Tis the season...

Let me just say this I have grown up with two older brothers so I always wanted to do what they were doing when they were doing it. Which is why when I was two I was photographed holding a basketball. I played soccer,basketball,and softball when I was a child and teenager even though I was more talented at soccer. I was not watching every soccer game on tv, but basketball? I sort of breathed and lived and watched basketball, the whole time.

I know see how much my niece at eight years old loves watching college basketball with my dad my brother and I at nearby college URI . I love seeing all the excitement in her voice and her darting, beaming, expectant eyes. I look down at her and think:

this girl is defenitly my niece.

Weird rock fact #415: Boss, 1987

It’s been a weird few weeks. Everybody here is sick, and the conditions keep changing. I myself, am only just healthy enough to write and complain, alternately and as one awesome task. That fact, married with the nearness of both Halloween and Christmas, and - you guessed it - Weird Rock Fact son!

I remember 1987, right around Christmas, clearly. Actually, I remember just one aspect of right around Christmas 1987 clearly, and that’s having this weird conversation with a relative, regarding the Boss. Specifically, the Boss’s creative choices of the period. 1987, you’ll remember, was the year Springsteen “split” with his long time back-up personel, the fabled E Street Band. The reason I remember all of this, is because - while the music press was totally agog, talking about the "end of an era", and the "new beginnings!" of this and that… - I just didn’t get it. Bruce was still Bruce. He hadn’t had a stroke, or found Jesus, or renounced rock. The record in question was "Tunnel of Love". Still an awesome spin,and was then, especially so in finding a listener in a breakup-y frame of mind, yes, but awesome, also, in general. Most importantly, there WAS NO SPLIT. Despite ominous creative way-parting talk on MTV, all the E-Streeters played on the new record, and they’d just announced a tour. To my 12 year-old ears, shit sounded like business as usual. Nobody could explain the big noise in the press, and I must have been curious, cause I remember asking a lot:

“What’s the big deal ? He’s not breaking them up forever, and the record is awesome…

Well, he’s been with them a long time and…

But he’s still with them. They ALL play on the record. They’re going on tour…

Well, people worry that he’ll change…

But he’s clearly NOT doing that. These songs sound like all the other Bruce songs. What’s the problem?

Well, you go ask Clarence Clemons what the problem is…

There was no way to do that, as the information super-highway was still under construction. We were all of us forced to use the information side streets back then, and information horse and buggies. In retrospect, I guess Clarence maybe would have been a little PO’ed at the time. In the book “Big Man” he describes having heard about the record, and the Boss’s E-Street-less vision of the immediate future, during a hurricane which he rode out at Kinky Friedman’s house. I have to include however, that no less an authority than Bob Zimmernman his own self closes the matter for readers, and in doing so, agrees - whole heartedly - with a young me.

“what’s the big deal” Asks a storm-besotted Dylan, just having mysteriously arrived mid-storm at the Kinkster’s place. “I play with everybody”.

Fuck yeah Bob. And Fuck yeah 1987 GC. For an early display of what would become a lifelong penchant for skepticism where the entertainment press is concerned.

"Like" Fun

1994. Although we didn’t know it at the time, 1994 was probably the last entire year in history to enjoy a global internet penetration small enough to be called non-consequential. I remember it fondly: when I bought my tickets for that year’s Lollapalooza, Nirvana were the announced headliners. By show-time, however, everything had changed. Instead of Kurt, we’d be getting Billy. The Smashing Pumpkins - already slated to Co-Headline - grabbed the top spot. Corrigan and his people seemed game enough come show day, but not as good as the Nirvana shows burning though the minds of ticketed fans. Promised something sublime and unique, it’s frustrating to accept the merely great.

Musical happenstance aside, the culture had a more pressing matter to attend in 1994. So complex and enthralling was this idea, even the people selling it had trouble understanding exactly what it might do. It’s roll out to the general public was through a series of commercials carrying the MCI brand, but shilling for something called, “The Information Superhighway.” The spots featured a young actress named Anna Paquin. Dressed smartly in a fancy dress, cute hat and speaking with an equally cute English accent. The tiny pitchwoman didn’t seem to be advertising anything. Instead, she looked cute and precocious, and spouted cute, precocious, positive affirmations interspersed with hopeful-sounding koanic riddles. (“There is no more “There!”). Apparently there was a highway being built. A highway that would bring the world together in ways that previous highways could not. A highway that could save us. By 1999, still years before You Tube, Facebook and Amazon, it seemed readily apparent to anyone paying attention that all the marketing promises could be kept. Everyone agreed: An age of miracles was upon us.

