Think of God as a hunted animal, a deer caught in headlights paralyzed by fright and stricken with fear... we seek the prey, trying to flush it out of hiding, hoping to catch it and cage it and skin it and hang its pelt upon our dungeon walls, but until then we stalk forever knee-deep in the marshes, or thick in the forests, sailing the currents, in search of a reason to go to church...
Think of my life as being lived in the shadow of the goddess who gave birth to all of civilization, personified in the muses bestowed upon me, the faces and shapes changing but always the same, emanating from the same source, feminine guardian angels with fiery swords standing vigil at each transitional gateway, every rite-of-passage entrance, and all the cobblestones on my hero's path...
Think of your existence as the contents of a holy scroll, penned with a quill using the ink of historical blood, and you are sketched out and fleshed out and stretched out over every single moment of time until you are stressed out and finally etched out and erased...
2005 was a tough year. Here's to hoping the next one is a little easier.
Not that I'm not up to the challenge... I just think we're all a bit frazzled and need some relaxation.
PEACE
Friday, December 30, 2005
Thursday, December 29, 2005
doldrums
I was planning on having something to follow up with concerning my dinner with Amy Coates.
However, we didn't meet up on Tuesday. We're supposed to do something tomorrow night, but we'll see how that goes...
And, of course, that means that the earliest I would blog about it would be on Monday.
Maybe there won't be anything to blog about-- I don't know how I feel about that...
In the meantime, read this side-splittingly funny post from the one and only Violet Butcher, whom I wish would come out to California to visit so I can be transformed into the subject of a heartbreaking post on her blog.
And while I'm at it, a shout out to another blog muse, Sahalie, for that bitchin' Middle Eastern belly-dancing CD you sent me for Xmas. I love it I love it I love it I love it I LOVE IT!
Fishfry, can you be too far behind?
*/*
What did I get for Xmas, you might be wondering...
-- A 23" TV set
-- A carrying case for my bass guitar decked out in imitation snakeskin
-- Cream-colored bowling shoes from Perry Ellis
-- A suede dress shirt to match my cream-colored shoes
-- A deluge of colognes (I think someone in my family is trying to tell me that I stink, or at least that I reek of cigarettes)
-- A magenta flannel (magenta is my favorite color for flannels, don't ask me why)
-- A yoga mat and a bong (courtesy of Eve)
-- A Jack-In-The-Box Cash Card
-- Double-knit PJs
-- A blender and some dinnerware (plates, silver, etc)
-- A Todd McFarlane/Clive Barker action figure, from the "Tortured Souls" series
-- A book entitled The Minotaur Takes A Cigarette Break by Steven Sherrill.
Not a bad take for the holidays. I almost felt like a kid again, opening these unusual-and-yet-tastefully-apt gifts.
I think I did pretty good regarding my gift purchases as well: jewelry for the females in my family, cltohes for the males, a portable toolbox for my dad (and also a theological book, because his birthday is two days after Xmas), and a digital camera for Eve.
The give-and-take balance was reciprocal.
*/*
Tonight Eve and I will be having dinner with our married friends Laurie and Daniel (formerly known as "Ethan" in these blog pages, as I discovered recently upon re-reading past posts). Last time we all got together, I got so drunk that I literally fell down all over the place. I've been sober all of this week as a result.
Good for me.
If I don't post anything before 2006 comes around...
HAVE A HAPPY NEW YEAR!!
However, we didn't meet up on Tuesday. We're supposed to do something tomorrow night, but we'll see how that goes...
And, of course, that means that the earliest I would blog about it would be on Monday.
Maybe there won't be anything to blog about-- I don't know how I feel about that...
In the meantime, read this side-splittingly funny post from the one and only Violet Butcher, whom I wish would come out to California to visit so I can be transformed into the subject of a heartbreaking post on her blog.
And while I'm at it, a shout out to another blog muse, Sahalie, for that bitchin' Middle Eastern belly-dancing CD you sent me for Xmas. I love it I love it I love it I love it I LOVE IT!
Fishfry, can you be too far behind?
*/*
What did I get for Xmas, you might be wondering...
-- A 23" TV set
-- A carrying case for my bass guitar decked out in imitation snakeskin
-- Cream-colored bowling shoes from Perry Ellis
-- A suede dress shirt to match my cream-colored shoes
-- A deluge of colognes (I think someone in my family is trying to tell me that I stink, or at least that I reek of cigarettes)
-- A magenta flannel (magenta is my favorite color for flannels, don't ask me why)
-- A yoga mat and a bong (courtesy of Eve)
-- A Jack-In-The-Box Cash Card
-- Double-knit PJs
-- A blender and some dinnerware (plates, silver, etc)
-- A Todd McFarlane/Clive Barker action figure, from the "Tortured Souls" series
-- A book entitled The Minotaur Takes A Cigarette Break by Steven Sherrill.
Not a bad take for the holidays. I almost felt like a kid again, opening these unusual-and-yet-tastefully-apt gifts.
I think I did pretty good regarding my gift purchases as well: jewelry for the females in my family, cltohes for the males, a portable toolbox for my dad (and also a theological book, because his birthday is two days after Xmas), and a digital camera for Eve.
The give-and-take balance was reciprocal.
*/*
Tonight Eve and I will be having dinner with our married friends Laurie and Daniel (formerly known as "Ethan" in these blog pages, as I discovered recently upon re-reading past posts). Last time we all got together, I got so drunk that I literally fell down all over the place. I've been sober all of this week as a result.
Good for me.
If I don't post anything before 2006 comes around...
HAVE A HAPPY NEW YEAR!!
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
lessons in not giving a fuck
After work tonight, I am having dinner with Amy Coates.
You may be asking yourself, Who is Amy Coates?
She is the girl I once thought of as my 'soul mate'. She was my first girlfriend in high school, back when I was an emotional wreck over my parents' undignified divorce.
Amy could be sweet; she could also be a bitch. She was very important to me, but mostly I feel like it was a failure.
She's married now. She has a toddler. I know that's what she always wanted.
The one lesson I learned from my time with Amy was that it is more important to be with people who actually like you for who you are, as opposed to what they want you to be. I could never be what Amy wanted, no matter how hard she tried to make me into that unattainable goal.
Anyway, we haven't laid eyes on each other in 8 years. Is this closure for us, this meeting? No, we achieved closure five years ago.
This is more like a chance for us to realize where we went wrong, and make amends.
I told Eve what I was doing, and she asked me if I was nervous. I tried to play it off like I wasn't.
"I just want to make sure that Amy doesn't get it twisted," I said. "Maybe settling down is important to her, but not to me. I don't want her to think she's won."
Eve, speaking as a person who can never figure out what people like me have to prove, merely replied, "Why do you care what she thinks of you?"
My answer 8 years ago might have been something along the lines of "Because I love her" or something equally stupid. But as I pondered Eve's question, I realized that I really don't care what Amy Coates thinks of me.
I used to tell myself I didn't care, back in the day, but it was so obvious that I did. And a part of me still cares a little bit... but not really.
Thank you, Eve, for putting it in perspective. Tonight, Amy and I will have a nice time together, and then we will return to our respective lives, independent of each other and our spheres of influence.
*/*
Last year, around this time, I was playing bass in a band with two girls, Ellen and Katie. The project fell through because of a rift that arose between the two women.
The rift was over a guy, some wannabe music producer.
A bitter falling-out ensued, with both girls predictably asking me to to take their side. I stayed as neutral as I could-- I'd had a crush on Katie at the time, but I knew she was trouble all the same.
Time has passed, and Ellen is still working on the same demo she was doing last year. Meanwhile, Katie joined an Australian pop band and is now opening for the likes of the newly-reformed INXS.
It clearly bothers Ellen that Katie is achieving some sort of measure of fame, but what Ellen cannot see is that Katie is not doing it on her terms. She is a member of an already-established group, and although she is given credit and leeway for her contributions, it isn't the same goal that Katie had in mind earlier last year: Katie saw herself as a singer/songwriter/violinist working on her own material.
Likewise, Ellen can't let go of the nagging suspicion that, had she not been jealous of Katie's tryst with the sleazy "producer" that caused the whole fight, they'd all still be working together and having fun.
Obviously, Katie has let go of the feud, because it's easy for her to do: she's playing steady gigs, touring with a band signed to a major label, getting per diem money, and enjoying all the perks of being in a successful band. But it's also hectic work-- hard work --and let's not forget that within the band (as with EVERY band) there are most likely labrynthine machinations at work as we speak, issues that could potentially harm the group dynamic.
And, if the group never gets any hits, the label will drop them in a snap.
But Ellen cannot entertain these notions, even to make herself feel better. Katie is where Ellen wants desperately to be, and no amount of sour grapes can dissuade Ellen from knowing that Katie is living Ellen's dream for her.
I saw it coming to a head back when we were a group, and all I can say is that neither of the women came away from it any better off than they were. I say this because of the details surrounding one song in particular, a song that Katie had written.
This song was better than all of the songs Ellen had written for us to play. It was highly derivative, yes, but extremely catchy. I must admit, I was happy to play on the song as we were recording it in a professional studio-- it was (and still is, to this day) some of my best pop bass-playing.
But when the feud began, the song (much like a poor child being pulled to opposing extremes by divorcing parents) became the centerpiece of a bitter struggle over ownership. Ellen had paid the lion's share of the money for the studio time devoted to recording Katie's song, and therefore felt that she owned the master tapes.
However, Katie actually composed the song (or at least 99.9% of it), and had it copyrighted immediately after the feud began. So there was a discrepancy over who owned what.
I chimed in as a referee, stating that Ellen owned the master tapes but had to get Katie's permission to use the song, as well as paying royalties to Katie if it was ever sold or distributed. On the flip side, Katie could re-record a different version of the song, but she would have to ask for permission to use Ellen's sound recording, and under no circumstances could she have copies of the master tapes unless Ellen deemed it appropriate.
Does any of that make sense?
On the phone recently, I told Ellen that she should call Katie up and talk to her, but I know that Ellen would never do that. It would be the same as admitting defeat, and (judging from the bitter depths their fight descended to) it wouldn't surprise me if Katie rubbed Ellen's nose in it.
I'm just glad that I detached myself from the situation before I became emotionally involved. I was able to let go and get away from it, and now I can talk to both of the girls without feeling guilty.
I'm just careful to not bring up the other girl's name, unless I want to hear a tirade for the next fifteen minutes...
*/*
As 2006 rolls around, I realize that I am only as happy as I allow myself to be.
I've patched up some damaged relationships this year, most notably with Eve and Sharky. And my relationship with my family is slowly improving, although I know I must make more of an effort to visit them when I have the time.
I guess as I get older, I just don't give a fuck.
This is not the same as when I didn't give a fuck at age 16. That brand of not-giving-a-fuck was largely informed by bragadoccious rap lyrics and hormonal teen machismo. No, instead I find that I just have less and less reason to be upset over the petty things that routinely make me fly off the handle.
I'll never be able to make the slow traffic on the freeway go any faster; I'll never be able to get the line at the bank or the supermarket to speed up; and it's useless to blame the weather for being what it is at any given time.
My life will never be the perfect masterwork that I envisioned as a youth. But one can argue that the flaws, the mistakes, and the imperfections are what gives my life character, personality, a uniqueness that I probably never would've touched on my own.
If given a choice, I think I would've opted to have a "normal" life like everyone else, with no crazy turns and twists... but then again, there is no such thing as "normal" anyway.
What's normal is that I have friends, a family, and a future. These are things I thought I'd never have, in this lifetime or any other.
A new year is dawning on us, and I'm all smiles.
Why?
Because I just don't give a fuck anymore.
That's why.
You may be asking yourself, Who is Amy Coates?
She is the girl I once thought of as my 'soul mate'. She was my first girlfriend in high school, back when I was an emotional wreck over my parents' undignified divorce.
Amy could be sweet; she could also be a bitch. She was very important to me, but mostly I feel like it was a failure.
She's married now. She has a toddler. I know that's what she always wanted.
The one lesson I learned from my time with Amy was that it is more important to be with people who actually like you for who you are, as opposed to what they want you to be. I could never be what Amy wanted, no matter how hard she tried to make me into that unattainable goal.
Anyway, we haven't laid eyes on each other in 8 years. Is this closure for us, this meeting? No, we achieved closure five years ago.
This is more like a chance for us to realize where we went wrong, and make amends.
I told Eve what I was doing, and she asked me if I was nervous. I tried to play it off like I wasn't.
"I just want to make sure that Amy doesn't get it twisted," I said. "Maybe settling down is important to her, but not to me. I don't want her to think she's won."
Eve, speaking as a person who can never figure out what people like me have to prove, merely replied, "Why do you care what she thinks of you?"
My answer 8 years ago might have been something along the lines of "Because I love her" or something equally stupid. But as I pondered Eve's question, I realized that I really don't care what Amy Coates thinks of me.
I used to tell myself I didn't care, back in the day, but it was so obvious that I did. And a part of me still cares a little bit... but not really.
Thank you, Eve, for putting it in perspective. Tonight, Amy and I will have a nice time together, and then we will return to our respective lives, independent of each other and our spheres of influence.
*/*
Last year, around this time, I was playing bass in a band with two girls, Ellen and Katie. The project fell through because of a rift that arose between the two women.
The rift was over a guy, some wannabe music producer.
A bitter falling-out ensued, with both girls predictably asking me to to take their side. I stayed as neutral as I could-- I'd had a crush on Katie at the time, but I knew she was trouble all the same.
Time has passed, and Ellen is still working on the same demo she was doing last year. Meanwhile, Katie joined an Australian pop band and is now opening for the likes of the newly-reformed INXS.
