet family. May good bless you and your magical grains. The rain has stopped and my glass is empty.
It has been a shitty month, in a shitty year, or two. My paycheck has gone down for three years in a row. The house, as of today, is worth $200,000 less than it was four years ago, and everyone, even the nice good ones, is pissed at work. Pissed at the kids, pissed at me, pissed at God, pissed. There is a near total breakdown of government at all levels in our country. One side unwilling to do anything because the President is black, if not liberal or progressive and the other side too afraid to be what they fucking claim to be. That was not a good decade, the "zero's". I'm tired, a bit melancholic, middle-aged, and starting to wonder if this is it. Alright that's bullshit, I know this is it. This is all we will have, will be, and we'd better make the best of it. Which brings me back to Willet.
115 proof, small batch Rye Whiskey is the Crack of alcohols. One sip and you're on that wax encased glass tit for the ride, and the ride is smooth. Whiskey has always been a man's drink. It tastes like straight gasoline the first time you drink it, but gets better with age--yours and its. You develop a taste for the stuff because you know, below the belt, in your man eggs, that it's right. Your father drank it, his father made it, and it's your birthright/responsibility to drink it and enjoy it. So you work it, 10, 20 years. You mix it at first with 7up, though you discover that this is for pussies, so you move to the Manhattan, The Old Fashioned and so forth. At some point, the time is different for everyone, you find yourself pouring a three finger bucket of the stuff, on ice (you don't need to be a fucking cowboy), and lifting it to your mouth, smelling, tasting in addition to drinking. Then you need better shit, because you can taste it; it won't be mixed, or even fucking stored, with 7up. You know, because you can't go back, that you are ready to spend $35 on a bottle of Rye and not think too much about it. You know too, that it will be around for a month, you won't be drinking it all tonight and puking it all over Howard Miller's driveway (sorry Howard, did I ever say that?) So here's to you Willet family. May good bless you and your magical grains. The rain has stopped and my glass is empty.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
The Weight
Losing 25 pounds in three weeks(ish) is revelatory. I know I'll probably gain a fair amount of it back, but I now weigh 199 pounds, a size I haven't been since 1987, the year I got out of the army. I started the diet in part to support my wife who was doing it too, but mostly because I needed a change. For the last few weeks and change, I haven't had a drink, haven't eaten very much and haven't gone out at all. The difference is remarkable.
When you get to be a certain age, say 44, you start to believe that the changes you notice in your life, physically, mentally are mostly due to age, and they probably are. But many of the small issues that were cropping up in my life, occasional high blood pressure, lethargy, gut, have gone away with the weight. I'm not a new man, haven't turned a corner, will not be pulling a dingy full of people from Alcatraz to the San Franciscon shore anytime soon, but I do feel better, more alive, happier.
Now, I know that this won't last, that I will probably revert to being the fatter, happier, drunker me soon. In the meantime, I can't recognize the man in the mirror, but he looks good.
When you get to be a certain age, say 44, you start to believe that the changes you notice in your life, physically, mentally are mostly due to age, and they probably are. But many of the small issues that were cropping up in my life, occasional high blood pressure, lethargy, gut, have gone away with the weight. I'm not a new man, haven't turned a corner, will not be pulling a dingy full of people from Alcatraz to the San Franciscon shore anytime soon, but I do feel better, more alive, happier.
Now, I know that this won't last, that I will probably revert to being the fatter, happier, drunker me soon. In the meantime, I can't recognize the man in the mirror, but he looks good.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Showdown at the Pearly Gates
There's a fight in heaven tonight over who gets in first, if at all--A CEO of a gadet company or an NFL Owner. One a tyrannical, son-of-a-bitch who ran his company like a concentration camp and screwed over every partner he ever had, and the other Al Davis. Yeah, I said it. Steve Jobs was an asshole.
The endless ass kissing that has followed Jobs' death is enough to make me want to buy a Zune, if i could find one. And isn't that the point? I could find a Zune, but Apple's product is so dominant that it wouldn't be worth the money. The company that Jobs designed is the biggest monopoly in corporate history, which is admittedly not Jobs fault so much as it is proof of his genius. So why hate the guy? It's the comparisons to Henry Ford that I have the biggest issue with. Ford knew what planned obsolescence was, but he didn't push it to the ridiculous heights that Jobs did. The endless need to own the latest Apple, made in China, piece of shit is the issue. Every fucking time a new Apple product comes out you know it will be replaced in a year. You know that the company making it has more cash on hand than the U.S. government and you know that people in shit hole factories in China are being exploited to make the product, which, I readily admit, is amazing. It's not that Jobs wasn't a genius, or that his product is inferior, it's that he didn't have a heart. He didn't give his money away, as Bill Gates is busy doing. He was hard on his employees and he cared more about the bottom line than is decent. Yes, his inventions have changed the world, but so has his corporate model, which will be imitated to our detriment as a nation and as a planet. I want to champion the guy who invents some shit that will last a decade and was made in America. Yeah, I know that nobody makes anything in our country, which might be why we are nearly dead. It is time to start asking more of our geniuses, of ourselves. How much cooler would Jobs' legacy be if he had been just a little more conscientious, like Al Davis?
The endless ass kissing that has followed Jobs' death is enough to make me want to buy a Zune, if i could find one. And isn't that the point? I could find a Zune, but Apple's product is so dominant that it wouldn't be worth the money. The company that Jobs designed is the biggest monopoly in corporate history, which is admittedly not Jobs fault so much as it is proof of his genius. So why hate the guy? It's the comparisons to Henry Ford that I have the biggest issue with. Ford knew what planned obsolescence was, but he didn't push it to the ridiculous heights that Jobs did. The endless need to own the latest Apple, made in China, piece of shit is the issue. Every fucking time a new Apple product comes out you know it will be replaced in a year. You know that the company making it has more cash on hand than the U.S. government and you know that people in shit hole factories in China are being exploited to make the product, which, I readily admit, is amazing. It's not that Jobs wasn't a genius, or that his product is inferior, it's that he didn't have a heart. He didn't give his money away, as Bill Gates is busy doing. He was hard on his employees and he cared more about the bottom line than is decent. Yes, his inventions have changed the world, but so has his corporate model, which will be imitated to our detriment as a nation and as a planet. I want to champion the guy who invents some shit that will last a decade and was made in America. Yeah, I know that nobody makes anything in our country, which might be why we are nearly dead. It is time to start asking more of our geniuses, of ourselves. How much cooler would Jobs' legacy be if he had been just a little more conscientious, like Al Davis?
Sunday, October 2, 2011
The Ride
T.S. Eliot had it wrong--September, not April, is the cruelest month. The shitstorm that is my life for the 9 month of the year, between the kids going back to school, myself going back to school, my wife going back to school, is as demoralizing as it is debilitating. I has never been easy, but for the last five years, I have had an annual reason to get over the pity party, my friend Kris.
