I was in a mad search for Emerson Lake and Palmer's work I Believe in Father Christmas for the longest time simply because I'd only heard it two or three times in my youth and then once again around 1995...
The odd thing was there seemed to be no end of blogs, lists, links and general music sites that had their tomes to tell, both pro and con, to the song.
What intrigued me while I searched through some of the sites was the level of dim stupidity of some of the writers that saw 'Father Christmas' as "anti-Christmas".
To tell the truth- like many a pop song; sure it has a resonance of a jaded individual fed up with "Jesus this" and "Manger that" but that shows the duplicitously closed mind of the religious right and the anti-religious's zealous notion that there was yet another Christian hating artist they could put on their Holiday playlist and feel triumphant at not having to listen to something with the heinous word "Jesus" in it.
I'd point to these people both pro and con and tell them to get a life- but then, here I am writing in my own blog ont he very subject... Let's have a look at the lyrics- bear with me, I promise to have a relatively fresh look for you...
They said there'll be snow at Christmas
They said there'll be peace on earth
But instead it just kept on raining
A veil of tears for the virgin birth.
I remember one Christmas morning
A Winters light and the distant choir
And the peal of a bell and that Christmas tree smell
Eyes full a tinsel and fire.
They sold me a dream of Christmas
They sold me a silent night
They told me a fairy story
Till I believed in the Israelite.
And I believed in Father Christmas
I looked to the sky with excited eyes
Than I woke with a yawn in the first light of dawn
And I saw him through his disguise.
I wish you a hopeful Christmas
I wish you a brave new year
All anguish, pain, and sadness
Leave your heart and let your road be clear.
They said there'd be snow at Christmas
They said there'd be peace on earth.
Hallelujah, Noel, Be it heaven or hell,
The Christmas we get we deserve.
Okay- now if we followed the most popular Google inculcation of the song, we'd all believe that ELP was a gaggle of Christian hating antisemitic rockers with a "moral" message assuaging the glories of the holiday. The particular entry even tries to point out the intonation of the song by comparing the lyrics to his/her interpretation of them...
Well, first off- the "child" that wrote his prose on the subject claims that every radio station in America plays this song every Christmas- if that's the case where have I been for the last 30 years? I remember when it debuted, and I barely heard it since.
One of the things that makes art what it is- is not only what it says "now" but what it says "later".
The first passage is actually an alliteration to the Vietnam war. A soldier would feel every bit the emotions of that first passage- there seems to be a lot of truth in it- change some of the lyrics to refer to sand and you might have today...
The second set of lyrics makes reference to the beauty of childhood and the experiences of cognizant realizations about Christmas- even if only in the mind of a child- but the passage is referential of the past- this is forlorning. Put another way, one could say "The remembrance of youth is a sigh".
The third phrase is that of a person that DISCOVERS Christ. He was sold the story of a man with a beard- which he believed until he learned of another "reason for the season" It melds into the fourth phrase which speaks of a new enlightenment that takes him from the world of a child to that of a cognizant person who understands the gift of this baby in a manger...
The fifth phrase is that of sincerity- previous authors that see this as chidedness or some form of sarcasm see it only in their own hearts- nothing you'd tell them would or will change that.
The last phrase is actually forshadow.
"The Christmas we get we deserve". Whether Santa, The Manger, or nothing but warm eggnog laced with rum or strychnine, we must choose to place ourselves in this world and the Christmas season bears us the privilege of hindsight, foresight and reflection on the here and now.
Whether profited, squandered, learned or ignored, we truly do get the Christmas we deserve...
I continue to be: Russ
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Monday, November 21, 2005
Giving Thanks
The holidays are upon us...
Granted, we'd survived Halloween already- so The Holidays, more truthfully, are already in full swing.
Halloween for me as a kid was an interlude to the monthly addition of Thanksgiving, Christmas and eventually New years. You didn't get a day off for Halloween and more-n-more these days with the "sensibilities" [read: Political Correctness] of religious fearmongering, Halloween is almost extinct. So, though Halloween counts- it doesn't figure nearly as prevalently in my mind as all the others...
Ah, but then there's Thanksgiving...
Now that's a holiday for me.
Here's the funny part- I actually preferred Thanksgiving, not because of the Macy's parade or the turkey on the table, or any of that Norman Rockwell wholesomeness- no, I preferred this holiday because it was the first time since summer that I might get to see my cousin Eric.
