Month: September 2006

The father looked so broken; staring down at his son’s injured ankle. The high-top was loosened and white against his brown skin. The young man was maybe 14 and he didn’t seem in too much discomfort. The father though seemed silently suffering. A similar scene wheeled by on a stretcher. This handsome young man was even less concerned. His dad about equally unworried. A loud screaming from down the hall was rhythmic, almost chant-like with a steady timing like a woman being jarred by quickening labor pains. I strolled over to get a look and quickly saw the image of the obviously mentally challenged man wailing. A worried female friend or relative tried to usher him back into the examination room. Through a small seam in a curtain behind glass I sadly witnessed a very old woman being comforted by two other elderly folks. I wondered if the woman would ever leave the hospital alive. What an agonizing place, I thought. Every day and night it must be like this to some degree. A steady parade of sick and injured filing through the turnstiles of hope.

I was angry, and futilely trying to hide it. This was going to be expensive and she was driving home late from a boyfriend’s house I hadn’t even met! We were in the emergency room because wandering wildlife and a telephone pole got the best of Megan’s two month old car. Thanks to Mr. Breed, Megan was able to still laugh and cry, though not in that order, after climbing out the moon roof of her shattered Honda Civic. After about two hours of observation by those amazing people in the ER, Megan and I walked out of the hospital and back into life. When we got home I sent an email to some folks at work telling them I’d probably be a little late. I felt guilty that I tinged it with some humor. I guess I was looking to lighten the message a little. On my way to bed I went into Megan’s room and sat next to her on her bed. “I’m sorry I crashed my car, Dad.” I tried to speak, but couldn’t. When I finally did, I said something like “please don’t leave us. The world would be a much lesser place without you in it.” As a glass half-full kind of guy, I’ll note that I was able to skip a night of these before closing my eyes on another day in the life.

• 4 tickets to a Broadway show – $470.00
• Lodging for 2 nights in Manhattan – at least $800.00
• Seeing the look on Kyle’s face when Mary Poppins floats into the New Amsterdam Theatre – Priceless

Yeah, we’ll be there Veteran’s Day weekend and to say Kyle is excited is a gross understatement. He still doesn’t quite know what to think about “another woman” in the role Julie Andrews made immortal, but we’re getting there. While I made him dinner last night, we had this conversation:

Kyle: Who’s the actress that’s playing Mary Poppins?
Dad: I’m not sure, man.
Kyle: Not Julie Andrews, right?
Dad: No, not Julie Andrews. She was the best.
Kyle: She still is…

So, let’s see what else is in the bag for your tuppins today:

Ah… “La Luna.” My camera is currently at Canon for a free repair to this unpleasant phenomena and I’ve been researching for a possible upgrade. The Canon Powershot S3 IS seems a good deal that I believe will get even better once the PowerShot A710 IS is released any day now. During my research adventure, I found this incredible shot of the moon by Noel Carboni.

I spent quite a bit of time yesterday reading “Halting the Race to the Bottom” by John Sexton, president of New York University. I found the following paragraph on the arts right on the money.

We have seen the close to total evaporation of funding for research in the humanities and social sciences — work which has less measurable outcomes than scientific research, even as it expands the boundaries of understanding and insight. Though John Maeda could write in Science Magazine that he believed “the biggest breakthrough will be the realization that the arts, which are conventionally considered useless, will be recognized as the whole reason why we ever try to live longer or live more prosperously.” He could embrace the notion that “the arts are the science of enjoying life,” while our leaders (reflecting as they do society’s increasing impatience with soft values and subtle tones) have come close to abandoning the arts.

Now lets take a stroll to the opposite end of the intellectual spectrum where shameless whore Pete Rose is now selling $299.00 autographed baseballs that say “I’m sorry I bet on baseball.” It’s sad that the extraordinary on-the-field achievements of this guy will never be recognized in a Hall of Fame induction simply because he’s a jerk. If he just stepped up and apologized when it happened instead of denying and lying, he’d probably have a plaque in Cooperstown today.

Speaking of baseball players living in the land of Oz, Alex Rodriguez need to shut up and play if the Yankees have any hope of winning their 27th World Series. In a recent interview, the Scarecrow told Mike Vaccaro of the New York Post, “I can’t help that I’m a bright person.” He went on to prove that statement utterly preposterous by saying, “When people write bad things about me, I don’t know if it’s because I’m good-looking, I’m biracial, I make the most money, I play on the most popular team. . . .” How about you suck in the clutch, Alex? Get a few key hits (i.e. earn your money) and help deliver a championship and you’ll be amazed the nice things people will write about you. Not me, because I’m a bitter Red Sox fan, but some people will.