Five years ago, when Kris was diagnosed with MS, I didn't know what to think. After doing some research into the disease, I got worried. Fortunately, Kris's response to medicine has been great thus far and his symptoms haven't progressed, but neither Kris, his family or friends wanted to sit around and do nothing to help. As luck would have it, or so I thought before my first journey, MS sponsors an annual bike ride in the Ventura to Santa Barbara vicinity. So, we did what we thought was right. Kris bought a bike, asked me and several others to come along and we haven't looked back. 5 years and three bikes later, I'm still going on "the ride" with Kris and his ageless father, Ron. Each year, I have felt a little more like a biker, a little less like a scared, out of shape friend who's in over his head. I have had an annual reason to stay in reasonable shape, something anyone who knows me knows I need. I have become closer with each passing year to a friend who ranks among my favorite people. I have become more connected to Kris's family, who I look forward to seeing every year. It has become an annual holiday, a day of action, national "getoffyourassandhelpafriendday". Yesterday, as I rode with Kris and Ron and Julius and Faye and the always happy Mike, I thought of how lucky I am, to be able to help a friend, to be able to climb a mountain on a bike and to do it with my lovely wife and not to shabby children as my road crew.
When I was in the second grade, my teacher, Mrs. Shimatsu, gave me a certificate at the end of the year: "Most likely to be happy-go-lucky". In retrospect, she was probably insulting me as I hadn't exactly been an academic star in her class, but it didn't seem to bother me. Whatever her reasons, she had it right. My life has had its share of ups and downs, but I still feel lucky. Lucky to have friends I want to help, lucky to have kids I still like, lucky to have a wife who actually likes me. Thanks for another great year, Kris. Some of my best memories have come on "the ride", at the Hollywood Bowl, at Karaoke. You're one of the best and I'm proud to be on your team.
Five years ago, when Kris was diagnosed with MS, I didn't know what to think. After doing some research into the disease, I got worried. Fortunately, Kris's response to medicine has been great thus far and his symptoms haven't progressed, but neither Kris, his family or friends wanted to sit around and do nothing to help. As luck would have it, or so I thought before my first journey, MS sponsors an annual bike ride in the Ventura to Santa Barbara vicinity. So, we did what we thought was right. Kris bought a bike, asked me and several others to come along and we haven't looked back. 5 years and three bikes later, I'm still going on "the ride" with Kris and his ageless father, Ron. Each year, I have felt a little more like a biker, a little less like a scared, out of shape friend who's in over his head. I have had an annual reason to stay in reasonable shape, something anyone who knows me knows I need. I have become closer with each passing year to a friend who ranks among my favorite people. I have become more connected to Kris's family, who I look forward to seeing every year. It has become an annual holiday, a day of action, national "getoffyourassandhelpafriendday". Yesterday, as I rode with Kris and Ron and Julius and Faye and the always happy Mike, I thought of how lucky I am, to be able to help a friend, to be able to climb a mountain on a bike and to do it with my lovely wife and not to shabby children as my road crew.
When I was in the second grade, my teacher, Mrs. Shimatsu, gave me a certificate at the end of the year: "Most likely to be happy-go-lucky". In retrospect, she was probably insulting me as I hadn't exactly been an academic star in her class, but it didn't seem to bother me. Whatever her reasons, she had it right. My life has had its share of ups and downs, but I still feel lucky. Lucky to have friends I want to help, lucky to have kids I still like, lucky to have a wife who actually likes me. Thanks for another great year, Kris. Some of my best memories have come on "the ride", at the Hollywood Bowl, at Karaoke. You're one of the best and I'm proud to be on your team.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Winehouse
It wasn't hard to predict this day, but it doesn't make it any sadder. Watching Amy Winehouse die has taken 4 or 5 years, but we all knew it was coming. "Rehab" says everything you need to know about the situation, not that it works anyways and maybe that's the point of the song. Winehouse had it bad, like a lot of people I know; she couldn't stop. Lord knows what was eating her, though I suspect it was the usual. There is a deeper sense of decay and inevitable doom in England than there is in the U.S. Decades of decline, politically, economically, and socially have reduced Britania to a bit of an afterthought. We are 50 years away from that point in our trajectory--we burned faster and brighter. And, while it may be a bit of a stretch to say that Winehouse died because England has lost its mojo, I think there's a connection. The popular music of England, while amazing to listen to, is not terribly happy. Consider one of Winehouse's contemporaries, Lily Allen. Allen writes stuff that is hard to distinguish from Winehouse's in content, though the music is more upbeat. Or consider Guy Ritchie's films, especially the terrible Rock-n-Rolla. This isn't a complete list of all popular British media, but, from a Yankee perspective, it's indicative of a country with a drug and alcohol problem.
Maybe that's it in the end. England is a drunken, drugged out, hooligan of a country, at least in certain economic circles and I'm sure we are too. Maybe its western culture in general, but it does seem like there are too many people around now who are in profound pain. I don't think Winehouse was suicidal, nor do I think so of any addict for that matter, but that is the end of things for her kind. Perhaps we should spend more time looking at why there is so much pain, dissatisfaction and lack of interest in contemporary Western life, than in wondering why Amy Winehouse, Lindsay Lohan, etc. can't stop the madness.
Maybe that's it in the end. England is a drunken, drugged out, hooligan of a country, at least in certain economic circles and I'm sure we are too. Maybe its western culture in general, but it does seem like there are too many people around now who are in profound pain. I don't think Winehouse was suicidal, nor do I think so of any addict for that matter, but that is the end of things for her kind. Perhaps we should spend more time looking at why there is so much pain, dissatisfaction and lack of interest in contemporary Western life, than in wondering why Amy Winehouse, Lindsay Lohan, etc. can't stop the madness.
Monday, June 20, 2011
We Meet Kris Kristofferson
Is there anything better than meeting a personal hero? It's a rhetorical question, so don't bother answering as you and I all know the answer. So it goes that this Saturday the wife and I got to meet Kris Krisfuckinstofferson at the Johnny Cash Music Festival in Ventura. I saw the flier a few weeks ago and thought it would make for a fun day, and it did.
I've seen Kris (he's my friend now) perform before at UCLA's Royce Hall. Steve Earl warmed up for him and then KK played for 3 hours non-stop, just him and the guitar, every song he ever wrote, which is a lot of songs. That show was cool, even if a bit long. He played "Moment of Forever" towards the end, a song he wrote with another guy I know, Danny Timms. Timms was in a band with a colleague of mine and they played our wedding. I told this to Kris on Saturday in the 30 seconds I had to say everything I have ever wanted to say to him. This is what I got out:
Me: "Mr. Kristofferson, Danny Timms played "Moment of Forever" at our wedding, can we have a picture?"
Kris: "Sure"
Me: "Thanks, I'm a high school English teacher and I teach William Blake every year"
Kris: "I can't figure out cameras today"
Me: "Can I make a request? Would you play "Junkie and a Juicehead"? It's pure poetry"
Kris: "They only gave me 30 minutes, so we'll see"
Me: "Thanks"
That was it. My wife got the picture, from her Iphone (that's what confused Kris) and the whole thing was over. I stood stunned for a couple of minutes, then the tears started. Those of you who know me are not moved by this; I've been known to cry during television commercials, but I was moved. The William Blake thing was a bit of a fib as I haven't taught Songs of Innocence and Experience for four years, but I wanted to say something that would reveal my profound knowledge of KK's life. So he went into the gated area and we went back to get another beer and a good spot for the performance, which was a good thing.
