Dave Chappelle was right when he said on his short-lived TV show, "Never be the first black person to do anything." He was referring to how hard African-American pioneers have it when breaking new ground. Of course, he then went into a skit about the first black person to use a segregated white toilet, but the general point he made was that the first black anything-- whether it be athlete, performer, or politician --will face severe hardship and opposition. And this was before Barack Obama became President of the United States.
So now, here we are, almost four years after the historic inauguration of America's first non-white Commander-in-Chief (or at least half-white)... and it looks like Dave was right. Not only is Obama hated by his apparent political enemies, but even former supporters (you know, the ones who almost called me a racist because I supported Hillary Clinton early on in the 2008 primaries) are now calling for his resignation. And of course, NO ONE is doing it for racist reasons. No, they just hate his policies, or his lies, or his flip-flops. Just because he's black has NOTHING to do with it, right?
I'm not going to call anyone who opposes Obama a racist, even though everyone did that to me four years ago when I stated that Hillary was a better candidate. You see, I wasn't fooled by Obama's smooth rhetoric. Chris Rock once made a point about Colin Powell, how everyone liked him because "he speaks so well", like he's expected to shuck-and-jive and people are so shocked to see that he is educated. Same with Obama. I thought he was smooth, yes, but nothing he said was really substantial.
However, what DID impress me about Obama was how he stole that Democratic nomination away from her. He stole it not as a black man, but as a politician. Coupled with his Chicago political clout, he had the makings of a real winner. Fuck his eloquence, this man wielded true political capital. To be able to take out the Clintons in the primaries is no mean feat. So I voted for him... and I must admit, while he has been less than stellar, I also feel he has done a lot in a short time and that history will be kind to him. He is not perfect, and the outrage many people feel towards him is understandable, but it is perplexing to me how the people who voted for him are so upset. Don't they realize that they have no one but themselves to blame for electing a candidate with very little political experience to his credit simply because he was a black man with a spectacular speaking style?
They should've listened to Dave Chappelle and Chris Rock, two other black men with a flair for spoken word. But they weren't running for office in 2008.
*/*
I have compared Obama's presidency with the movie Blazing Saddles ever since the debates with Sen. John McCain. If Obama was Sheriff Bart, then McCain was the first of many Hedley (not Heddy) Lamars that Obama has had to face. I always root for Obama because of this comparison in my mind, because I love that movie and I see it being played out in the political arena constantly.
I love that movie because it is truthful about America's attitude towards African-Americans: they only love them when they are doing something to save them from the mess they made. The minute a black man in power tries something new and risky, though, the American people get skittish, and latent racist tendencies emerge. And the irony is that they come out strongest among the liberals. Conservatives at least make no bones about their feelings for Obama, even if they do lie to themselves by saying they oppose his policies and not his race. But it is shocking to see liberals act as if the President robbed their house or dated their daughter. They may have legitimate gripes about some of his decisions in office, but it is couched in such condescending language that it makes me sick.
"He should know better."
"I am so disappointed."
"He is worse than any other President we've ever had."
Yeah, as if eight years of George W. Nixon never happened.
The attitude towards Obama as of late is akin to this: "We gave you a chance, Negro, but you're blowing it and now we'll never trust one of your kind to run things ever again." And those who speak with this tone in their voice will deny it to their dying breath. But if they only watched Mel Brooks' comedic Western farce, maybe they'd see how close of a resemblance they bear to the people of Rock Ridge, who only warm up to the Sheriff completely after he has defeated Hedley Lamar as well as saved them from Mongo, rebuilt the entire town of Rock Ridge as a decoy, and broke through the Fourth Wall by instigating a good old-fashioned pie fight on a Warner Brothers sound stage.
I mean, what's a brother gotta do around here to get some respect?
*/*
I'm voting for him in 2012, and if anyone gives me any shit about it I'll whip out this handy link reminding people what Obama has done so far in his Administration.
Yes, I know about the Wikileaks memos, how his Administration is practically pardoning the Bush Crime Family for their torture tactics. Yes, I know. Yes, I've heard. Yes, yes, yes. You don't have to tell me. I may be Latino, but I do read the papers, and I keep up with current events, so you don't have to talk to me like I'm five years-old.
By the way: Did you know that more marijuana users were prosecuted under Bill Clinton's watch than under Nixon? Did you know Clinton signed the Telecommunications Act of 1996 which allowed broadcasting companies like Clear Channel to become monstrous monopolies and foment the toxic spew of conservative talk radio? These are some of the reasons why I voted for Ralph Nader in 1996. And I won't even get into the adultery because it makes no difference to me in terms of whether he was a good leader or not. But I will mention some of his barbs at Obama during those 2008 primaries, barbs that made me sigh and say, "Et tu, Bill?"
My point is, politicians lie and make false promises and disappoint and dash hopes and dreams and make cynics of us all. Obama is no different. But I ended up liking him, and I think I like him more now that everyone's true colors are emerging. Because let's face it: if you voted for him because you bought into the whole Hope angle, or because he "speaks so well", then you deserve to be pissed off and upset... at yourself, for being so stupid as to vote for someone for such shallow reasons.
But if you voted for him because you saw that he would make a better leader than John McCain, like I did, then you probably don't feel hornswoggled right now. Because like me, you knew he'd make mistakes and implement questionable decisions. But you also knew, like me, that he'd probably catch Osama bin Laden and push through the basic bones of health care reform, something Bill & Hillary weren't able to do when they were in charge.