I came from a family of nomads. No doubt about it- when Clan Rose took off from the Scottish Lowlands to Ireland, and from there to America I don't think until my Grandfather [or perhaps his father] did my family tree ever settle down. The only dichotomy to this story is that my cousin Eric was associated to me by family only in marriage- you see, he was my Stepmother's nephew...
At any rate, the reason for mentioning the Nomadic reference was that Eric's family also seemed to be destined for some of that roaming lifestyle. There was the longest time that he lived in Oklahoma [if I'm correct, he still does] and my only chance to see him was when he'd come over for a certain amount of the summer and most of the major holidays.
He was my "first" cousin as I had no extended relatives from my parents that I was aware. And, of course, he was closer to my twin and my age. Add to that the same sense of twisted humor [even back when we were prepubescent] and a fresh viewpoint...
There was never a time I can think of to this day, that I didn't treasure.
He has his own kids now. I have mine.
He [from what I remember] is still living in Oklahoma, I now live in Florida.
The last time I saw him was around 2002 or 2003, and the time we would have spent together was spent trying to make the rounds so that we felt that no one had been overlooked or ignored. Stifle that time with tending to our own families and their needs, our time together only mattered in minutes.
But, though I won't see him [or most anyone else] this holiday season, I'll still carry those youthful, wide-eyed memories of suacer gun battles and playing poker in the attic crawlspace, with the doors locked so all our "little cousins" would leave us alone.
If my Blog entry title is to have meaning, I'd have to say that it's not the forlorning of what I had that would make this holiday special. My time of fascination has given way to basting turkeys and making sure nobody burns my pies.
No; for me giving Thanks will be making sure that my son [and soon expected daughter] will have those same opportunities. Those same wide-eyed expressions. Those cousins and sisters and brothers to want for and gleefully play together, slowly to one day look back and realize what this was all about.
For me; the transition to the most powerful of expressions has finally been granted. I now hold in my hand [along with "Momma Bear"] the power to make memories for our children. As our parents and grandparents before us provided the foundation and safe environment for us to lose ourselves from our daily rituals and enjoy our relatives- now it's time for me to pick up that torch and light the way for mine.
It's not easy, this change in roles.
But it is necessary.
Peace be with you all. Especially those far from us. The holidays are tough with no one else arround- they're even tougher alone.
I continue to be: Russ
Granted, we'd survived Halloween already- so The Holidays, more truthfully, are already in full swing.
Halloween for me as a kid was an interlude to the monthly addition of Thanksgiving, Christmas and eventually New years. You didn't get a day off for Halloween and more-n-more these days with the "sensibilities" [read: Political Correctness] of religious fearmongering, Halloween is almost extinct. So, though Halloween counts- it doesn't figure nearly as prevalently in my mind as all the others...
Ah, but then there's Thanksgiving...
Now that's a holiday for me.
Here's the funny part- I actually preferred Thanksgiving, not because of the Macy's parade or the turkey on the table, or any of that Norman Rockwell wholesomeness- no, I preferred this holiday because it was the first time since summer that I might get to see my cousin Eric.
I came from a family of nomads. No doubt about it- when Clan Rose took off from the Scottish Lowlands to Ireland, and from there to America I don't think until my Grandfather [or perhaps his father] did my family tree ever settle down. The only dichotomy to this story is that my cousin Eric was associated to me by family only in marriage- you see, he was my Stepmother's nephew...
At any rate, the reason for mentioning the Nomadic reference was that Eric's family also seemed to be destined for some of that roaming lifestyle. There was the longest time that he lived in Oklahoma [if I'm correct, he still does] and my only chance to see him was when he'd come over for a certain amount of the summer and most of the major holidays.
He was my "first" cousin as I had no extended relatives from my parents that I was aware. And, of course, he was closer to my twin and my age. Add to that the same sense of twisted humor [even back when we were prepubescent] and a fresh viewpoint...
There was never a time I can think of to this day, that I didn't treasure.
He has his own kids now. I have mine.
He [from what I remember] is still living in Oklahoma, I now live in Florida.
The last time I saw him was around 2002 or 2003, and the time we would have spent together was spent trying to make the rounds so that we felt that no one had been overlooked or ignored. Stifle that time with tending to our own families and their needs, our time together only mattered in minutes.