Kris came on a stage and fiddled with his guitar for a few seconds (there was feedback) and then he tried to sing over the sound of the car races happening a quarter mile away. Now I know it's mildly sacrilegious to say so, but the man could never sing anyway. This isn't as damning a claim as it may appear. The list of singer songwriters who I love, who can't really sing isn't that short: Dylan, Todd Snider, Tom Waits (though in his case, it's intentional), etc. Alright, maybe it is short, but it's not unheard of. In any case, KK tried to sing over the cars and the feedback and a crowd that was talking a lot, and what do you think he played. For his second song, for the first time in a long time, "Junkie and a Juicehead" made the list. This song has five or six of the greatest lines in lyrical history in it:
"So I drank the whole thing over, puttin one and two together and it added up to more of what I didn't want to be"
"He says every empty bottle is his private crystal ball, where he stares into the future finding nothin there at all"
Check it out below and call me a liar if it's not as perfect as I claim.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lZU359hdM1w
So he plays the song, not well, missing some of the lyrics, looking unsure, and he finishes, saying: "I wasn't gonna play that song today but somebody out there requested it" And my wife screams, "It was us" and I scream "thank you", and the tears roll again. He finishes with "Moment of Forever" and all I can do is hug my wife, kiss the back of her head and thank God I'm here right now, today.
In the end, that's mostly what I took away from the day--my wife is awesome. Who else would get this excited about meeting a guy my parents' age whose name doesn't even register for most people our age? Who would stand for an hour with me at the back of a warehouse because I'm convinced that that's where Kris will be coming in? Who else would go to this show with me, knowing me, understanding that they will be selling beer? It's been a lucky week, decade, perhaps even life. My second grade teacher, Mrs. Shimizu, gave me a certificate at the end of the year naming me "most likely to be happy-go-lucky" and I have no idea how she knew, but she was dead on.
I've seen Kris (he's my friend now) perform before at UCLA's Royce Hall. Steve Earl warmed up for him and then KK played for 3 hours non-stop, just him and the guitar, every song he ever wrote, which is a lot of songs. That show was cool, even if a bit long. He played "Moment of Forever" towards the end, a song he wrote with another guy I know, Danny Timms. Timms was in a band with a colleague of mine and they played our wedding. I told this to Kris on Saturday in the 30 seconds I had to say everything I have ever wanted to say to him. This is what I got out:
Me: "Mr. Kristofferson, Danny Timms played "Moment of Forever" at our wedding, can we have a picture?"
Kris: "Sure"
Me: "Thanks, I'm a high school English teacher and I teach William Blake every year"
Kris: "I can't figure out cameras today"
Me: "Can I make a request? Would you play "Junkie and a Juicehead"? It's pure poetry"
Kris: "They only gave me 30 minutes, so we'll see"
Me: "Thanks"
That was it. My wife got the picture, from her Iphone (that's what confused Kris) and the whole thing was over. I stood stunned for a couple of minutes, then the tears started. Those of you who know me are not moved by this; I've been known to cry during television commercials, but I was moved. The William Blake thing was a bit of a fib as I haven't taught Songs of Innocence and Experience for four years, but I wanted to say something that would reveal my profound knowledge of KK's life. So he went into the gated area and we went back to get another beer and a good spot for the performance, which was a good thing.
Kris came on a stage and fiddled with his guitar for a few seconds (there was feedback) and then he tried to sing over the sound of the car races happening a quarter mile away. Now I know it's mildly sacrilegious to say so, but the man could never sing anyway. This isn't as damning a claim as it may appear. The list of singer songwriters who I love, who can't really sing isn't that short: Dylan, Todd Snider, Tom Waits (though in his case, it's intentional), etc. Alright, maybe it is short, but it's not unheard of. In any case, KK tried to sing over the cars and the feedback and a crowd that was talking a lot, and what do you think he played. For his second song, for the first time in a long time, "Junkie and a Juicehead" made the list. This song has five or six of the greatest lines in lyrical history in it:
"So I drank the whole thing over, puttin one and two together and it added up to more of what I didn't want to be"
"He says every empty bottle is his private crystal ball, where he stares into the future finding nothin there at all"
Check it out below and call me a liar if it's not as perfect as I claim.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lZU359hdM1w
So he plays the song, not well, missing some of the lyrics, looking unsure, and he finishes, saying: "I wasn't gonna play that song today but somebody out there requested it" And my wife screams, "It was us" and I scream "thank you", and the tears roll again. He finishes with "Moment of Forever" and all I can do is hug my wife, kiss the back of her head and thank God I'm here right now, today.
In the end, that's mostly what I took away from the day--my wife is awesome. Who else would get this excited about meeting a guy my parents' age whose name doesn't even register for most people our age? Who would stand for an hour with me at the back of a warehouse because I'm convinced that that's where Kris will be coming in? Who else would go to this show with me, knowing me, understanding that they will be selling beer? It's been a lucky week, decade, perhaps even life. My second grade teacher, Mrs. Shimizu, gave me a certificate at the end of the year naming me "most likely to be happy-go-lucky" and I have no idea how she knew, but she was dead on.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
The Rapture
I get one or two epiphanies a year, moments of higher brain function than my normal high school teaching slog requires, coming almost always at the end of a semester or on a break from the grind when my mind is otherwise unoccupied. Epiphany is a strange thing, equal parts inspiration and ephemera, but I had to share this:
End of the world movies and stories are not the self-fulfilling prophecies of a species lucid enough to know it's killing itself and the planet, but too drunk to care. Rather, they are a very perverse kind of wish, a certain desire to have every trapping of modern life, the cars, the toys, the clothes, the food, the shit, without quite so many people. That's how fucked up we are as a species. We know it's the cars that are killing us, so we rationalize that if there were simply fewer of us, we could all drive Hummers. Think about it for a second, all the disaster movies (from Zombieland to The Road, the comic to the tragic) have this thing is common--not everyone dies. This was the most absurd part of I Am Legend, the part that made it so much less appealing than Omega Man. The later ends with mother and son survivors finding a "safe-town", complete with white church steeple, suburban streets and plenty of gun and ammo. The message is clear--there was nothing wrong with the way we were living, there were just too many of us.
Disaster films suggest that all we really need to do is find some way of killing off 99% of the world's population, after which, we can go back to eating bacon and watching Shrek. Sure it's a heavy price to pay for the 99%, but they'll either go quickly, or turn to zombies and wouldn't we really rather be dead at that point anyway? Fuck population control, sustainable energy, cleaning up the rivers and lakes, getting rid of nuclear waste, what we really need is a bad mutant virus to escape from a secret government lab. Sure, there will be the unpleasant period of time when we are eating each other and cooking babies, but it will pass and there will be a family, complete with dog, who live in the woods to take us in. Then we can start all over.
