Spring Ahead
Posted: March 11, 2014 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Fiction, malaysia, myopic, Spring Leave a comment“Feels like Spring for the first time this year. It’s like I can breathe again.”
“Breathe deep. Snow tomorrow.”
“Can we just enjoy today?”
“Indeed we should. Tomorrow you could be up in a plane and disappear at thirty-five thousand feet. Poof. Like you were never there.”
“The modern day Icarus— with a stolen Austrian passport.”
“Or Jacob’s ‘ladder to heaven.’ Maybe we strive for too much. Reach too far.”
“I’m just trying to enjoy a Spring day with a summery Jack and Ginger if you’d be so kind.”
“We spend so much energy on what happened to these two-hundred, two-hundred fitty people. Where are they? What went wrong? Who’s to blame? Is it a conspiracy? Over a thousand people die every day of a coronary in the US. Not sexy. Doesn’t make the news. We know why it happens. We just don’t want to know.”
“Not with a bang, but a whimper.”
“Floods, earthquakes, locusts…people throw their money at them. We’re incredibly generous if suitably swayed. The day to day death by paper cuts that awaits us all just fails to capture our attention.”
“Now who’s lost the spring in his step?”
“I haven’t. Honestly. I think it was Ferris Bueller who said ‘there’s a certain freedom in knowing you’re totally screwed.’ Whether it’s a plane, some cancer, or keeling over at my desk, I know it’s coming. I just don’t know when. So, I’ll assume it’s sooner than later and squeeze as much out today as I can.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
“That doesn’t mean skydiving or shark riding or anything dramatic. That’s not living. That’s pretending. That’s playing a game. Living is walking the real streets, doing the real work, just more quickly. Just with more verve.”
“And it’s eliminating the stupid stuff.”
“Exactly. And this isn’t that. Having a drink, having a conversation here about things you don’t really converse about out there is living. Out there it’s very specific. It’s about the numbers. It’s about the kids. It’s solving problems…”
“Or thinking you do.”
“Those are little bubbles. I’m interested in the great big bubble. The stuff that’s not on the agenda.”
“So many asshats out there thinking they’re curing cancer. Even ones working on curing cancer. Somewhere along the line we’ve lost our sense of smallness, our sense of insignificance. We forget we don’t bring meaning to us. It brings meaning to us.”
“I’m not sure I believe that. Or even understand it. But it sounds oddly cool.”
“All this ‘look within’ Jedi bullshit has fucked us royally. The answer is definitively not within. It is assuredly without. Our navel gazing has left us incapable of seeing things as they are, remembering how they were, or imagining how they could be. All we see is ourselves in everything and nothing of everything in ourselves.”
“Christ. I’m trying to enjoy Spring.”
“And you should. The earth is renewing itself and, if you let it, that’s happening in you too.”
“I thought my positivity was renewing it.”
“Thankfully it doesn’t work that way.”
“Then, I’ll leave it at one and go for a stroll.”
“Double down tomorrow.”
“I always do.”
Guns and Roses
Posted: March 10, 2014 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Bud Light, Church, Fiction, gun manufacturer, Guns, Obama Leave a comment“Did you hear there’s a church in Kentucky that offered free guns for people to join?”
“Let he who is without sin gat a bitch.”
“Doesn’t that seem a little sacrilegious to you? A bit of missing the point?”
“A gun manufacturer just got sued for an ad showing the Statue of David holding a rifle.”
“Is nothing sacred?”
“Guns.”
“Seemingly.”
“I don’t get it? Who exactly are they afraid is coming to take them from their otherwise cold, dead hands?”
“Blacks.”
“Everything Obama has said about guns in entirely reasonable after Newtown, The Batman thing and all the others. Seriously.”
“Not Obama, although his being black surely doesn’t help. Blacks. Plural. The President, not this one but Lincoln, took their slaves and freed them. Now they know what it is to smell the glove they don’t ever want to do it again. They’ll be ready next time. Armed and ready.”
“But it’s not just the South. It’s everywhere.”
“See any black guys jumping up and down about the Second Amendment?”
“In fact I don’t.”
“This is White America feeling like it’s all slipping away. The country club is allowing blacks, towel heads, women and fags. Next step is the government forcing you to have them over for supper. That’s how they think. Most down own a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of but they’re going to defend their imaginary forty acres to the hilt.”
“Seems pretty consistent with the Zimmerman thing. ‘What the hell is a black guy doing in my neighborhood?’ I better get this glock cocked.”