It clearly bothers Ellen that Katie is achieving some sort of measure of fame, but what Ellen cannot see is that Katie is not doing it on her terms. She is a member of an already-established group, and although she is given credit and leeway for her contributions, it isn't the same goal that Katie had in mind earlier last year: Katie saw herself as a singer/songwriter/violinist working on her own material.
Likewise, Ellen can't let go of the nagging suspicion that, had she not been jealous of Katie's tryst with the sleazy "producer" that caused the whole fight, they'd all still be working together and having fun.
Obviously, Katie has let go of the feud, because it's easy for her to do: she's playing steady gigs, touring with a band signed to a major label, getting per diem money, and enjoying all the perks of being in a successful band. But it's also hectic work-- hard work --and let's not forget that within the band (as with EVERY band) there are most likely labrynthine machinations at work as we speak, issues that could potentially harm the group dynamic.
And, if the group never gets any hits, the label will drop them in a snap.
But Ellen cannot entertain these notions, even to make herself feel better. Katie is where Ellen wants desperately to be, and no amount of sour grapes can dissuade Ellen from knowing that Katie is living Ellen's dream for her.
I saw it coming to a head back when we were a group, and all I can say is that neither of the women came away from it any better off than they were. I say this because of the details surrounding one song in particular, a song that Katie had written.
This song was better than all of the songs Ellen had written for us to play. It was highly derivative, yes, but extremely catchy. I must admit, I was happy to play on the song as we were recording it in a professional studio-- it was (and still is, to this day) some of my best pop bass-playing.
But when the feud began, the song (much like a poor child being pulled to opposing extremes by divorcing parents) became the centerpiece of a bitter struggle over ownership. Ellen had paid the lion's share of the money for the studio time devoted to recording Katie's song, and therefore felt that she owned the master tapes.
However, Katie actually composed the song (or at least 99.9% of it), and had it copyrighted immediately after the feud began. So there was a discrepancy over who owned what.
I chimed in as a referee, stating that Ellen owned the master tapes but had to get Katie's permission to use the song, as well as paying royalties to Katie if it was ever sold or distributed. On the flip side, Katie could re-record a different version of the song, but she would have to ask for permission to use Ellen's sound recording, and under no circumstances could she have copies of the master tapes unless Ellen deemed it appropriate.
Does any of that make sense?
On the phone recently, I told Ellen that she should call Katie up and talk to her, but I know that Ellen would never do that. It would be the same as admitting defeat, and (judging from the bitter depths their fight descended to) it wouldn't surprise me if Katie rubbed Ellen's nose in it.
I'm just glad that I detached myself from the situation before I became emotionally involved. I was able to let go and get away from it, and now I can talk to both of the girls without feeling guilty.
I'm just careful to not bring up the other girl's name, unless I want to hear a tirade for the next fifteen minutes...
*/*
As 2006 rolls around, I realize that I am only as happy as I allow myself to be.
I've patched up some damaged relationships this year, most notably with Eve and Sharky. And my relationship with my family is slowly improving, although I know I must make more of an effort to visit them when I have the time.
I guess as I get older, I just don't give a fuck.
This is not the same as when I didn't give a fuck at age 16. That brand of not-giving-a-fuck was largely informed by bragadoccious rap lyrics and hormonal teen machismo. No, instead I find that I just have less and less reason to be upset over the petty things that routinely make me fly off the handle.
I'll never be able to make the slow traffic on the freeway go any faster; I'll never be able to get the line at the bank or the supermarket to speed up; and it's useless to blame the weather for being what it is at any given time.
My life will never be the perfect masterwork that I envisioned as a youth. But one can argue that the flaws, the mistakes, and the imperfections are what gives my life character, personality, a uniqueness that I probably never would've touched on my own.
If given a choice, I think I would've opted to have a "normal" life like everyone else, with no crazy turns and twists... but then again, there is no such thing as "normal" anyway.
What's normal is that I have friends, a family, and a future. These are things I thought I'd never have, in this lifetime or any other.
A new year is dawning on us, and I'm all smiles.
Why?
Because I just don't give a fuck anymore.
That's why.
Friday, December 23, 2005
self
Recently, a robot demonstrated self-awareness.
I thought of Tommy, The Who's seminal rock opera. It's the story of a boy who becomes deaf dumb and blind due to psychological trauma. However, despite his handicap, he spends all of his time doing two things: playing pinball and standing in front of the mirror.
Tommy was written in 1969, so I know there's no real connection here. But it seems like this modern-day robot-- with its ability to distinguish between its mirror image and another, separate, identical-looking robot --is doing what Tommy did: carrying out complex mechanical tasks, and staring at itself.
This robot has a sense of self.
Self.
*/*
In my unpublished novel, which is being filleted and edited with much caution, the main character (a writer) decides to annihilate his own ego. He is sort of like a human robot with self-awareness, and he figures that he was better off the way he was before he became self-aware. So he goes after his ego, which has taken on the form of one of his fictional characters.
While wrestling with his ego, he is alarmed to find that he might not be able to do the job. In addition to his interest in doing the deed waning, he also fears that his ego is stronger than he could ever imagine.
This is a parody of Eastern philosophy encroaching upon Western civilization. Most Westerners have a hard time being detached. They fear (or worse, subject to ridicule) Eastern philosophies, because of their vagueness and the embracing of uncertainty.
Eastern philosophy is decentered and ego-less, in the minds of the typical Westerner. Rather than seeing one's own image staring back at them from the other side of the mirror, the Easterner sees only an object with nothing special attached to it.
This is not much different from Westerners who see others, and not themselves, as objects.
Nope. Not much different at all...
*/*
I have my days.
Some of them are megalomaniacal, filled to the brim with endless ruminations on ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME...
On other days, I seem to be on a mission to cancel ME out, erase ME from memory, to strike ME from the record...
Perhaps acorns sprinkled across my grave will do the trick. They worked for Sade.
I have my days. Or should I say, I have days...
*/*
I think that Christmas and New Year should be rolled up into one three-day-weekend kind of holiday. And after it's done, so is the year. None of this waiting-one-extra-week-for-an-excuse-to-get-drunk-and-puke-and-sloppily-kiss... Let's get it all out of our system in one extended bacchanal.
What's wrong with that?
*/*
I had a pretty nice year, but now I am on the cusp of the new one and I have to ask myself:
Where will I be a year from now?
I got something in the way of an answer when I looked back on what I was doing around this time last year. Specifically, I looked up my blog entry from December 22nd, 2004.
I was very pleased with the results. My ego was doubly pleased. But it wasn't a cocky self-bemusement that had me feeling good.
I was pleased because I didn't really know what to expect when I looked back. I figured it would've been some complaint or tirade. Imagine my surprise when I read the entry, and compared it to the one I posted this past Tuesday.
To paraphrase a line from Pete Townshend's rock opera: "Gotta feeling '06 is going to be a good year, especially if you and me see it in together..."
HAVE A NICE WEEKEND, FOLKS-- AND HAPPY HOLIDAYS...
I thought of Tommy, The Who's seminal rock opera. It's the story of a boy who becomes deaf dumb and blind due to psychological trauma. However, despite his handicap, he spends all of his time doing two things: playing pinball and standing in front of the mirror.
Tommy was written in 1969, so I know there's no real connection here. But it seems like this modern-day robot-- with its ability to distinguish between its mirror image and another, separate, identical-looking robot --is doing what Tommy did: carrying out complex mechanical tasks, and staring at itself.
This robot has a sense of self.
Self.
*/*
In my unpublished novel, which is being filleted and edited with much caution, the main character (a writer) decides to annihilate his own ego. He is sort of like a human robot with self-awareness, and he figures that he was better off the way he was before he became self-aware. So he goes after his ego, which has taken on the form of one of his fictional characters.
While wrestling with his ego, he is alarmed to find that he might not be able to do the job. In addition to his interest in doing the deed waning, he also fears that his ego is stronger than he could ever imagine.
This is a parody of Eastern philosophy encroaching upon Western civilization. Most Westerners have a hard time being detached. They fear (or worse, subject to ridicule) Eastern philosophies, because of their vagueness and the embracing of uncertainty.
Eastern philosophy is decentered and ego-less, in the minds of the typical Westerner. Rather than seeing one's own image staring back at them from the other side of the mirror, the Easterner sees only an object with nothing special attached to it.
This is not much different from Westerners who see others, and not themselves, as objects.
Nope. Not much different at all...
*/*
I have my days.
Some of them are megalomaniacal, filled to the brim with endless ruminations on ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME...
On other days, I seem to be on a mission to cancel ME out, erase ME from memory, to strike ME from the record...
Perhaps acorns sprinkled across my grave will do the trick. They worked for Sade.
I have my days. Or should I say, I have days...
*/*
I think that Christmas and New Year should be rolled up into one three-day-weekend kind of holiday. And after it's done, so is the year. None of this waiting-one-extra-week-for-an-excuse-to-get-drunk-and-puke-and-sloppily-kiss... Let's get it all out of our system in one extended bacchanal.
What's wrong with that?
*/*
I had a pretty nice year, but now I am on the cusp of the new one and I have to ask myself:
Where will I be a year from now?
I got something in the way of an answer when I looked back on what I was doing around this time last year. Specifically, I looked up my blog entry from December 22nd, 2004.
I was very pleased with the results. My ego was doubly pleased. But it wasn't a cocky self-bemusement that had me feeling good.
I was pleased because I didn't really know what to expect when I looked back. I figured it would've been some complaint or tirade. Imagine my surprise when I read the entry, and compared it to the one I posted this past Tuesday.
To paraphrase a line from Pete Townshend's rock opera: "Gotta feeling '06 is going to be a good year, especially if you and me see it in together..."
HAVE A NICE WEEKEND, FOLKS-- AND HAPPY HOLIDAYS...
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
best friends two
And now the time has come
And so my love I must go
Although I lose a friend
In the end you will know...
--The Beatles, "I'll Follow The Sun"
Saturday seemed to get colder as the day progressed. The harsh winter winds whipped in and around the Valley, creeping their way insidiously through cracks in windows and vents in attics.
She woke up as soon as the sun rose, as soon as grey daylight began to invade my bedroom under cover of drapes drawn tightly together. This was sleeping in for her, so accustomed she was to regularly waking just before the day broke.
For me, it was earlier than I expected. I felt her get up from my bed and walk over to where her clothes reclined on the loveseat in my room.
"Are you going home?" I mumbled.
"I have to. I've got so much stuff to do today. Gotta get an early start."
It's some sort of physical law, some cosmic rule of thumb: You never get enough rest when you're sleeping at their place, no matter how toasty the temperature or how comfy the bed. If we had been at her place, I'd be the one waking with the sun, as she snoozed beneath layers of satin sheets and big blankets.
This is all part of my training. This is the regiment she has me on: beautifully realized dinners loaded with greens and roughage; wine bottles and glasses being used far more often than I ever would attempt on my own; and intimate evenings spent sleeping in each other's arms, without automatically going to sex.
That's what I have to accept. I want it all the time, every minute, every second. I've done it many times-- shucking off the obligations of the day just to spend hour after hour in bed with a lover, naked and unwilling to do anything beyond exploring the depths of pleasure... but nowadays, I've been learning how to take control of it.
I don't want to think with my dick forever. Eventually, I have to grow up.
*/*
I'm sticking with you
'cause I'm made out of glue
Anything that you can do
I'm gonna do too
Grown men going into the stratosphere
Soldiers fighting with the Cong
but with you by my side I can do anything
When we swing we hang past right and wrong
--Velvet Underground, "I'm Sticking With You"
My best friend woke up, dressed, and jumped on top of me to give me a hug just before she went off on her merry way. I smiled and said 'goodbye'. No separation anxiety, no feeling of rejection as she walked out of my door. Perhaps I was just too tired to fret.
I stayed in bed until I heard the phone ring about three hours later. I was late in answering, but the Caller ID let me know who'd called.
I rang up my best friend, and she asked me if I wanted to join her for the rest of her Christmas shopping day. I agreed-- I'd been contemplating going to an audition in Burbank (some nu-metal band that needs a bassist quickly) but decided that I was too wrecked from the night before to do anything about it.
It's not like we partied hard at all. But we did stay up late, and we were both blasted off of brandy mixed with milk and vanilla extract. She fell asleep on the couch as I tried to watch the rest of Batman Begins. I woke up at 3 AM and told her to go into my room. She complied, and went right to sleep.
So did I.
And then we were driving around in her car, trying to find parking at malls, trying to beat the lines inside, trying to save money for the other presents we had to buy.
She looked so lovely. She always looks lovely. I'm addicted to the movement of her hips. Her face always looks like she is mourning the death of something precious... something about her eyelids, the way they hang over her hazel pupils...
It becomes clearer and clearer each day that even though we are best friends, it's really a charade. The both of us are too scared to admit that we really depend upon each other for different things. I have improved my manners, and I try not to let our conversations degenerate into dirty talk sessions, but I still have that urge inside of me, to be inside of her, to want to close the doors of her apartment and trap ourselves in the bed, defiantly refusing to wear even a flimsy robe...
I can control it, though, because the alternative is that we will not be together. And rather than risk her leaving me behind, I tolerate my selfish, lustful passion. I know she is attracted to me as well, but she is a woman, and even though she likes it just as much as I do, she is not compulsive about it.
Compulsion runs through everything I do. I don't have OCD, but she pokes gentle fun at my little quirks: the way I empty the ashtray after four or more cigarette butts have piled up; how I turn on the fan to keep my old school heater from overwhelming us with excessive warmth; my constant need to keep the kitchen tidy as she destroys it in her quest to create perfect meals...