This shit we feed ourselves is not some masochistic, self-flagellation we have imposed on ourselves; it's our escape plan. Deep in our American psyche lie buried a simple thought: the freeways and the planes and the "food" we eat would all be fine if there were far fewer drivers, fliers and buffet lines. God forbid we should examine whether in fact we are living the good life. It's far easier to imagine, long for, a hundred different calamities that could do for us what we are too fat, too stupid and too lazy to do for ourselves. At the end of the day, what we see in disaster movies is what we truly want--99 out of 100 of our fellow earthlings to die. It beats giving up the Lexus.
End of the world movies and stories are not the self-fulfilling prophecies of a species lucid enough to know it's killing itself and the planet, but too drunk to care. Rather, they are a very perverse kind of wish, a certain desire to have every trapping of modern life, the cars, the toys, the clothes, the food, the shit, without quite so many people. That's how fucked up we are as a species. We know it's the cars that are killing us, so we rationalize that if there were simply fewer of us, we could all drive Hummers. Think about it for a second, all the disaster movies (from Zombieland to The Road, the comic to the tragic) have this thing is common--not everyone dies. This was the most absurd part of I Am Legend, the part that made it so much less appealing than Omega Man. The later ends with mother and son survivors finding a "safe-town", complete with white church steeple, suburban streets and plenty of gun and ammo. The message is clear--there was nothing wrong with the way we were living, there were just too many of us.
Disaster films suggest that all we really need to do is find some way of killing off 99% of the world's population, after which, we can go back to eating bacon and watching Shrek. Sure it's a heavy price to pay for the 99%, but they'll either go quickly, or turn to zombies and wouldn't we really rather be dead at that point anyway? Fuck population control, sustainable energy, cleaning up the rivers and lakes, getting rid of nuclear waste, what we really need is a bad mutant virus to escape from a secret government lab. Sure, there will be the unpleasant period of time when we are eating each other and cooking babies, but it will pass and there will be a family, complete with dog, who live in the woods to take us in. Then we can start all over.
This shit we feed ourselves is not some masochistic, self-flagellation we have imposed on ourselves; it's our escape plan. Deep in our American psyche lie buried a simple thought: the freeways and the planes and the "food" we eat would all be fine if there were far fewer drivers, fliers and buffet lines. God forbid we should examine whether in fact we are living the good life. It's far easier to imagine, long for, a hundred different calamities that could do for us what we are too fat, too stupid and too lazy to do for ourselves. At the end of the day, what we see in disaster movies is what we truly want--99 out of 100 of our fellow earthlings to die. It beats giving up the Lexus.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Spring Break
You know when you are about to buy the tickets to Denver for yourself and your two kids that they are not going to approve. Their 14 and 11 year old ideas of fun are not going to Parker to sit in your father's living room and watch an alternating mix of Fox News and Rockies' baseball. The 11 year old can be convinced that it won't hurt him, but the 14 year old is a slow poison, and he will convince his brother that visiting grandpa and granny for a week was one of the tortures that Dante encountered way down in the rings of hell (and you never felt this way; you liked going to your grandmother's house in Santa Barbara, but your home life was frequently shit and Grandma, despite the drinking and the occasional bad attitude, provided a refuge, not a torture). You don't understand the 14 year old and are beginning to suspect that he may not even be your child. Other people tell you that "they are all different", but you aren't prepared for how different. He is his mother, your first wife (the minors). You must work to like him, though it comes naturally to others and you feel bad for this. The second one is more "you", so you like him more, get him, empathize. You know every parent with more than one child must go through this, but it doesn't help. You know also that you're a big fucking baby. 14 is not sick. He's not a complete degenerate. He's a good boy, so you buy the tickets. The trip will be what it is.
Wife number 2 (the majors) takes you to the airport at 5 a.m. without complaint and you remember why you married her, why she is right and why you can envision an old age with her should you be so lucky. You reach the boarding area in plenty of time to wander around the terminal. You argue with the kids for 15 minutes about what kind of drinks to get for the flight. 14 wants whatever you think he shouldn't want--always. 11 is thankful for whatever he gets. You know this thought is untrue and you must fight it, actively. So you get some coffee, the boys get 24 ounces of sugar and you get on the plane. Frontier Airlines is a no frills operation. Their planes are newish, so you feel confident that the roof won't tear off during the flight. This reassures you. Plus, they have 24 channels of live television, so there's a fighting chance that 14 and 11, who are sitting on either side of you (you never place them together, ever), will not bug the living shit out of you for the next 2.5 hours inside the airborne tuna can. Tough shit, the TV costs $6 a seat and the only thing you are more of than annoyed with your children is cheap. So, no TV. Instead you read Sky Mall together and it's not so bad.
You hit the ground in Denver running, and this is not a metaphor. You walk faster than most living things and your children have learned to keep up. You call your father and let him know you have arrived and you know where he will be standing, because you have been back to see him 20 times in the last 10 years. You see him before he sees you and you think the same thought you did in September, "he's getting old." He sees you and the kids and he begins to cry. He hasn't seen the boys in a year and a half. He's not prepared to see a young man and a very large child. Then you start to cry (you're crying now writing this) because you realize that they are growing up while he grows down and it's a very fucking Lion King moment. You get to the car and you must wait a minute for Dad to have a "puff" outside while you sit in the car. You have forgotten, almost, that when you were the kids' age, everyone, Mom, Dad, aunts, uncles, grandparents all puffed inside the car with the window cracked just enough to ash out of it--the glory days. Your father leaves the parking lot and pays the attendant, pulling out his customary wad of cash, thumbing through what must be a thousand dollars to get the required $2 for the exit. He was a child of the Depression, so you understand.
You go by the Village Inn for breakfast on the way home and the kids are behaved because they are showing off for Grandpa. You eat a rare meal in peace, even though 11 is touching your feet with his the entire time. You wonder why you can't get past this, people touching your feet under the table, why, as your wife would say, you're "tactilly defensive" and you try not to say something to 11 because you don't want to be a whiner. You eat your "worse than Denny's" breakfast and suggest you go by Costco now, rather than later, to pick up the Pies (yes, multiple pies) for tonight's dinner. You get an apple and a cherry and you see your father pick up a chocolate cake, which you have to convince him, we shouldn't buy. He's diabetic and you know he uses your visits to cheat, to push his sugar limits, to live, so you try to understand; truthfully, you don't care. You don't spend any more time worrying about his health than he does. He has gifted you with a certain lack of concern about health and you are grateful.
You get home and go through the usual formalities, greeting the nearly housebound "Granny Wynn", your step-mother, who you have come to like after many years of not living with her, greeting "Buddy" the dog who gets more pampering than you or any of your brothers and sisters ever got (in fairness, he also doesn't give your father and Granny Wynn any shit, other than the predictable kind), rushing to throw your things down in your usual bedroom so you can put the 12 pack of beer you had to go to a liquor store to buy in the fridge. The placement of the beer is the first major problem for Granny. She likes things "thus and so" and your presence never makes her world easier. This used to bother you. Half-hour lectures on the proper way to load a dishwasher are burned into your childhood memory. Now you find yourself understanding what a houseful (5 when we were all there) of ungrateful children can do to your tolerance. You also know that you have just flown in from L.A. and putting beer in the fridge is your right. Dad and GW don't bug you anymore about the beer. You have established that you can handle the results of drinking in high altitude and you decide to resolve the issue, in part, by drinking as much as you can. Your wife's brother and sister in law, who have lived in Parker for 4 or 5 years are coming over for dinner with their kids and you want to be oiled by the time they get there.