*/*
One final note: Toni Morrison once called Clinton the "first black President" because of the way he was treated by the press and by Congress. Now that we have a real black President who is facing re-election, I wonder how many more we'll have after this. Will it be like pro sports, where the allowance of one black athlete led to almost absolute dominance by black players? Or will it take a few more Clinton-style black Presidents before we can even think of going for the Real McCoy again? It bears noting that Obama is a mulatto, so he is not 100% black. Will we ever have a President that is as dark as Wesley Snipes? Or will they always have high-yellow complexions for the next 40 years?
All I know is (thanks to Obama) my wife, son and I had a fighting chance during this terrible recession. Stimulus money kept us afloat, credit card reform minimized our debt, healthcare reform ensured us a future for our child, and job creation has allowed me to contribute to our finances again after being unemployed for nearly two years. And for my money (and my vote) that is enough for me to invest my allegiance to another term for him.
Just call me The Waco Kid, I guess...
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Tuesday, November 08, 2011
Trying To Get An Agent (part one)
I started soliciting literary agents when I was back in Los Angeles in July. I used the e-mail at the bank where I was working to send them out when I had spare moments. Then in August I made the move to Indianapolis-- I was in the Midwest by the 16th, having traveled almost 3,000 miles by land in my pickup truck.
I was worried that the one agency that asked for a submission would not be able to get back to me due to my not being at the bank anymore (since I was using their e-mail it would no longer exist when I left the company) but I also did not want to spoil anything by asking about it before the allotted period of three months passed.
So I sent an e-mail in September updating my e-mail address and waited until October to officially inquire as to whether it was a 'pass' or a 'go'. When October came, I sent the inquiry follow-up and waited some more.
Meanwhile, the latest and so-far-the-best edit of my novel has been trapped on the hard drive to a dead laptop. I haven't had the time to retrieve the manuscript from the hard drive, but to be honest I wasn't too thrilled about the submission I'd been sending to agents: I kept rewriting it as I e-mailed them, and that's not a good sign.
Mind you, I've only solicited about 50 or so agents. The sole reply that asked for a submission is merely one agency. The rest either didn't get back to me or passed. But there's still hundreds and thousands of agents out there. I've barely begun the process. However, I am still not satisfied with what I have to offer.
I decided that, no matter what happened with this one agent, I will send a stronger chapter of my novel when the next round of solicitations begins. I imagine that I will have something ready to send by the end of the year, because the holidays are upon us and I don't know if any agents will be in their offices from now until the new year.
And just when I decided to take this tack, I received a pass letter from the agent in question... dated August 13, 2011! I guess they replied to me sooner but I was en route to Indiana when it was sent. The September e-mail update must have gotten buried in the mix, and my October follow-up was probably confusing to them until they realized that I'd never received the August reply.
So, in other words, I was passed on almost three months ago and I've been twiddling my thumbs doing nothing about it. But now at least I know what's up, and I can go forward with a better query and better material to back it up with if I get another request for a submission.
I do feel a little dumb, but then again my strong suit has never been the business side of things. I'm learning this as I go. It will probably be a long long time before I see anything worthwhile coming my way. I am not daunted, however-- this is only the beginning. I should've taken this seriously in the past but I was too busy writing and loving it.
But there's no rush, is there?
I was worried that the one agency that asked for a submission would not be able to get back to me due to my not being at the bank anymore (since I was using their e-mail it would no longer exist when I left the company) but I also did not want to spoil anything by asking about it before the allotted period of three months passed.
So I sent an e-mail in September updating my e-mail address and waited until October to officially inquire as to whether it was a 'pass' or a 'go'. When October came, I sent the inquiry follow-up and waited some more.
Meanwhile, the latest and so-far-the-best edit of my novel has been trapped on the hard drive to a dead laptop. I haven't had the time to retrieve the manuscript from the hard drive, but to be honest I wasn't too thrilled about the submission I'd been sending to agents: I kept rewriting it as I e-mailed them, and that's not a good sign.
Mind you, I've only solicited about 50 or so agents. The sole reply that asked for a submission is merely one agency. The rest either didn't get back to me or passed. But there's still hundreds and thousands of agents out there. I've barely begun the process. However, I am still not satisfied with what I have to offer.
I decided that, no matter what happened with this one agent, I will send a stronger chapter of my novel when the next round of solicitations begins. I imagine that I will have something ready to send by the end of the year, because the holidays are upon us and I don't know if any agents will be in their offices from now until the new year.
And just when I decided to take this tack, I received a pass letter from the agent in question... dated August 13, 2011! I guess they replied to me sooner but I was en route to Indiana when it was sent. The September e-mail update must have gotten buried in the mix, and my October follow-up was probably confusing to them until they realized that I'd never received the August reply.
So, in other words, I was passed on almost three months ago and I've been twiddling my thumbs doing nothing about it. But now at least I know what's up, and I can go forward with a better query and better material to back it up with if I get another request for a submission.
I do feel a little dumb, but then again my strong suit has never been the business side of things. I'm learning this as I go. It will probably be a long long time before I see anything worthwhile coming my way. I am not daunted, however-- this is only the beginning. I should've taken this seriously in the past but I was too busy writing and loving it.
But there's no rush, is there?
Friday, November 04, 2011
"The King Of Politics"
Watching Martin Scorsese's The King Of Comedy on DVD reminds me of the time when I was working in the Network Operations Center of the corporate radio network owned by that behemoth of media conglomerates, Clear Channel.
In the movie, Robert De Niro plays aspiring comic Rupert Pupkin, who kidnaps a late-night talk show host (modeled on Johnny Carson but played by Jerry Lewis) in order to get his big break on the airwaves. The movie wasn't a big hit but in terms of foresight it is extremely prescient. Forget Andy Warhol's 15 minutes, this movie practically guarantees that the criminal class will inherit the media of the future.