“Say that three times fast. Speaking of which…”
“One more. It’s cold out.”
“’Tis.”
“How fucked up and sad going through life like that— like you could be attacked at any time.”
“Religion’s become the same. It’s not a force for doing good. It’s an excuse for doing bad. ‘It says right here that Jesus hated them queers.’”
“Book of Hand Job.”
“Know what the biggest beer in Ireland is right now? Fucking Bud Light.”
“No sir.”
“Yes sir. Everybody thinks what they’ve got sucks. ‘Yanks must have figured it out.’”
“If they only knew.”
“Nothing is the now. It was always better then or will be better once x, y, and z happen. If only.”
“But it sure as hell won’t without our guns to make sure it does.”
“Fucking zombies everywhere, man.”
“Guns don’t really work on zombies.”
“Nothing does. But it makes you feel better though, don’t it? Feeling like you could until that moment you can’t.”
Catch My Drift
Posted: March 6, 2014 Filed under: Fiction, Uncategorized | Tags: Fiction Leave a comment“You see Obama yesterday?”
“No. Saw Air Force One sitting on the tarmac. That’s as close as I got. Was he in for a beer and a shot of barkeep wisdom.”
“No. Missed opportunity. For him.”
“Truly. What would you have said?”
“Dunno. I’d have brought him a wine—looks like a wine guy to me. As I slid it over I’d have grabbed his wrist.”
“After the Secret Service snapped your neck like a #2 pencil what would you have done?”
“I just would have wanted to take his pulse. Nothing crass like ‘ask Michele for your balls back’ or anything like that.”
“Implication being he’s some sort of robot? Does this go back to the whole teleprompter thing?”
“Fuck no. Ellen used one at the Academy Awards. The President shouldn’t?”
“Was that an Ellen reference?”
“Take the whole drone thing. It’s too easy. Some asshat just sitting somewhere— in some bunker some place— dropping bombs on things like it’s fucking Nintendo.”
“You’d rather have soldiers deployed everywhere trying to do the same? And when they get shot and killed, as they often will, what will you say— or rather what will your teleprompter have you say?”
“If it’s not worth getting up close. If it’s not worth going toe-to-toe and taking that risk, maybe we shouldn’t do it. Would you like Mexicans doing drone strikes in East LA?”
“He killed Osama Ballwashin up close and personal.”
“And that’s why the wine was on me. But he’s too clinical. He’s smart. Harvard Law. I get it. But give some ‘big stick.’ I’m all set with the ‘walk softly.’”
“I hear you.”
“It’s like a lot people that come in here. Not just kids either— although they’re the worst. They come into a bar and they stare at their phones the whole time. What the fuck’s the point of going to a bar to look at your phone?”
“They’re missing your charm entirely.”
“They’re missing the fact that it’s a place to be social. Not social media. Social. If you come in alone, I’ll chat you up. If you come with friends, then talk to them. It’s not that fucking complicated. Do I need to hand instructions out with the menu?”
“You have a menu?”
“I’ll make one. Drones, wine, suds, hooch— asterisk. ‘Please don’t act like a hermit fucknut. The management.’”
“Imagine the Instagram pickup.”
“I’m serious. Some people want their place to be a hotspot. I want to shield my bar from the web.”
“You’ll lose tons of NSA business.”
“There are so many cool things that technology brings. Access to everything. But while our head’s stuck in it we don’t notice we’ve drifted six inches apart from everyone. It’s like an ice flow breaking apart slowly.”
“I like the birthday notes I get on Facebook.”
“I like them too. Hard to say anything about the birthday notes on Facebook. It’s the other 364 days I could do without.”
“I wish I could ‘like’ that comment.”
Beginning to Pour
Posted: March 5, 2014 Filed under: Uncategorized Leave a comment“What about this teenage kid? Where the parents are fighting with the doctors over treatment. In State custody…”
“I hate it. The State never makes things better.”
“Agreed.”
“But what if your neighbor’s kid is sick and they won’t take her to the hospital? Religious nuts or whatever.”
“The thin line between a right to die and a right to kill.”
“Not a straight line either.”
“No. It’s not the seventies any more.”
“What if the kid breaks his arm in three places. Parents don’t want to get a cast or anything. A fifteen year old kid.”
“Is the lack of treatment the same as abuse?”
“Omission becoming commission.”