Dinner is typical. You do the cooking, because, it would appear, your father has either lost his capacity to BBQ or, as you suspect, the will to do so. He has bought an entire rib roast and had it cut down to make rib eyes (an inch and half thick each), he also bought chicken breast for your sister-in-law and the girls who don't eat meat (what the fuck is chicken then?). You cook everything wrong on his shitty grill, not that it matters, because GW has forgotten to make the garlic bread, so the cooked meat sits on the counter for 20 minutes waiting. You eat and everyone is happy. After dinner, you watch Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland which you haven't seen and which is far less terrible than you have heard, though it's hard to see it through the plant and lamp that GW has cleverly placed between the couch and the TV. Your wife's family takes over the house as usual and you worry that your father has no place to sit while your brother-in-law reclines in Dad's chair, after having sat at the head of the table for dinner. And you know that he can't have been raised by wolves because you know his parents and are married to his decidedly polite sister. Night number two is a repeat of night number one with one exception. Your sister-in-law, who has a mildly controlling manner, wants to know the details of the Nuggets game you are going to. What section your sitting in, what price you paid for the tickets, would you mind if she and the family tagged along. You are to tell her if you find the idea objectionable. Just tell her if you don't want her to go. You don't say that. You say, in as half-hearted a way as possible, that you wouldn't mind if they came. She says she can't find tickets, but you worry that, this trip, you haven't been able to hide the fact that you may want some alone time with your father. On the way out, you all say you will see each other again on this trip, but everyone knows it's a lie.
Day three you go bowling. Your father worked at a bowling alley in a suburb on the other side of Denver and he wants to take you there. He reminds you that he had a 240 average when he was young and you prepare yourself for the lectures you will get about watching the arrows and not crossing your body. "Shake hands with the 10 pin, Timmy". You get there and the place has seen better days, but so have you. You get your lane and listen to the customary comparison of today's prices verses those of 1969. "Do you know what it cost to rent shoes back when we lived here? 25 cent" You begin to bowl and right away 11 is pouting. He gutters the first two balls and nearly crawls back to his chair, head down, scowling. Your father's turn comes up and he nearly goes over when he releases the ball, though he gets a strike. For a moment, Big Mike is back. His walk back to the chair says, "that's how you do it". He then advises each of us in turn before his next throw, during which he does tip over to the right, nearly hitting his head. You are thrown. Is this the man who picked you and your brother up when you were teenagers, one in each hand, off the floor, and threatened to put your head threw a goddamned wall? You feel bad, knowing this will shake his confidence. He nearly falls on every throw afterwords and you beat him both games--as hollow a victory as ever was. You wonder if any child has ever come to the point of beating his father in a sport and felt good about it. What a fucker that guy must be. You go home and watch Butler play the worst game a basketball in recorded history.
Day four is the Nuggets' game. You decide, at GW's behest, to go downtown three hours before game time to beat the traffic. Your father, who used to drive for a living and now can't figure out how to turn his signal off, how to fasten his seat belt, how to work the wiper blades, comments on how bad the traffic is because you have to slow down to 40. The boys can't control themselves and they assure him that it's not so bad. You tell him where to turn, where to park and, nearly, how to turn off the car. You wonder if he hates you for this, for the help, for knowing that he is slowing down, but you don't care anymore. You have decided you are going to be a witness and a friend to your father. It's why your here. You find an overpriced, crappy Mexican restaurant to eat at before the game. It's only 4 and nobody is hungry. 14 orders tortilla soup and 11 gets a steak quesadilla that he will only eat two bites of (the two root beers he drinks having filled him up). Your father can't understand the menu and orders the green chili, which is actually green chili soup. When he gets his food, you can tell he is surprised, or is it you? Are you imagining that he is getting old because you think you know everything? You finish your salad and your dad pays, leaving a $6 tip on a $45 tab, generous for him. On the way to the game, you miss your turn by one block, 14 indelicately explains that he just told you that and doesn't quite finish before you hit him in the face with a rolled up copy of the Onion you found in LoDo. He punches you in the arm and you pull him aside and cuss him up and down on the busy downtown street. In a way, it's a demonstration. You are saying, "look dad, I don't take any shit from my kids either." Though it's equally a bad reaction to 4 days of shit that only a 14 year old can dish out. You understand Greek tragedy, Shakespeare, Synge's Playboy of the Western World all those stories of the son and the father--you get it. You get into the game and take 11 down to the floor to try and get an autograph, knowing there is little chance of this. Grandpa and 14 go up, and up, and up to the seats and you imagine they talk about "the incident". You head up a half hour later and apologize. In twenty minutes it's more or less forgotten. You watch the game.
On the last day, GW is in a good mood. She has had some time to herself and is feeling better. It's the best day of your trip. The boys know they are going home, so they behave. You know you will get to see your wife and you're happy. You go to Bed Bath and Beyond with your dad to buy GW a new frying pan and some Salt and Pepper mills. Your dad takes your opinion on cooking ware and you pick out some nice stuff. He pays with a check, which takes him 5 minutes to write. You know he can't spell "beyond" and you see him looking around the store to find the word. He tries leaving the "pay to the order of" line blank, but the clerk asks him to fill it out. Finally, he sees it and writes the word. You know where you get your sense of spelling and you marvel that your father made it through 40 years of business. You are happy that you came and, over lunch, you announce your intention to come back at least twice of year, God willing and the creek don't rise. You don't do this only out of obligation, but because you believe it to be right. You explain that you are only three hours away and will come at the drop of a hat. You want to be there for him, for her too. You don't believe in God, but you believe in Jesus and Jim Casy, and this belief informs you.
The flight back is uneventful. You booked the last flight out hoping the three of you would get bumped--no such luck. You pay for the TV this time, though 11 falls asleep almost as soon as he starts watching the Laker game. 14 wants you to watch South Park with him and you consider it an honor to be included in his world. You watch his TV while 11 sleeps on your shoulder and you know at they will be gone soon, that you don't have many of these moments left and that you are getting old too. You hope you're doing right, pray that the world won't fucking blow up, and dream that one day, when you can't bowl, they will come to you with theirs.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Debauchery
I tell my students never to do this, but here goes: Webster's second definition for Debauchery is: "seduction from duty, allegiance or virtue." I have to confess that:
a. I never quite thought of the word in those terms
b. I believe any number of pictures from my last man weekend, boys' trip, bromance getaway to Seattle with two college buddies could be definition number 3.
Some men of a certain age (say 43 for example) are having hoses with little cameras in them shoved up their asses to see if they will die soon, and from what (hint: the answers, in order, are, "yes" and "who cares"), while others go off every 6 to 8 months and act like rude children in a city far from home. And, while I confess that I have had the hose up my ass, I prefer to think of myself as the later. Thus I found myself, 10 days ago, in the Emerald City with two of my best friends from my Chico days. That it has taken me this long to write about the experience says as much as any of these words. While I could wax retarded for an hour about the need for men to seek each other's friendship, to nurture each other in the philos way, etc., I think a top ten would be simpler.