But, though I won't see him [or most anyone else] this holiday season, I'll still carry those youthful, wide-eyed memories of suacer gun battles and playing poker in the attic crawlspace, with the doors locked so all our "little cousins" would leave us alone.
If my Blog entry title is to have meaning, I'd have to say that it's not the forlorning of what I had that would make this holiday special. My time of fascination has given way to basting turkeys and making sure nobody burns my pies.
No; for me giving Thanks will be making sure that my son [and soon expected daughter] will have those same opportunities. Those same wide-eyed expressions. Those cousins and sisters and brothers to want for and gleefully play together, slowly to one day look back and realize what this was all about.
For me; the transition to the most powerful of expressions has finally been granted. I now hold in my hand [along with "Momma Bear"] the power to make memories for our children. As our parents and grandparents before us provided the foundation and safe environment for us to lose ourselves from our daily rituals and enjoy our relatives- now it's time for me to pick up that torch and light the way for mine.
It's not easy, this change in roles.
But it is necessary.
Peace be with you all. Especially those far from us. The holidays are tough with no one else arround- they're even tougher alone.
I continue to be: Russ
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Coke Classic
Just when you thought it was safe to come out from under the fad blocking bed comes the one thing a middle-aged man desperately doesn't want to confront... The resurgence of his youth as a pop icon.
I remember [God, I really am sounding old! I'm starting off stories like my grandfather would!] the 1970s when there was a popular resurfacing of all things 50s... George Lucas had struck a nerve [not to mention a vein of gold at the box office] with his film American graffiti... Soon following in those footsteps was TV and musicals delving into the idealized memories of the post war 1950s- even hoopskirts and James Dean haircuts looked to be fashionable [of a sort] for a while.
Remember of course that this was the 1970s... The decade inventors of cocaine "The Drug That's Not Addictive!", drop in, light up and drop out were common sayings and counter culture comic books were the rage.
At some point I lost track of what pop iconographic elements we'd pay homage to while an older kid and then a young adult through the 1980s... With Raiders of The Lost Ark we had the resurgence of the Fedora- and films like Blade Runner defined style that was decidedly retro 40s...
Bottling the ends of this rant- I happened to catch the Saturday Night Live "1980s" reunion type program just the other night and it caught me... I'm getting nostalgic.
I wasn't too hip to the new SNL cast back in 1980 to 82- it would seem that most anyone else wasn't either. The original cast was the best- perhaps logically if not fanatically but I didn't pick up on the whole SNL decade that made up the 1980s and now I'm wishing I had.
I saw bands that by today's analysis are relegated to convention; but, oh were they blossoming under the light of pop stardom at the time... Tom Petty, Fine Young Cannibals, Freddy Mercury, The Cowboy Junkies [Sweet Jane]... People of my time I suppose.
Perhaps it was the world of music that I grew up within, that draws me back to the lyrics in those very self-same tunes; their echoes of a new sound then, showcasing their shadows and relegated anonymity in today's harsh, forgetful world. When Billy Joel sang of his iconic character and being asked to play a tune for an aged gentleman who remembered a song "sad and it's sweet, I knew it complete- when I wore a younger man's clothes..."
I'm beginning to empathize with that old man.
We say we're not like wolves, that we tend to those fading from today; but quite frankly we do leave the dead of the pack behind- all one has to do is look at the pop icons of yesterday-year to see that.
Heaven help me I miss Magnum PI, ABC [look it up- it's a band...], Howard Jones and Bill Cosby trying to hawk the benefits of "New Coke".
I miss Prince in all his Purpleness. I miss parachute pants. I miss hair bands, I miss Gremlins.
I miss Lame'!! Versace, I couldn't care less that you were gay; you gave me reason to live when I'd see a woman dressed in that glistening plastic/nylon golden, or silver cloth! God bless you where-ever you are!
I even miss women wearing those little pump/boot combo shoes [there was a decidedly less glamorous name for them- ask your parents kiddies- I'm sure they'll tell you about them...].
Gosh darn-it, I miss the 80s- but glamorizing that decade defies analysis simply because it already defied the self same microscope back then.
Yeah, to some this is an old man's bchnmoan- maybe it is...
And heaven forbid I should quote another line from a Billy Joel song, but he was right [and I'm sure he got the notion from somebody wiser than him, but not so wise to make a song around it!]...
"The good old days weren't always good, and tomorrow ain't as bad as it seems..."