She thinks it's funny. It might even bother or annoy her a bit. But overall, she knows it is me, and she doesn't mind it because it is a harmless trait to possess.
*/*
And it's too late tonight
to drag the past out into the light
We're one, but we're not the same
We get to carry each other
Carry each other
--U2, "One"
Lost in the Amoeba Records landscape: it is always busy at Amoeba, but it's sheer pandemonium now. I lucked out and found convenient parking, but I had to go tinkle and there's no restrooms in the place. I told her I would meet her inside, after going to a nearby fast-food joint.
They were cleaning the john, so I was able to relieve myself without having to buy something. Then, I crossed the street and went inside to find her. And when I did find her, she was going crazy-- her arm was loaded with bargain-priced DVDs, and she had that look in her eye, that same look that gamblers get when they really should step away from the table...
This is where she gets compulsive. Now it's my turn to pull on the reins a little bit. I know her therapist wants her to buy more personal purchases because of her tendency to spend all of her money on other people, but there has to be some kind of limit.
"How many of these are gifts?" I asked her.
"The Island, L.A. Confidential, The Lady In White... oh, and I found Death Race 2000-- I got that one for you..."
That was sweet of her, I thought.
"...Labrynth is mine... Invaders From Mars is mine... and the seventh season of The Simpsons..."
"Okay, something has to go back."
"I know, I know... you know how I get. This is what happens when you leave me alone for five minutes!" she giggled.
"I know, I know... tell you what. I saw Dante's Peak for $7.99 back there... you put away Death Race 2000, and take Dante's Peak for your own. I'm not that big of a DVD guy, so it's all good."
"Are you sure? I know you said you liked that movie."
"I do, and I'm glad you were able to find it. But you've already spent so much. Plus, I know you've been fiending to find Dante's Peak for the past two weeks."
"I know. I almost bought it for full price last week, remember?"
"Yes I do. I told you to wait until we came here. Aren't you glad you did?"
"Yes, I'm very glad."
She smiled. I smiled. We got in line to pay for our respective items.
*/*
Tonight I'll dream while I'm in bed
when silly thoughts go through my head
about the bugs and alphabet
and when I wake tomorrow I'll bet
that you and I will walk together again
'cause I can tell that we are going to be friends
--The White Stripes, "We're Going To Be Friends"
Later on in the evening, after we were done shopping and she was meticulously wrapping her gifts, adding her ribbons and bows, we got invited by her brother to watch King Kong at a nearby movie theater.
Her brother was feeling lonely because his man was away. We drunkenly cheered him up by reminiscing about back in the days when he would help us sneak around to see each other.
The movie itself was incredible. Peter Jackson preserved the spirit of the original but added his own touches. The love story, of course, was poignant and touching. As is my wont, I imagined myself as the mighty Kong, and she was sitting next to me, my imaginary Fay Wray... or in this case, Naomi Watts. I thought about the giant gorilla, beating his chest like a naughty child throwing a tantrum, and her stern voice telling the beast "No!" because he needs to learn that too much is enough sometimes.
The movie was three hours long. I almost fell asleep at one point, but more often than not I was riveted.
Afterwards, she dropped me off at home and didn't stay, because she had to get up early the next morning to go to San Diego, to visit her cousin. She'd asked me on Friday if I wanted to go with her, and I said I would-- until I got a phone call from both of my bands regarding rehearsals on Sunday. I politely declined her invitation-- as much as I want to be with her all the time, I've chucked too many plans with others in favor of time spent with her, and that's not healthy. I wouldn't expect her to do the same for me, so I shouldn't get into that habit.
Sunday was spent doing yoga stretches and playing loud rock and roll music. She returned later that night, and we ate pizza while watching some of the DVDs she picked up the day before.
She stayed until her curfew, and after she left I drove over to my other best friend, Purple Paulie. Sharky used to be my best male friend, and he still is a good friend, but Paulie's been there for me like no one else. I stayed there until 2 AM and then I drove home, bleary-eyed and tired.
I reflected upon the weekend, and how it seemed to come and go in an instant. The weather warmed up a tad, but the winter cold is here to stay until spring rears its blossoming head.
She and I are friends. It's really a trip. After everything we've been through together, I just don't know what else to say about it.
And so my love I must go
Although I lose a friend
In the end you will know...
--The Beatles, "I'll Follow The Sun"
Saturday seemed to get colder as the day progressed. The harsh winter winds whipped in and around the Valley, creeping their way insidiously through cracks in windows and vents in attics.
She woke up as soon as the sun rose, as soon as grey daylight began to invade my bedroom under cover of drapes drawn tightly together. This was sleeping in for her, so accustomed she was to regularly waking just before the day broke.
For me, it was earlier than I expected. I felt her get up from my bed and walk over to where her clothes reclined on the loveseat in my room.
"Are you going home?" I mumbled.
"I have to. I've got so much stuff to do today. Gotta get an early start."
It's some sort of physical law, some cosmic rule of thumb: You never get enough rest when you're sleeping at their place, no matter how toasty the temperature or how comfy the bed. If we had been at her place, I'd be the one waking with the sun, as she snoozed beneath layers of satin sheets and big blankets.
This is all part of my training. This is the regiment she has me on: beautifully realized dinners loaded with greens and roughage; wine bottles and glasses being used far more often than I ever would attempt on my own; and intimate evenings spent sleeping in each other's arms, without automatically going to sex.
That's what I have to accept. I want it all the time, every minute, every second. I've done it many times-- shucking off the obligations of the day just to spend hour after hour in bed with a lover, naked and unwilling to do anything beyond exploring the depths of pleasure... but nowadays, I've been learning how to take control of it.
I don't want to think with my dick forever. Eventually, I have to grow up.
*/*
I'm sticking with you
'cause I'm made out of glue
Anything that you can do
I'm gonna do too
Grown men going into the stratosphere
Soldiers fighting with the Cong
but with you by my side I can do anything
When we swing we hang past right and wrong
--Velvet Underground, "I'm Sticking With You"
My best friend woke up, dressed, and jumped on top of me to give me a hug just before she went off on her merry way. I smiled and said 'goodbye'. No separation anxiety, no feeling of rejection as she walked out of my door. Perhaps I was just too tired to fret.
I stayed in bed until I heard the phone ring about three hours later. I was late in answering, but the Caller ID let me know who'd called.
I rang up my best friend, and she asked me if I wanted to join her for the rest of her Christmas shopping day. I agreed-- I'd been contemplating going to an audition in Burbank (some nu-metal band that needs a bassist quickly) but decided that I was too wrecked from the night before to do anything about it.
It's not like we partied hard at all. But we did stay up late, and we were both blasted off of brandy mixed with milk and vanilla extract. She fell asleep on the couch as I tried to watch the rest of Batman Begins. I woke up at 3 AM and told her to go into my room. She complied, and went right to sleep.
So did I.
And then we were driving around in her car, trying to find parking at malls, trying to beat the lines inside, trying to save money for the other presents we had to buy.
She looked so lovely. She always looks lovely. I'm addicted to the movement of her hips. Her face always looks like she is mourning the death of something precious... something about her eyelids, the way they hang over her hazel pupils...
It becomes clearer and clearer each day that even though we are best friends, it's really a charade. The both of us are too scared to admit that we really depend upon each other for different things. I have improved my manners, and I try not to let our conversations degenerate into dirty talk sessions, but I still have that urge inside of me, to be inside of her, to want to close the doors of her apartment and trap ourselves in the bed, defiantly refusing to wear even a flimsy robe...
I can control it, though, because the alternative is that we will not be together. And rather than risk her leaving me behind, I tolerate my selfish, lustful passion. I know she is attracted to me as well, but she is a woman, and even though she likes it just as much as I do, she is not compulsive about it.
Compulsion runs through everything I do. I don't have OCD, but she pokes gentle fun at my little quirks: the way I empty the ashtray after four or more cigarette butts have piled up; how I turn on the fan to keep my old school heater from overwhelming us with excessive warmth; my constant need to keep the kitchen tidy as she destroys it in her quest to create perfect meals...
She thinks it's funny. It might even bother or annoy her a bit. But overall, she knows it is me, and she doesn't mind it because it is a harmless trait to possess.
*/*
And it's too late tonight
to drag the past out into the light
We're one, but we're not the same
We get to carry each other
Carry each other
--U2, "One"
Lost in the Amoeba Records landscape: it is always busy at Amoeba, but it's sheer pandemonium now. I lucked out and found convenient parking, but I had to go tinkle and there's no restrooms in the place. I told her I would meet her inside, after going to a nearby fast-food joint.
They were cleaning the john, so I was able to relieve myself without having to buy something. Then, I crossed the street and went inside to find her. And when I did find her, she was going crazy-- her arm was loaded with bargain-priced DVDs, and she had that look in her eye, that same look that gamblers get when they really should step away from the table...
This is where she gets compulsive. Now it's my turn to pull on the reins a little bit. I know her therapist wants her to buy more personal purchases because of her tendency to spend all of her money on other people, but there has to be some kind of limit.
"How many of these are gifts?" I asked her.
"The Island, L.A. Confidential, The Lady In White... oh, and I found Death Race 2000-- I got that one for you..."
That was sweet of her, I thought.
"...Labrynth is mine... Invaders From Mars is mine... and the seventh season of The Simpsons..."
"Okay, something has to go back."
"I know, I know... you know how I get. This is what happens when you leave me alone for five minutes!" she giggled.
"I know, I know... tell you what. I saw Dante's Peak for $7.99 back there... you put away Death Race 2000, and take Dante's Peak for your own. I'm not that big of a DVD guy, so it's all good."
"Are you sure? I know you said you liked that movie."
"I do, and I'm glad you were able to find it. But you've already spent so much. Plus, I know you've been fiending to find Dante's Peak for the past two weeks."
"I know. I almost bought it for full price last week, remember?"
"Yes I do. I told you to wait until we came here. Aren't you glad you did?"
"Yes, I'm very glad."
She smiled. I smiled. We got in line to pay for our respective items.
*/*
Tonight I'll dream while I'm in bed
when silly thoughts go through my head
about the bugs and alphabet
and when I wake tomorrow I'll bet
that you and I will walk together again
'cause I can tell that we are going to be friends
--The White Stripes, "We're Going To Be Friends"
Later on in the evening, after we were done shopping and she was meticulously wrapping her gifts, adding her ribbons and bows, we got invited by her brother to watch King Kong at a nearby movie theater.
Her brother was feeling lonely because his man was away. We drunkenly cheered him up by reminiscing about back in the days when he would help us sneak around to see each other.
The movie itself was incredible. Peter Jackson preserved the spirit of the original but added his own touches. The love story, of course, was poignant and touching. As is my wont, I imagined myself as the mighty Kong, and she was sitting next to me, my imaginary Fay Wray... or in this case, Naomi Watts. I thought about the giant gorilla, beating his chest like a naughty child throwing a tantrum, and her stern voice telling the beast "No!" because he needs to learn that too much is enough sometimes.
The movie was three hours long. I almost fell asleep at one point, but more often than not I was riveted.
Afterwards, she dropped me off at home and didn't stay, because she had to get up early the next morning to go to San Diego, to visit her cousin. She'd asked me on Friday if I wanted to go with her, and I said I would-- until I got a phone call from both of my bands regarding rehearsals on Sunday. I politely declined her invitation-- as much as I want to be with her all the time, I've chucked too many plans with others in favor of time spent with her, and that's not healthy. I wouldn't expect her to do the same for me, so I shouldn't get into that habit.
Sunday was spent doing yoga stretches and playing loud rock and roll music. She returned later that night, and we ate pizza while watching some of the DVDs she picked up the day before.
She stayed until her curfew, and after she left I drove over to my other best friend, Purple Paulie. Sharky used to be my best male friend, and he still is a good friend, but Paulie's been there for me like no one else. I stayed there until 2 AM and then I drove home, bleary-eyed and tired.
I reflected upon the weekend, and how it seemed to come and go in an instant. The weather warmed up a tad, but the winter cold is here to stay until spring rears its blossoming head.
She and I are friends. It's really a trip. After everything we've been through together, I just don't know what else to say about it.
Monday, December 19, 2005
none dare call it conspiracy
I knew it.
Dave Chappelle's sudden "breakdown", after signing a $50 million contract with Comedy Central?
Here's a site that purports to tell the truth about that whole affair.
God, I love a good conspiracy theory. I had one of my own concerning Chappelle's Show, but this one... this one's a work of art!
Dave Chappelle's sudden "breakdown", after signing a $50 million contract with Comedy Central?
Here's a site that purports to tell the truth about that whole affair.
God, I love a good conspiracy theory. I had one of my own concerning Chappelle's Show, but this one... this one's a work of art!
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
best friends
It was good what we did yesterday
And I'd do it once again
The fact that you are married
Only proves you're my best friend
But it's truly, truly a sin
--Velvet Underground, "Pale Blue Eyes"
No, I didn't have sex with a married woman. I just like those lines.
Eve is my best friend. And it leaves me in a predicament, because I rarely have the urge to want to sleep with my best friend. That's because my best friends have normally been guys.
What is a best friend anyway? Some would say that it is the one friend who is the closest to you. I've had a number of best friends in my life, but right now, at this very moment, Eve is not only my ex-girlfriend but my best friend.
But passions still get in the way. Why, just yesterday she chewed me out for being a sexist. I try not to be like that, but years of conditioning have done a number on me, despite my moral umbrage regarding male chauvinism.
But she called me this morning and left a voice message:
"I just wanted to call and tell you that, with all the harsh things that I said yesterday, you're still my best friend, so hopefully it didn't hit you too hard... anyway, I'm going to the movies tonight but maybe we can hook up later..."