It reminds me of my job in radio because there was one moment in time when I had the idea to switch the feed that sent Rush Limbaugh's show from West Palm Beach (where he broadcasts) via a satellite connection that ended up in Denver and scattered all over the network, which was nationwide at the time.
I wanted to switch the feed with a filthy comedy routine by the late Bill Hicks, wherein he wondered aloud if Rush Limbaugh and some of the Republican ex-presidents (with Barbara Bush in tow) engaged in kinky coprophilia. I had the CD in my travel bag, and my position was such that I could've done it easily, and by the time anyone was the wiser the bit would've ended... along with my career in radio.
I often wonder what would have happened had I done that. First of all, I would've been fired and probably fined for violating FCC standards and practices. But the prank would've made the news, and people who hate Rush Limbaugh would've picked up on it and had me on their shows and I might have become some sort of low-level celebrity in left-wing circles. Maybe I would've ended up working for Air America.
But I also would've incurred the wrath of neo-conservatives and right-wingers. Not that it bothers me, but then again they can be a hateful bunch, and the quiet solitude I enjoy now with my wife and son would not be possible due to never-ending torrents of hate mail and death threats. I mean, this would have happened in late 2000 had it actually been carried out, long before I ever entertained the thought of settling down. But I don't think I would've found the kind of peace I enjoy now. Some people have long memories, and the ones who I would've angered tend to carry guns and shoot abortion doctors, so someone like me would be fair game.
Still, I wonder what might have been, as we all do when we think about the paths we didn't take in life. And I don't regret not doing it, because ultimately such an event would only make Rush's supporters more defensive-- after all, they do refer to themselves as 'dittoheads' so there's really nothing a prank like that would've done to convince them otherwise. In fact, it may have only fanned the flames of their devotion to such an extent that maybe it would've made today's current political climate --replete as it is with Tea Baggers and Occupiers and the whole lot --much less tolerable.
Part of me does wish I could've socked it to the right-wingers in such a spectacular fashion, but I think someone like me does it every day here in Middle America, where sometimes my mere presence in a public market stands as an affront to any white upper middle-class American who thinks that minorities are inferior. I think the fact that I am here and raising a son and living the Dream with a capital D can sometimes be more of a 'fuck you' to the dittoheads than any rhetoric I can espouse.
I dunno, maybe I'm just rationalizing a missed opportunity. Or maybe I just have a hankering to do something along those lines again. I look at the papers and the blogs and the news websites and see so many people taking it to the streets, I wonder if I ever did enough. But there's no answer to that, because even if I had hijacked Rush's radio show for a minute in the post-election turn-of-the-millenium, there's no way I could ever top that. I'd have to live that down, or outdo it. And that's the consequence of such an action: once you pick a side of the fence to be on, you have to stay there.
Believe me, it's much more enjoyable being here, in the Heartland, the Crossroads of America, where no one knows my name and yet I can still sympathize with those who believe what I believe as I send my son to a decent preschool and my wife wins Halloween contests by dressing as the leg lamp from A Christmas Story. I don't think I'd want it any other way, the more I think about it.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Back to blogging.
Last night as I watched my son, I went through my Facebook profile and did a little editing, mostly just un-friending people that I once thought were cool but suddenly realized I didn't actually have any connection with; it wasn't a prerequisite that I actually know them in real life, because a lot of my favorite people are online-only friends whom I have yet to encounter in the real world. Rather, I decided a little pruning was in order, simply because I am sick of going onto Facebook and seeing updates from pages I once deemed (for a few seconds at that) funny and clever. I am not alone in this, I am sure. I have noticed the times when I have been un-friended and thought to myself, "Maybe I post too many You Tube videos that are random and meaningless."
I put on Blue's Clues in the Netflix queue for J.R. and got around to reading a book about Charles Manson. The book is not a rehash of the Tate-LaBianca murders but dwells on what Manson is doing now. As you can guess, he isn't doing much save for rotting in jail and rambling nuttily at length about the most whacked-out shit ever conceived by a madman.
Then, my wife came home from a fashion show. It's Midwest Fashion Week, and she works in fashion, and we're in the Midwest, so it all makes sense. She had a ball, and she even got offers to model from other designers. I was happy for her, but that happiness was tempered by J.R.'s excitement at seeing her come home, even if it was almost midnight. (Yes, I know, he should've been asleep earlier, but I worked late and he wasn't tired in the least) Little Man went into hyperdrive as we labored to calm him down.
My, how things have changed since those heady days when I wrote in this blog several times a day, searching for a connection in the vast cyber-wasteland of the (ack) blog-o-sphere...
*/*
I had a dream that my co-workers and I were giving a going-away party to our manager at the bookstore. It was one of my "big house" dreams: If I ever could claim that I had a recurring dream motif, it is the Big House. I often have dreams that take place in a huge mansion with multiple rooms. The house never belongs to anyone in particular, and the people living in the rooms are often just friends and acquaintances. Thus, the going-away party took place in a Big House. I invited everyone I ever knew -- or, more to the point, everyone I am friends with on Facebook, which goes back as far as my grade school days. I was so wrapped up in planning the party that when it actually started and people began to arrive I greeted them cursorily and went about my business of renting recording equipment for some big jam I had planned.