I continue to be: Russ
I remember [God, I really am sounding old! I'm starting off stories like my grandfather would!] the 1970s when there was a popular resurfacing of all things 50s... George Lucas had struck a nerve [not to mention a vein of gold at the box office] with his film American graffiti... Soon following in those footsteps was TV and musicals delving into the idealized memories of the post war 1950s- even hoopskirts and James Dean haircuts looked to be fashionable [of a sort] for a while.
Remember of course that this was the 1970s... The decade inventors of cocaine "The Drug That's Not Addictive!", drop in, light up and drop out were common sayings and counter culture comic books were the rage.
At some point I lost track of what pop iconographic elements we'd pay homage to while an older kid and then a young adult through the 1980s... With Raiders of The Lost Ark we had the resurgence of the Fedora- and films like Blade Runner defined style that was decidedly retro 40s...
Bottling the ends of this rant- I happened to catch the Saturday Night Live "1980s" reunion type program just the other night and it caught me... I'm getting nostalgic.
I wasn't too hip to the new SNL cast back in 1980 to 82- it would seem that most anyone else wasn't either. The original cast was the best- perhaps logically if not fanatically but I didn't pick up on the whole SNL decade that made up the 1980s and now I'm wishing I had.
I saw bands that by today's analysis are relegated to convention; but, oh were they blossoming under the light of pop stardom at the time... Tom Petty, Fine Young Cannibals, Freddy Mercury, The Cowboy Junkies [Sweet Jane]... People of my time I suppose.
Perhaps it was the world of music that I grew up within, that draws me back to the lyrics in those very self-same tunes; their echoes of a new sound then, showcasing their shadows and relegated anonymity in today's harsh, forgetful world. When Billy Joel sang of his iconic character and being asked to play a tune for an aged gentleman who remembered a song "sad and it's sweet, I knew it complete- when I wore a younger man's clothes..."
I'm beginning to empathize with that old man.
We say we're not like wolves, that we tend to those fading from today; but quite frankly we do leave the dead of the pack behind- all one has to do is look at the pop icons of yesterday-year to see that.
Heaven help me I miss Magnum PI, ABC [look it up- it's a band...], Howard Jones and Bill Cosby trying to hawk the benefits of "New Coke".
I miss Prince in all his Purpleness. I miss parachute pants. I miss hair bands, I miss Gremlins.
I miss Lame'!! Versace, I couldn't care less that you were gay; you gave me reason to live when I'd see a woman dressed in that glistening plastic/nylon golden, or silver cloth! God bless you where-ever you are!
I even miss women wearing those little pump/boot combo shoes [there was a decidedly less glamorous name for them- ask your parents kiddies- I'm sure they'll tell you about them...].
Gosh darn-it, I miss the 80s- but glamorizing that decade defies analysis simply because it already defied the self same microscope back then.
Yeah, to some this is an old man's bchnmoan- maybe it is...
And heaven forbid I should quote another line from a Billy Joel song, but he was right [and I'm sure he got the notion from somebody wiser than him, but not so wise to make a song around it!]...
"The good old days weren't always good, and tomorrow ain't as bad as it seems..."
I continue to be: Russ
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
New Spin on an Olde Topic
There's a joke that's been floating around, probably for ages, that pits atheists against God...
Believe or disbelieve; the power of the story is surely debatable if not undeniable.
Now, before I go much further, let's just get out in the open my side of this story.
I happen to be a "believer". If that's troubling to you that just can't stomach such "ancient" deliberations, all I'll ask is that you get used to it. I'm certainly used to you.
Those that want to gripe about "expression" from a Constitutional standpoint seem to forget that the line is "Freedom OF Religion" not 'Freedom FROM Religion". If you think you're a junior lawyer type because you took Social Studies 101 at the local community college- belly up to Russ's bar here and drink like an adult. Trust me when I tell you, you'll be puking in the corner when I'm done with you.
Tell you what; I'll take this a step further and come to a compromise with you God haters...
I'll keep loving Jesus in my quiet indominatable way and not rub your nose in it- and you can continue to disavow there's any God and that your life is totally under your own control; but you have to shut your yap if I choose to bless my meal- capice?
Either way, you'll be insulted with my story and that's just too bad. You see, if in your Godless realm you're insulted by the medieval likes of me, who's really the fool here? This is a story that can have either professing their "right" or cause and neither is the worse off. I suppose we'll see.
On with the story...