Top Ten Things to Not Do on a Bromance Weekend When You're 43:
10. Do not forget that last time you had the beat salad at Crow Restaurant in Queen Anne, the next morning you thought you were bleeding internally, which would have been possible.
9. Do not get a window seat each way after drinking beers at home and at the airport before getting on the plane, especially if you have a peanut-bladder.
8. Do not think that walking to a bike expo ("it's only a mile and a half") is a good idea in driving Seattle rain.
7. Do not each things your "friend" gives you.
6. Do not see how many Manhattans a human can consume at any given bar on any given night. Hint: it's probably not more than 7.
5. Do not discuss (in full voice, on a street corner, without checking around to notice the nice lady and her dog out for a walk) the likelihood that a woman who lets you have your way with her backside has had, let's say, 6 or 7 other special friends do the same thing.
4. Do not think that switching to Vodka two days in will make things easier because it's clear and then drink twice as much of it as you have anything else.
3. Do not eat more things your "friend" gives you because you can't feel the first or second one. Remember, fucker, you're drunk off your ass at this point. You're only going to wake up at 3 a.m. watching the room turn into a bad scene from Cirque De Freake, remaining awake and freaking out for the rest of the night until 8 a.m. when you realize you have to pull your shit together to get on a plane, though puking in the taxi is appealing, and you look like Joaquin Phoenix in that bad mockumentary--nuff said.
2. Do not drink strange beers from Canada, just because they're cheap and you have already spent $600 on booze this weekend anyway, while you watch the Drive by Truckers do their thing.
1. Do not pay attention to any of this shit next year. Do it all again. You owe it to yourself and it's the only thing that keeps you from going postal. Thanks R and G for a great and terrible weekend.
a. I never quite thought of the word in those terms
b. I believe any number of pictures from my last man weekend, boys' trip, bromance getaway to Seattle with two college buddies could be definition number 3.
Some men of a certain age (say 43 for example) are having hoses with little cameras in them shoved up their asses to see if they will die soon, and from what (hint: the answers, in order, are, "yes" and "who cares"), while others go off every 6 to 8 months and act like rude children in a city far from home. And, while I confess that I have had the hose up my ass, I prefer to think of myself as the later. Thus I found myself, 10 days ago, in the Emerald City with two of my best friends from my Chico days. That it has taken me this long to write about the experience says as much as any of these words. While I could wax retarded for an hour about the need for men to seek each other's friendship, to nurture each other in the philos way, etc., I think a top ten would be simpler.
Top Ten Things to Not Do on a Bromance Weekend When You're 43:
10. Do not forget that last time you had the beat salad at Crow Restaurant in Queen Anne, the next morning you thought you were bleeding internally, which would have been possible.
9. Do not get a window seat each way after drinking beers at home and at the airport before getting on the plane, especially if you have a peanut-bladder.
8. Do not think that walking to a bike expo ("it's only a mile and a half") is a good idea in driving Seattle rain.
7. Do not each things your "friend" gives you.
6. Do not see how many Manhattans a human can consume at any given bar on any given night. Hint: it's probably not more than 7.
5. Do not discuss (in full voice, on a street corner, without checking around to notice the nice lady and her dog out for a walk) the likelihood that a woman who lets you have your way with her backside has had, let's say, 6 or 7 other special friends do the same thing.
4. Do not think that switching to Vodka two days in will make things easier because it's clear and then drink twice as much of it as you have anything else.
3. Do not eat more things your "friend" gives you because you can't feel the first or second one. Remember, fucker, you're drunk off your ass at this point. You're only going to wake up at 3 a.m. watching the room turn into a bad scene from Cirque De Freake, remaining awake and freaking out for the rest of the night until 8 a.m. when you realize you have to pull your shit together to get on a plane, though puking in the taxi is appealing, and you look like Joaquin Phoenix in that bad mockumentary--nuff said.
2. Do not drink strange beers from Canada, just because they're cheap and you have already spent $600 on booze this weekend anyway, while you watch the Drive by Truckers do their thing.
1. Do not pay attention to any of this shit next year. Do it all again. You owe it to yourself and it's the only thing that keeps you from going postal. Thanks R and G for a great and terrible weekend.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
The Sunset Limited
HBO has made the most interesting tv of the last decade, though Showtime holds its own. The recent film version of Cormac McCarthy's The Sunset Limited is indicative of the consistently high production value of HBO's movies. Samuel L. Jackson and Tommye Lee Jones are both up to the onerous task of bringing a two man stage play to the screen, albeit the small screen (if you can call it that anymore), and, on the whole, Sunset is compelling. I confess that I didn't intend to watch it when I did, but I got caught, from the first few moments, in what is clearly a staged version of an inner debate that McCarthy has played out in his head for the last 40 years. But I think the film also represents my last trip to the alter of post-apocalypse that McCarthy has nailed himself to a cross above. Truth is, I can't take it anymore.
2000 years ago, some guy who has come to be known as St. John the Apostle wrote the last book of the New Testament or his Revelation. In it, he imagined the end times, the second-coming of Christ, and a whole bunch of other crazy shit that has been the fodder for so many Hollywood, end times movies. In the bible, it's the hard sell to the Book of Psalms' softer one. Psalms promises that God will walk with you through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, while Revelations threatens you with being left behind the rapture to watch your friends and family die in agony, only to be rewarded with continual torture in a fiery hell. As a child, Revelations worked on me. The devil scared the shit out of me, still does, still can't watch The Exorcist, still get a chill every now and then when I walk down stairs at night, still a little afraid to say, out loud, that I don't believe in no devil. But I digress. My point was that since Revelations, and no doubt many times before, someone has stood up every hundred years or so and declared that the shit has hit the fan, the jig is up. From the dark ages, to the fall of Rome, from the Black Plague to the French Revolution, smart people the world over declared that things were coming to an end, and here we are.
I know what you're thinking, "yeah, but those guys didn't know what we know." The planet is falling apart, the oceans are dying, we have the capacity to blow our planet out of the solar system and scientists in Switzerland are trying to create a black hole (great fucking idea). These things are true. Meanwhile, there's a class war brewing in our country that I'm pretty sure is gonna get bloody before it's over. The "conservative, Christian, right-wing, Republican, sraight, white, Amercian male" that Todd Snider sings about is more pissed and irrational than ever before in my life, and the Mid-East is about to spin out of control.
Amidst all this, I can't bring myself to throw my body in front of the Sunset Limited, and I don't need Samuel Jackson to help me fill the Jesus shaped void in my soul (why is the Black guy always the spirtitual one anyway?). What I do need, I got. I'm a teacher, a father and a husband. There are a whole bunch of people in my life that I have some influence on, obligation to. For whatever it's worth, and it may not be much, I feel like we who have fucked this world up so much, can also fix it. I teach smart kids, surely we can find a way to fix what has gone wrong. While we do it, we will undoubtedly be screwing something else up, but we can let the next generation deal with that. What we can't do is load our belongings into shopping carts and hit the road. No more McCarthy for me, thanks. I don't want to bury my head in the sand, but I don't want to rub my face in the shit anymore either. I do want to keep fighting.