I heard it when I got to work-- I am able to check my phone messages via computer, thanks to sbcuc.net, and it was very touching.
She was upset because I stuck my foot in my mouth once again and insinuated that she wasn't as busy as me, even though she juggles her job with acting classes, therapy, storyboard assignments for directors, auditions, and a whole other set of friends whom I have yet to meet... and to tell you the truth, I'm in no hurry to meet. Not that they're bad people-- it's just that Eve has a social life beyond me, and it would be selfish of me to demand access to that world.
*/*
If I was your one and only friend
Would you run to me if someone hurt you
Even if that somebody was me?
Sometimes I trip on how happy we could be...
--Prince, "If I Was Your Girlfriend"
The hardest thing in the world for me to face in the not-too-distant future will be the moment when Eve informs me that she has fallen in love with someone she recently met. Likewise, I think she would be at least a little jealous if I told her one day that I've found the woman of my dreams.
If my best friend were a man, then it would be all high-fives and raunchy jokes, but it just so happens that my best friend is Elaine to my Jerry.
Because of this, I cannot ever speak to Eve about my summer dalliances. It would hurt her, or make her upset. If she asked me about them, I would fess up and tell her everything, but she hasn't, so I won't volunteer anything.
Eve doesn't know it, but last week I was depressed because it is now very clear to me that Monique is not coming back to California. In a weird way, I saw Monique as my escape hatch-- if she and I could make it work, then my dependence upon Eve would wane, and we could be on friendly terms with no uncertainty.
I have come to realize that it's part of my nature to let a woman have her hold on me until I meet another. Then, I use the new girl as a way of freeing myself from the grip that the first girl had on me. But all that is, really, is akin to a fish flopping out of the proverbial frying pan and into another one that hasn't warmed up yet.
I haven't fallen into the fire so far, but leave it to me to get to that eventually.
*/*
I've been wandering 'round
But I still come back to you
In rain or shine
You've stood by me, girl
I'm happy at home
--Queen, "You're My Best Friend"
Having platonic female friends is getting harder and harder to do, as time goes on and my libido increases.
Instead of getting less horny over time, I am getting more horny. I think it has to do with spending 8 hours a day at a computer. I think it has to do with not being physical enough: no sports, no active hobbies other than playing music...
I'm trapped inside my mind all of the time, and all I can think about is sex.
So I've been learning yoga. I don't know the names of all the positions yet, but there's Down Dog, and Child Pose, or whatever. I like it-- I'm getting the hang of it. It reminds me of cross-country running in high school, the last physical hobby I ever indulged in. We used to stretch our limbs every day, then go and run until we couldn't take it anymore.
And who has been teaching me these yoga techniques? My best friend, that's who.
Her face lights up when I ask her to teach me new things. She loves cooking for me, but not in a submissive-woman way-- more like the way some of my best male friends like to barbecue for their friends.
She cares about me.
And after all we have been through, it makes sense for us to be like this.
This past Saturday, she and I got drunk and jumped into my car with a video camera in tow. We went around my neighborhood, catching the Christmas displays on the adjacent blocks. At one point, Eve stuck her torso out of the passenger side window, camera in hand, and told me to gun it as she got some shots of the street. Then, we went back to my place and watched the footage while cackling our asses off. It was dangerous and lacked all good judgement, but it was so fun because we were together, partners in crime.
We both agree that sex makes things incredibly complicated for the both of us. It's not like we don't want it, and it's not like we can't have it-- it's just a lot easier for us to be friends, because then we don't have to worry about making any demands on the other.
Besides, I like being friends first with the women I sleep with, because that's just the way I am. We Aquarius' crave that.
The only problem is, will I ever meet a girl who would be cool with me having a best friend like Eve?
TO BE CONTINUED
And I'd do it once again
The fact that you are married
Only proves you're my best friend
But it's truly, truly a sin
--Velvet Underground, "Pale Blue Eyes"
No, I didn't have sex with a married woman. I just like those lines.
Eve is my best friend. And it leaves me in a predicament, because I rarely have the urge to want to sleep with my best friend. That's because my best friends have normally been guys.
What is a best friend anyway? Some would say that it is the one friend who is the closest to you. I've had a number of best friends in my life, but right now, at this very moment, Eve is not only my ex-girlfriend but my best friend.
But passions still get in the way. Why, just yesterday she chewed me out for being a sexist. I try not to be like that, but years of conditioning have done a number on me, despite my moral umbrage regarding male chauvinism.
But she called me this morning and left a voice message:
"I just wanted to call and tell you that, with all the harsh things that I said yesterday, you're still my best friend, so hopefully it didn't hit you too hard... anyway, I'm going to the movies tonight but maybe we can hook up later..."
I heard it when I got to work-- I am able to check my phone messages via computer, thanks to sbcuc.net, and it was very touching.
She was upset because I stuck my foot in my mouth once again and insinuated that she wasn't as busy as me, even though she juggles her job with acting classes, therapy, storyboard assignments for directors, auditions, and a whole other set of friends whom I have yet to meet... and to tell you the truth, I'm in no hurry to meet. Not that they're bad people-- it's just that Eve has a social life beyond me, and it would be selfish of me to demand access to that world.
*/*
If I was your one and only friend
Would you run to me if someone hurt you
Even if that somebody was me?
Sometimes I trip on how happy we could be...
--Prince, "If I Was Your Girlfriend"
The hardest thing in the world for me to face in the not-too-distant future will be the moment when Eve informs me that she has fallen in love with someone she recently met. Likewise, I think she would be at least a little jealous if I told her one day that I've found the woman of my dreams.
If my best friend were a man, then it would be all high-fives and raunchy jokes, but it just so happens that my best friend is Elaine to my Jerry.
Because of this, I cannot ever speak to Eve about my summer dalliances. It would hurt her, or make her upset. If she asked me about them, I would fess up and tell her everything, but she hasn't, so I won't volunteer anything.
Eve doesn't know it, but last week I was depressed because it is now very clear to me that Monique is not coming back to California. In a weird way, I saw Monique as my escape hatch-- if she and I could make it work, then my dependence upon Eve would wane, and we could be on friendly terms with no uncertainty.
I have come to realize that it's part of my nature to let a woman have her hold on me until I meet another. Then, I use the new girl as a way of freeing myself from the grip that the first girl had on me. But all that is, really, is akin to a fish flopping out of the proverbial frying pan and into another one that hasn't warmed up yet.
I haven't fallen into the fire so far, but leave it to me to get to that eventually.
*/*
I've been wandering 'round
But I still come back to you
In rain or shine
You've stood by me, girl
I'm happy at home
--Queen, "You're My Best Friend"
Having platonic female friends is getting harder and harder to do, as time goes on and my libido increases.
Instead of getting less horny over time, I am getting more horny. I think it has to do with spending 8 hours a day at a computer. I think it has to do with not being physical enough: no sports, no active hobbies other than playing music...
I'm trapped inside my mind all of the time, and all I can think about is sex.
So I've been learning yoga. I don't know the names of all the positions yet, but there's Down Dog, and Child Pose, or whatever. I like it-- I'm getting the hang of it. It reminds me of cross-country running in high school, the last physical hobby I ever indulged in. We used to stretch our limbs every day, then go and run until we couldn't take it anymore.
And who has been teaching me these yoga techniques? My best friend, that's who.
Her face lights up when I ask her to teach me new things. She loves cooking for me, but not in a submissive-woman way-- more like the way some of my best male friends like to barbecue for their friends.
She cares about me.
And after all we have been through, it makes sense for us to be like this.
This past Saturday, she and I got drunk and jumped into my car with a video camera in tow. We went around my neighborhood, catching the Christmas displays on the adjacent blocks. At one point, Eve stuck her torso out of the passenger side window, camera in hand, and told me to gun it as she got some shots of the street. Then, we went back to my place and watched the footage while cackling our asses off. It was dangerous and lacked all good judgement, but it was so fun because we were together, partners in crime.
We both agree that sex makes things incredibly complicated for the both of us. It's not like we don't want it, and it's not like we can't have it-- it's just a lot easier for us to be friends, because then we don't have to worry about making any demands on the other.
Besides, I like being friends first with the women I sleep with, because that's just the way I am. We Aquarius' crave that.
The only problem is, will I ever meet a girl who would be cool with me having a best friend like Eve?
TO BE CONTINUED
Monday, December 12, 2005
richard pryor
In my old blog (the one I deleted two years ago) I wrote a lengthy post about Richard Pryor and what he meant to me. I wish I had it around now, to help me articulate this emptiness inside of me upon hearing of his death over the weekend.
There's been a spate of celebrity deaths this year, and although Wendi Jo Sperber's passing touched me on a personal level, Pryor's has touched me on a whole 'nother one...
Richard Pryor was more than just funny. You hear about his honesty and his jubilance, but what stands out to me is his realization of the entire situation we find ourselves in, this thing called 'life'...
Pryor had the kind of life that would crush the souls of lesser people. His mother and grandmother were whores, and his early years were rooted in poverty and racism. His later years were mired with drugs, alcohol and disease. And yet, through it all, Richard Pryor made us laugh hysterically.
There are many who feel that Pryor caused more harm than good. I've heard countless stories about people who were offended by his jokes and his worldview. But you always got this feeling that Pryor meant well, and that his jokes were not meant to be exorcisms or the venting of a frustrated individual. He simply wanted to make people laugh, and it was evident in how he would laugh at his own jokes immediately after making an audience full of people crack up.
For Richard, the audience's pleasure came first. For a man known for his vulgar mouth, he had a sweetness about him. Women loved him-- even the ones he treated badly. They all stuck around and wanted to be a part of his life.
He was not perfect, but he was so fucking funny. It makes me sad knowing that he is gone, but thank God we have the albums, the movies, and the generations of equally brilliant comedians whom he influenced and mentored, from Eddie Murphy to Robin Williams to Sandra Bernhard.
I don't have a favorite Pryor bit, because there never was a least favorite. Everything he said and did was funny. Pryor was like the guy at the party whom everyone crowds around, while he himself is blissfully unaware that his words and ideas are splitting our sides. Then, the moment he becomes aware, rather than starting to decline he majestically swoops upward and makes you laugh despite yourself.
If there is one thing I want to remember him by, it's his face. That face. The funniest face on the planet, capable of causing laughter to erupt with a twitch of the eyebrow or a roll of the eyes. He could've been a silent movie star, with that puppy-dog expression and his natural gift for physical comedy. On his short-lived TV series (now avaliable on DVD for the first time) the best skits were the ones where he barely said a word.
It wasn't so much what he said but how he said it. His longtime comedic writing partner Paul Mooney (now famous for his contributions to Chappelle's Show) was one of the first people to discover this. Paul Mooney is a laugh riot unto himself, but his presence is lacking the quality that made Pryor a star. Mooney fumbles his words, looks uncomfortable while he talks, and seems bitter about a great deal of things.
Compare this to Pryor, a man whose dirty laundry was routinely aired in public, a man whose demons fueled his comedy and whose passions were loud and bold. And yet, even after being diagnosed with MS, he still seemed like he was just happy to have ever been allowed to hold a mic and speak his mind. Maybe during his cocaine years Pryor might have seemed arrogant or cold, but that was the drugs altering his mood. Underneath it all, you could still see the humility and the graciousness.
Pryor may have made some rude comments during his lifetime, but they never seemed mean-spirited. It was more like the yearning of a man who seeks to understand his environment: Why do women act a certain way in bed? Why are white people so uptight? Why do black people call each other 'nigger'?
But the most important question he asked was: What is funny? The answer: Everything. Heart attacks, third-degree burns, drug binges, domestic violence, alcoholism, family discipline, racism, the ghetto, death, war, politics, sex, religion... all of it was funny; none of it was sacred.
But if you wanted sacred, then Richard Pryor could reach into himself and find it. He did it when he delivered his famous bit about visiting Africa and realizing that there were no niggers there. He then swore to never use the "N" word again. I'm not sure if he stayed true to that promise, but the gesture was revealing and deeply moving.
In the Bible, King David was described as "a man after God's heart". Now think about the sins David committed: adultery, murder, betrayal, indifference, pride... the list goes on, but each and every time David found it in himself to reproach himself and go on living and serving God, despite his enormous flaws.
Thus, I say to you this day: Richard Pryor was also a man after God's heart.
And I'm sure even God had to laugh at some of Richard's routines, because God knew that he was merely speaking the truth in a way that caused smiles to break out on our faces.
Those smiles are momentarily turning into tears right now, but they will fade as time elapses. What endures is the voice of a gifted comic who revolutionized the way Americans (and people all over the world) responded to forbidden topics and unspoken taboos.
Here are a few choice lines from The Man-- mind you, there were plenty of other lines I wanted to use, but they're not as funny unless you see him actually delivering the lines. Part of his genius was using his appearance to enhance the flavor of the joke, so here's a compiled short list of his best print-friendly quips:
On his infamous running-down-the-street-on-fire incident:
"Every night before I go to bed, I have milk and cookies. One night I mixed some low-fat milk and some pasteurized, then I dipped my cookie in and the shit blew up."
"When that fire hit yo' ass, it will sober yo' ass up quick! Fire is inspirational. They should use it in the Olympics, because I ran the 100 in 4.3."
On his father's sex life:
"I'd like to die like my father died... My father died fucking. My father was 57 when he died. The woman was 18. My father came and went at the same time."
On being tough:
"If you up against a man with a gun and you ain't got nothin' in your pocket but a hand and some skin, you better RUN!!!"
On beautiful women:
"Bitch was so fine I'd suck her daddy's dick."
On love and war:
"Fuckin' is good for you, Jack. Gettin' some pussy beats having a war."
