Category: Uncategorized (Page 89 of 96)

I’ve been thinking about clichés lately. It started last week when I was just another face in the crowd at a meeting. Yeah, we all have our crosses to bear. Anyway, there was a guy telling us about “drinking our own Kool-Aid” and “eating our own dog food,” all in the same sentence! Man, that was more fun than a barrel of monkeys. These folks were in to help us see the forest for the trees so our stuff will sell like hotcakes, but I digress.

From what I’ve read lately, it is embarrassingly cliché to say, “I love your eyes” to a woman. I guess if a woman possesses eyes that speak, she’s probably heard that one before. Ok. Noted. What I’m wondering is why some eyes express “More than all the print I have read in my life*,” while others seem either dispassionate or even just a window to a vacant lot?
* “Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman, from “Leaves of Grass,” which went on sale July 4th, 1855.

Yesterday I was flipping through a book illustrating the work of artist Edward Hopper. I like Hopper. Others may not. Perhaps they like Mapplethorpe or dogs playing poker. While Hopper’s images are aesthetically pleasing to me, there’s an unexplainable range of emotions I feel when looking at some of his work. These pieces express emotions that I can feel. They speak to me. Just like eyes.

Hopper brilliantly portrays scenes of Americana. From Brooklyn to Cape Cod, he places us in the frame of a simpler time. He’s also a master of capturing light and women. One of my favorite Hopper prints hangs in our living room. It depicts both beautifully. At least in my eyes.

Friday I had a lunch date. We met around 11:45 and were seated at one of the many empty tables. Before my butt was even settled in the seat cushion, a waitress appeared out a puff of red smoke and and quickly barked out the lunch special of the day. I smiled and responded, “No thanks. I had Mexican last night.” Now first dates are a little nervewracking on their own, but this one was going to be challenged by strange “external stimuli,” as they say in Chemistry class. Politely, my lunchmate indicated we’d not yet looked at the menu. The oddly familiar waitress said, “Oh, OK. Take your time,” but she seemed to be hovering as she dashed to and fro. In fact, my date remarked about the level of bustling in the place.

43 seconds later the anxious woman pounced again with pad and pen. The inevitable drink order ensued, followed by a rapid-fire delivery of “all the lunches come with salads, so do you want Italian or Creamy Vinegarette?” I tried to explain the situation, but I don’t think she was very accepting of my excuse and she stormed away. So here I am, sitting across from a lovely woman, feeling incredibly pressured to ignore her and focus on the menu. We did managed to squeeze some conversation in between the moments of intense server interrogation, but based on some of the questions, I wasn’t sure the chat was going all that well.

The tension was building and I honestly think our server increased the intensity of the booths overhanging light in an effort to force us to talk. Finally, she broke us and we ordered salads. She rattled, “The salads come with salads. Do you want them?” “Um… No thanks.” I think we both felt pretty startled by the abruptness of this woman. I mean, I just couldn’t help help but feel at any moment she was going to push a James Bond like “ejector seat” button and jettison us into the parking lot. When our salads arrived 13 seconds later, I had to ask for a Splenda again. The waitress was clearly annoyed.

It was so bad that neither of us really ate much salad and my date kept indicating she wanted to leave. I really wanted to chat, but was haunted by the thought that this woman was back in the kitchen with a giant hourglass plotting a way to get rid of us. Suddenly we both felt oddly sleepy, so I suggested we retreat to a coffee shop next door. I was relieved the response was very positive. Even though we were taunted on our way out, once we got into the coffee shop, we spent a couple hours pleasantly chatting. I imagine Dorothy’s nemesis turned about 8 tables during that time…

Back around this time in 1997, a package arrived from Lombard, IL. Since March of ‘96, such clandestine deliveries were a regularity at 22 Bacon Street in Westminster, MA. This particular padded (boy is there symbolism in that…) envelope contained “Squeezing our Sparks” by Graham Parker.

I brought the tape with me to my moms house in Wells Beach, Maine that weekend and popped it in my Walkman while Megan and Kyle splashed in the pool. From the first chords of “Discovering Japan,” I was hooked. Other highlights of the record include “Love Gets You Twisted,” and of course “Passion Is No Ordinary Word.” It’s my favorite Parker song mostly for the words. A old friend once remarked that music affects you differently depending on where you are in your life… Yeah.

On the first link above, you can read a few rave reviews including one from a guy who claimed seeing Parker and the Rumour tour for this record was the best live show he EVER saw, and he’s seen hundreds… He wrote, “They played as if their lives depended on it.”