The MCI spots were ubiquitous for a while, but they were part of a much larger global awareness. The elephant had clearly been lured into the room, and now the blind would gather, touch, feel, and speculate.
Now, almost twenty years later, we’re beginning to see the potential end-products of those early years. After all those promises at the beginning, it’s hard not to be at least a little disappointed. If the internet was ever truly envisioned and conceived as a uniting force, it’s existence as such proved gallingly short. By 1998 Napster launched the first sorties of a music / info / file sharing battle between copywriters, artists and the public.

And it’s been sort of downhill from there. The upside potential of what was so obviously a world-changing device began to leaven itself with shitty by-products of it’s rise. Newsgroups evolved into forums and forums began to espouse exclusionary tactics, with the most knowledgeable active users policing the less knowledgeable (and/or those who couldn’t write as well) through castigation, bullying, and threats of expulsion. It’s that ethos that’s crystallized and perpetuated itself, to the point where most opt-in forums on the internet today seem to be run by a fandom of bullies, dead set on belittling the knowledge, opinions, and criticisms of their fellows in the group.

The codifying of the social media phenomenon didn’t help matters. The internet using public wasted no time in diving head first into a complete lifestyle re-jigger on behalf of Facebook. Suddenly we all found ourselves back in touch with - in many cases - a significant representative array of all the people we’d ever met. Now the uniting theme was stoked up again, this time, there’d be no weird forum hierarchy to navigate, and no banner ads distracting us from wasting time talking to people we never liked enough to actually stay in touch with in the first place. Again, the miraculous in electronic form. I think the goodwill lasted all of six months.

The “Like” button, a good idea in theory but beneficial ONLY in theory, and never in practice. The problem is in the weird duality of the feature. In many cases, internet users will share things that they want other people to enjoy. The “Like” button is a good way of closing the loop: Here check this out…this? Love it so much I’m gonna “Like” it. The problem is that “Likes” are used to determine page value in most internet monetization models. As that relationship became more and more prevalent and more and more obvious, the use of the damn “Like” button get’s more and more useless.

Hey look at this.

Awesome. I like it!

And so on. There are also many cases in which people who sell things might price those things according to their “Like” button value. By now most internet users understand this, and this understanding has created a weird new paradox. Now when somebody sends something they want us to like, we automatically assume that we’re being grifted into helping somebody else get paid. That effect alone is enough to negate the perceived benefits of a “Like” button, because the motivations of the “Likers” are seldom stated, and oftentimes not readily apparent. So too for the content provider’s, who maybe simply be sharing things for the sake of sharing, or earning advertising dollars based on “Likes.” Without that key piece of info in the bag, keeping track of “Likes” is completely useless, and that info is NEVER in the bag.

That’s shitty because it wasn’t just something that happened naturally. In my memory, the internet of the nascent, Netscape / AOL / dial-up years was a positive place. The people at work on internet properties were positive people. Conversations at parties, front page articles in the NYTimes. Feature stories in publications major or minor: All of them touted the new, amazing, light speed communication device that would link us all, no more “there!!!.” Every part of every country in the world sitting at one magical table. We would approach problems as one people now, and progress as we knew it would get botox. Then, after the thing was well on it’s way toward making at least some of the hype into reality, we, the young and tech-savvy, the users and builders who’d seen the upside potential and been astounded, we went and implemented every conceivable measure to reverse the effects.

You'd Do It For Randolph Scott

I go into the bathroom to urinate. It's me and the boy. Middle of the day, fuckin' Tuesday. The boy is four years old. Old enough to roam freely while I take a piss. Me peeing takes about a minute. Now, that's a stressful minute, because the boy is not trustworthy. He's a backstabber, and he lies. Well. It's the Sicillian in him that makes him this way.

As is my custom, I made the boy aware that I'd be going to the bathroom as I walked there, and I encouraged him to join me. He said he would, but didn't show up. There was extra time. I went slow, because the boy said he would come but hadn't, and the possibilities that open up in that situation are...Considerable.