The dream then skipped to the next day, when most of the people had left and only a handful of us from the bookstore were busy cleaning up. And that's when Manson showed up. He was the one who rented us the recording gear, and didn't want us to record over some of his songs that were on the 2-inch tape. We listened to the jam and decided to forward the tape past Charlie's tunes so we could record another post-party jam, mostly because I had not been included on the first jam and I needed to be a participant. So I grabbed a microphone and sang, improvising words and the musicians played, and at the end (when the music suddenly turned violent and thrashy) I handed the mic to Manson and he finished it off.
As the dream neared its end, I was helping my co-workers get the gear loaded so we could return it to the rental place. One co-worker made a snide comment about Manson, and we were shocked to discover that Manson overheard it, as he was standing behind a hedge only three feet away from us, undetected. He was a little pissed, and the co-worker who'd made the comment instantly became frightened and walked back into the Big House. Manson assured me he wasn't going to seek retribution, but after giving me a bear hug he slinked away and headed towards the Big House. Concerned, I followed suit.
When I got to the Big House, it was completely empty. My co-worker had a sawed-off shotgun in his hands with the barrel in his mouth. His aim was to commit a murder-suicide, aiming the shotgun in a manner that would allow him to also kill Manson as he killed himself. But when Manson entered the room, my co-worker pulled the trigger and MISSED Manson (not surprising, seeing as he had to face the opposite direction in order to send any buckshot in Manson's path) and also failed to fully kill himself.
The big irony was that Manson was holding a pipe and a bag of weed. He had intended to offer a peace treaty to my co-worker instead of vicious revenge. But the look on Charlie's face made me wonder if he hadn't "mind-controlled" the kid into blowing his own face off.
And that's when I woke up, and I swore to never browse Facebook and read about Charles Manson in the same evening ever again.
I put on Blue's Clues in the Netflix queue for J.R. and got around to reading a book about Charles Manson. The book is not a rehash of the Tate-LaBianca murders but dwells on what Manson is doing now. As you can guess, he isn't doing much save for rotting in jail and rambling nuttily at length about the most whacked-out shit ever conceived by a madman.
Then, my wife came home from a fashion show. It's Midwest Fashion Week, and she works in fashion, and we're in the Midwest, so it all makes sense. She had a ball, and she even got offers to model from other designers. I was happy for her, but that happiness was tempered by J.R.'s excitement at seeing her come home, even if it was almost midnight. (Yes, I know, he should've been asleep earlier, but I worked late and he wasn't tired in the least) Little Man went into hyperdrive as we labored to calm him down.
My, how things have changed since those heady days when I wrote in this blog several times a day, searching for a connection in the vast cyber-wasteland of the (ack) blog-o-sphere...
*/*
I had a dream that my co-workers and I were giving a going-away party to our manager at the bookstore. It was one of my "big house" dreams: If I ever could claim that I had a recurring dream motif, it is the Big House. I often have dreams that take place in a huge mansion with multiple rooms. The house never belongs to anyone in particular, and the people living in the rooms are often just friends and acquaintances. Thus, the going-away party took place in a Big House. I invited everyone I ever knew -- or, more to the point, everyone I am friends with on Facebook, which goes back as far as my grade school days. I was so wrapped up in planning the party that when it actually started and people began to arrive I greeted them cursorily and went about my business of renting recording equipment for some big jam I had planned.
The dream then skipped to the next day, when most of the people had left and only a handful of us from the bookstore were busy cleaning up. And that's when Manson showed up. He was the one who rented us the recording gear, and didn't want us to record over some of his songs that were on the 2-inch tape. We listened to the jam and decided to forward the tape past Charlie's tunes so we could record another post-party jam, mostly because I had not been included on the first jam and I needed to be a participant. So I grabbed a microphone and sang, improvising words and the musicians played, and at the end (when the music suddenly turned violent and thrashy) I handed the mic to Manson and he finished it off.
As the dream neared its end, I was helping my co-workers get the gear loaded so we could return it to the rental place. One co-worker made a snide comment about Manson, and we were shocked to discover that Manson overheard it, as he was standing behind a hedge only three feet away from us, undetected. He was a little pissed, and the co-worker who'd made the comment instantly became frightened and walked back into the Big House. Manson assured me he wasn't going to seek retribution, but after giving me a bear hug he slinked away and headed towards the Big House. Concerned, I followed suit.
When I got to the Big House, it was completely empty. My co-worker had a sawed-off shotgun in his hands with the barrel in his mouth. His aim was to commit a murder-suicide, aiming the shotgun in a manner that would allow him to also kill Manson as he killed himself. But when Manson entered the room, my co-worker pulled the trigger and MISSED Manson (not surprising, seeing as he had to face the opposite direction in order to send any buckshot in Manson's path) and also failed to fully kill himself.
The big irony was that Manson was holding a pipe and a bag of weed. He had intended to offer a peace treaty to my co-worker instead of vicious revenge. But the look on Charlie's face made me wonder if he hadn't "mind-controlled" the kid into blowing his own face off.
And that's when I woke up, and I swore to never browse Facebook and read about Charles Manson in the same evening ever again.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
He's Outta My Life
Of course I made a joke when I heard the news about Michael. I sat there watching Fox News Channel at a friend's house, holding my little boy on my lap. I looked down at him and said, "It's okay, you're safe now." That one got a laugh. So did the next one: "I'm not sure if he's really dead... I mean, we are watching Fox News."
But after the jokes subsided, the reality set in. And no amount of conspiracy theorizing or joking or analyzing can take back the fact that Michael Jackson, the self-proclaimed King Of Pop and an extraordinary performer, is now dead.