So now I come back to Dave, my friend. Music and Dave… His life does depend on it. Graham Parker is one of his RnR saviors. On June 24th, Dave got to meet the man and catch him live. I love reading Dave just go off on music…

“I’m telling ya (yeah, I’ve raved before about GP, I know), Graham Parker and the Figgs show last night at the Double Door in Wicker Park was one of the best RNR shows I’ve ever — EVER — seen! That makes two GP & The Figgs shows as two of the best ever for me! It just doesn’t get any better. It just doesn’t. The Figgs are one of the tightest pop-rock bands I’ve ever seen, and although I’d seen them three times before last night, they showed that they’re in their prime now as just the Figgs. But backing GP is a whole other story…

I know you guys like GP, or some of GPs stuff, but I also think you would never go out of your way to see him play live. As great as he is solo, if ever you get the chance to see him with the Figgs anywhere from Boston to NY, GO! GO! If you don’t come back thinking you just saw history made in a live show, and that you rocked as hard as you ever have, soaked full of (expletive deleted) sweat, incredulous at what you’ve seen, and ears ringing for a day, I’d reimburse ever (expletive deleted) buck you spent…I promise. Think Jason & The Scorchers in Austin at SXSW at Liberty Lunch. Only there’s 1/4 the crowd and GP, at 56, is (expletive deleted) in your face with a band half his age playing as hard as any rock band can!

Yeah!

D”

Old Man in Sorrow (On the Threshold of Eternity)
Oil on Canvas April-May, 1890
Kröller-Müller Museum, Otterlo – The Netherlands

I felt the anguish of this picture today. This morning I heard both my mother and father crying over the selfish self-destruction of their child. Speaking of lack of appreciation and ignorance, I never really “got” Vincent Van Gogh until today when I saw this while browsing Barnes & Noble with Kyle.

I know it’s not titled a self-portrait like so many others, but it is one. This image perfectly captured Van Gogh’s state of mind for much of his ten year career. Though a young man, he felt old, suffered greatly and longed for the exit.

On July 27, 1890, Vincent and his demons walked out into a desolate field. Wanting to silence them after many years of torment, he put a gun to his chest and pulled the trigger, but even suicide would not be easy. He missed his heart and died from infection two days later. He was 37 years old. His brother cried for him then.

Recently a trove of paintings was found in a warehouse on Long Island. Some believe they may be the work of Jackson Pollock. Here’s one of them. I don’t remember when I first saw a Pollock. I mean one of the swirly, drippy ones like this image that he’s famous for. Whenever it was, I was unimpressed. I felt like any child could do what he did. While that may be true, at the time, Jackson Pollock took expression with pigmented oil to a place it hadn’t been.

Ed Harris, a marvelous and underrated actor, mezmerizes in his portrayal of the artist in the 2000 film he also debuted as a director. It works. He is Pollock. His facination began in 1986 when his Dad gave him a Pollock book for his birthday. In those 14 years he continually studied the artist until he felt he could realistically perform the painting itself. The National Gallery has an online feature including footage of Pollock at work with his own narration. If you see the film, you’ll notice Harris nails it.

Ed Harris’ Pollock completely changed my view of the artist to one of awe. Pollock’s alcoholism and depression made it virtually impossible for him to get out of bed, but he did…to paint. The canvas was his counsel.

This space has received a few visits from this site, so I checked it out and found this cool animated gif.

No idea how he found me…

I woke up this morning feeling pretty good about this:

You know the story. For 86 years the Yankees got the girl and the Red Sox watched them dance. After experiencing nearly forty of those futile years as a fan, I still have a nagging sense of fear of the “Evil Empire,” but it’s waning. The Yankees have a $205M payroll and a barren farm. Last night they looked more like Pedro’s “granddaddies” in a loss fueled by ancient Bernie Williams dropping a routine fly ball. I can only hope their big “trump the Red Sox again” acquisition before the 2004 season becomes their “Curse of Arod.” It’s going pretty well so far.

So now I’m going to say it. The Yankees are done. The mental aspect of baseball is huge, and these guys are permanently damaged from their colossal collapse in the 2004 ALCS. They had the Red Sox buried and they let them up off the mat to get their asses kicked. The New York papers called it the BIGGEST COLLAPSE in the HISTORY OF SPORTS. So it lingers. They have doubts. Their fans have doubts. Roles have been reversed. It’s like the “Anti-George” Seinfeld episode… Hmmm… George… “The Boss.” I wonder how he’s feeling this morning?