“I feel like the State becoming involved is just horrible. But letting the kid suffer or get worse or whatever is also horrible. I wish there was a third way, but I don’t see one.”
“Same with vaccines. Who is the government to force me to inject some ‘acceptable level of disease’ into my kid?”
“But who are you to be able to walk around with fucking polio or plague or whatever.”
“I was thinking more measles, but the point’s the same.”
“It’s the same with all this regulation shit. I don’t think the State knows its ass from a hole in the ground. But I know I’ll get fucked or worse if they’re not keeping businesses in check. Banks. Milk guys. Everybody.”
“Milk guys.”
“I don’t know what they hell they’re feeding cows. Somebody needs to make sure that milk’s safe to drink. I’m not a lab rat.”
“A lot of people think that pasteurization process is complete shit. Lots of action in the underground fresh milk market.”
“Guess they haven’t heard of Mad Cow disease.”
“That meat was inspected. How safe are the dead people?”
“That’s what I mean. My kingdom for a third way.”
“I see your point.”
“It’s Ash Wednesday. I see your face is no dirtier than usual. Upset at the Pope dropping an F-bomb at the Vatican?”
“I’ll go after work. I’m building up to it.”
“What are you giving up?”
“Caring most likely.”
“Have you tried the 18-year old Jameson’s?”
“Not yet. But I’m willing.”
“Feel the burn.”
“Title of my autobiography.”
“Slon.”
“Hot. Another. For the Holy Ghost.”
“What about Murph?”
“I’ll have the 12-year old for him. He was never fancy.”
“Bet he wouldn’t trip on his dick when a pretty girl walked by.”
“Slon. Pour the twelve.”
This is Water (and this is whiskey).
Posted: March 4, 2014 Filed under: Uncategorized Leave a comment“When you see a beautiful young woman, what do you think?”
“I don’t–think.”
“When I see a beautiful young girl, I don’t lust after her because she’s young and beautiful. It’s because I’m not.”
“Focus on the curves. Don’t analyze it. Animal instinct.”
“Never could hit the curves.”
“You think too much. Feel more.”
“The mind is a wonderful servant but a terrible master.”
“He’s dead, you know. Blew his head off.”
“Who?”
“Wallace.”
“Hung himself, actually.”
“Tomato. Tomahto. Got to the same place differently.”
“You’re quite the literate bartender.”
“Wallace looked like a usually homeless, occasional part-time house painter. A genius (of sorts). Who knew?”
“Are you secret ’skull and crossbones’ and your booze slinging is an elaborate cover up?”
“Maybe. Maybe I just take the train for about an hour and a half total each day— when it fucking shows.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re having some midlife-crisis ajada about getting old?”
“Is that the same thing as grieving not being young?”
“Potato. Potahto. It’s a bit played, isn’t it? A bit of a conceit?”
“It is. Was that supposed to be helpful?”
“One more?”
“One more. Probably.”
It’s All So Black and White
Posted: January 14, 2014 Filed under: Uncategorized 1 CommentI’ve known for about twenty years what the first line of the novel I’d religiously avoid writing would be:
Which is the greater sin: to judge or not to judge?
It’s really been a central theme for me; a preoccupation that’s part philosophical, part moral, part expression of the divided self as our angels and demons wrestle for control, and part inner monolog perhaps unique to the only-child I am. I’m often my own sounding board, much to the chagrin of those who surround me and are better suited to that role than I.
Should I judge people for that which they do, opening myself up to careful inspection in the process? Do I avoid judgment, lessening the glare of the spotlight on me?
Back and forth. Back and forth.
Part of me thinks our lack of “judgment” and failure to hold anyone accountable is the most cynical kind of supposed largesse. “Never judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his moccasins,” as they say, has led us to allow, perpetuate, and implicitly sanction behavior that is patently unacceptable.
Wrong is wrong. If nothing is safely black and white, fifty shades of grey takes on a decidedly different slant.
On the other hand, I find it incredibly easy to forgive kids that have never had (good) parents, workers who’ve scuttled and scraped while investors use their sweat to fuel their Learjets, and so on and so forth. Everyone’s got an excuse and lots of them are incredibly good ones when we actually take the time to listen before bringing the gavel down in our (closed) minds. Many mobsters are kind to strangers. Many religious are not. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.
The eye of the beholder.
The balance never tilts much beyond 51%-49% for me. I feel passionately that both views are right despite their being diametrically opposed.
Schizophrenic or merely human? You judge.