I'm glad he's dead, because now he is at peace. Never had there been so restless a personality as his. I doubt he ever felt like what he'd accomplished was good enough. I'm not saying he was unhappy, although the amount of plastic surgery he foisted upon himself might point that way. I'm just saying that he wasn't at peace. Even as he died, he was on the verge of another comeback.
I mean, was Ed McMahon or Farrah Fawcett as deeply troubled and as endlessly fascinating as Michael? Believe it or not, there are people who do not know who those other two people are, or didn't know until earlier this week. But everyone knew Michael. Everyone.
And that's what I'm wrapping my head around right now. No other artist has permeated my life or the lives of so many people like he has. Even Prince, whom I prefer musically and whom I defended against Michael fans back in the '80s, does not inform my every memory as pervasively as Michael.
He was there when I was a little boy, as the Scarecrow in The Wiz. He was there when I was watching the breakdancers cop his moves in the early '80s, alongside Kurtis Blow and George Clinton. Eddie Murphy did a spot-on impersonation of him, both on SNL and in his own stand-up. He was an uncredited voice cameo on The Simpsons, and I didn't learn until decades later that he really did do the voice and it wasn't an impersonator. He gave Alfonso "Carlton on The Fresh Prince" Ribiero his big break in a Pepsi ad. His songs were the soundtrack of my childhood, and were parodied by cult heroes like "Weird" Al Yankovic. His sister was on two TV shows that I grew up on, and I had at least three vinyl copies of Thriller at one time in my life. I saw Captain EO at Disneyland in 3-D. I remember watching the full-length version of the "Thriller" video on Friday Night Videos (we didn't have MTV at my house yet). I've seen countless comics pull off his moves, from Eddie Griffin to Tommy Davidson. I remember my best friend doing Michael's dance routine at the after party of our prom night while my girlfriend and I watched and laughed. I also remember watching Michael do the Moonwalk for the first time on TV, for that Motown anniversary special. I remember in high school a guy on the bus singing "The Way You Make Me Feel" with his headphones on, singing very loud and snapping his fingers as if he was in the shower. Even as recent as Monday, I overheard someone describing the "Say Say Say" video with Paul McCartney to someone who had never seen it.
He was everywhere, and now thanks to the fact that he is dead, he will live forever in the public's mind.
My conspiracy theories are in full effect: He faked his death to get out of debt, for example. If there was ever an artist that could pull that one off, it was Michael. I mean, he's the one who started all the weird rumors about himself because he knew it would keep people talking about him for years; the oxygen chamber, the Elephant Man's bones, Bubbles the Chimp... he was the source! He was a master manipulator and probably wasn't half as weird as everyone thinks.
I also had a theory that the REAL Michael died in that aborted Pepsi commercial that burned him up, and that the Jackson family dug up and dusted off an extra Jackson brother that wasn't doing anything other than buggering little boys and living under the sink. They gave him plastic surgery and taught him how to sing and dance, but he couldn't break that one bad habit...
Sorry, I know it seems disrespectful... but Michael is now at a stature similar to Elvis, perhaps beyond. Nothing I can say or do would take away that stature. And to all the talk-show hosts and hack comics and snobby music critics, you won't have Michael Jackson to kick around anymore.
But that's the irony: He isn't going anywhere. Like I said, he's going to last forever. When I'm dead and buried, they will still be listening to him in Liberia.
As for me, I am listening to my all-time favorite MJ track, the last song off Thriller, and also the last time Michael made any sense to me. It's "The Lady In My Life" and I never EVER get tired of that song because it's one of the few Michael songs where he's begging to get some from a girl at the end. It was the finest song he ever did, if you ask me... and this is a guy who sang "I'll Be There" and "Never Can Say Goodbye"!
"And I Will Keep You Warm
Through The Shadows Of The Night
Let Me Touch You With My Love
I Can Make You Feel So Right
And Baby Through The Years
Even When We're Old And Gray
I Will Love You More Each Day
'Cause You Will Always Be
The Lady In My Life..."
That song reminds me of my wife. And as I look at my son, who is asleep, I realize that he is growing up in a world that is missing a few things, such as the World Trade Center, or cassettes and vinyl albums and VHS tapes... or like The King Of Pop.
But after the jokes subsided, the reality set in. And no amount of conspiracy theorizing or joking or analyzing can take back the fact that Michael Jackson, the self-proclaimed King Of Pop and an extraordinary performer, is now dead.
I'm glad he's dead, because now he is at peace. Never had there been so restless a personality as his. I doubt he ever felt like what he'd accomplished was good enough. I'm not saying he was unhappy, although the amount of plastic surgery he foisted upon himself might point that way. I'm just saying that he wasn't at peace. Even as he died, he was on the verge of another comeback.
I mean, was Ed McMahon or Farrah Fawcett as deeply troubled and as endlessly fascinating as Michael? Believe it or not, there are people who do not know who those other two people are, or didn't know until earlier this week. But everyone knew Michael. Everyone.
And that's what I'm wrapping my head around right now. No other artist has permeated my life or the lives of so many people like he has. Even Prince, whom I prefer musically and whom I defended against Michael fans back in the '80s, does not inform my every memory as pervasively as Michael.