But it was too late to go after him. At some point, the body commits fully to micturation and it's full-go. To stop suddenly after commiting, you take your life in your hands. I was at that point, pissing smoothly...A Strong, proud stream. Honorable. But then the boy still hadn't come, and he'd been silent for a bit. As a parent who spends a great deal of time with a mistrustful, deceptive child, you learn, as a mother Lion probably learns, the sounds of the jungle. Certain combinations of sounds mean certain things. This particular combination: the sound of only urine hitting toilet water, and nothing else - in my jungle that's the drums stopping for a few seconds before the savages spring from the treeline. I cursed my still draining bladder, and cursed the gods for this silly untimely pee, and continued to curse them until the boy spoke up. He was directly behind me, and he said:

Daddy I have to go to the bathroom and pee too!

and as he said the words "pee too", he started peeing on my shoes, into my socks. A strong stream. Honorable. And we stood there voiding together like two links in a daisy chain of pee, I into the toilet, and he onto my fucking feet. He finished just when I did, zipped up and left. As I took off my shoes, my socks, laundry, shower, whatever, I heard another noise from his room across the hall. I was soaked in urine, though, so I had to clean up to avoid diaper-rash. After that whole thing I heard the weird noise again and went to investigate. The boy was standing there, still holding the red sharpie he'd just used to graffiti a giant stick figure onto his wall. He told me that his sister did it, but - like I said: kid's a liar.

Question

Zeppelin Vs. the Rolling Stones. Every weekend countless, uh, hundreds - I guess - trot this old war-horse out and (as is the case with most fictional - yet still incalculably important - arguments about completely subjective matters) argue about it until somebody says something so utterly crude and baseless that everybody involved realizes how stupid an argument it really is, and shuts the fuggup about it until twenty minutes later. Music is not sports. There’s no stats in music, no winning or loosing seasons either. The Stones / Zeppelin-as-greatest-ever argument - like all arguments regarding the relative worth of an artist or art - is an entertaining place-holder at best, a thing to ponder when nobody has anything better to do, or everybody is too intoxicated too have any kind of compelling conversation.

And yet…

What I'm about to put forth will not add anything worthwhile to silly drunken rock talk about which band is better. What it may do is give the potential champions of either band some ammunition previously unused, or at least underused as such. Be aware: my perception of the general public's handling of this debate might not be entirely accurate, me only living in - and (mostly) staying in - one state, for a very long time, and not having actually had the discussion in question in a few years. There were days, however, not so long ago, when I did battle with this particular dragon with something like weekly, or at least monthly, regularity. And it was during those discussions that I honed the opinion I'm about to share:

Led Zeppelin is the greatest rock ‘n roll band of all time, and it’s quite possible (but by no means a lock) they’ll remain so until the end of time. One reason for this is that Zeppelin didn’t sound much like anyone that came before, yet - almost immediately - other artists began trying to sound like them. There aren’t many bands that can say that, and there are no bands that can make the claim on such a grand scale and cite such distinguished progeny: Jane’s Addiction, Stone Temple Pilots, late-career Black Crows, Soundgarden…Would any of those acts even have existed at all if Zepp hadn’t bulldozed the way? The entertainment industry has a great deal of faith in the prognosticative power of the older teens and younger twenty-somethings when it comes to music, and those people love Led Zeppelin. High school kids never stop giving a fuck about Led Zeppelin.

The second reason is - I think - one most would agree with: John Henry Bonham. That’s it. That’s the whole reason. What can be said? Fuckin’ Bonham. Nasty. I made the point already about the outsized Zeppelin influence-sphere, but in addition to the acts that got paid by simply aping the LZ sound wholesale, are the acts in which only the drummer wants to sound like Led Zeppelin. Take it from a drummer: We all - at one time or another - want to sound like Led Zeppelin. Pat Hallahan, Stephen Perkins, Wally Ingram, Todd Nance, Jon Fishman, Brann Dailor, Lars Ulrich, Herb Alexander, Meg White, All of them hugely successful skinspeople who owe at least half their moves to JHB.

***

The Rolling Stones are the most important rock band in the history of the form, and nobody will replace them as such EVER. The reason is this: Keith Richards is the most important rock musician that ever came before us, and the Rolling Stones are his band.

The Stones are at their best when they blend stuff: Chicago Blues + Muscle Shoals production values as personified by Jim Dickinson = Brown Sugar…Chuck Berry chording + Oprey instrumentation + Recording in the musty basement of an ancient French mansion = Torn and Frayed.

Where Led Zeppelin influenced everybody that came after, Keef’s writing and playing are so rock, so dirty-sounding, unique, and singular that they can‘t really be copied, except in blatant imitation. The group’s become so many different things over the years that, save for the open tunings Richard’s deploys on almost all their best records, there’s really no signature “Rolling Stones sound”. Or maybe there are too many. Stones songs are too difficult to duplicate exactly, and too awesome to not at least give them a nod. What we end up with, is a situation where every rock band that is a rock band must - almost by definition - have elements in their music that the Rolling Stones had in theirs. You’d think that would be true of most bands who’ve enjoyed any type of notoriety but it’s not. There are quite a few rock acts that sound a lot like Led Zeppelin, but every band sounds a little like the Rolling Stones.