Recently there was an incident in my town where a teenage boy has gotten into some trouble for making homemade explosives in the shed behind his house. I don’t know the particulars, but let’s assume for a minute that this is not a Tsarnaev disciple and large-scale disaster was not narrowly averted*. Let’s assume he’s a boy who heard about something on the bus, looked it up on the internet, and wanted to see if he could make something go boom.
That’s what I’m going to choose to do until presented with facts to the contrary.
Many share this belief. Other folks in town are taking a dimmer view.
He’s a bad kid that must be watched—carefully. He’s a marathon bomber in training, a kook, a danger…
And his parents! The real venom has been reserved for them. They’re complicit. They’re derelict. They’re legally responsible, weirdoes, whackos… and this is just the ‘tip of the iceberg.’
I can’t say any of these views are wrong. I don’t think they’re right, but some of them resonate with me whether I’d like them to or not. In fact, some of those same exact thoughts flashed through my mind as well.
I’ll say this: judging is a lot easier and feels a lot better than not judging.
When I resist judging I initially feel good— my angels have wrestled my demons to the ground.
Then the demons rise off the canvas and wage their methodical two-pronged attack.
“That’s your supposed liberal superiority conning you. You don’t even care about right or wrong. You just want to feel good about yourself— ‘Oh, well. The poor dears just couldn’t help themselves or be expected to do the right thing. Pity.’”
Then the closer is called in.
“You know and I know that where there’s smoke there’s fire. You turning a blind eye is tantamount to kicking the can down the road. As long as this little miscreant doesn’t blow up your stuff it’s someone else’s problem. Edmund Burke said ‘All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing’. So, roll down the shade and pretend there’s nothing wrong. That’s working out really well. Someone else will clean up the mess you see but lack the courage to clean up.”
It (which is really me) goes on. “*And what if you’re wrong? What if your cavalier approach that boys will be boys and he’s got a good heart and all that mumbo jumbo culminates in him showing up on the bus on the way to school with very bad intent? What then?”
It’s easy to write that. It’s easy to go there. I could go on and on. Most actors report it’s easier to play villains than heroes. I get that. The worst-case scenario is usually so vividly imaginable.
So does that answer the question? Does the fact I have more effortless support for that road than the other mean it’s the right one?
I don’t think so. I think it’s self-soothing like a baby might when it’s upset and rocks in its cradle to try to settle itself down. It’s convenient and necessary, but it’s not necessarily right.
My more rationale mind will point out— correctly but uninspiringly— that pushing people into two lines, right and wrong, black and white, haves and have nots, Red Sox fans and heathens… is neither uncommon nor paying dividends. If every talk radio caller has the answer, why don’t things get better? If “Just Say No” was so self-evident, how can we have a Colorado economy that’s pulling up the flowers for the weed and Vermont (Vermont!) “leading” the nation in heroin use?
“Dilemma” comes from Greek derivation, meaning “two options.” That’s the false dilemma we’re too often faced with. There are lots of options— they’re seemingly limitless, in fact. That’s why this is so hard. There’s so very much grey that everything starts to look alike. It’s disorienting. I think that’s why people often addle themselves with booze and drugs and other vices. Even a world where everything is black can be preferable to interminable grey if you’re desperate enough.
I don’t suffer from that. I’m black. Then white. Then black….
So I’ll walk along Main Street like Steve Martin in All of Me, talking to myself and listing from side to side like a drunk or loon.
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?
— William Blake, “The Tiger”
Two heads are better than one. But what do I do when I’ve only got one?
A Man for Some Seasons
Posted: January 13, 2014 Filed under: digital media | Tags: audience management, audio, browsing, content, sharing, walled-gardens Leave a commentA few words of wisdom inspired by the “Golden Globes.” First, a brief Madmen-esque story, perhaps apocryphal, but allegedly true:
Fifty-year-old adman sits down at the bar beside a very attractive woman roughly twenty years his junior. He is suave. He is charming. He is on the prowl. He is experienced at prowling. After some time it’s obvious things are going very well and they’re hitting it off. Suddenly, she looks down. At his wedding ring. “Oh! I see you’re married. Too bad. We were just beginning to get to know one another,” she says with a coquettish pout.
“This ol’ thing? It’s not like I’m a fanatic or anything,” he says, teeth gleaming, as he drops the ring in his pocket.
Some guys are just like that. Prey drive is foundational to their DNA. They won’t be broken. Save your breath to cool your soup.