He was there when I was a little boy, as the Scarecrow in The Wiz. He was there when I was watching the breakdancers cop his moves in the early '80s, alongside Kurtis Blow and George Clinton. Eddie Murphy did a spot-on impersonation of him, both on SNL and in his own stand-up. He was an uncredited voice cameo on The Simpsons, and I didn't learn until decades later that he really did do the voice and it wasn't an impersonator. He gave Alfonso "Carlton on The Fresh Prince" Ribiero his big break in a Pepsi ad. His songs were the soundtrack of my childhood, and were parodied by cult heroes like "Weird" Al Yankovic. His sister was on two TV shows that I grew up on, and I had at least three vinyl copies of Thriller at one time in my life. I saw Captain EO at Disneyland in 3-D. I remember watching the full-length version of the "Thriller" video on Friday Night Videos (we didn't have MTV at my house yet). I've seen countless comics pull off his moves, from Eddie Griffin to Tommy Davidson. I remember my best friend doing Michael's dance routine at the after party of our prom night while my girlfriend and I watched and laughed. I also remember watching Michael do the Moonwalk for the first time on TV, for that Motown anniversary special. I remember in high school a guy on the bus singing "The Way You Make Me Feel" with his headphones on, singing very loud and snapping his fingers as if he was in the shower. Even as recent as Monday, I overheard someone describing the "Say Say Say" video with Paul McCartney to someone who had never seen it.
He was everywhere, and now thanks to the fact that he is dead, he will live forever in the public's mind.
My conspiracy theories are in full effect: He faked his death to get out of debt, for example. If there was ever an artist that could pull that one off, it was Michael. I mean, he's the one who started all the weird rumors about himself because he knew it would keep people talking about him for years; the oxygen chamber, the Elephant Man's bones, Bubbles the Chimp... he was the source! He was a master manipulator and probably wasn't half as weird as everyone thinks.
I also had a theory that the REAL Michael died in that aborted Pepsi commercial that burned him up, and that the Jackson family dug up and dusted off an extra Jackson brother that wasn't doing anything other than buggering little boys and living under the sink. They gave him plastic surgery and taught him how to sing and dance, but he couldn't break that one bad habit...
Sorry, I know it seems disrespectful... but Michael is now at a stature similar to Elvis, perhaps beyond. Nothing I can say or do would take away that stature. And to all the talk-show hosts and hack comics and snobby music critics, you won't have Michael Jackson to kick around anymore.
But that's the irony: He isn't going anywhere. Like I said, he's going to last forever. When I'm dead and buried, they will still be listening to him in Liberia.
As for me, I am listening to my all-time favorite MJ track, the last song off Thriller, and also the last time Michael made any sense to me. It's "The Lady In My Life" and I never EVER get tired of that song because it's one of the few Michael songs where he's begging to get some from a girl at the end. It was the finest song he ever did, if you ask me... and this is a guy who sang "I'll Be There" and "Never Can Say Goodbye"!
"And I Will Keep You Warm
Through The Shadows Of The Night
Let Me Touch You With My Love
I Can Make You Feel So Right
And Baby Through The Years
Even When We're Old And Gray
I Will Love You More Each Day
'Cause You Will Always Be
The Lady In My Life..."
That song reminds me of my wife. And as I look at my son, who is asleep, I realize that he is growing up in a world that is missing a few things, such as the World Trade Center, or cassettes and vinyl albums and VHS tapes... or like The King Of Pop.
Friday, July 11, 2008
baby
So here we are in the middle of July or somewhere roundabout, and in two months I will have been married for an entire year, and I haven't blogged in five months (which is a world record for me) and life has continued in its own slow way...
...and my wife is pregnant, and I'm going to be a father.
And there is so much to say, so very much to say.
And blogs just don't cut it anymore when it comes to my feelings.
And yet, I feel that this is something worth blogging about.
And I'm going to try and document as much as I can before the inevitable crunch of hours and weeks and months and years spent raising a child descends like cloud seeds upon what is left of my free time.
And I think that one day I'll blog regularly again but with a different goal in mind, that goal being a true need for communication born out of genuine desire to be expressive and not just some hollow trumpeting used to back up my claims to literacy and all.
And when my child can read, they might see these pages, and laugh, and cry, and wonder why.
*/*
My wife is entering into her second trimester. She is starting to show. Her womb is transforming and altering itself, tailoring itself to accommodate the impending arrival.
She has slight aches and minor pains. Her nausea is waning. She forgets things and her moods swing like a suspension bridge in a stormy wind.
I have never seen anything more beautiful than the sight of her sitting upright in bed, her mousy librarian's glasses perched upon her pointy dainty nose, her eyes aglass* with expectancy...
(*= A combination of "aglaze" and "glassy")
I rub her paunch every chance I get.
*/*
Now that my own father and I have buried the hatchet, I find that the wardrobe of fatherhood feels good and slinky when I slip its tender robes upon my rough, flabby skin.
We never argue anymore. I harbor no hatred towards him. We don't even get into religious debates the way we used to, and it is a pleasure to hear from him when he calls me up to talk.
I will never forget his sins, what he did. I cannot, I will not.
But I never thought I'd ever forgive him either, and yet that is exactly what I have done.
I can keep vigil, as a reminder to myself and to my child, a way of making sure that history does not repeat itself, that my child does not become first a victim and then the victimizer of a similar offense to what befell my father when he was only a young boy.
I can keep a diligent eye. In that respect, I won't forget.
But I forgave him finally, and that lifted the heaviest burden from my shoulders at a point when I could no longer carry it.
I don't care if you believe in God or not. The fact is, forgiveness is good for the soul.
Yes, it is.
Make sure you forgive someone before you have kids of your own.
...and my wife is pregnant, and I'm going to be a father.
And there is so much to say, so very much to say.
And blogs just don't cut it anymore when it comes to my feelings.
And yet, I feel that this is something worth blogging about.
And I'm going to try and document as much as I can before the inevitable crunch of hours and weeks and months and years spent raising a child descends like cloud seeds upon what is left of my free time.
