The brain fills with derision and why? and laughter at each campaign by Nike to make ducks, the mascot of the University or Oregon, look macho. As if to taunt everyone, the latest photos are enhanced by samurai plumage that hopefully won’t make it onto the field (these are scholars on the field, remember, and children are a precious resource). Two of the many redonkulous images previewing what the Ducks will be wearing at the Rose Bowl on January 2nd, 2012 against Wisconsin:
And the capper, hoo-boy. Bird species dorkus malorkus:
Doesn’t it look like the little “O” is an eye that follows you everywhere? Uncanny! Walk around the room, it knows where you are and what you’re doing. It KNOWS! View the full series on Nike’s Facebook page. The concept is “The Evolution of Speed”.
Two weeks ago I had a layover in the Minneapolis airport. Yes, THAT airport that tripped (tapped?) up Idaho Senator Larry Craig of the “wide stance” public sex scandal. Four years ago in the overworn, miserable “I’m not homosexual, I love Jesus, hard, but I am only truly happy doing homosexual things with homosexual men” trope.
ANY-hoo, I was taking care of business (I excrete gardenia petals and high-quality maple syrup, unlike you mortals) and an instrumental version of “The 12 Days of Christmas” was playing in the bathroom, LOUDLY. I’d never heard an instrumental version before, have you? ‘Cause it’s horrifying. Think of that song, without the lyrics, the repetitive rounds. “DUN dun dun da dun, DUN dun dun da dun…” And it built up to and went through all twelve rounds. Oy. Nightmarish. So far, I like the holidays and associate them with friends and family (and wistfulness, Christmas songs come in minor keys, too). But that moment was horrible, and for people who don’t have those associations with this holiday I salute you for enduring.
Didn’t get the camera phone in time for “12 Days of Christmas”, but here enjoy a few bars of “Jingle Bells” that followed, with the sounds of dreary travelers around.
December 24, 1986. My family had finished up giving our gifts to each other, the evening was open, and my girlfriend of a year and a half was over to give her present to me. She was excited and proud of it.
My parents that night had given me a CD player, a Very Big Deal. CDs were shimmering circles of beautiful, perfect music without the flaws, skips, nuisances of vinyl LPs and cassettes. CD players had been on the market a year or so, initially for about $2,000. Ever owning the technology seemed out of reach. Yet there we were, my younger brother and I, we each got CD players. This exceeded any concept we had for this Christmas, and we had greedy imaginations.
A new CD player in my happening teen bachelor bedroom, but no music to play on it. What to do? Wait until the next day? Christmas Day. Stores closed. Sorry, bub. TWO days before you can do boo with it.
Sweetheart to the rescue.
SIDETRACK! Ladies need to know that when high school women date college guys, it incurs resentment among high school men. We hate that situation. It renders us weak. We are forced to confront the possibility we have no mating appeal to a female peer of intelligence and self-esteem. To a lesser degree, this also applies to dating a peer outside of the high school. The resentment manifests as jibes about unsavory and anatomically impossible deeds. 25 years later, it occurs to me only now that at this phase of my life when dating a college gal I WAS THAT PERSON (she had graduated the high school the year before). Good golly, I hope that didn’t lead to any aspersions about my sluttiness thrown at someone above my station. Gals are classier than dudes, though. Right? RIGHT? *Whew*
On the radio in 1986, they bragged about how with their high-tech CD deck they could play an entire album without having to pause to flip the disc over. They would dedicate an entire HOUR to let listeners admire a full album played with perfect CD clarity. What? Are we living in Star Trek? CRAZY! Albums were intelligently designed by pop culture gods to only be played one half at a time, in 22 minute bursts before needing to be flipped or followed by a disc suspended above it. Wanted to make out? Turn on the radio and deal with ad interruptions (ever get intimate during a radio spot for acne medication? Seksi time!), or a cassette that could run 30-45 minutes per side before going *click* whirrrrr to auto reverse or stop entirely which demanded a break from whatever was going on (usually homework, Ma, we were good students) to restart, flip (or pull out & replace), then play.
Sweetheart handed over her wrapped square box that was album-sized. Which LPs? Opened the box. It was the 3 CD set: Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band: Live 1975/85. Wha? How? Whoah. WOW!