On drugs:
"I'm not addicted to cocaine... I just like the way it smells."
And finally:
"I had some great things and I had some bad things. The best and the worst... In other words, I had a life."
I'm crying like a baby as I write this. I remember the lines, when he said them, how he said them, and how old I was when the words first pierced my consciousness. Normally, I cry from laughing so hard at his jokes, no matter how many times before I'd heard them. Now, I'm crying because I feel like I lost a friend, one who made me smile when I had nothing to smile about.
I very rarely say this about someone I've never met, but here goes: I loved you, Richard Pryor, and may your soul rest in peace. You made my dark little world more bearable with each and every joke. Thank you.
There's been a spate of celebrity deaths this year, and although Wendi Jo Sperber's passing touched me on a personal level, Pryor's has touched me on a whole 'nother one...
Richard Pryor was more than just funny. You hear about his honesty and his jubilance, but what stands out to me is his realization of the entire situation we find ourselves in, this thing called 'life'...
Pryor had the kind of life that would crush the souls of lesser people. His mother and grandmother were whores, and his early years were rooted in poverty and racism. His later years were mired with drugs, alcohol and disease. And yet, through it all, Richard Pryor made us laugh hysterically.
There are many who feel that Pryor caused more harm than good. I've heard countless stories about people who were offended by his jokes and his worldview. But you always got this feeling that Pryor meant well, and that his jokes were not meant to be exorcisms or the venting of a frustrated individual. He simply wanted to make people laugh, and it was evident in how he would laugh at his own jokes immediately after making an audience full of people crack up.
For Richard, the audience's pleasure came first. For a man known for his vulgar mouth, he had a sweetness about him. Women loved him-- even the ones he treated badly. They all stuck around and wanted to be a part of his life.
He was not perfect, but he was so fucking funny. It makes me sad knowing that he is gone, but thank God we have the albums, the movies, and the generations of equally brilliant comedians whom he influenced and mentored, from Eddie Murphy to Robin Williams to Sandra Bernhard.
I don't have a favorite Pryor bit, because there never was a least favorite. Everything he said and did was funny. Pryor was like the guy at the party whom everyone crowds around, while he himself is blissfully unaware that his words and ideas are splitting our sides. Then, the moment he becomes aware, rather than starting to decline he majestically swoops upward and makes you laugh despite yourself.
If there is one thing I want to remember him by, it's his face. That face. The funniest face on the planet, capable of causing laughter to erupt with a twitch of the eyebrow or a roll of the eyes. He could've been a silent movie star, with that puppy-dog expression and his natural gift for physical comedy. On his short-lived TV series (now avaliable on DVD for the first time) the best skits were the ones where he barely said a word.
It wasn't so much what he said but how he said it. His longtime comedic writing partner Paul Mooney (now famous for his contributions to Chappelle's Show) was one of the first people to discover this. Paul Mooney is a laugh riot unto himself, but his presence is lacking the quality that made Pryor a star. Mooney fumbles his words, looks uncomfortable while he talks, and seems bitter about a great deal of things.
Compare this to Pryor, a man whose dirty laundry was routinely aired in public, a man whose demons fueled his comedy and whose passions were loud and bold. And yet, even after being diagnosed with MS, he still seemed like he was just happy to have ever been allowed to hold a mic and speak his mind. Maybe during his cocaine years Pryor might have seemed arrogant or cold, but that was the drugs altering his mood. Underneath it all, you could still see the humility and the graciousness.
Pryor may have made some rude comments during his lifetime, but they never seemed mean-spirited. It was more like the yearning of a man who seeks to understand his environment: Why do women act a certain way in bed? Why are white people so uptight? Why do black people call each other 'nigger'?
But the most important question he asked was: What is funny? The answer: Everything. Heart attacks, third-degree burns, drug binges, domestic violence, alcoholism, family discipline, racism, the ghetto, death, war, politics, sex, religion... all of it was funny; none of it was sacred.
But if you wanted sacred, then Richard Pryor could reach into himself and find it. He did it when he delivered his famous bit about visiting Africa and realizing that there were no niggers there. He then swore to never use the "N" word again. I'm not sure if he stayed true to that promise, but the gesture was revealing and deeply moving.
In the Bible, King David was described as "a man after God's heart". Now think about the sins David committed: adultery, murder, betrayal, indifference, pride... the list goes on, but each and every time David found it in himself to reproach himself and go on living and serving God, despite his enormous flaws.
Thus, I say to you this day: Richard Pryor was also a man after God's heart.
And I'm sure even God had to laugh at some of Richard's routines, because God knew that he was merely speaking the truth in a way that caused smiles to break out on our faces.
Those smiles are momentarily turning into tears right now, but they will fade as time elapses. What endures is the voice of a gifted comic who revolutionized the way Americans (and people all over the world) responded to forbidden topics and unspoken taboos.
Here are a few choice lines from The Man-- mind you, there were plenty of other lines I wanted to use, but they're not as funny unless you see him actually delivering the lines. Part of his genius was using his appearance to enhance the flavor of the joke, so here's a compiled short list of his best print-friendly quips:
On his infamous running-down-the-street-on-fire incident:
"Every night before I go to bed, I have milk and cookies. One night I mixed some low-fat milk and some pasteurized, then I dipped my cookie in and the shit blew up."
"When that fire hit yo' ass, it will sober yo' ass up quick! Fire is inspirational. They should use it in the Olympics, because I ran the 100 in 4.3."
On his father's sex life:
"I'd like to die like my father died... My father died fucking. My father was 57 when he died. The woman was 18. My father came and went at the same time."
On being tough:
"If you up against a man with a gun and you ain't got nothin' in your pocket but a hand and some skin, you better RUN!!!"
On beautiful women:
"Bitch was so fine I'd suck her daddy's dick."
On love and war:
"Fuckin' is good for you, Jack. Gettin' some pussy beats having a war."
On drugs:
"I'm not addicted to cocaine... I just like the way it smells."
And finally:
"I had some great things and I had some bad things. The best and the worst... In other words, I had a life."
I'm crying like a baby as I write this. I remember the lines, when he said them, how he said them, and how old I was when the words first pierced my consciousness. Normally, I cry from laughing so hard at his jokes, no matter how many times before I'd heard them. Now, I'm crying because I feel like I lost a friend, one who made me smile when I had nothing to smile about.
I very rarely say this about someone I've never met, but here goes: I loved you, Richard Pryor, and may your soul rest in peace. You made my dark little world more bearable with each and every joke. Thank you.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
romance
Today is the 25th anniversary of John Lennon's assassination. And for once, I'm not going to get into it. What else is there to say? I celebrate the life and music of Lennon all year long, so what's the point in remembering yet again the senseless death of a great artist?
I don't need an anniversary to remind me of how awful his passing was for the world. I was only 6 when it was announced that Lennon had been shot by a lone gunman, but I remember how sad it made my parents, especially my mother-- John was her favorite Beatle.
Every girl who had come of age during the early '60s had a favorite Beatle. Most girls liked Paul because he was cute. Ringo also had appeal for lots of girls. George was the one that the shy girls liked because he was so quiet. But John was the funny Beatle, and the natural leader, and the one with the raspy voice and the aquiline nose and those half-lidded eyes.
The saddest part of his death is knowing that he didn't want to die at that point in his life. He'd declared his wish to die in past songs with his confessional lyrics, but when he turned 40 he wanted to live and participate in the world again. And he was robbed of that chance.
Hats off to you, Mr. Lennon.
*/*
I finally got that Raspberries song out of my head. And how did I do that? By making a CD burn of Tracey Ullman's "They Don't Know", that's how!
Sad, isn't it? Replacing one obsession with another... the story of my life.
The Ullman song holds this eternal fascination for me based upon the hilarious video that MTV aired to accompany the single's release back in 1983. In the video (as far as I can recall, because I haven't seen it in 22 years) Ullman is dressed like a renegade from a Supremes tribute girl-group. She is in love with the James Dean-ish "bad boy" and they have a typically pre-Beatles bobby-soxer love affair. The video ends with a pregnant Ullman and her man (both now much older and with rugrats) strolling through the supermarket, buying groceries and living a banal existence in sharp contrast to the excitement and passion of their courtship years.
Then, Ullman drives off in a car with Paul McCartney at the wheel. Evidently, she made an appearance in his movie Give My Regards To Broadstreet and he returned the favor accordingly.
If you aren't aware of the tongue-in-cheek video clip for this song, then listening to it is not the same. The song is not ironic at all. It is meant to be a straightforward homage to bubble-gum pop groups like The Ronettes, The Shangri-Las, and (of course) Diana Ross and The Supremes. The song sounds like a Phil Spector production slickly polished by '80s studio technology.
According to Songfacts.com: "Kirsty MacColl wrote this when she was 17 and sang backup on the track. She was the daughter of Folk singer/songwriter Ewan MacColl, who wrote Roberta Flack's 'The First Time I Ever saw Your Face.' In December 2000, she tragically died after being hit by a speedboat in the Caribbean. After her death, Tracey Ullman took part in a tribute concert for her."
There is a sense of melancholy to the song, despite its uptempo beat and sunny harmonies. All pop music, as Nick Hornby accurately pointed out in his novel High Fidelity, has an inherent sadness to it. Hornby asked aloud if he was miserable because he listened to pop music, or if he was listening to pop music because he was miserable.
For me, the song means something more than what it meant to me as a child. In 1983, I was one of the people that Ullman sang about, the ones who have "never heard of love". There was no way I could possibly understand what she was singing about, because I hadn't even realized what love was yet.
*/*
I was a Senior in high school when I met Eve. She was a Freshman whose brother was in the same grade as me. Eve was dating a friend of mine, but I fell head over heels for her after seeing her act out a scene from My Fair Lady in our Theatre Arts class.
I was also trying to extricate myself from a messy breakup with Vera, a sweet sweet girl whose trust I had betrayed thanks to my inability to extricate myself from the mess of my former relationship with Amy Coates. Amy was done with me romantically but still felt a need to control me through other avenues, and when she had effectively helped me destroy my relationship with Vera she tried to set me up with Beth, her new best friend. That way, Amy could still oversee me while having her way with other guys.
But for me, enough was enough. Joining the Theatre Arts class and meeting Eve was a way of ditching Amy and the circle of people I was hanging with-- hypercritical know-it-alls who were never content with anything. Amy couldn't exercise any control over me so long as I was now labeled a "drama fag".
And for Eve, I was a form of escape as well: her relationship with my friend Craig ended after he got sick of never being able to take her out. Eve was perpetually grounded by her father and stepmother, and they balked at her involvement with the drama class at every turn. Craig was only looking for some quick loving, not a constant headache.
So when Craig and Eve broke up, I moved in. We hit it off. And what's more-- I was unafraid of her parents. I was willing to go out of my way to sneak around and see her. She never asked me or demanded that I do it, but she never tried to stop me either. In fact, she was an accomplice most of the time, leaving her bedroom window slightly open or placing a butter knife outside the sill so that I could pry the screen away in the wee hours of the morning.
Most people thought I'd lost my mind. What was a Senior doing with a Freshman in the first place? Everyone assumed that I was just hitting it and running, but the truth is Eve and I weren't having sex. We were just making out, talking, smoking cigarettes and sleeping in her bed until her father woke up at 5 am, but we weren't having sex.
We were in love. It was like Romeo and Juliet. And there was nothing that could keep me away from her. I had no car-- no problem, I could ride the bus or my dear friend Sharky would give me a ride to her place; I had no money-- but we didn't need money to sneak out and sit by the steps of the elementary school across the street from her house, shooting the shit; I was going to graduate and leave school-- no matter, I came back to visit her several times a week for up to a year after I had left.
I had this feeling of "Us against Them" when it came to Eve. I felt like she and I were at odds with the world, and only the two of us could understand each other. Everyone seemed to be against our union, all except for our drama friends-- they were more like co-conspirators, helping us carry out our secret liasons.
I took her to the prom. She looked spectacular; I was dressed up in a tuxedo. We left the prom and ended up at her birth mother's home. Eve's real mother was one of the few adults who recognized what we had: she could see it in my eyes, that I loved her daughter very much and wanted only the best for her. Eve's mother helped us out a few times when it came to our clandestine meetings.
But it couldn't hold up over time, and after two years of ducking and dodging, Eve and I broke up. And for a while, I felt like They-- the Them in "Us against Them" --had won the battle. They had the last laugh, as Eve and I went our separate ways and I tried, in vain, to fill the void with other girls.
They didn't know about us. They've never heard of love.
*/*
I think a song like "They Don't Know" resonates because, much like Fox Mulder in The X-Files, I want to believe. In this case, I want to believe in love. I do believe in love. Call me a dreamer or a fool, but I have never been ashamed of the things I have done for love. I have risked my life and personal well-being for love. I have devoted my life to expressing love at every possible opportunity. When I look back on the things I did just so I could spend a few hours alone with Eve, I don't feel stupid. I feel like I followed my heart, and it makes me proud to know that.
But after the break-up, I did feel a little stupid, like I'd wasted my time on a girl who didn't know what she had. It didn't help that, shortly after we bit the dust, she finally made the choice to leave her parents' house to go live with her mother. To me, it was a kick in the teeth.
But her newfound freedom didn't last long. She and her new beau were brutally assaulted in Chatsworth Park, and her life changed for the worse. When I heard the news, I cried for days and blamed myself for what happened, reasoning that she wouldn't have been hurt if I had been there, as if somehow I could've made a difference...
I was now trying to extricate myself from a new mess, but this one was tainted by the pain and horror of her fate. I dated and made the rounds, meeting beautiful and interesting girls in an attempt to forget about Eve and all the trouble she seemed to attract. But I was severely traumatized by it all, and I foolishly pushed certain girls away because of the pain in my lovesick heart.