In media, whether you call it ‘tilting at windmills’ or ‘pissing in the wind’ it seems to me there’s a lot of effort to stop that which cannot be stopped. Best case, this is an exercise in futility. Worst, it’s suicidal.
You can’t hold all your audience close all the time. Don’t even try. It’s not you. It’s them.
The season of ultimatums— “you can either have ___ or you can have me”– is decidedly over. Consumers know full well they can have both and then some.
“Or” is out. “And” is in. Way in.
Folks don’t watch TV or surf the web. They watch TV and surf the web (amongst other things.)
The Fifties are gone, folks. We’re with you (usually) and against you (occasionally.) Ask Chris Christie. We’re not lemmings. Blind devotion is in short supply and reserved for only the most sacred relationships. Most content creators and their audience don’t share that kind of primacy.
It seems to me that the media winners in 2014 and beyond will be those that swallow their jealousy and enter into more open relationships with more people, accepting them for who they are: mainly flawed, often promiscuous, attention deficit ravaged goobers. People.
Successful media publishers will utilize new technologies to extend their brands, reach, and business opportunities. Here I see a distinct advantage for audio. Audio was never the bell of the ball. It was happy for the time you spent with it. It always allowed you to see other things (like the road, your frying pan, your bedroom ceiling as you lay there counting sheep to name only a few.) You could talk over it without it or anyone else ever shushing you. With the rise of mobile as the primary listening device, audio’s now even more generous. Tucked away in your pocket it keeps you abreast of the news, plays the guilty pleasure tracks you don’t want others to hear, or keeps you putting one foot in front of the other on the treadmill. It’s always been a companion. Now it’s the coolest companion ever. It’s Cameron Diaz in There’s Something About Mary.
Of course, you should do as much as you can to be appealing. Craft your content like a Renaissance artisan. Make it portable, easily accessible and shareable. Leave room for comment and contributions from the peanut gallery—you never know where great ideas will come from, and pride of authorship is a powerful sharing motivator. Keep abreast of trends, but don’t chase. Most are ephemeral. Great content endures, riding above the churning waves of what’s fashionable this very moment. Breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth before charting a new course.
zazzle.com
Do what you can to make them want you as much as you want them, but do render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s. You can’t be all things to all people. Don’t try.
Otherwise, you’re a raving Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction that simply “won’t be ignored.” That’s creepy, not sexy.
Find a middle-ground, a stasis, where mutually beneficial relationships flourish based on genuine shared interests and compatibility. Neediness is not charming devotion. It’s shabby desperation. Not sexy at all. There’s a time for The Onion and The Journal, Yo-Yo Ma and Yo La Tengo. Don’t make me choose because there is no choice. I choose both. Deal with it or be dealt with.
Don’t grip the reins too tight. Do your part and your audience will see you for what you are—an indispensible resource for what you do. They’ll come back soon enough even if they do stay out a bit late once and again. They always do.
Unless they’re mixed up with some bunny-boiler. Then it’s time to roll the credits.
Residuals
Posted: December 30, 2013 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: apple, Bill Gates, Dreams, Freud, Las Vegas, Microsoft, Rolling Stone, Seattle, Steve Jobs Leave a commentI think I read somewhere that dreams are the ‘residue of consciousness.’ I believe that’s true. Most dreams take all of the “open apps” of the mind and tie them together in somewhat scatological yet occasionally coherent narratives while we sleep. As to why this happens, I’m not sure. I suppose no one is. Many think it’s the brain continuing to work on the same issues the waking brain is challenged with but attempting to solve them with different filters. Sounds a bit Timothy Leary, but I’m directionally buying it.
Take last night for instance.
smashinghub.com
“I have a call. It’s Bill Gates1!” the flummoxed admin all but shrieks with one hand over the receiver (a quaint anachronism.)
“I guess I should take it,” I say meekly. I’m the most senior guy in the room and the one brought (back) to this Seattle2 agency where things had gone so wrong3 so famously years before to handle the Microsoft4 account that never was there. I’m not yet up to speed, but no time like the present.
“Patrick Reynolds. Can I help you?”
It’s Gates.
“Hello Patrick, welcome aboard. Or should I say back? I’m in Vegas5 with _______ (my waking mind can’t reform the name from my dreaming one). You know, the rep from Rolling Stone6. I’m piss drunk.”
Conscious or asleep, it’s a shocking confession either way.