***

Still not convinced? Let’s go to the tale of the tape:

Bass: Wyman / JPJ

This first category is easy. Bill Wyman laid down some very tasty low-end in his tenure with the Stones. Paint it Black, Dead Flowers, Before they make me Run…But BW - as graceful and spare as his best work often is - just doesn’t have the imagination of the mighty Zepp bass-er. Get out yer Zepp II and check out the lines John Paul Jones plops down during “Ramble On”. In my ears, that song alone is enough to settle the argument.

Drums: Charlie Watts / John Henry Bonham

Especially difficult, because Watts is a god, one of the original framers of post-1950’s rock convention. Charlie and Kieth Moon are really the only other rock skinsmen with the skills to be mentioned in the same month with Bonham, so great is the power of JB’s bashing. So there: we mentioned them. The reason why Bonham wins here is the same reason the stones are important. Lesser players can deploy triplets, and a loose Hi-Hat to produce a reasonable facsimile of the Bonzo assault, and so a lot of them do just that. Charlie, meanwhile, is the kind of drummer other drummers always mention as an influence, even though very few actually sound like him.

Vox - Mick Vs. Plant:

A tie. Yes that’s a cop-out, but consider the gents we’re discussing. It’s fucking Plant and Jagger. Both are sort of the ideal front man, but for completely different reasons. Plant brought a very weird lyrical sense (with all the medieval imagery and what not), and combined it with a major pipes. Jagger brought a very earthy lyrical energy, hinting a revolution and drug abuse, and weird sex with questionable partners, and never really sang so much as he talked and rapped in rythym to the music. Had they been more similar - either in vocal stylings or in content - they’d be easier to compare as artists. They weren’t, and aren’t, and never were. Instead, both do a great job of being everything the other is not.

Guitars - Page Vs Richards

Yes, it’s not really fair to arbitrarily choose KR when Mick Taylor, Brian Jones, and Ron Wood all played “lead” axe for the Stones at one time or another, and only Page plays (played) leads in Led Zeppelin. On the other hand, it’s the Rolling fucking Stones. Keith Richards is the central reason for their greatness, and definitely the “lead” guitarist of the band even though he doesn’t play “lead” guitar. Page does (did) play leads, although his riffs and chord voicings are arguably more important of the Zepp sound. Both are giants, both were awesome and both still are. Another wash.

***

Led Zeppelin is great because of what they did, and what they inspired others to do. A lot of mass-market rock that came after Led Zeppelin owes them stylistic debt. The Rolling Stones are great because of the things others inspired in them. Country, Jazz, disco, latin, Reggae…The stones are a chameleon with a drinking problem, a plain-faced group with a million awesome masks.

So yeah. You can keep this. Print it up, or whatever, keep it close at hand. Someday, I almost guarantee, it will save you ten minutes of silly drunken rock-talk.

Sax Crimes

　

Why the massive proliferation of the sax solo in 1980's popular music? For a minute there, rock musicians couldn’t so much puke blood on a hooker without silky saxophone accompaniment. The best thing about this list of notables is that it’s in order from least to greatest, or greatest to least, depending on your recollection at the moment.

10: Men At Work: Overkill, from the record “Cargo”.

9: Huey Lewis and the News, If This Is It, from the record “Sports”

8: Dancin’ In The Dark: Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, from the record “Born In The USA”

7: David Bowie: Blue Jean, from the record “Tonight”

6: Sting: We’ll Be Together Tonight, from the album: Nothing Like The Sun

5: John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band: On The Dark Side, from the original soundtrack “Eddie And The Cruisers

4: Duran Duran: Rio, from the record “Rio”

3: Billy Joel: Keepin’ The Faith, from the record “An Innocent Man”

2: Spandau Ballet: True, from the record “True”

1: Quarterflash: Harden My Heart, from the record “Quarterflash”

Genius

(SNIIIIIIIFFF).

J: So it’s like Last of the Mohicans meets Rush meets True Romance and then meets, uh, 9/11 footage?

O:I dunno, 9/11, not so hot right now. Don’t get it twisted now, five years down the road…Who knows, y’ know?

J: Hmmm. No. No 9/11. Axe the 9/11. Erase it from your mind completely. This movie will be the exact opposite of 9/11.