Many a girl would complain to me about my inability to move on with my life, and they were so right. I shouldn't have let it affect me the way it did, but I couldn't help myself. I was weak. I was angry at the world.
For a spell, it really did seem like They won.
*/*
And now, over a decade later, Eve and I are sort-of together. After all this time, there is still something there, something exciting and worth all of the trouble I went through for her.
Last night we talked about deeply personal things, positive things. She told me how seeing Sharky at my show recently helped her in her dealings with movie producers and directors.
I mentioned to her that I needed a physical hobby to occupy my time. I am coming to terms with my aggressiveness, my competitive drive buried beneath the layers of mellow Zen that I exude daily. I realized that the reason why my sex drive is not waning with age is because I have too much energy building up inside of me, and that I need to sublimate and re-direct my energy so that I am not in a constant state of mind-blinding horniness.
When I was younger, I used to play basketball every day. I used to play football and baseball too. I even lettered in Cross-Country Running during my Junior year of high school-- I was a fucking Letterman, for Pete's sake! Technically, I was a jock-- can you believe it?
Eve and I talked about yoga as we ate Ghirardelli chocolates and watched Shrek on DVD in her living room. We talked the way we used to talk on those moonlit Valley nights in 1992, when we were at a loss as to explain the chemistry we shared.
As I drove home later on, I played the Ullman song on the stereo (looped endlessly, of course) and it was like the story of Us. It was the whole scenario played out in three verses and a catchy chorus. The last verse really hit home for me:
(Warning: cheesy song lyrics being quoted-- RUN!)
There's no need for living in the past
Now I've found good loving
Gonna to make it last
I tell the others don't bother me
'Cause when they look at you
They don't see what I see
So I don't listen to their wasted lines
Got my eyes wide open and I see the signs
'Cause they don't know about us
And they've never heard of love
And I realized that, in a weird way, she and I have won. We didn't win in the traditional sense-- there was no prize to be had, no pot o'gold waiting for us at the end of some rainbow. Rather, we have survived years and years of experiences lived apart from each other, and now that there is nothing in the way of us living our lives the way we want to live them, we have somehow come out on top, in spite of all of the people who didn't understand what we had.
We have come out on top because, even though she and I had our differences along the way, we still get from the other what we used to receive back in those dark days of undercover bliss: that understanding of each other.
But now, it is coupled with the things I wanted to have with her so badly, the things I risked my neck to someday have-- romantic dinners, nights spent alone doing nothing but watching TV and talking, evenings out with friends without having to worry about people looking over our shoulders...
I know she loves me, and she'd better know by now that I love her. But where do we go now?
Is this love, or is it closure?
*/*
All I know is, I'll always love her, even if we find somewhere down the line that we cannot be together. And as long as she and I remain as close as we are, then nothing that I did for her was in vain.
None of it. It was all worth it. One day, I will tell my children and my grandchildren about the love I had for Eve, how it caused me to do irrational things, how everyone told me I was an idiot for loving her... and I'll also tell them about how I didn't care, because she was (and still is) the most beautiful girl I've ever known.
One day...
I don't mean to imply that I earned this, or that I "paid my dues". If life has taught me anything, it's that we are not entitled to anything unless we ourselves go out and seek it. And even then, after we've sacrificed and given of ourselves more than adequately, there still is no guarantee that anyone will ever receive what they feel they deserve.
What we have now is remarkable but also poignant and bittersweet. Oh, if only we could have taken some sort of shortcut to happiness, skipping all of the drama and pain. Maybe we'd be happier, stabler people overall. And yet, it wouldn't be much of a story if we hadn't done it the hard way, I suppose.
But then again, there's nothing wrong with the stories about the couples who weren't star-crossed, the seemingly passionless pairings that came about with relative ease, without resistance, as if willed by destiny to exist. No, there's nothing wrong with those people at all, because even though their path was not riddled with obstacles, they still probably faced the world in a similar way-- they most likely took a long look at the way the rest of the planet carried on and then turned to each other, sighed, and said: "They don't know about us. They've never heard of love."
I am glad that I believe in love. I am glad that it seems to be paying off, after years spent investing my faith in it. And I am mostly glad to have loved anyone at any time at all.
Have a nice weekend, folks.
I don't need an anniversary to remind me of how awful his passing was for the world. I was only 6 when it was announced that Lennon had been shot by a lone gunman, but I remember how sad it made my parents, especially my mother-- John was her favorite Beatle.
Every girl who had come of age during the early '60s had a favorite Beatle. Most girls liked Paul because he was cute. Ringo also had appeal for lots of girls. George was the one that the shy girls liked because he was so quiet. But John was the funny Beatle, and the natural leader, and the one with the raspy voice and the aquiline nose and those half-lidded eyes.
The saddest part of his death is knowing that he didn't want to die at that point in his life. He'd declared his wish to die in past songs with his confessional lyrics, but when he turned 40 he wanted to live and participate in the world again. And he was robbed of that chance.
Hats off to you, Mr. Lennon.
*/*
I finally got that Raspberries song out of my head. And how did I do that? By making a CD burn of Tracey Ullman's "They Don't Know", that's how!
Sad, isn't it? Replacing one obsession with another... the story of my life.
The Ullman song holds this eternal fascination for me based upon the hilarious video that MTV aired to accompany the single's release back in 1983. In the video (as far as I can recall, because I haven't seen it in 22 years) Ullman is dressed like a renegade from a Supremes tribute girl-group. She is in love with the James Dean-ish "bad boy" and they have a typically pre-Beatles bobby-soxer love affair. The video ends with a pregnant Ullman and her man (both now much older and with rugrats) strolling through the supermarket, buying groceries and living a banal existence in sharp contrast to the excitement and passion of their courtship years.
Then, Ullman drives off in a car with Paul McCartney at the wheel. Evidently, she made an appearance in his movie Give My Regards To Broadstreet and he returned the favor accordingly.
If you aren't aware of the tongue-in-cheek video clip for this song, then listening to it is not the same. The song is not ironic at all. It is meant to be a straightforward homage to bubble-gum pop groups like The Ronettes, The Shangri-Las, and (of course) Diana Ross and The Supremes. The song sounds like a Phil Spector production slickly polished by '80s studio technology.
According to Songfacts.com: "Kirsty MacColl wrote this when she was 17 and sang backup on the track. She was the daughter of Folk singer/songwriter Ewan MacColl, who wrote Roberta Flack's 'The First Time I Ever saw Your Face.' In December 2000, she tragically died after being hit by a speedboat in the Caribbean. After her death, Tracey Ullman took part in a tribute concert for her."
There is a sense of melancholy to the song, despite its uptempo beat and sunny harmonies. All pop music, as Nick Hornby accurately pointed out in his novel High Fidelity, has an inherent sadness to it. Hornby asked aloud if he was miserable because he listened to pop music, or if he was listening to pop music because he was miserable.
For me, the song means something more than what it meant to me as a child. In 1983, I was one of the people that Ullman sang about, the ones who have "never heard of love". There was no way I could possibly understand what she was singing about, because I hadn't even realized what love was yet.
*/*
I was a Senior in high school when I met Eve. She was a Freshman whose brother was in the same grade as me. Eve was dating a friend of mine, but I fell head over heels for her after seeing her act out a scene from My Fair Lady in our Theatre Arts class.
I was also trying to extricate myself from a messy breakup with Vera, a sweet sweet girl whose trust I had betrayed thanks to my inability to extricate myself from the mess of my former relationship with Amy Coates. Amy was done with me romantically but still felt a need to control me through other avenues, and when she had effectively helped me destroy my relationship with Vera she tried to set me up with Beth, her new best friend. That way, Amy could still oversee me while having her way with other guys.
But for me, enough was enough. Joining the Theatre Arts class and meeting Eve was a way of ditching Amy and the circle of people I was hanging with-- hypercritical know-it-alls who were never content with anything. Amy couldn't exercise any control over me so long as I was now labeled a "drama fag".
And for Eve, I was a form of escape as well: her relationship with my friend Craig ended after he got sick of never being able to take her out. Eve was perpetually grounded by her father and stepmother, and they balked at her involvement with the drama class at every turn. Craig was only looking for some quick loving, not a constant headache.
So when Craig and Eve broke up, I moved in. We hit it off. And what's more-- I was unafraid of her parents. I was willing to go out of my way to sneak around and see her. She never asked me or demanded that I do it, but she never tried to stop me either. In fact, she was an accomplice most of the time, leaving her bedroom window slightly open or placing a butter knife outside the sill so that I could pry the screen away in the wee hours of the morning.
Most people thought I'd lost my mind. What was a Senior doing with a Freshman in the first place? Everyone assumed that I was just hitting it and running, but the truth is Eve and I weren't having sex. We were just making out, talking, smoking cigarettes and sleeping in her bed until her father woke up at 5 am, but we weren't having sex.
We were in love. It was like Romeo and Juliet. And there was nothing that could keep me away from her. I had no car-- no problem, I could ride the bus or my dear friend Sharky would give me a ride to her place; I had no money-- but we didn't need money to sneak out and sit by the steps of the elementary school across the street from her house, shooting the shit; I was going to graduate and leave school-- no matter, I came back to visit her several times a week for up to a year after I had left.
I had this feeling of "Us against Them" when it came to Eve. I felt like she and I were at odds with the world, and only the two of us could understand each other. Everyone seemed to be against our union, all except for our drama friends-- they were more like co-conspirators, helping us carry out our secret liasons.
I took her to the prom. She looked spectacular; I was dressed up in a tuxedo. We left the prom and ended up at her birth mother's home. Eve's real mother was one of the few adults who recognized what we had: she could see it in my eyes, that I loved her daughter very much and wanted only the best for her. Eve's mother helped us out a few times when it came to our clandestine meetings.
But it couldn't hold up over time, and after two years of ducking and dodging, Eve and I broke up. And for a while, I felt like They-- the Them in "Us against Them" --had won the battle. They had the last laugh, as Eve and I went our separate ways and I tried, in vain, to fill the void with other girls.
They didn't know about us. They've never heard of love.
*/*
I think a song like "They Don't Know" resonates because, much like Fox Mulder in The X-Files, I want to believe. In this case, I want to believe in love. I do believe in love. Call me a dreamer or a fool, but I have never been ashamed of the things I have done for love. I have risked my life and personal well-being for love. I have devoted my life to expressing love at every possible opportunity. When I look back on the things I did just so I could spend a few hours alone with Eve, I don't feel stupid. I feel like I followed my heart, and it makes me proud to know that.
But after the break-up, I did feel a little stupid, like I'd wasted my time on a girl who didn't know what she had. It didn't help that, shortly after we bit the dust, she finally made the choice to leave her parents' house to go live with her mother. To me, it was a kick in the teeth.
But her newfound freedom didn't last long. She and her new beau were brutally assaulted in Chatsworth Park, and her life changed for the worse. When I heard the news, I cried for days and blamed myself for what happened, reasoning that she wouldn't have been hurt if I had been there, as if somehow I could've made a difference...
I was now trying to extricate myself from a new mess, but this one was tainted by the pain and horror of her fate. I dated and made the rounds, meeting beautiful and interesting girls in an attempt to forget about Eve and all the trouble she seemed to attract. But I was severely traumatized by it all, and I foolishly pushed certain girls away because of the pain in my lovesick heart.
Many a girl would complain to me about my inability to move on with my life, and they were so right. I shouldn't have let it affect me the way it did, but I couldn't help myself. I was weak. I was angry at the world.
For a spell, it really did seem like They won.
*/*
And now, over a decade later, Eve and I are sort-of together. After all this time, there is still something there, something exciting and worth all of the trouble I went through for her.
Last night we talked about deeply personal things, positive things. She told me how seeing Sharky at my show recently helped her in her dealings with movie producers and directors.
I mentioned to her that I needed a physical hobby to occupy my time. I am coming to terms with my aggressiveness, my competitive drive buried beneath the layers of mellow Zen that I exude daily. I realized that the reason why my sex drive is not waning with age is because I have too much energy building up inside of me, and that I need to sublimate and re-direct my energy so that I am not in a constant state of mind-blinding horniness.
When I was younger, I used to play basketball every day. I used to play football and baseball too. I even lettered in Cross-Country Running during my Junior year of high school-- I was a fucking Letterman, for Pete's sake! Technically, I was a jock-- can you believe it?
Eve and I talked about yoga as we ate Ghirardelli chocolates and watched Shrek on DVD in her living room. We talked the way we used to talk on those moonlit Valley nights in 1992, when we were at a loss as to explain the chemistry we shared.
As I drove home later on, I played the Ullman song on the stereo (looped endlessly, of course) and it was like the story of Us. It was the whole scenario played out in three verses and a catchy chorus. The last verse really hit home for me:
(Warning: cheesy song lyrics being quoted-- RUN!)
There's no need for living in the past
Now I've found good loving
Gonna to make it last
I tell the others don't bother me
'Cause when they look at you
They don't see what I see
So I don't listen to their wasted lines
Got my eyes wide open and I see the signs
'Cause they don't know about us
And they've never heard of love
And I realized that, in a weird way, she and I have won. We didn't win in the traditional sense-- there was no prize to be had, no pot o'gold waiting for us at the end of some rainbow. Rather, we have survived years and years of experiences lived apart from each other, and now that there is nothing in the way of us living our lives the way we want to live them, we have somehow come out on top, in spite of all of the people who didn't understand what we had.
We have come out on top because, even though she and I had our differences along the way, we still get from the other what we used to receive back in those dark days of undercover bliss: that understanding of each other.