“Here’s what I’m hearing: smart guy7 but you’ll want to come in and consolidate power right away8. You’ll have the right idea but may or may not be able to bring everyone along9.”
“Interesting, but I assure you that I’ll do way more listening than speaking early on10. I have no ‘Grand Plan” to be enacted Day One. I’ll know ‘my song well before I start singing’ as Bob Dylan says.”
“We’ll see,” he says laughing. “Then there’s that famous temper11. Nobody’s forgotten what happened last time.” More laughter.
“Ask around. That was a one-time deal.”
“We’ll see. Look, I want this to work. We need you. Talk to you soon.” Click.
Soon, it’s morning.
###
1 I’ve been thinking a lot about Gates lately and how his personal stature for me grows and grows as his creation seemingly continues to drift in the wrong direction. In many ways, he’s like Jimmy Carter; infinitely better in ‘retirement’ than ‘on-stage.’ I also think about Gates in relation to his rival Jobs. Not even five years ago this seemed like an unfair fight: Jobs so intuitive and creative versus Gates so clinical and square. Today, I see the opposite. I see Gates using his massive intellect and even more massive wealth to solve the still more massive challenges facing the planet and all its inhabitants. Jobs, conversely, spent his time and talent designing a better mousetrap. Harsh, but not untrue.
2 I dream often of Seattle. Lush and lovely, exotic yet domestic, the year I spent there was packed with so much it felt like a decade. I dream of its scenery—a glimpse of Rainier when it’s out, Lake Washington and it’s houseboat tapestry collaring the shores, the Sound, and, of course, the dense and damp forests. I also dream of its neighborhoods and how they fan out in what only a Seattleite would call a grid with straight face. (Chicago, where I lived for nearly a decade in reality, now that’s a grid.) I also dream of its people, the ones I knew anyway. They all had a special glint in their eyes that I found appealing but never fully understood. You could look at that as part of the paranoid narrative that everyone knows a secret you don’t or simply that they were onto something I wanted to learn more of– Buddhas in Birkenstocks.
3, 11 As beautiful and peaceful as Seattle is, my year there was the most challenging of my career and it’s the scene of my biggest professional failure. And regret. I was brought in to get a situation under control and I failed. Full stop. That happens. While a platitude, I do subscribe to the idea that if you don’t fail sometimes you’re not reaching high enough. Even so, particularly as a younger man, I accepted failure with the same equanimity John McEnroe accepted poor line calls. So when the ship there was going down, instead of standing grim-faced and resolute at the wheel like the Shackleton I’ve always tried to be, I raged and railed like a child. Rather than the disappointment fading over time, as most do, the Seattle scar is constant. Keeping that Jack in the box has been a recurring theme round midnight since the day I left the Emerald City.
4 I just heard a very funny bit on NPR about an internal memo from Gates regarding some Microsoft offering he very clearly (and humorously, intentional or not) deemed unworthy.
5 I have a trip to Vegas coming up and I simply don’t want to go. The place holds zero appeal for me, yet I’m there every year despite my best attempts not to be.
6 Rolling Stone is some sort of symbol for me of the changing of the guard. It was a huge part of youth and now seems inexorably fading away–putting Tsarnaev on the cover a desperate last shot at relevance before the final coda. For me, Rolling Stone says a lot about youth, rebelliousness, counter-culture, alternative views of the world and its events… By extension, dreaming of it could be construed to symbolize aging, being part of the establishment, and a general dulling of the senses if not the intellect.
7 As sad as it may be to get intellectual affirmation from yourself via the dreams we script, if Gates did say that I’d drop the mic right there and then.
8 9Patience has never been a signature characteristic for me, and pushing from behind is something I’m cautious about because it’s something I’m inclined to do. I’m now much more subtle but no less committed to pursuing the course I feel is best. That said, today, unlike occasions of the past, I’ll take a different route if that’s the one agreed upon by the group to see who’s right if nothing else.
10 This is very much my modus operandi. I remember my favorite high school English teacher lecturing on Ode on a Grecian Urn by putting a waste paper basket on his desk and having us all stand up and walk around it, viewing it from every possible vantage, as the author would have regarded the urn in question. It’s a good lesson. Things generally end poorly in my experience when the Listen-Think-Speak-Act pattern gets out of that sequence.
SO there you have it. The remains of the day become the plot of the night.
NB
12 After the Gates dream I had a bizarre sequence of flying down something like a runway. No plane. Possibly on a winged dog. We took off just at the edge of a body of water similar to the way planes do at Logan or LaGuardia airports. I flew a hundred yards or so before landing in three feet of guck. I limped back to shore, dazed.