O: Can’t

J: What?

O: Can’t. The erasing thing. From the mind, I mean. You just said it…

J: Why?

O: I dunno, I was never able to do that cause if I’m not supposed to think about something and then I think about not thinking about it I invariablybegintothinkaboutitjusttospitemyselfso….Then I just go ahead and think about it cause it‘s like , Dollar…Dime…Penny…Pound.

J: ?

O: Ah. Wow. Yeah. Hmm. So it’s a what again? it’s a bush?

J: ‘s a tree. Big fuckin’ tree

O: Big fuckin’ tree. OK. Loving this.

J: Yah. Yep. Tree.

O: OK. OK.

J: Yep. And there’s a soldier. A fighting man. Honorable, but tainted. Cause, ya know, he fuckinnnnn, he killed people. Dead people.

O: He re-killed those who were already dead? How? When? That’s really something.

J: No not re-killed he just killed. Once. And then his victims are dead. Y’know, like, right after that, and yes: In a war. Not this war. Another war.

O: “Victims” ? I’m not sure they call them that in a war.

J: No they do I checked it out on the internet. Still “victims” .

O: I dunno. Wars, Veterans. Trees. Not so hot right now. Who knows, maybe five…

J: No. S’not about any of those things except trees. And there’s a little war. And some trees, but that’s all. It’s like Tarzan meets himself in a possible future, meets Face / Off meets Braveheart meets Bladerunner.

O: How about the Matrix? Can we make it meet the Matrix?

J: No Matrix-meeting.

O: “KIA”, “enemy dead”, “body-count”…Not “victim”. Never “victim”.

J: Yah. Oh, and I forgot: he’s got no legs.

O: Yeah. Wait what?

J: No legs.

O: I got that. But he’s a soldier. How can…

J: Was a soldier. He got his no-legs-ness being a soldier in a war.

O: See? Now there you go…

J: What?

O: You said it again. Why did you say it again?

J: What?

O: Again, you said it. What. What?

J: What?

O: No legs. Right. War. You said no war movie no?

J: No. I said no war in the movie. But I lied. There is. There is war. In this movie. Not yet, because -of course - no movie yet. Yet. YET. Yet yet yet yet yet yet yet yet yet yetyetyetyetyetyetyetyetyetyetyetyetyetyetyet…“Yet” sounds weird if you say it lots of times over and over.

O: Then. Wait. Confused…It is a war movie?

J: Is that a question?

O: Kind of, and no.

J: What? Fuckin‘…I said Right. What I say? Never mind. Guy’s got no legs. None.

O: (Sniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiif…Snif.)

No legs.

J: Not legs. wait a minute.

O: What the shit fuckin’ shit does that mean?

J: You caught that? ‘No legs wait-a-minute“. Sounds like a ballplayer: “…And stepping into the box is Nolegs Waitaminute. A lusty .340 on the year with an AL-leading record 103 RBI’s. Ha! Too much. Anyways: The guy’s got no legs. But now I’m thinking he has legs. He definitely has legs. Legs now.

O: Dude, you gotta figure out if this dude’s got legs.

J: He does. But useless. Atrophy. Vehicular.

O: No?…Wow. What’s “Atrofee”

J: You said “vehicular” . You meant “Vestigial.”

O: What I said, I don’t even care he color, fucking guy has legs. Vestigial, Cyan, Magenta who gives a fuckin’ fuckin’ fuck.

J: No. I said it. You: “vehicular“. No. Incorrect. Anyway, either way, he does. They are. Now they want to put him inside this other guy. ..

O: Inside? Inside? Inside? Inside? Inside how? The guy eats him?

J: No. Nope. Ahp.

O: Ah yes, the old “Burn to ash and snort him” trope. Well played. And: Isn‘t it?

J: Nah. Uh uh. And Thanks! And: roasting a guy and snorting his remains is hardly a trope.

O: Look at you getting’ all wordy on me. ‘Scuse me mister speak and spell.

J: I’m not…

O: Hold on. Hold up. The only other way is…Wait, (whispers) up his…uh…?

J: Non.

O: Oh. Phew! Oh. Wow. ‘Cause I was gonnna say, I’m like…Woah.

J: No. I mean…

O: SHRINKING! How did I miss it? But I’m not sure. Shrinking people isn’t so in right now. Maybe in five years…

J: No shrink. And no air quotes. You just say “in”. The blue things are…

O: Wait, blue things? And I DID just say “in”. I thought they were Indians.