But now, it is coupled with the things I wanted to have with her so badly, the things I risked my neck to someday have-- romantic dinners, nights spent alone doing nothing but watching TV and talking, evenings out with friends without having to worry about people looking over our shoulders...
I know she loves me, and she'd better know by now that I love her. But where do we go now?
Is this love, or is it closure?
*/*
All I know is, I'll always love her, even if we find somewhere down the line that we cannot be together. And as long as she and I remain as close as we are, then nothing that I did for her was in vain.
None of it. It was all worth it. One day, I will tell my children and my grandchildren about the love I had for Eve, how it caused me to do irrational things, how everyone told me I was an idiot for loving her... and I'll also tell them about how I didn't care, because she was (and still is) the most beautiful girl I've ever known.
One day...
I don't mean to imply that I earned this, or that I "paid my dues". If life has taught me anything, it's that we are not entitled to anything unless we ourselves go out and seek it. And even then, after we've sacrificed and given of ourselves more than adequately, there still is no guarantee that anyone will ever receive what they feel they deserve.
What we have now is remarkable but also poignant and bittersweet. Oh, if only we could have taken some sort of shortcut to happiness, skipping all of the drama and pain. Maybe we'd be happier, stabler people overall. And yet, it wouldn't be much of a story if we hadn't done it the hard way, I suppose.
But then again, there's nothing wrong with the stories about the couples who weren't star-crossed, the seemingly passionless pairings that came about with relative ease, without resistance, as if willed by destiny to exist. No, there's nothing wrong with those people at all, because even though their path was not riddled with obstacles, they still probably faced the world in a similar way-- they most likely took a long look at the way the rest of the planet carried on and then turned to each other, sighed, and said: "They don't know about us. They've never heard of love."
I am glad that I believe in love. I am glad that it seems to be paying off, after years spent investing my faith in it. And I am mostly glad to have loved anyone at any time at all.
Have a nice weekend, folks.
Monday, December 05, 2005
"tunacy"
You see, I have this tendency... to obsess over particular songs... or even entire albums, depending on how perfect they sound... I end up listening to them repeatedy, as a subtle form of brainwashing I suppose... there's something in these recordings that makes me want to hear them over and over again and again...
When sampling became the big rage in hip-hop, I understood its purpose: there are small parts of songs that hit you so close to home that you wish the entire song were made up of just that one killer part. You want those pristine moments to never end.
I haven't changed much in that regard. Currently, I am obsessed with a nearly-forgotten pop nugget from the mid-'70s. I have it burned onto a CD-- the only song on the CD, I might add... this automatically causes the stereo in my car to play it again once it reaches the end.
*/*
I'll tell you about the song but I'll have to demonstrate sheer restraint when describing it to you, because I also have a tendency to deconstruct these things limitlessly. This includes recitations of the lyrics, pointless-yet-somehow-related anecdotes and footnotes, and my own personal meanings invested in the fabric of the song itself.
Before I tell you about the song, I have to build up to my discovery of said song. It is well-known that I am a virtual encyclopedia of useless knowledge. I routinely win Trivial Pursuit games and have been urged to sign up for numerous game shows (I have only been on one: Win Ben Stein's Money, where I lost to a former Jeopardy! champ)
For me to come across a song and not know who the band is nor the song's name is usually an adequate trigger for my obsessiveness regarding popular music. It's one thing if I discover something either obscure or dated, but it's another thing altogether when I hear a song that was a major hit and yet I have no point of reference.
*/*
The catalyst for my latest foray into "tunacy" ("tune" + "lunacy"= "tunacy"-- get it?) was Jack FM, the new format over at KCBS-FM that is also sweeping the nation as we speak. Check the link for my initial thoughts on Jack, but I have to admit that I never changed the station on my car stereo presets because... well, there's that sense of familiarity with all the songs on their playlist, most of them being lost gems that I hadn't heard in a long time.
One day, I switched over to Jack and I caught a song midway through. It held my interest and I listened until the end. I'd never heard it before, and I was curious. It sounded familiar but I couldn't place it. And, of course, one of the more retarded aspects of the Jack FM format is that there isn't a DJ, and no one announces the songs before or afterward.
Later on in the week, I heard it again, this time at Paulie's Garage. I was working on the animation (second episode) and it came on the speakers. No one knew who it was, but Paulie's brother Peter claimed that he'd heard it recently in a movie.
The song's production values led me to believe that it was either something from the late '70s or a current piece of retro-rock. And before I knew it, I was humming what little of the melody I could recall.
That humming turned into a bona-fide obsession as it swirled inside my head, looking for some sort of emotional anchor. Pretty melody, typically vague lyrics about love and baby and all that jazz... I couldn't shake it. The voice-- who was singing? I've heard that voice on other occasions...
*/*
Two weeks passed, and the song was growing to epic proportions inside my skull. I tried to remember lyrics but the ones I had were of no help (it bears noting that my interpretation of the words turned out to be dead wrong) and I didn't know where to begin with a search engine. I tried looking up Jack's playlist online, but that led nowhere.
I was starting to see myself as a musical detective, and I had a very thin lead.
I tried to forget about it but it kept creeping up on me everywhere I went. I kept the car stereo set to the Jack FM preset, hoping to catch it one day while commuting. But it seemed like the song disappeared from their playlist, because they I haven't heard them play it since-- the watched pot never boiled. They have probably played it a million times since the last time I heard it, but I haven't been so lucky as to catch it.
After a while, the song started to fade in my mind. I didn't have anything on deck to replace it but I think I also knew it was necessary for me to let go of this one for the time being. If past experience with tunacy has taught me anything, it's that I'll eventually come across it again in a bout of synchronistic epiphany-- what I've woefully termed "serendipity" as of late.
What do you think happened next?
*/*
Late night, or early morning (whatever you like to call it), sitting on the couch, smoking pot and reeling from a night of drinking with friends... lighting the bowl in my darkened living room, the TV blaring an infomercial for a CD compilation, hosted by Barry "Greg Brady" Williams... paying just enough attention to keep me from changing the channel...
Then, I heard the song.
I dropped my pipe and stood up. There it was, in bold '70s-style bubble lettering: "Go All The Way" by The Raspberries, superimposed over a live clip of the group performing-- their hairdos and clothes were ridiculously anachronistic. The clip lasted five to ten sceonds, but it was enough for me to register.
I froze. How awesome was this? I felt like Richard Dreyfus in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, recognizing the Devil's Tower; I felt like Kevin Costner in Field of Dreams, seeking out Terence Mann after encountering the ghost of Shoeless Joe...
But then another realization set in...
"Who the fuck are The Raspberries?"
*/*
Ever heard of Eric Carmen? Women will know him as the singer of "Hungry Eyes" off of the Dirty Dancing soundtrack. More people know him for his doleful solo hit "All By Myself".
But before he was all by himself, Eric Carmen was the singer of The Raspberries, ancient rock dinosaurs who roamed the Earth around 1971 A.D. One biographer noted that groups like the Small Faces and the Who were "the blueprint for The Raspberries." Other influences included the Kinks, the Left Banke, the Beatles, the Byrds and the Beach Boys. And you can definitely hear those influences in The Raspberries' music: in the song "Go All The Way", there's even a direct bite from The Beatles' "come on come on" chorus from "Please Please Me".
Most of those groups I listed above are British, and The Raspberries were trying to make music in that vein: a throwback to the singles-oriented days of the British Invasion. Those legendary groups built the bulk of their reps on strong, well-written Top 40 singles.
Very few artists today take the single-oriented tack because the way the music industry works nowadays only gives birth to disposable one-hit-wonders, as opposed to pop bands with a long shelf life.
Coming from Cleveland, Ohio and forged from the ashes of countless other bands with varying line-ups, The Raspberries had some hits in the early-to-mid 1970s, but never went further than simmering mainstream courting. Eric eventually went solo and made mad cash, but The Raspberries were his catapult.
I learned all of that online, poking my nose around. And now that I know about The Raspberries and the song of theirs that Jack FM plays the most, my life should be balanced again. Everything must return to normal again, right?
Wrong. It only opened a whole new can of worms, because then I wanted a copy of the song to play in my car.
*/*
Whenever I go into a fit of tunacy, I hesitate from jumping in completely. It could cost me lots of money if I start buying up everything I can get my hands on that will temporarily sate my appetite for more knowledge.
For example: I used to be obsessed over the song "They Don't Know" by Tracey Ullman. Yes, she recorded a song... an entire album, in fact. You Broke My Heart In 17 Places, I believe it was called. Released in the early 1980s. Paul McCartney was in the music video. The song was originally recorded by the late Kirsty MacColl, one of the most underrated songstresses of the past two decades.
That album is hard to find now, so when I re-discovered the song years later, I settled for just finding a copy of the single. I had it on a cassette that I looped by hand, so that it would flip sides in my car stereo and repeat. That's all I needed-- no need to buy the album, although its rarity makes me wish I had begun collecting vinyl at a much earlier age.
I wasn't sure if I wanted to buy an entire Raspberries album, even a Best Of comp. Those suits, those hairdos... it really kind of made me sick, seeing what they looked like. But then, I found a free version online somewhere, went through all the necessary wrangling and hacking in order to get a downloadable version, cleaned up the sound a bit... and now, it's on repeat in my car.
I haven't stopped listening to it. Once in a while, I pop in something else (I am also concurrently addicted to Captain Beefheart, but not as much as this) but I always go back to that song and listen to it. And I can't figure out what holds more fascination: the relative obscurity of this tunacy, or the fact that "Go All The Way" is (in my opinion) a perfectly crafted pop song?
I theorized, while driving stoned through smoggy L.A., that maybe what I am responding to is the sheer superficiality of the song. The lyrics, as stated earlier, are the usual pap that gets foisted upon the listening public: when I was struggling to recall the lyrics, I came up with "If the love is true/ I still care for you" and found out later that the line was "It feels so right/ being with you here tonight"...
I may have been off in terms of actual wording, but the sentiments are interchangeable. Pretty generic, no?
Plus, the title... go all the way? Does anyone even say that anymore? I can't imagine any of today's generation of teens trying to seduce their crushes with such verbiage. And yet, I do have a vivid image in my mind of shaggy-haired youths coming of age in 1972, high off of Quaaludes and wearing tight soccer jerseys, making out with their beloved in the back of someone's van, looking like extras from that TV show with Ashton Kutcher...
*/*
So anyway, back to my theory...
My obsession with this song stems primarily from my response to pretty pop records, but it also has to do with an imagined reality, as if I am eavesdropping on the shared dreams of a manufactured culture, one that exalts the precision of three-part harmonies, soulful crooning, and Anglophilic cock-rocking above all, christening such creations with the bland lyrical fantasies of adolescent sex and insecurity...
Basically, it recalls a time that never existed for me, and one that probably never existed for anyone except for people like my parents.
For me, it is akin to digging up a time capsule from a long-dead era and finding something that is so far removed from my everyday experience that I have to bask in it for a while in order to fully understand it. For all my admiration of this tune, I could never fathom myself ever writing a song such as "Go All The Way"-- and that qualifies it as both a blessing and a curse.
You see, I'd like to write a song like that one day. But if I ever did, I wonder if it would be sincere. Would it pour from my soul fully formed? Or would I have to treat it as a work-for-hire type of deal?
It doesn't really matter at this point, because I'm not sick of it yet. And when I finally do become sick of it, will it be relegated to the dustbin of my mind, where esoteric pop cultural references go to die? Or has this whole tunatic episode been merely a preamble to something more?
I don't know. But could you do me a favor and find a copy of the song and listen to it, and then tell me if you think I'm fucking nuts or not?
I think that would help a lot.
When sampling became the big rage in hip-hop, I understood its purpose: there are small parts of songs that hit you so close to home that you wish the entire song were made up of just that one killer part. You want those pristine moments to never end.
I haven't changed much in that regard. Currently, I am obsessed with a nearly-forgotten pop nugget from the mid-'70s. I have it burned onto a CD-- the only song on the CD, I might add... this automatically causes the stereo in my car to play it again once it reaches the end.
*/*
I'll tell you about the song but I'll have to demonstrate sheer restraint when describing it to you, because I also have a tendency to deconstruct these things limitlessly. This includes recitations of the lyrics, pointless-yet-somehow-related anecdotes and footnotes, and my own personal meanings invested in the fabric of the song itself.
Before I tell you about the song, I have to build up to my discovery of said song. It is well-known that I am a virtual encyclopedia of useless knowledge. I routinely win Trivial Pursuit games and have been urged to sign up for numerous game shows (I have only been on one: Win Ben Stein's Money, where I lost to a former Jeopardy! champ)
For me to come across a song and not know who the band is nor the song's name is usually an adequate trigger for my obsessiveness regarding popular music. It's one thing if I discover something either obscure or dated, but it's another thing altogether when I hear a song that was a major hit and yet I have no point of reference.
*/*
The catalyst for my latest foray into "tunacy" ("tune" + "lunacy"= "tunacy"-- get it?) was Jack FM, the new format over at KCBS-FM that is also sweeping the nation as we speak. Check the link for my initial thoughts on Jack, but I have to admit that I never changed the station on my car stereo presets because... well, there's that sense of familiarity with all the songs on their playlist, most of them being lost gems that I hadn't heard in a long time.
One day, I switched over to Jack and I caught a song midway through. It held my interest and I listened until the end. I'd never heard it before, and I was curious. It sounded familiar but I couldn't place it. And, of course, one of the more retarded aspects of the Jack FM format is that there isn't a DJ, and no one announces the songs before or afterward.
Later on in the week, I heard it again, this time at Paulie's Garage. I was working on the animation (second episode) and it came on the speakers. No one knew who it was, but Paulie's brother Peter claimed that he'd heard it recently in a movie.