Freud said dreams are the “royal road to the unconscious.” Let him figure this one out.
The Empty Chair
Posted: November 9, 2013 Filed under: Uncategorized 2 CommentsJust came back, and I mean just came back from a Bat Mitzvah. This being my second, I knew somewhat what to expect. It’s a beautiful ceremony full of music, theater, and God. At least the divine.
It makes you kind of embarrassed to be Catholic. If we prepped for First Communion or Confirmation, I don’t remember it. Today I witnessed a thirteen year old girl stand alone, before a hundred or more, and read aloud and even sing aloud for us all. In Hebrew. To get any thirteen year old to look you in the eye under the best of circumstances is near impossible. This girl stood tall and did it all for over an hour. It’s hard to see any other explanation than the Divine.
From there, we went to the party. Never have so many Irish attended a Jewish ceremony. There was a DJ who marched the fifty or so seventh grade girls around in myriad games and dances. They whooped and howled with delight. There were absolutely no signs of the social strata delineation I’ve heard so much about from my own seventh grader and others. They were one sweaty, joyous unit.
There was an open bar. This they stole from the Catholics. I found myself at it with some regularity, not hiding, but reveling in the celebration. Celebration for the honored. Celebration for the honoring.
Toward the end, the famous “Chair Dance” was called for. A man I did not know gestured toward me. “You,” he said simply. I walked over. The guest of honor was seated in the chair, lifted up by four middle-aged men. The crowd cheered and howled for more. She was returned to earth.
A fitting end to a beautiful ceremony, right?
Wrong.
Let’s hoist Mom up in the air. That’d be fun, right?
So Mom was commandeered and sat down in the chair.
“Get more men” she demurred.
Hogwash.
Up she went. A bit unstable for sure. There are no directions or charted course–certainly not for a Catholic anyway. So we began moving in the customary circle to the crowd’s applause.
I put the chair on my shoulder for maximum stability. We were four men of different sizes, different faiths, and different levels of sobriety. It seemed the prudent thing to do.
The chair secure, I looked out on the seventh grade girls and their parents ringing us. It’s said that God is present in the smallest of things as well as the more grand. This was either somewhere in between if not both.
I thought maybe I was filled with that spirit so the weight of the world was literally lifted from my shoulders.
The chair was empty. Light as a feather.
I mean really. Light as a feather. Just a chair, in fact.
I looked up just in time to see Mom flying through the air. Slow-mo.
She hit the ground after very nearly sticking the landing were it not for stiletto heels. Nothing broken. Just a few bruises. To egos.
Here’s the takeaway: the best religious ceremonies, regardless of faith, remind us of the presence of the Holy. They also remind us we’re destined to live long lives full of heaven and hell. After the fall.
Who Is That Masked Man?
Posted: October 29, 2013 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: blue mask, guitar, lou reed, lyrics, pandora, spotify, velvet underground Leave a commentOne of the very best parts of my job is it not only allows me to listen to music all day it requires me to. The last couple of days have been wall-to-wall Lou Reed. Lou Reed station on Pandora. Lou Reed playlist on Spotify. Lou Reed 24×7. Vicious. A Rock ‘n’ Roll Animal.
As only music can, I was transported back in time…
In college there’d periodically be these gypsy-style (sorry, “Roma”) flea markets in the student center where you could buy and sell used records, posters, and assorted musical arcania. I loved them and bought tons of vinyl there (as well as some bitchin’ Echo and the Bunnymen posters.)
I vividly recall one disk in particular. The Blue Mask by Lou Reed. Truthfully, I knew next to nothing about Reed. I knew quite a lot about The Velvet Underground, but other than “Walk on the Wild Side” very little about solo Reed. It had a cool cover and was just a few bucks so I sprung for it.
What an incredible revelation. Like the Grinch whose heart grew multiple sizes when he learned the real meaning of Christmas, my mind grew exponentially with every scratchy spin of this album. Like so much of Reed’s work that I’d learn about on the basis of this album, The Blue Mask is no joke. It’s not easy. It doesn’t make good party backdrop.
But it’s so worth it.
Actually, much of it is really beautiful and melodic. There’s a really distinct production value to the whole album and the guitar parts in particular are sparsely beautiful. Until it sounds like the studio was swept up in the blitzkrieg and it becomes audibly terrifying.