J: No, no. You air quoted again. It’s just “in” . No little quote thing motion.

O: No, I said “Like Indians”

J: Blue isn’t like Indians. Red is for Indian. Blue is a smurf. No quotes. They’re not Smurfs though?

O: No, Smurfs are over for now. Don’t get me wrong…Coupla’ years…

J: Who knows?

O: Who indeed?

J: Anyway: Blue. Not Smurfs. Also: Giants!

O: Woah. Blue giants. Ok. Ok. Meta, but stupid / meta. Good for the kids. Old folks.

J: Yeah old folks will LOVE this fuckin thing until they begin to crap uncontrollably and have to be fucking sedated.

O: I was going to say: “Old folks, this is not for old folks.”

J: Well make up your mind.

O: I have.

J: Whatever. They’re giants. Not like GIANT giants, but giant enough. Big.

Big like what?

O: What?

J: What?

O: What big like uhhhhhhhhhh…Fuckin……uhhhhhhhhhhhhfuckinporpisesorfuckintallasabasketballhoop.

J: That’s big. Not giant.

O: Ok they’re big and blue and not giants. No wait, they find a way to get the guy into the big blue giant. Sort of if Casablanca if it had been made exclusively with mimes and using NO dialog.

J: Like he’s in a false leg?

O: No. Fuck no! Where the fuck is a false fuckin’ leg? These people live in a great big, gigantic, big fuckin’ tree…

J: Ah. No health care. Like Philadelphia with being a cripple instead of gayness. Or - even better - like Oliver Stone’s JFK meets Oliver Stone’s Wall Street.

O: Dude. No. No health care. But they’re magic, a little.

SNNNNNNNNIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIF…(Cough)…(gasp)

O: (continuing): Fuckin’ they’re fuckin’ magic now. OK. Damn dude. Fuckin GRR Torken motherfucker.

J: Tolkein.

O: Token?

J: Tolkein.

O: For what now? The blue guy’s name’s Token? I’m not sure. Have we tested that? Jackie? JACKIE.

Disembodied Voice From Desk Phone Speaker: Yes sir.

O: Jackie. Fuckinnnnnnnnn. Shit. OK, I forgot why I rang you.

(Silence)

O: Ahp. Yes. Good. I remember now. Did we test anything regarding the new thing?

J: Which? What?

O: You know. The thing with the…

J: The blue guy.

DVDS: Smurfs? No. Didn’t we shelve that? Smurfs are so played. No? Don’t get me wrong, five years from now…

J: Right. OK.

DVDS: Is that all?

J: So now he’s in the blue guy. But here it is: he loves it too much. He’s getting Brasco’d by the giant blue Indians.

DVS: What was that?

O: No good dirty fucking Indians. Always with the confused ideals and loyalties.

J: Fuck no.

O: Fuck no.

J: So he thinks he can just walk, but then…

O: Then…

J: THEN…

O: Then?

J: Then he can’t just fuckin’ walk. He’s to deep.

O: It’s personal. Also, no fuckin’ legs!

J: It’s personal.

O: Like Citizen Kane if it was a stripper’s fake name instead of a play.

J: Movie.

O: No. I meant the play. What?

(a full 63 seconds of silence)…So then, the big fuckin tree….

O: What?

J: Well…The tree. It’s…

O: Chopped?

J: Chopped!

O: By who?

J: Whom?

O: I don’t fuckin know. You really have to think this thing through dude.

J: No. I know.

O: Now you sound like my wife.

J: No. I know. I mean I know.

O: OK whatever. I’m telling you: The bad guys kill the tree. Knock it over. Shades of Pearl Harbor. Shades of Victory Garden…

J: And 9/11.

O: No. Wait. Yes. I hadn’t thought of that. The whole thing is just like 9/11.

J: Just like it 9/11.

O: Wait though. I dunno…9/11 is a bit played right now. Don’t get me wrong…

J: Five years.

O: I was gonna’ say ten.

Flightless

I’m slowly coming to the emotionally wrenching realization that the Flying Car is just not going to happen. As a boy, movies and tv shows seemed to share a belief that the very next step in our evolution on earth would involve the personal flying vehicle. The supposition was advanced through an endless parade of future-gazing television and movie making.. From George Jetson to Marty McFly, all them shits was flyin’bee. Even worse: Ewoks and people from the planet Tatoine, we were told, apparently had flying cars even a long time ago, in a galaxy far away. More examples follow: Fifth Element, the Terminator, Octopussy, The Great Space Coaster, Flash Gordon…Taken together, the signs could not be denied: Big Hollywood money was all-in behind airborne personal transport. the lot of us - they seemed to be saying - would be soaring and landing of our own volition in the wild blue yonder of our definite future.