Tuesday night Jeff and I ventured down to Landsdown Street. I could see each individual raindrop as they cascaded down through the glow escaping from Fenway Park. A 6-0 deficit by the third inning had many a patron escaping too. After a street-vendor Italian sausage found and hit the gastronomical spot, we headed to Avalon to see the Drive-By Truckers. From the opening sonic blast to the last chord struck, they were phenomenal. Jeff described it as “the show of the year.” The year… That year. During the show I crowd watched like I’ve done at the 200-plus shows I’ve seen over the past 33 years. On this night as I scanned the mass of 20 and 30-somethings, I thought, “I’m almost 48 years old. How much longer will I be doing this?” I hope forever.

The top three worst years of my life were 1972, 1995 and 2005. In the two most recent downturns, music kept me afloat and live music lifted me up. In both years, Jeff was the guy tossing me the shiny musical life preservers. First there was the cutting sound of a chainsaw in 1995 that bore Tar Hut Records, followed by 4 nights at the “alt-country” altar that October. A couple years later Jeff wrote some angry shit about hating everyone on an AOL music message board. It was just before Christmas. I responded to that post with a play on “It’s a Wonderful Life” and what my life might have been like if Jeff hadn’t been there. I wish I still had that, but it’s lost somewhere out in the digital darkness. Fortunately, my friend Jeff isn’t.

Lots going on, just not much I feel like writing about. Some of the interconnected observations and thoughts occupying the space between my ears include:

• This Ken Burns film on Frank Lloyd Wright was very cool. It inspired me to take advantage of the very cool and unique aspects of my house.
• Have we become so lazy that we’ll wait in a drive-thru line six or seven cars deep like lemmings to the c(affeine) instead of getting up off of our lazy asses to get a cup of coffee at an empty counter? I observe this every day.
• I’m not sure which of these images sickens me more: Track marks and the purplish-brown discoloration of collapsed blood vessels on a young woman or a son teaching his father how to inject heroin with a needle because the father has destroyed his nose and simply cannot snort anymore.
• I’m looking forward to seeing the Drive by Truckers at Avalon this week. I’m not sure which song on their new record is my favorite, but hope to hear most of them and I’m really looking forward to this one. In any event, it’s a couple hours to get lost in the music.

Yes, it’s great to be alive.

With a nod to the Queen song that comes right before “I’m in Love With My Car,” here’s a compilation of the things I heard on Labor Day driving back from Williamstown. It had been quite some time since FM worked in my car, so I remedied the situation while on vacation and grazed the dial all the way home…

I Touch Myself – A very sexy song by the Divinyls ruined by the image of Mike Myers dancing in a Union Jack bikini in Austin Powers – International Man of Mystery.

O-o-h Child – The Five Stairsteps sang this favorite in 1970. A song of optimism for a 12 year old during the summer his parents got divorced. “Some day, yeah”

Burning Photographs – I almost drove off the Pike when I heard this Ryan Adams song from “Rock N’ Roll.” It must have been the UMass school station…

Real Men of Genius – This series of Bud-Light commercials are friggin classics. This one was Mr. Hair-Gel Over-Geller, just one of the many they’ve done. This site has almost sixty, including “Mister Tiny Thong Bikini Wearer.” Without FM, who knew?

Hazel Eyes – Starting about a year or so ago, I’d occasionally ask Megan, “who’s that” when Kelly Clarkson was belting out a song from her PC on iTunes. When this one came on the radio, I stayed. Yeah, she’s a guilty pleasure.

Night Fever – One think that wasn’t a guilty pleasure for me was the Disco lie. When my high school buddies were dressing in polyester and dancing to the Bee Gees, I was wearing my chocolate brown leather jacket and rocking out to KISS. Still, when this one came on, I caught one of my toes tapping and I checked my hair in the rear-view mirror a couple times.

I only caught the end of “The Strange World of Personal Ads” on NPR, but got a kick out of some of the key codewords used by people in their ads.

I Alone – Before I had a noPod or a Walkman with a cassette, I had a simple AM/FM Walkman. I was always able to pick up the pace when this one from Live’s “Throwing Copper” came on.

Many DJ’s are just idiots with a compelling need to fill the dead air with their “humor.” One nitwit was rambling on about how Steve Irwin’s death “wasn’t cool enough” and that he should have been killed by a giant snapping turtle. Assclown. I think being pierced in the heart by a deadly poisonous stingray while diving on Australia’s Great Barrier Reef is a pretty cool way to go.