The song's production values led me to believe that it was either something from the late '70s or a current piece of retro-rock. And before I knew it, I was humming what little of the melody I could recall.
That humming turned into a bona-fide obsession as it swirled inside my head, looking for some sort of emotional anchor. Pretty melody, typically vague lyrics about love and baby and all that jazz... I couldn't shake it. The voice-- who was singing? I've heard that voice on other occasions...
*/*
Two weeks passed, and the song was growing to epic proportions inside my skull. I tried to remember lyrics but the ones I had were of no help (it bears noting that my interpretation of the words turned out to be dead wrong) and I didn't know where to begin with a search engine. I tried looking up Jack's playlist online, but that led nowhere.
I was starting to see myself as a musical detective, and I had a very thin lead.
I tried to forget about it but it kept creeping up on me everywhere I went. I kept the car stereo set to the Jack FM preset, hoping to catch it one day while commuting. But it seemed like the song disappeared from their playlist, because they I haven't heard them play it since-- the watched pot never boiled. They have probably played it a million times since the last time I heard it, but I haven't been so lucky as to catch it.
After a while, the song started to fade in my mind. I didn't have anything on deck to replace it but I think I also knew it was necessary for me to let go of this one for the time being. If past experience with tunacy has taught me anything, it's that I'll eventually come across it again in a bout of synchronistic epiphany-- what I've woefully termed "serendipity" as of late.
What do you think happened next?
*/*
Late night, or early morning (whatever you like to call it), sitting on the couch, smoking pot and reeling from a night of drinking with friends... lighting the bowl in my darkened living room, the TV blaring an infomercial for a CD compilation, hosted by Barry "Greg Brady" Williams... paying just enough attention to keep me from changing the channel...
Then, I heard the song.
I dropped my pipe and stood up. There it was, in bold '70s-style bubble lettering: "Go All The Way" by The Raspberries, superimposed over a live clip of the group performing-- their hairdos and clothes were ridiculously anachronistic. The clip lasted five to ten sceonds, but it was enough for me to register.
I froze. How awesome was this? I felt like Richard Dreyfus in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, recognizing the Devil's Tower; I felt like Kevin Costner in Field of Dreams, seeking out Terence Mann after encountering the ghost of Shoeless Joe...
But then another realization set in...
"Who the fuck are The Raspberries?"
*/*
Ever heard of Eric Carmen? Women will know him as the singer of "Hungry Eyes" off of the Dirty Dancing soundtrack. More people know him for his doleful solo hit "All By Myself".
But before he was all by himself, Eric Carmen was the singer of The Raspberries, ancient rock dinosaurs who roamed the Earth around 1971 A.D. One biographer noted that groups like the Small Faces and the Who were "the blueprint for The Raspberries." Other influences included the Kinks, the Left Banke, the Beatles, the Byrds and the Beach Boys. And you can definitely hear those influences in The Raspberries' music: in the song "Go All The Way", there's even a direct bite from The Beatles' "come on come on" chorus from "Please Please Me".
Most of those groups I listed above are British, and The Raspberries were trying to make music in that vein: a throwback to the singles-oriented days of the British Invasion. Those legendary groups built the bulk of their reps on strong, well-written Top 40 singles.
Very few artists today take the single-oriented tack because the way the music industry works nowadays only gives birth to disposable one-hit-wonders, as opposed to pop bands with a long shelf life.
Coming from Cleveland, Ohio and forged from the ashes of countless other bands with varying line-ups, The Raspberries had some hits in the early-to-mid 1970s, but never went further than simmering mainstream courting. Eric eventually went solo and made mad cash, but The Raspberries were his catapult.
I learned all of that online, poking my nose around. And now that I know about The Raspberries and the song of theirs that Jack FM plays the most, my life should be balanced again. Everything must return to normal again, right?
Wrong. It only opened a whole new can of worms, because then I wanted a copy of the song to play in my car.
*/*
Whenever I go into a fit of tunacy, I hesitate from jumping in completely. It could cost me lots of money if I start buying up everything I can get my hands on that will temporarily sate my appetite for more knowledge.
For example: I used to be obsessed over the song "They Don't Know" by Tracey Ullman. Yes, she recorded a song... an entire album, in fact. You Broke My Heart In 17 Places, I believe it was called. Released in the early 1980s. Paul McCartney was in the music video. The song was originally recorded by the late Kirsty MacColl, one of the most underrated songstresses of the past two decades.
That album is hard to find now, so when I re-discovered the song years later, I settled for just finding a copy of the single. I had it on a cassette that I looped by hand, so that it would flip sides in my car stereo and repeat. That's all I needed-- no need to buy the album, although its rarity makes me wish I had begun collecting vinyl at a much earlier age.
I wasn't sure if I wanted to buy an entire Raspberries album, even a Best Of comp. Those suits, those hairdos... it really kind of made me sick, seeing what they looked like. But then, I found a free version online somewhere, went through all the necessary wrangling and hacking in order to get a downloadable version, cleaned up the sound a bit... and now, it's on repeat in my car.
I haven't stopped listening to it. Once in a while, I pop in something else (I am also concurrently addicted to Captain Beefheart, but not as much as this) but I always go back to that song and listen to it. And I can't figure out what holds more fascination: the relative obscurity of this tunacy, or the fact that "Go All The Way" is (in my opinion) a perfectly crafted pop song?
I theorized, while driving stoned through smoggy L.A., that maybe what I am responding to is the sheer superficiality of the song. The lyrics, as stated earlier, are the usual pap that gets foisted upon the listening public: when I was struggling to recall the lyrics, I came up with "If the love is true/ I still care for you" and found out later that the line was "It feels so right/ being with you here tonight"...
I may have been off in terms of actual wording, but the sentiments are interchangeable. Pretty generic, no?
Plus, the title... go all the way? Does anyone even say that anymore? I can't imagine any of today's generation of teens trying to seduce their crushes with such verbiage. And yet, I do have a vivid image in my mind of shaggy-haired youths coming of age in 1972, high off of Quaaludes and wearing tight soccer jerseys, making out with their beloved in the back of someone's van, looking like extras from that TV show with Ashton Kutcher...
*/*
So anyway, back to my theory...
My obsession with this song stems primarily from my response to pretty pop records, but it also has to do with an imagined reality, as if I am eavesdropping on the shared dreams of a manufactured culture, one that exalts the precision of three-part harmonies, soulful crooning, and Anglophilic cock-rocking above all, christening such creations with the bland lyrical fantasies of adolescent sex and insecurity...
Basically, it recalls a time that never existed for me, and one that probably never existed for anyone except for people like my parents.
For me, it is akin to digging up a time capsule from a long-dead era and finding something that is so far removed from my everyday experience that I have to bask in it for a while in order to fully understand it. For all my admiration of this tune, I could never fathom myself ever writing a song such as "Go All The Way"-- and that qualifies it as both a blessing and a curse.
You see, I'd like to write a song like that one day. But if I ever did, I wonder if it would be sincere. Would it pour from my soul fully formed? Or would I have to treat it as a work-for-hire type of deal?
It doesn't really matter at this point, because I'm not sick of it yet. And when I finally do become sick of it, will it be relegated to the dustbin of my mind, where esoteric pop cultural references go to die? Or has this whole tunatic episode been merely a preamble to something more?
I don't know. But could you do me a favor and find a copy of the song and listen to it, and then tell me if you think I'm fucking nuts or not?
I think that would help a lot.
Friday, December 02, 2005
the christmas miracle
Holly called me on Thanksgiving and left a message. I didn't remember to call her back until today.
She reluctantly answered, wondering why the numbers on my outgoing line were nothing but a series of zeroes. The call block from my work does that-- it freaks people out, because they think they're getting a call from the Feds or something like that.
She said she loved me at least five times during our short conversation. Each time she said it, I felt like it was some form of mockery. It lacerated me every time to hear it. Is she one of those girls who just says they love you, regardless of how they really feel?
If she really loved me, she'd be here and not 3,000 miles way.
Same goes for Monique. She's just as far away as Holly is. She told me she'd be back in October. It's December now. No e-mails, no phone calls...
Where are these women when I need them?
It all goes back to feeling rejected, feeling unloved by the ones I wanted to stay but never returned... if they elected to return it was not out of choice...
Eventually, all the women I have ever loved leave me in some way, shape or form. They die symbolically in my mind and then I mourn them, and then I move on to the next one. Some of them are maidens ripe for the ravishing; others are combination madonna-whores who do not demand anything of me except what I am unable to give.
When Monique left, I made a decision not to act like I was waiting for her to come back. I dated other people. I didn't want to be left holding the bag. But now that I have been proven right, I still feel like I've been left holding the bag. My only consolation is that I didn't sit around like a puppy dog, expecting her to return.
I have female friends who can keep me company, keep my spirits up, maybe even keep me warm on a cold winter's night. But there's no one special with whom to look forward to the season.
Eve is special, but she would rather not snuggle with me. I guess I'm just not as hot as I thought I was.
Tonight I'm going to take the fake mini-Christmas tree out of its box and put the decorations on it. I'm going to make mix CDs for my friends so that they can get into the Christmas spirit without having to gag on hackneyed hymns and tired carols. My mix CDs are clever, hip, and ironic. But they are a poor substitute for whatever it is I am wishing to fill inside of my soul.
Where is my Christmas miracle?
Or better yet, what makes me think I'm deserving of one?
She reluctantly answered, wondering why the numbers on my outgoing line were nothing but a series of zeroes. The call block from my work does that-- it freaks people out, because they think they're getting a call from the Feds or something like that.
She said she loved me at least five times during our short conversation. Each time she said it, I felt like it was some form of mockery. It lacerated me every time to hear it. Is she one of those girls who just says they love you, regardless of how they really feel?
If she really loved me, she'd be here and not 3,000 miles way.
Same goes for Monique. She's just as far away as Holly is. She told me she'd be back in October. It's December now. No e-mails, no phone calls...
Where are these women when I need them?
It all goes back to feeling rejected, feeling unloved by the ones I wanted to stay but never returned... if they elected to return it was not out of choice...
Eventually, all the women I have ever loved leave me in some way, shape or form. They die symbolically in my mind and then I mourn them, and then I move on to the next one. Some of them are maidens ripe for the ravishing; others are combination madonna-whores who do not demand anything of me except what I am unable to give.
When Monique left, I made a decision not to act like I was waiting for her to come back. I dated other people. I didn't want to be left holding the bag. But now that I have been proven right, I still feel like I've been left holding the bag. My only consolation is that I didn't sit around like a puppy dog, expecting her to return.
I have female friends who can keep me company, keep my spirits up, maybe even keep me warm on a cold winter's night. But there's no one special with whom to look forward to the season.
Eve is special, but she would rather not snuggle with me. I guess I'm just not as hot as I thought I was.
Tonight I'm going to take the fake mini-Christmas tree out of its box and put the decorations on it. I'm going to make mix CDs for my friends so that they can get into the Christmas spirit without having to gag on hackneyed hymns and tired carols. My mix CDs are clever, hip, and ironic. But they are a poor substitute for whatever it is I am wishing to fill inside of my soul.
Where is my Christmas miracle?
Or better yet, what makes me think I'm deserving of one?
Thursday, December 01, 2005
a brief obit
I met Wendie Jo Sperber once, and only once, when I was working at the old radio network, working the board for some weekend programming.
One of those shows, The Group Room, is hosted by cancer survivors who give support and advice to cancer patients.
Sperber was a guest on one of the shows. I instantly recognized her from the dozens upon dozens of TV shows and movies she'd appeared in, among them Back To The Future and Married... With Children. But it was her role in the '80's TV sitcom Bosom Buddies (which is notable for being Tom Hanks' first starring role in anything) that I remembered best.
She was incredibly gracious and sweet, humble and grateful for the opportunity to share her story on the air. It looked like she had overcome it, and we all wished her the best.
I think something like this makes me even sadder because of the fact that I actually met the person and had more than just a light conversation about the weather. We talked about life and death, treatment and disease, pain and joy. I barely knew her, but it seems like I knew her very well because I saw her so much, on the small and big screen. I grew up with her, in a way.
This is different than being sad over Pat Morita, who recently passed away. That makes me sad, that someone I liked as a performer is no longer with us. But this one hurts just a little bit more, because I shook her hand. I shared orange juice and bagels with her. I even impressed her with my knowledge of the things she'd done, even the failed TV pilots and lesser-known movies.
She was funny and thoughtful, and now she is gone.
Rest in peace.
One of those shows, The Group Room, is hosted by cancer survivors who give support and advice to cancer patients.
Sperber was a guest on one of the shows. I instantly recognized her from the dozens upon dozens of TV shows and movies she'd appeared in, among them Back To The Future and Married... With Children. But it was her role in the '80's TV sitcom Bosom Buddies (which is notable for being Tom Hanks' first starring role in anything) that I remembered best.
She was incredibly gracious and sweet, humble and grateful for the opportunity to share her story on the air. It looked like she had overcome it, and we all wished her the best.
I think something like this makes me even sadder because of the fact that I actually met the person and had more than just a light conversation about the weather. We talked about life and death, treatment and disease, pain and joy. I barely knew her, but it seems like I knew her very well because I saw her so much, on the small and big screen. I grew up with her, in a way.
This is different than being sad over Pat Morita, who recently passed away. That makes me sad, that someone I liked as a performer is no longer with us. But this one hurts just a little bit more, because I shook her hand. I shared orange juice and bagels with her. I even impressed her with my knowledge of the things she'd done, even the failed TV pilots and lesser-known movies.
She was funny and thoughtful, and now she is gone.
Rest in peace.
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