And I think that one day I'll blog regularly again but with a different goal in mind, that goal being a true need for communication born out of genuine desire to be expressive and not just some hollow trumpeting used to back up my claims to literacy and all.
And when my child can read, they might see these pages, and laugh, and cry, and wonder why.
*/*
My wife is entering into her second trimester. She is starting to show. Her womb is transforming and altering itself, tailoring itself to accommodate the impending arrival.
She has slight aches and minor pains. Her nausea is waning. She forgets things and her moods swing like a suspension bridge in a stormy wind.
I have never seen anything more beautiful than the sight of her sitting upright in bed, her mousy librarian's glasses perched upon her pointy dainty nose, her eyes aglass* with expectancy...
(*= A combination of "aglaze" and "glassy")
I rub her paunch every chance I get.
*/*
Now that my own father and I have buried the hatchet, I find that the wardrobe of fatherhood feels good and slinky when I slip its tender robes upon my rough, flabby skin.
We never argue anymore. I harbor no hatred towards him. We don't even get into religious debates the way we used to, and it is a pleasure to hear from him when he calls me up to talk.
I will never forget his sins, what he did. I cannot, I will not.
But I never thought I'd ever forgive him either, and yet that is exactly what I have done.
I can keep vigil, as a reminder to myself and to my child, a way of making sure that history does not repeat itself, that my child does not become first a victim and then the victimizer of a similar offense to what befell my father when he was only a young boy.
I can keep a diligent eye. In that respect, I won't forget.
But I forgave him finally, and that lifted the heaviest burden from my shoulders at a point when I could no longer carry it.
I don't care if you believe in God or not. The fact is, forgiveness is good for the soul.
Yes, it is.
Make sure you forgive someone before you have kids of your own.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
take care
Happy New Year. Happy 2008.
It's amazing how the urge-- no, the compulsion --to write has waned in me since I got married. It is as if I never possessed it in the first place, like I have always been indifferent to any literary aspirations.
I cannot blame it on being busy or preoccupied with other things, because in the past I always managed to make time even for the most trivial blog entries or notebook scribblings. There is so much to write about in this new life I am living: My wife is quite simply the most amazing person I have ever met, and every day she and I grow together as well as individually. One day I will find the motivation to translate our relationship to the written word, but for now I am basking in the glow of our love.
Sentimental words for the likes of me, yes? I don't deny this. I am not ashamed to be in love and committed to one person. I guess it's all I ever really wanted and needed. Not that everything else I used to fill my life with was unimportant or meaningless-- rather, I feel like it all led up to our meeting. All of it-- the joy, the pain, the laughter, the adventures, the sorrow, the outrage, the lessons to be learned either easily or the hard way --was a prelude to this moment that I exist in currently.
I think of times when I had Writer's Block or I didn't have the focus to sit down and write/type something out, and they were always desperate periods in my life. They were informed by depression or sadness or anger, even frustration. I sometimes forced myself to write, to purge it all like some kind of paragraph bulimic. I find that on those forced occasions a metaphor such as bulimia is apt: I thought it was doing some good, based upon distorted preconceptions that I had about myself. Like an 80-lb waif with an eating disorder, I never seemed satisfied with my current state of affairs, no matter how emaciated and undernourished I was in reality.
But in this case, my sickness was spiritual, not physical. I did not look in a mirror and project the image of fat onto a skeletal frame; instead I looked into my soul and found malaise while ignoring the beauty that was struggling to rise to the surface.
To bring the metaphor full circle, I guess you can say that I am eating right for once in my life. My appetites are healthy and my attitude towards myself is one of respect and acceptance.
I think about the times when I vented my fury in this blog. I chastised readers for not commenting; I changed the names of real people then proceeded to detail their lives in accusatory tones; I engaged in feuds with people I had never even met in real life. It all seems pathetic and sad in hindsight, but each blog that I composed-- for better or for worse --was necessary for my mental health. I bared my soul in these blog entries. Sometimes I held back, but more often than not I let loose in a way that I had rarely done in my private writings.
Overall, I am proud of this minor achievement. I am not done with writing, nor am I done with blogging... but if there's anyone out there that still stops by here to read what I have to say, let me just state for the record that for the time being I am taking the time I normally spent slaving away at a keyboard and putting it toward another use. It's not a better use of my time, and it's not a lesser exertion of energy either. It's just something different, a change of pace if you will.
I think that I have found something more important than a blog.
Writing is still important to me, and my new wife sees nothing wrong or inappropriate about the blog or my novel (which I am also lagging on, for the same reasons that I have neglected my blog). She would never stand in the way of my pursuit of enlightenment via the written word, whether it be in print or online. But she is not as consistent with her internet browsing, so in a way I find myself blogging less because the one person I would really like to read it doesn't devote as much time as I do cruising cyberspace. And that's okay with me, because she is really the one person in my life now whose opinion matters to me the most.
So I am not calling it quits or throwing in the towel. Instead I am taking a semi-break from this. I will try to do it once a month, so as not to get rusty or find myself without an occasional outlet. I cannot predict what kind of content I will focus on in the future, whether or not it will be personal or impersonal or a mixture of both, but I can say confidently that my life right now is functioning fine... and maybe it will take time for me to get back into the swing of things.
I have been convinced for most of my life that I could not write unless there was pain or trouble in my heart, so I will look upon this new path I am on as a challenge, to see if I can write in the absence of misery and turmoil. I think I can, but it will be like starting all over from scratch. Forgive me if I get sappy or maudlin or sentimental or even mushy. I will make an effort to not sound like a lovestruck freak gloating over how he won the romance lottery.