It’s amazing how many songs are about sex, and Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar on Me is one of the best. It reminds me of a time in the “Dance Hall” on the Boardwalk at Disney… And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

Speaking of Sex, Prince does a pretty good job of creating images and conjuring up memories…

When Doves Cry
“Dig if u will the picture
Of u and I engaged in a kiss
The sweat of your body covers me
Can u my darling
Can u picture this?”

Leaving the gym tonight it was… Well, let’s just say I didn’t need the sunglasses sharing my right hand with my Treo. For me, the shortening days leading up to the Northern Hemisphere’s winter solstice are usually kind of a bummer, but tonight’s early twilight was a blessing. As I pulled into my driveway, I was shaken by the silhouette of about 14 pairs of my neighbor’s whitey-tighties and a few of his bride’s “bloomers” hanging on a clothesline. Something has got to be done! I’m all for conserving energy and drying clothes outside is so Americana, but dammit, these unmentionables are why dryers were invented!

Listen, nobody wants to see what covers your ass unless you have a really cute one and neither of them do… Jeez. And another thing. Why are they called a “pair” of underwear or panties or skivvies? Here’s the best answer I could find. As long as we’re on the subject, let’s do some imagining about the underwear the people you know um, wear… Me? I think that’s been fully uhhh, covered in an earlier chapter. So, what about you and the people in your orbit? Just think about some of the people you work with. No, not the office hottie that you’ve already given much thought to, but the guy who looks like a cross between Euell Gibbons and the Unabomber. Yeah. You know you’ve wondered when the last time that guy took a shower.

Sure makes those paper seat covers seem worth the investment…

As I drove East on the Mass Pike yesterday I thought about the clever post I’d write about the significance of this day to me, but I decided that would be a pointless exercise, so here’s Plan B:

Eighty-five miles West of my exit on Route 2 is the center of Williamstown, MA. The two-hour drive gave me an opportunity to get acquainted with some new music and my own thoughts. Yeah, thinking and driving can be dangerous.

The trek was to see a Jackson Pollock show at the Williams College Museum of Art and Impressionism and Early Modern Paintings at the Clark Art Institute. The latter left me wanting and I was hopeful the Pollock exhibit would give me back my mojo. Oh my…

The exhibition is actually a tribute to the late Kirk Varnedoe. Mr. Varnedoe was a member of the Williams Class of 1967 and was Chief Curator of Painting and Sculpture at the Museum of Modern Art (yeah, that one), where he put together a comprehensive Pollock retrospective in 1998. He was like an art history rock star from what I’ve heard and read. Here he chats with Terry Gross on NPR’s “Fresh Air” and just completely defines Pollock’s work with his words.

As I sauntered down a hall that led to the exhibit, I saw preparatory drawings by Gustave Caillebotte for this. One was a perspective sketch of the city scene and the other of the couple. It seems I like much of the same stuff this guy did. He also really liked Cy Twombley, who’s work I described as “a series of crayon scribbles” after seeing some of it at the Whitney Museum of American Art. Maybe I need to give him another shot…

I walked into the small room and immediately saw Number 2, 1949. It’s a stunning sixteen foot image painted on a brick-red dyed sailcloth. There were two other Pollock works displayed, but this one dominated the room like Sinatra in the Copa room at the Sands in Vegas. Glossy black Sans Serif letters against a satin white wall welcomed visitors with Kirk Varnedoe’s warm words of admiration describing an artist who cast “the paint itself” as the star subject of his work. It also contained these words:

“Certain rewards, and rewarding uncertainties, only come through periods of private silence in front of… art. Doubtless a lot of what went into Pollock’s head, a lot that came out of his mouth, and a lot that has been and continues to be written about his pictures, embodies just the common cultural clutter of the time. The paintings do not. To be reminded of this, look at them.”

–Kirk Varnedoe

The headline in the San Jose Mercury News reads, “It’s a tense weekend for Intel employees.” News reports speculate up to 20,000 Intel employees may lose their jobs as the giant chip-maker tries to cut costs in the face of increasing competition. It boggles my mind that ten to twenty thousand people; mothers, fathers husbands, wives and other human beings will lose their job and a significant part of their self-esteem. It seems however that the immeasurable human cost is lost on some who see the action only in terms of ones and zeroes and their own economic benefit. David Wu, a shareholder and an analyst at Global Crown Capital in San Francisco coldly commented, “It would be seen as lame if Intel does less than 10,000.” I think Mr. Wu’s chilly lack of compassion is what’s lame.