Instead, we got the internet. And then we got it again and again and again in all different shapes. Cell Phones, car stereos, books, and newspapers, all to be converted into pixel form and gifted to the masses at a fair price. Now we can surf the web while surfing, during surgical procedures, and in traffic court. Yet here we are, almost 20 years after the sending of my first email, and there my car sits: earthbound and missing a side view mirror. Suddenly my dreams of personal flying seem so dated and sad, I’m almost ashamed of having dreamed them in the first place. How could a popular culture that predicted individual airborne transport settle for almost two decades of inventions not only flightless, but also stationary and physically passive. Tablets, smart-phones, laptops, 3g, 4g, plasma, pc, home theater…An alarming number of technological advancements over the last twenty years have been things that either encourage their user’s motionlessness , or can be used to track that user when he does finally decide to get his ass up and do something.

If the 12 year old me had been given the choice between transport modeled after science fiction, or a device that magically allowed everybody to reach me no matter where I was, I probably wouldn’t even have wasted the breath required to answer back, because anybody asking such a question would have to be a total asshole, and - as such - undeserving of my reply. Any sane person would choose high altitude speed over the ability to stay in touch with people. Or so I would have thought. The last twenty years would seem to have proved otherwise.

Un-knowable

My daughter is manipulative and cunning, so I have to remain vigilant. Tonight she’s deep in one of her favorite vignettes: The “sudden” realization - post bedtime - that she’s neglected to perform a task of monumental importance (tonight, it's that she must "check something"), and must leave her bedchamber - immediately - to remedy her mistake. This tactic must be met with confidence and charisma. Too much muscle and she’s bound to get upset, fuck up her sleep, and then sleep until three minutes of the school bus. That would mean fucking up my day, and then I might over-censure those that cross me, creating a flood-tide of bad will that could spell the end of the human race, the end of earth, the end of all of it.

So rather than face a fiery apocalypse of hate, a use my creepy stern dad voice and tell her:

“I need you to stop. You know what needs to be done, so. Do. It. NOW.”

By the time I reach the “ow” of “now” she’s in a high enough register to break all windows and summon all dogs for miles around us. She’s not arguing back, she’s just screaming a scream of dissatisfaction, and haphazardly-placed blame. Before I can even think a thought, I’ve yelled back, she’s yelled some more, aaaaaaaaand: scene.

Why? Why - knowing the rules of house, knowing the rules of not being a brat, of causing trouble, of screaming…Even so, she stretches her tantruming, exploring it’s parameters, writhing in feigned (and not-so-feigned) mental anguish and kicking sneaker - stains on our couch. She stomps and cries and screams and actively hates me. When I can get a word in edgewise I point out character flaws:

“You can never just let ONE night by without blowing up like this, it’s INSANE!”

“You can’t deal with the word “no”! You’re like a baby.”

I know: I’m an incredibly good parent. But that’s not (entirely) my point. Even knowing the rules, not to mention the fact that screaming, yelling and writhing are frowned upon by the adults in her life. The kid still argues for all those things vociferously, as if they were privileges that had been stripped by my dictatorial regime. She knows that all this bullshit is displeasing to us (and, I would think) taxing to her, and yet she does the whole dance, every time. Why ? Is her judgment so extremely impaired that ALL her choices are doomed to be - well - doomed?

For my part, the entirety of my interactions with my children resembles a highlight reel of bad decisions. I yell when I shouldn’t yell, and attempt soft coercion when it’s plain to see that only force will suffice. The only messages I send are mixed, and I never follow through with anything. I use profanity well within earshot of my children. I act disappointed in their inability to perform simple tasks, or control their body’s various emissions. I know it makes them sad, and I’m betting it’s not psyche-enhancing, and yet, I do it. A lot. Why? Isn’t a kind of insanity, participating in events and actions that I know will probably have negative effects on me and/or the ones I love?

In a word: Yes. Maybe not full-blown, climb-a-tower-with-a-.30.06 insanity, but insanity all the same, and frustrating: Understanding this thought process, and seeing it for what it is and does, means accepting - to a degree - that our minds and bodies are not entirely helmed by us. Or - at the very least - that there’s an aspect of ourselves that we’re not fully aware of, and that we can never fully control. To most people, that’s as good a representation of madness as any. Evidence from the world at large - however - would seem to indicate that this lack of control is probably more common than it’s description would make it seem. How many people have you known, over the course of your entire life up to this very sentence, have gained weight because they over-ate recklessly, or gotten a dui because they decided to drive even thought they knew - beyond any and all argument to the contrary - they were too fucked up to drive? We do it all the time, all of us. So who the fuck is in charge, and why do they hate us?