I didn’t know Springsteen’s music well. Had listened to Born in the U.S.A. a lot. Chortled as Reagan tried to co-opt the title song for his ’84 presidential campaign. Listened to Nebraska a lot. The most melancholy album I had in a collection dominated by Prince, The Police, Air Supply, and ABBA (though given Air Supply songs were all about dreary apologies, maybe they were more depressing). But, THREE CDs? Now? Wasn’t this boxed set, like, $75? How?
She simply did it. Full-time student, and spent most evenings working at a local radio station calling people asking them to rate prospective hit songs. Several friends were at the same job. I did a few shifts. Had some fun aspects, barely above minimum wage. And it meant dealing with getting hit on by sad sack radio d.j.s and managers who thought this little crew of clever young lasses held answers to fill their psycho-emotional chasms.
A $75 CD set meant a lot of work hours, when funds were tight. Having three CDs – where a few hours before having any seemed impossible – was a lot to take in. Considering the amount of time at work that translated to for her bowled me over even more.
The inaugural track we played was “Fire”, a song I had sung to her before imitating Robin Williams imitating Elmer Fudd singing it. Yes, I was a catch. “Born to Run” promo video for the box set is below. No obligation to watch. The cut from Springsteen’s wife at the time, Julianne Phillips, to the backup singer who became Springsteen’s next (and still current) wife Patti Scialfa makes me wonder if the the editor knew a transition was happening. If your time is limited, save it for the second video at the end:
In following years, I collected a lot of music. When I needed scratch, I sold a lot of the CDs. But even when I had stopped listening to Live 1975/85 for months or years, I could never part with it. The music was good, the moment of its gifting even grander. And it has paid dividends each decade.
Many friends are surprised that I don’t know much about Tom Waits. He’s an interesting actor. I bought & liked his album Bone Machine when Peter Gabriel touted it and the single “I Don’t Want to Grow Up” when hosting 120 Minutes on MTV. I watched him perform a few times on Late Night with David Letterman. But Bruce Springsteen’s cover of Waits’ “Jersey Girl” and the affection and enthusiasm in the crowd reaction first put Waits on my cultural radar. A proud song. Great. So, while not a Waits aficionado, I have never changed the music player when a Waits song comes on. Here he tells a charming, seedy story then gets to “Jersey Girl”:
He’s like a neighbor I’ve chatted amiably with a few times . Maybe we’ll hang out some day. And for that prospect — the assurance of great art nearby ready to encounter when needing a sense of triumph or wail or growl (or all three) — I have a magnificent present from 1986 to thank. Still grateful. Still awed that even in 2011, $75 means a lot of money and time, yet that gift has trounced more expensive gifts that did not hit the mark so well.
“Jersey Girl” and “I Don’t Want to Grow Up” are the only Waits karaoke songs I could do, but they would be done with feeling. And that is better than no Waits songs.
Cheers. Merry Christmas and happy holidays to you and yours.
My third (and fourth) Prince concert one right after the other. The first was in the Tacoma Dome in Washington. No opening act, two solid hours of hits. No tracks from new albums that he’s selling. A cover of “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” was a highlight. Prince and Michael Jackson had some mild back and forths over the 80s and 90s. Who knew Prince would end up the normal(ish) one?
Then got word of one of Prince’s common after-party shows which go late into the evening/morning. Got to the club in Seattle about 1:00 a.m. A house band was playing (and doing well). Then about an hour of a d.j. Then Prince’s band took the stage and worked the crowd for 45 minutes until Prince finally arrived. The only Prince “hit” played was “Musicology”, everything else was covers or jams. They were really good, including legendary saxophonist Maceo Parker. Prince didn’t take his sunglasses off the while time and left after an hour. About half the show I was dancing in place next to a young hippie dude with long strangly hair who felt obliged to loudly show how much he felt the groove by going “Woooo!” several times and doing a excited lean forward, lean back rocking twice every 4/4 measure in a way only done by demonstrative hippies and the mentally infirm with excited or anxious. Met up with a colleague from work, who sagely and kindly got a bottle of water for herself, for me, and her lifelong friend who is very funny.
Prince left about 3:50. Crowd inferred he wasn’t coming back when his band also packed up. Got in the car at 4:00 and drove 25 minutes to get back to the hotel in Tacoma.