Tomorrow is the first day of school vacation for Megan and Kyle. I can only hope they enjoy a summer like one of mine…

On the first day of summer vacation in 1969, a ten year old boy walked sheepishly from 10 Pine Street down to Mapleway Playground, his brown-reddish locks a memory, having been sheared off a couple days earlier by Russ the barber on Main Street, just a couple doors down from the Greenwood Pharmacy and across the street from the Post Office. Yes, his mother had sentenced him to a crew-cut before school got out for the summer, an indignity he no doubt remembers to this day. (He does…) After all, while the look might have been cool for punk kids in ’79, in ’69, a “skinner” got you numerous cuffs off the back of the head to “christen” the new do. Not to mention giggles from the ladies. Thanks, Mom.

The walk to Mapleway was a short one, just down Greenwood Ave and past the mysterious High Street that no one ever dared travel, either because it was too creepy or just too damn steep. Entering the stone gates of the park, he carried the only thing he needed: his prized baseball glove, a Yaz Triple Crown model, ready to track down anything hit to left field.

They played inning after inning that summer and the games blurred from one day to the next. No one ever went home for lunch, but they always stopped when they’d hear the familiar tones of Andy the Ice Cream Man arriving in his square Hood ice cream truck. He always got Italian Ice and made sure the last drippings substituted for pine tar to ensure an iron grip on his favorite wooden Mickey Mantle bat.

One day after break, some of the older kids asked him to pitch in a game on the Little-League sized field. What an honor! These were Little League all-stars or kids already in Babe Ruth. As he toed the rubber, he wondered whether to throw the nasty new deuce or just bring the heat. They didn’t use catchers, so he wasn’t getting any suggestions. After a perfect Jim Lonborg windup, he unleashed the fury. His next act was to grab his mouth and feel for teeth after the batter smoked a line drive right back to his kisser. Incredibly, the chicklets were intact and there was no blood, just a huge blood blister under his upper lip. Welcome to The Show, kid.

He loved to hit, and like the Mick, went up to bat looking to homer “every time.” Unfortunately, there were no outfield fences at Mapleway except for the one shielding the tennis courts in right field of the big field, but it was 350’ away and no ten year old right handed hitters were getting near it. Besides, there usually weren’t enough kids for all positions, so there was a “no hitting to right” rule for the rightys. They hit. They ran. They argued close calls. They climbed the backstop fence to retrieve stuck popups because it was their only good ball. It was an endless summer when every day was Saturday.

Then one day it was Monday, but after that summer of love, his hair had grown back and he could safely return to school for 6th grade.

The American Film Institute has released their “100 Greatest Movie Quotes of all Time.” At #78 is a simple request from the 1968 Stanley Kubrick classic, “2001: A Space Odyssey.” While it didn’t make the list, the dispassionate response of HAL9000 is still priceless, and maybe even more memorable.

For me, it’s a perfect film, blending thoughtful images, words and symbols. In the greatest film transition in the history of the medium, Kubrick brilliantly flashes us forward a million years by throwing us a bone. 2001 isn’t for everyone. It’s slowly paced and does require an investment of some gray matter, not a requirement of the majority of celluloid reels these days.

I still don’t know what happened to Dave at the end, but I still think about it. Isn’t that what art is for?

About a dozen tee-shirts are currently in my wardrobe rotation, primarily adorned at the gym, but some face public scrutiny. Every time I put one on, I sub-consciously pause to consider its source and meaning. My South by Southwest Music Conference tee from ’99 means a lot to me, but why? It is because it symbolizes some indie-music cool I want to convey? Probably.

Of course that clashes badly with my KISS tourshirt from the 2002 tour I saw with Megan, but I had to have it, OK? It’s strictly worn to bed, but not when I have company, if you get my meaning. (Note: Wearing the KISS shirt to bed is currently on a Ripken-like streak…) So, tee-shirts do give us meaning by associating us with things, places, times, accomplishments, institutions or movements. After Massachusetts was the only state to vote McGovern in ’72, I imagine a tee-shirt proclaimed, “Don’t Blame Us.”

Needless to say, if it’s not 100% cotton, throw it away. One of my favorite tee’s is a faux-vintage Red Sox shirt. It’s really getting old and soft and it was purchased long before the historic 2004 season. It says I’m a long suffering fan, well-deserving of the world championship. Some t’s are like Reeses Pieces, gently dropped in time to mark where we’ve been. Even then, I buy in Martha’s Vineyard, but pass in Cleveland. I don’t care if the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame is there. It’s Cleveland.

I have quite a few old teez from my days with NEC. They came in those pressure compressed packages that take about 3 washes to become unwrinkled. They symbolize a job I was really proud of. My contributions to the AFIS division helped “put assholes in jail,” as one of our former customers put so eloquently in front of 1,200 peers…

Finally, always beware of t-shirt gifts. One I received is a personal favorite for its symbolism, but it misses the cotton test by 2% polyester… The gifter obviously believed the image conveyed something about my personality. I think she nailed it if not for that stupid happy face…

What’s your favorite T?