I'll keep recycling, buying goats for kids in Africa, eating less meat 'cause it unsustainable and telling my kids that they can change the world. It may not be true; we may be fucked. As the great Bob Knight once said, "I think that if rape is inevitable, you might as well sit back and enjoy it." Fuckin' A, Bobby, Fuckin' A.
2000 years ago, some guy who has come to be known as St. John the Apostle wrote the last book of the New Testament or his Revelation. In it, he imagined the end times, the second-coming of Christ, and a whole bunch of other crazy shit that has been the fodder for so many Hollywood, end times movies. In the bible, it's the hard sell to the Book of Psalms' softer one. Psalms promises that God will walk with you through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, while Revelations threatens you with being left behind the rapture to watch your friends and family die in agony, only to be rewarded with continual torture in a fiery hell. As a child, Revelations worked on me. The devil scared the shit out of me, still does, still can't watch The Exorcist, still get a chill every now and then when I walk down stairs at night, still a little afraid to say, out loud, that I don't believe in no devil. But I digress. My point was that since Revelations, and no doubt many times before, someone has stood up every hundred years or so and declared that the shit has hit the fan, the jig is up. From the dark ages, to the fall of Rome, from the Black Plague to the French Revolution, smart people the world over declared that things were coming to an end, and here we are.
I know what you're thinking, "yeah, but those guys didn't know what we know." The planet is falling apart, the oceans are dying, we have the capacity to blow our planet out of the solar system and scientists in Switzerland are trying to create a black hole (great fucking idea). These things are true. Meanwhile, there's a class war brewing in our country that I'm pretty sure is gonna get bloody before it's over. The "conservative, Christian, right-wing, Republican, sraight, white, Amercian male" that Todd Snider sings about is more pissed and irrational than ever before in my life, and the Mid-East is about to spin out of control.
Amidst all this, I can't bring myself to throw my body in front of the Sunset Limited, and I don't need Samuel Jackson to help me fill the Jesus shaped void in my soul (why is the Black guy always the spirtitual one anyway?). What I do need, I got. I'm a teacher, a father and a husband. There are a whole bunch of people in my life that I have some influence on, obligation to. For whatever it's worth, and it may not be much, I feel like we who have fucked this world up so much, can also fix it. I teach smart kids, surely we can find a way to fix what has gone wrong. While we do it, we will undoubtedly be screwing something else up, but we can let the next generation deal with that. What we can't do is load our belongings into shopping carts and hit the road. No more McCarthy for me, thanks. I don't want to bury my head in the sand, but I don't want to rub my face in the shit anymore either. I do want to keep fighting.
I'll keep recycling, buying goats for kids in Africa, eating less meat 'cause it unsustainable and telling my kids that they can change the world. It may not be true; we may be fucked. As the great Bob Knight once said, "I think that if rape is inevitable, you might as well sit back and enjoy it." Fuckin' A, Bobby, Fuckin' A.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
The Beard
I haven't shaved for two months, and I never thought people would care, or notice, as much as they have. My wife, the only person whose opinion about my facial hair matters to me (for obvious reasons, which modesty compels me to omit), is fine with it. She's fairly forgiving of my eccentricities as I am of hers, a symbiotic state of matrimony. Everyone else, by which I mean my mother, brother, kids, neighbors, colleagues, fuck, even strangers, has an opinion.
I know that this beard is a conscious attempt on my part to tap into that less public side of me, the side that doesn't give a shit what you think, the side that wants to look like he hasn't sold out to the man. This thing on my face is far beyond the trendy, hipster whiskers that 20 somethings run around sporting. Mine is grey and red and brown and scraggly and, generally speaking, homelessesque. This is the way I like it. We all have that side of us that we keep submerged. Shit, there are times when my inner self doesn't even know, or very much like, the fucker who is speaking through my mouth. When I'm working my job, teaching, dealing with my own kids, I frequently find my self saying things I don't believe in or practice. I don't think I'm alone in this. You, dear reader (no plural necessary here), have surely felt this way. Those of you that know me must be thinking, "Fuck, if this is the filtered Sluggy, what kind of sick, degenerate bastard lives underneath?" To which I respond, "few people truly know". The one's who do know are equally (or nearly equally) perverse, and I love them each for that.
Don't get me wrong here. I am not lying awake at night, cursing my fate, believing that my life is all a lie. I have grown more comfortable with the work me, the family me, the father, the teacher, the bargaining team member. Still, the bar fight me has never left. Unlike Todd Snider, whom I saw in concert last night, I have sold out to some degree, and, also unlike Todd Snider, I have never been convicted of a crime. It's a trade off, a tight rope walk over a life that comes close enough to being out of control to be fun, but no so close as to leave visible marks, except for the beard.
I know that this beard is a conscious attempt on my part to tap into that less public side of me, the side that doesn't give a shit what you think, the side that wants to look like he hasn't sold out to the man. This thing on my face is far beyond the trendy, hipster whiskers that 20 somethings run around sporting. Mine is grey and red and brown and scraggly and, generally speaking, homelessesque. This is the way I like it. We all have that side of us that we keep submerged. Shit, there are times when my inner self doesn't even know, or very much like, the fucker who is speaking through my mouth. When I'm working my job, teaching, dealing with my own kids, I frequently find my self saying things I don't believe in or practice. I don't think I'm alone in this. You, dear reader (no plural necessary here), have surely felt this way. Those of you that know me must be thinking, "Fuck, if this is the filtered Sluggy, what kind of sick, degenerate bastard lives underneath?" To which I respond, "few people truly know". The one's who do know are equally (or nearly equally) perverse, and I love them each for that.
Don't get me wrong here. I am not lying awake at night, cursing my fate, believing that my life is all a lie. I have grown more comfortable with the work me, the family me, the father, the teacher, the bargaining team member. Still, the bar fight me has never left. Unlike Todd Snider, whom I saw in concert last night, I have sold out to some degree, and, also unlike Todd Snider, I have never been convicted of a crime. It's a trade off, a tight rope walk over a life that comes close enough to being out of control to be fun, but no so close as to leave visible marks, except for the beard.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Fantasia
I picked up the Blue Ray version of Disney's 1940 film Fantasia over the holidays and finally got around to watching it with my wife over the weekend--it is better than ever and perhaps more beautiful. Fantasia has always been my favorite animated film, for the lushness of its animation as much as for its cheesy pretentiousness. It's a film for people who wish to think of themselves as cultured, but who want a little Mickey with their Stravinsky.
The film grew out of Disney's desire to get Mickey back in the spotlight of animated film. "The Sorcerer's Apprentice" was originally supposed to be a short, but ended up being very costly Disney decided to add additional pieces to make a feature film. He also added Fantasound, or an early version of surround sound, to boot. The film was supposed to be a major affair, with audiences dressing up, etc., but WWII broke out, theaters were short on magnets for speakers, so the Fantasound was out; it all went to shit. Over the years, the film gained an audience and was, piece by piece, restored to its original glory.