During the big show, Prince asked “Do any of you remember the 80s?” It got a big roar. That decade would have been much better without that son of a bitch Reagan. Anyway, Prince seemed more interested and curious about the more free-form music after-party concert. Must be a slight drag being a jukebox, but he’s really good at it.
“When Doves Cry” and enough lens flares to be in the new ‘Star Trek’ movie.
“Purple Rain” showered us all in … strips of gold tinsel and purple crepe paper.
Prince has left the building.
At the club, NO PHOTOS OR VIDEOS WERE ALLOWED OF ANY KIND. Signs posted all over, announcements made from the stage, policy mentioned by bouncers at the pat-down. Didn’t keep assholes on two occasions from trying to take photos by holding their brightly illuminated rectangles high into the air above everyone’s heads for several seconds. It could not have been made handier of the security guards, who within a few seconds had their flashlights triangulate to pinpoint the sloppy guerilla photographer and bounce the person out. There ARE sneakier ways to take photos without holding a bright lamp over your head, kids.
Prince residue/holy relic. My dog suspects I have a treat for her in my hand (she was to be disappointed).
While on a plane, I watched an old CSPAN-2 Book TV episode of “In Depth” with Gore Vidal. It’s three hours, and I’ve watched it several times. Many layers of “nerrrrrd” to unpack, but do not be fooled – the amount of pop culture junk food I binge on would destroy the liver and kidneys of a typical person.
His statement in this excerpt struck me, as I’d been on a fiction writing jag that’s probably not for public consumption, a spin off from my main project very much about creatively processing some ideas rolling around trying to figure out where my thoughts are:
“Generally, I find one writes to find out what one thinks. I find that if I don’t write, I don’t think. I just sensate.”
Thanks to Fanny C. for recommending a book of poetry: Rebel Angels, 25 Poets of the New Formalism. I’ve been making slow progress, but have stopped and lurched backward to re-read this poem several times. It’s not sophisticated, but it’s stuck.
Julia AlvarezWoman’s Work by Julia Alvarez
Who says a woman’s work isn’t high art? She’d challenge as she scrubbed the bathroom tiles. Keep house as if the address were your heart.
We’d clean the whole upstairs before we’d start downstairs. I’d sigh, hearing my friends outside. Doing her woman’s work was a hard art
to practice when the summer sun would bar the floor I swept till she was satisfied. She kept me prisoner in her housebound heart.
She’d shine the tines of forks, the wheels of carts, cut lacy lattices for all her pies. Her woman’s work was nothing less than art.
And I, her masterpiece since I was smart, was primed, praised, polished, scolded and advised to keep a house much better than my heart.
I did not want to be her counterpart! I struck out. . .but became my mother’s child: a woman working at home on her art, housekeeping paper as if it were her heart.
For my part, didn’t grow up with a Mom who was so fastidious, or LIVED so much through housework. My parents (split home-ish-ness, but consolidating everyone for simplicity’s sake) put an emphasis on us kids doing chores and housekeeping so we would not be totally useless when we left the nest. Seems obvious and common, but how many people/roommates have we known who moved away from home with little or no household skills?
The poem is a manifesto, but my place in life is not summed up in the last stanza, though in time it may be. While sputtering in my writing projects, I see my 8 y/o daughter taking an interest in writing story ideas or phrases in a journal she has, she’s made several observations over the years about seeing me write, and both kids sometimes ask about the state of my writing projects.
I wonder if I’m role modeling for her. If she’ll see my taking spare moments to write as an acceptable norm, a habit for her to build on. If my life is an intermediary step for any greater successes she may have. That’s fine with me. I’d be proud to see it.
Went with the family to watch Hugo, a movie we all enjoyed. Nice to watch a kids film that didn’t feel obliged to make rapid fire jokes with pop cultural references to get an easy laugh of recognition without requiring any wit (HATE that!). Hugo is about art, cinema (ekphrasis alert!), orphans, inspiration. As portrayed in the film, all Parisians have British accents. Good to know! Will British ribbing of the French ever cease? Sascha Baron Cohen does a good job as a demi-villain, too. Oscar nomination for Best Picture seems likely.
Although, for less than a second, during a tumult in a Paris train station, JAMES JOYCE makes an appearance in a café! For this dormant Joycean, a pleasing touch.