I will end this entry with this: When I was beginning my adolescence, I started to take writing seriously but I hadn't learned anything yet. My first forays into writing were plagiarizing and embellishing on my favorite song lyrics and passing them off as love poems. But after a while, I made a promise to take a different tack when composing odes to whoever was my beloved at the time. I told myself that if I ever wrote a love song, I would refrain from using the word 'love' so as not to fall prey to cliches and pat pronouncements. I did a pretty good job of it, but now is the time to explore the public domain of pop cultural consciousness.
In other words, I think it's alright if I use the word 'love' from now on. I give myself permission to do so, and I hope that I can find a way to do it without succumbing to cheese and schmaltz.
I hope that any readers I still have will enjoy this new year as it unfolds, and if they don't have any comments to leave then that's just nifty. I can finally leave well enough alone and not make unrealistic demands. I know you all have your lives to live... and I have mine.
Take care.
It's amazing how the urge-- no, the compulsion --to write has waned in me since I got married. It is as if I never possessed it in the first place, like I have always been indifferent to any literary aspirations.
I cannot blame it on being busy or preoccupied with other things, because in the past I always managed to make time even for the most trivial blog entries or notebook scribblings. There is so much to write about in this new life I am living: My wife is quite simply the most amazing person I have ever met, and every day she and I grow together as well as individually. One day I will find the motivation to translate our relationship to the written word, but for now I am basking in the glow of our love.
Sentimental words for the likes of me, yes? I don't deny this. I am not ashamed to be in love and committed to one person. I guess it's all I ever really wanted and needed. Not that everything else I used to fill my life with was unimportant or meaningless-- rather, I feel like it all led up to our meeting. All of it-- the joy, the pain, the laughter, the adventures, the sorrow, the outrage, the lessons to be learned either easily or the hard way --was a prelude to this moment that I exist in currently.
I think of times when I had Writer's Block or I didn't have the focus to sit down and write/type something out, and they were always desperate periods in my life. They were informed by depression or sadness or anger, even frustration. I sometimes forced myself to write, to purge it all like some kind of paragraph bulimic. I find that on those forced occasions a metaphor such as bulimia is apt: I thought it was doing some good, based upon distorted preconceptions that I had about myself. Like an 80-lb waif with an eating disorder, I never seemed satisfied with my current state of affairs, no matter how emaciated and undernourished I was in reality.
But in this case, my sickness was spiritual, not physical. I did not look in a mirror and project the image of fat onto a skeletal frame; instead I looked into my soul and found malaise while ignoring the beauty that was struggling to rise to the surface.
To bring the metaphor full circle, I guess you can say that I am eating right for once in my life. My appetites are healthy and my attitude towards myself is one of respect and acceptance.
I think about the times when I vented my fury in this blog. I chastised readers for not commenting; I changed the names of real people then proceeded to detail their lives in accusatory tones; I engaged in feuds with people I had never even met in real life. It all seems pathetic and sad in hindsight, but each blog that I composed-- for better or for worse --was necessary for my mental health. I bared my soul in these blog entries. Sometimes I held back, but more often than not I let loose in a way that I had rarely done in my private writings.
Overall, I am proud of this minor achievement. I am not done with writing, nor am I done with blogging... but if there's anyone out there that still stops by here to read what I have to say, let me just state for the record that for the time being I am taking the time I normally spent slaving away at a keyboard and putting it toward another use. It's not a better use of my time, and it's not a lesser exertion of energy either. It's just something different, a change of pace if you will.
I think that I have found something more important than a blog.
Writing is still important to me, and my new wife sees nothing wrong or inappropriate about the blog or my novel (which I am also lagging on, for the same reasons that I have neglected my blog). She would never stand in the way of my pursuit of enlightenment via the written word, whether it be in print or online. But she is not as consistent with her internet browsing, so in a way I find myself blogging less because the one person I would really like to read it doesn't devote as much time as I do cruising cyberspace. And that's okay with me, because she is really the one person in my life now whose opinion matters to me the most.
So I am not calling it quits or throwing in the towel. Instead I am taking a semi-break from this. I will try to do it once a month, so as not to get rusty or find myself without an occasional outlet. I cannot predict what kind of content I will focus on in the future, whether or not it will be personal or impersonal or a mixture of both, but I can say confidently that my life right now is functioning fine... and maybe it will take time for me to get back into the swing of things.
I have been convinced for most of my life that I could not write unless there was pain or trouble in my heart, so I will look upon this new path I am on as a challenge, to see if I can write in the absence of misery and turmoil. I think I can, but it will be like starting all over from scratch. Forgive me if I get sappy or maudlin or sentimental or even mushy. I will make an effort to not sound like a lovestruck freak gloating over how he won the romance lottery.
I will end this entry with this: When I was beginning my adolescence, I started to take writing seriously but I hadn't learned anything yet. My first forays into writing were plagiarizing and embellishing on my favorite song lyrics and passing them off as love poems. But after a while, I made a promise to take a different tack when composing odes to whoever was my beloved at the time. I told myself that if I ever wrote a love song, I would refrain from using the word 'love' so as not to fall prey to cliches and pat pronouncements. I did a pretty good job of it, but now is the time to explore the public domain of pop cultural consciousness.
In other words, I think it's alright if I use the word 'love' from now on. I give myself permission to do so, and I hope that I can find a way to do it without succumbing to cheese and schmaltz.
I hope that any readers I still have will enjoy this new year as it unfolds, and if they don't have any comments to leave then that's just nifty. I can finally leave well enough alone and not make unrealistic demands. I know you all have your lives to live... and I have mine.
Take care.
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