***

Since the first men crawled forth from the ooze to claim the firmament that seemed to be his birthright, mankind has been seeking better, faster, more complete ways of doing away with itself. The timeline of societal development and advance is almost entirely populated by things that - in the long run - are of little use to the race, and often the very fuel the feeds the various engines of our destruction. The invention of currency, specifically of promissory notes, the invention of the concept of time, and the invention and profligacy of global organized religions: Each one is an developmental tent-pole, discussed at length in text books the world over, and recognized by most as cultural milestones of the human race. Each one is a grave, un-resolvable misstep that may likely spell the end of us as a species or the end of the planet as a place that can support life in any sort of comfortable, sustainable form.

Money is worthless in all ways save one: It is a convenient and effective tool to separate and label vast populations of people. In all other ways, in all it’s myriad forms, the use of currency has no benefit or noteworthy result. Arbitrary and insubstantial, we might just as well seal the exchange of goods and services with clumps of mud, or a song-and-dance number. Gold is heavy and soft. It doesn’t taste good, and you can’t build a house out of it. If the world ended tomorrow, leaving only me, a neighbor with lots of gold, and a neighbor with lots of food, I know which neighbor I’d sack first. Our entire society is based on this ridiculous bauble. Entire kingdoms and societies have risen and fallen at the behest of the forces which control the most gold, and yet the actual metal has had little or no effect on anybody or anything just by itself. It’s been said that some ancient civilizations favored salt as a universal currency, and I wonder why - assuming this is actually true - we ever moved on from that. Salt does things. It makes things taste better and it melts inconvenient ice. Gold can make no such claims. Gold just sits there, glowing vaguely, and making lazy people seem worthless. I would’ve stuck with salt.

Unfortunately, there’s no analog to salt in discussions about time. Human beings are conceited, and so it makes perfect sense that we have chosen to label the constant change we see around us with one over-arching conceptual term, and then worry after that concept uselessly in the name of efficiency. There is no time. Time is just the things around us, being. These things degrade, some faster than others. There are great mysteries in this mechanism. The changes we perceive are often difficult to grasp. Some of them may well be unknowable to us as a species. I’m cool with that. I’m not cool with our lives being run according to other peoples perception of this constant reform and evolution. There are not 24 hours in a day. There are not 30 days in a month. There is only the moment you exist in now and possibly a few more moments like it. We should fill them as best we can, but fearing of them, and the sense of some great ticking as our fortunes (and potential fortunes) dwindle, seems wasteful.

Every week I go to church. I drag my kids along with me like my parents dragged me and just like I did then, my kids hate it. I know: It seems strange and possibly a tad redundant, to subject my children to things that I found - in my own childhood - to be detestable.

I have my reasons. that I persist. I want my kids to be active locally. On a practical level, I want the people in the town where we live to know my kids, and vice versa. I want my children to know what it means to express faith with others. In short, I want them to share in something. This way, I’ll be able to show them that faith and intolerance do not go hand in hand, and that a group of people in something does not always mean that group is correct in their beliefs. I want them to know that there is no “us” and there is no “them”, that there is room for everybody to become just exactly what they are. I know: seems a long way to go just to school a child in social responsibility. I’m not so sure. We live in a world that teaches the opposite, every second of every day. We believe that education is right, so we all take part, we believe that our children are important, and so we all prioritize their needs, we feel that Islamic fundamentalism is wrong, and so we send armies to murder those who follow it. Us and them. It’s a disease, but it’s a disease that many people seem to want.

***

It sounds like drivel. It sounds worse than drivel. I can live with that. Most of the texts we hold dear today started out as drivel. They continue to sound like that, until - one day - they don‘t. Here on earth, truth is elusive. It’s context that determines all. Sometimes context just shifts, all by itself. Most times, however, context needs a push. A context that doesn’t involve money, a calendar, or organized religion will probably end up as the latter. Don’t mistake me though: it will come. Humans can correct mistakes they make as a species, and often do, when day-to-day reality of the establishment becomes untenable for enough of the right people.

　

Until then we just stagnate I guess. Yelling at our kids and eating too much, wondering who’s in charge and why they hate us.