I saw it in 1991 at the El Rey Theater, as beautiful an old box as ever was, in Chico, CA, just south of Paradise--really. I was with my ex-fiance, who dumped me for a professor, but still wanted to hang as friends. Under the circumstances, it's not surprising that most of the film moved me to tears. I remember thinking how lush and fantastic the color and music were, juxtaposed to, what I thought at the time, was my ruined life. As painful as that day was, I realized that, like the "Ave Maria" sequence at the end of "Night on Bald Mountain", there is life after pain.
Last week, as I sat with my wife, watching the same film, I was struck by how different life is, I am after so many years. The film is still as lovely as ever, though it doesn't bring me to tears. For one, I'm a happier guy than I was that day in Chico 20 years ago, but it's deeper than that. As I get older my life becomes more even. I don't get quite as elated as I once did, but I never sink so low--it's a trade off. Fantasia is now just a beautiful movie, a pleasant distraction, a nice way to pass the evening with my wife. I'm thankful for that, for the relatively better place that being 43 has placed me. Life has assuredly gotten harder since 1991 for me and mine, but I have gotten better at dealing with it. Now I just think of hitting people.
The film grew out of Disney's desire to get Mickey back in the spotlight of animated film. "The Sorcerer's Apprentice" was originally supposed to be a short, but ended up being very costly Disney decided to add additional pieces to make a feature film. He also added Fantasound, or an early version of surround sound, to boot. The film was supposed to be a major affair, with audiences dressing up, etc., but WWII broke out, theaters were short on magnets for speakers, so the Fantasound was out; it all went to shit. Over the years, the film gained an audience and was, piece by piece, restored to its original glory.
I saw it in 1991 at the El Rey Theater, as beautiful an old box as ever was, in Chico, CA, just south of Paradise--really. I was with my ex-fiance, who dumped me for a professor, but still wanted to hang as friends. Under the circumstances, it's not surprising that most of the film moved me to tears. I remember thinking how lush and fantastic the color and music were, juxtaposed to, what I thought at the time, was my ruined life. As painful as that day was, I realized that, like the "Ave Maria" sequence at the end of "Night on Bald Mountain", there is life after pain.
Last week, as I sat with my wife, watching the same film, I was struck by how different life is, I am after so many years. The film is still as lovely as ever, though it doesn't bring me to tears. For one, I'm a happier guy than I was that day in Chico 20 years ago, but it's deeper than that. As I get older my life becomes more even. I don't get quite as elated as I once did, but I never sink so low--it's a trade off. Fantasia is now just a beautiful movie, a pleasant distraction, a nice way to pass the evening with my wife. I'm thankful for that, for the relatively better place that being 43 has placed me. Life has assuredly gotten harder since 1991 for me and mine, but I have gotten better at dealing with it. Now I just think of hitting people.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
The New Year
I've been a bit distracted lately with the end of the semester, laundry, dealing with my oldest son's getting caught smoking pot at school, otherwise known as the needling little things of life. I know that I am trivializing matters just a bit, but I'd rather do that than overreact to the situation, which everyone else in the "system" seems to want to do. I wish to assure my hundreds (thousands?) of dear readers that I am taking what the child (henceforth referred to as "dumbass") did seriously and am putting on a good show of anger, but that's probably all it is.
His school, which is to say the "old" school, took a slightly different approach. Dumbass needed to be made an example of, so the moved to expel him. Don't get me wrong here, I get that a 14 year old should not be smoking pot, and that to do so on campus, at 7:30 in the morning, is just plain stupid. I get that the school needed to deal with him especially because of his troubled past (last semester he stole a bag of chips from the lunch lady and ran) and I get that they want to show that they're doing everything to stop the scourge that is marijuana. I also get that, if polls are accurate, half of the adults in Dumbass's school, the teachers, principals, janitors (for sure) are getting high. Shit, it's almost recommended for Jr. High teachers. I'm not saying I shouldn't have had to beg my superintendent to take the boy into our school district, I shouldn't have had to take the child to a shrink, I shouldn't have to go to court with him for his "possession of paraphernalia" ticket (is that really a crime?), I shouldn't have to walk around like I'm profoundly worried and answer endless questions like: "Why do you think he did it?", "What else do you think he's doing?", "Why us?" I should have to do all of those things, but I do wish people would see the bigger picture.
Dumbass smoked pot on campus because he's 14. He doesn't love school, but he does love his pot-smoking, surfer friends and their older brothers/dealers. He likes cute, easy girls who like pot smoking surfer types. He will probably not be smoking much pot for the foreseeable future as he's getting drug tested once a month, no longer has access to facebook and will never hang out with most of his alleged friends again. He's in a new school and can find new pot-smokers to hang out with. In any case, I truly believe he's going to survive, and not just because it helps me to sleep at night. I'm glad the boy got caught and if there some deep psychological reason that Dumbass started to smoke pot, we will find it. I suspect there is none. I think he probably did it because it's fun and makes people laugh.
I'm writing this as I give a final to a group of junior year honor's students, all of whom look like they either need a bong load soon or they'll go on a violent bender. I don't have my head buried in the sand, but I know that teenagers in affluent America need a bit more fun in their lives. Either we find ways to provide it, or they will.
His school, which is to say the "old" school, took a slightly different approach. Dumbass needed to be made an example of, so the moved to expel him. Don't get me wrong here, I get that a 14 year old should not be smoking pot, and that to do so on campus, at 7:30 in the morning, is just plain stupid. I get that the school needed to deal with him especially because of his troubled past (last semester he stole a bag of chips from the lunch lady and ran) and I get that they want to show that they're doing everything to stop the scourge that is marijuana. I also get that, if polls are accurate, half of the adults in Dumbass's school, the teachers, principals, janitors (for sure) are getting high. Shit, it's almost recommended for Jr. High teachers. I'm not saying I shouldn't have had to beg my superintendent to take the boy into our school district, I shouldn't have had to take the child to a shrink, I shouldn't have to go to court with him for his "possession of paraphernalia" ticket (is that really a crime?), I shouldn't have to walk around like I'm profoundly worried and answer endless questions like: "Why do you think he did it?", "What else do you think he's doing?", "Why us?" I should have to do all of those things, but I do wish people would see the bigger picture.
Dumbass smoked pot on campus because he's 14. He doesn't love school, but he does love his pot-smoking, surfer friends and their older brothers/dealers. He likes cute, easy girls who like pot smoking surfer types. He will probably not be smoking much pot for the foreseeable future as he's getting drug tested once a month, no longer has access to facebook and will never hang out with most of his alleged friends again. He's in a new school and can find new pot-smokers to hang out with. In any case, I truly believe he's going to survive, and not just because it helps me to sleep at night. I'm glad the boy got caught and if there some deep psychological reason that Dumbass started to smoke pot, we will find it. I suspect there is none. I think he probably did it because it's fun and makes people laugh.
I'm writing this as I give a final to a group of junior year honor's students, all of whom look like they either need a bong load soon or they'll go on a violent bender. I don't have my head buried in the sand, but I know that teenagers in affluent America need a bit more fun in their lives. Either we find ways to provide it, or they will.
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