On the way back home in the car, the kids insisted on listening to The Book of Mormon soundtrack. I am very proud when they start singing along. I skipped playing the song “Hasa Diga Ebowai” which has lyrics like “Fuck you god, in the ass, mouth, and cunt. Fuck you in the eye.” (with a bouncy melody!). They asked why I skipped it (which they’ve heard before).
My 11 y/o son: “Is it because of the bad words?” I said: “Yes, and it’s because your Mom is in the car and I don’t want to shock her.” That turned into a sarcastic flurry with me asking the kids in the back seat things like: “So, you’re telling me you kids continue to make good decisions about what words to use, and when, and don’t feel the need to say dirty words at every single opportunity?” When the joshing subsided, I STILL did not play the song. In role modeling that authority often involves erratic rules, my children are learning important life lessons.
We DID listen to the song “Man Up”, which has the line “Christ, he manned up.” Son asked what that was about. After a few seconds to compose my thoughts, I summarized the story of Jesus Christ’s passion, the crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension in neutral language in about a minute and a half! Yes, I am bragging about that, have EARNED it, and…
Male baton twirler with the Oregon State University marching band in their halftime show against Oregon November 26. They lost 49-21. It’s a fair guess this baton twirlrer didn’t really give a shit about that.
My baton casts a glamor spell on the throngs stacked all around and above me in the stands. Eyes on me, drawn to my poise and flash as schoolmates waddle with bulk strapped to their trunks. I am unencumbered. I interpret the music. Many watch to thwart me, to hope I drop the baton. I will not let them win. I am here to instill triumph for those who trust in me. I am not asked to show my legs like my more common baton twirling sisters. Just as well as my legshow would incur mass envy. I am slim. I am quick. I can toss and catch on the beat. I am strong. I am fierce. I twirl the baton as a goddamned man. I am a warrior.
On a two hour road trip this weekend, we played through three Wiggles albums for the first time in years. Fun was had by all, nostalgia was had by three (two parents and son – our daughter born three years later grew up with non-Wiggles music).
The Wiggles are a four-person music-for-kiddies group formed in Australia. Three of the four were early childhood educators, and it shows in their songs. Not brilliant music, but they make an effort to sing about healthful eating, safety lessons, other cultures, and silly things.
Around 2001, we bought a Wiggles videotape and watched it over and over. As our son danced with happiness, and I often danced with him, we adults made short back stories as grown-up minds are wont to do during kid shows. The leader, Greg (yellow shirt), was an affable dork on the surface who subtly but effectively rebuffed any attempt by other Wiggles to take the lead. Anthony (originally green shirt, then blue, and the first Captain Feathersword ’til they found another actor) was a lothario, a permanent beta who WANTED to take charge but couldn’t stop carousing enough at night to pull a coup together during the day. Murray (red shirt) was even dorkier than Greg, and just wanted everyone to get along. Jeff (purple shirt) was a political prisoner held against his will. These backstories/coping mechanisms kept us amused for years.
We took our son to see The Wiggles when he was about two. Great energy in the theater full of toddlers and happy parents. Murray even made it up to the balcony to say hi and delight the kids.
Greg had to leave after several rampantly successful years with shows in many countries, including choice placement on the Disney Channel and huge tours. He had a cardiac problem. He was replaced, but we didn’t track The Wiggles past that point.
But enough of my yakkin’, let’s boogie.
“Hot Potato” is The Wiggles version of “Satisfaction”. If they didn’t perform this song dutifully for their fans, riots may erupt. Video features the friendly pirate Captain Feathersword (he’s the pirate with the feather sword) and “Paul” a chef-looking dude who must be a mate of theirs in real life:
Less fun (because they’re all sitting) but a better tune is “Fruit Salad”. To continue the Stones analogy, it’s their “Honky Tonk Women”.
Close to my favorite song is “Shaky Shaky”. Video quality here is shoddy (alas, friendly pirated media!) but it’s an Elvis nod. When watching the Disney Channel was a daily occurrence in our home, I noted Disney aired this bit on Elvis’ birthday and the anniversary of his death. Clip is enhanced by the sounds of a toddler in the room:
Yes, I did want to be a Wiggle, and eight or nine years ago would have been ready to don a colored shirt and hit the ground running. Though I’ve fallen out of practice, if called I will serve. Hope you are taking it easy, Greg. And good work. Beauty, mate!