Every track has something memorable. A line of verse, a guitar hook, or just a feeling it invokes. Here’s my track-by-track take.
My House
Aside from introducing me to the poet Delmore Schwartz. this sweet and plainly sentimental track is great poetry about a great poet and just happens to be set to a beautiful melody beautifully played.
The image of the poet’s in the breeze
Canadian geese are flying above the trees
A mist is hanging gently on the lake
Our house is very beautiful at night
Women
Always stuck me as a joke I didn’t get let in on. Could have been written by any boy between the ages of eight and eighteen. Aside from its contrast to the often obscure and usually gritty Reed lyrical style, this softy is an ode to all things female. Odd in light of Reed’s sexual palate. Lovely, though. Even bikers fall head over heels. This song is as unambiguous as Reed ever got.
Underneath the Bottle
This is where things get going. Brutally honest and self-deprecating, Reed channels his Bukowski and lays out the sadness of bars and booze when the crowds thin and the jukebox dies.
So long world, you play too rough
and it’s getting me all mixed up
I lost my pride and it’s hidin’ there underneath the bottle
The Gun
In just two songs and a little over four minutes we go from a nursery rhyme about women to a play-by-play account of rape and assault— told to the most languid and beautiful tune. The song makes me want to cry and vomit. It’s my favorite track on the album. So haunting.
Get over there
Move slowly
I’ll put a hole in your face
If you even breathe a word
Tell the lady to lie down
I want, ah, you to be sure to see this
I wouldn’t want you to miss a second
Watch your wife
The Blue Mask
All the beautiful guitar work and subtle rhythms go right out the fucking window. This is war. A war with words. A war with sounds. This song makes me want to hide under the bed. It’s an assault on all of your senses.
Spit upon his face and scream
there’s no Oedipus today
This is no play you’re thinking you are in
what will you say
Take the blue mask down from my face
and look me in the eye
I get a thrill from punishment
I’ve always been that way
Average Guy
You can tell by the thin, nasally singing that this is more parody of Joe Schmos than homage to them ala Springsteen. The fact that there is no lyrical content is the content. I think Lou liked the margins better than the middle.
Average guy, I’m just your average guy
I’m average looking and I’m average inside
I’m an average lover and I live in an average place
you wouldn’t know me if you met me face to face
The Heroine
A clever play on words, this is equal parts Homer (of Greece, not Springfield) and Iggy Pop. Looked at through either prism, it’s a massive accomplishment. Looked at through both it is nothing short of remarkable in its small, fragile way.
The mast is cracking as he waves are slapping
Sailors roll across the deck
And when they thought none was looking
They would cut a weaker man’s neck
While the heroine dressed in a virgin white dress
Tried to steer the mighty ship
But the raging storm wouldn’t hear of it
They were in for a long trip
Waves of Fear
Another feel good number in the vein of “The Blue Mask.” Just say no to drugs, this song says. Compellingly.
Crazy with sweat, spittle on my jaw
What’s that funny noise, what’s that on the floor
Waves of fear, pulsing with death
I curse my tremors, I jump at my own step
I cringe at my terror, I hate my own smell
I know where I must be, I must be in hell
The Day John Kennedy Died
This song has a certain Norman Rockwell quality about it. It’s a nostalgic and sad first-person account of the shot heard round the world devoid of any of Reed’s irony or gristle.
I dreamed that I could do the job that others hadn’t done
I dreamed that I was uncorrupt and fair to everyone
I dreamed I wasn’t gross or base, a criminal on the take
And most of all I dreamed I forgot the day John Kennedy died
Heavenly Arms
And it ends on a straight-up love song. This sounds like a track Reed may have written for someone else or for himself at a different time.
Heavenly arms strong as a sunset
Heavenly arms pure as the rain
Lovers stand warned of the world’s impending storm
Heavenly arms reach out to me
That’s all folks. An incredibly powerful roller coaster ride of an album through the highest highs and lowest lows. It’s guileless and unvarnished. Lou Reed may have been one of the coolest rockers ever, but he’s not cool on this album. Which is what makes him and it so fucking cool.
Do they make cool albums anymore? Albums that challenge, punch, confuse and confound? I’m not sure. But twenty-five years or so after I came to it, The Blue Mask has stayed with me. I hope artists out there today have that kind of staying power.
How do you think it feels
when you’re speeding and lonely, come here baby
How do you think it feels
when all you can say is if only?
buffaloreynolds 