Take any college campus in America- your choice, this story has it's roots planted in every Ivy League and small city college all over the world- so where isn't important.
At "X College" a Morals and Ethics professor decided one day to shock his beleaguered students with the ultimate act of defiance. He was going to prove that god did not exist.
Having announced this to the throng of students, the auditorium went morgue silent- all attention was drawn to the professor and his willful act of catrission.
"God- if you do exist, I demand that you prove yourself by acting out upon me..." he began.
Noting the bug eyed expression of many in the large room, he smirked as he continued.
"If you truly do exist- knock me off this pulpit! I am but one man and defy you to prove your existence! I will only give you fifteen minutes to prove your power over me!"
As the captive audience sat dumbfounded the professor flipped his jacket sleeves in a flourished ruffle and continued on with his lesson plan. By the time 5 minutes had passed he paused for a moment, mockingly looked to the heavens and pronounced, "Ten minutes, God! You've got ten minutes to show yourself and knock me off this pulpit!"
Without even so much as an acknowledgement that he'd said such a thing, the professor continued on with [insert morals or ethical study here]. Again, after another 5 minutes, the professor grinned an evil grin and shouted at the ceiling...
"God- you're trying my patience! If you exist, you have a lousy way of showing it! You have 5 minutes to show yourself or I'll have proved my point that you don't exist!"
With two minutes left in the professor's "God Countdown Showdown" he placed his arms in a faux crucifix style and taunted God to reveal himself.
Then came the final 30 seconds.
Exuding all manner of braggadocio, the professor began a countdown with the mark of 30 seconds.
Off in the corner as the count reached 25, a lone figure was seen walking from the middle of the auditorium, his expression only that of calm, quiet, determination.
The countdown still filed in ernest, the professor mockingly dripping his cadence with sarcasm and droll wit. The lone figure was just short of the pulpit as the count reached 'ten'.
At the count of three, the figure was immediately upon the professor cocked back and administering a rock solid punch to the forehead of the professor, just as the count reached "one".
There the professor layed, sprawled on the floor of the pulpit, out cold. The lone figure sharply turning and taking an open seat at the very front of auditorium, as close as he could be to the now unconscious professor.
Again, everyone in the auditorium were silent, gawking, mouths agape at the sight they had all just witnessed.
Eventually the professor regained his senses, if not his composure, and scowled at the silent, yet strangely meek young man across from him.
"What the hell did you do that for?" The professor blurted. "I was trying to prove a point!"
With all candor, the young man spoke, "God couldn't come to the pulpit right now, he's currently out protecting my brothers and sisters who's lives have been shed and are in harm's way so that you can spout off that drivel."
"Brothers and Sisters?!" The Professor sputters. "What are you, some kind of Jesus freak? Brothers and sisters indeed!"
The young man sadly smiles, "Since God couldn't come right away to accept your call, he sent me."
"What makes you think you're so special you impudent thug?" The Professor mocks.
"I guess you could say that God wanted to send you the very best. I was a United States Navy SEAL. He wanted to be sure you got HIS point."
I continue to be: Russ
Believe or disbelieve; the power of the story is surely debatable if not undeniable.
Now, before I go much further, let's just get out in the open my side of this story.
I happen to be a "believer". If that's troubling to you that just can't stomach such "ancient" deliberations, all I'll ask is that you get used to it. I'm certainly used to you.
Those that want to gripe about "expression" from a Constitutional standpoint seem to forget that the line is "Freedom OF Religion" not 'Freedom FROM Religion". If you think you're a junior lawyer type because you took Social Studies 101 at the local community college- belly up to Russ's bar here and drink like an adult. Trust me when I tell you, you'll be puking in the corner when I'm done with you.
Tell you what; I'll take this a step further and come to a compromise with you God haters...
I'll keep loving Jesus in my quiet indominatable way and not rub your nose in it- and you can continue to disavow there's any God and that your life is totally under your own control; but you have to shut your yap if I choose to bless my meal- capice?
Either way, you'll be insulted with my story and that's just too bad. You see, if in your Godless realm you're insulted by the medieval likes of me, who's really the fool here? This is a story that can have either professing their "right" or cause and neither is the worse off. I suppose we'll see.
On with the story...
Take any college campus in America- your choice, this story has it's roots planted in every Ivy League and small city college all over the world- so where isn't important.
At "X College" a Morals and Ethics professor decided one day to shock his beleaguered students with the ultimate act of defiance. He was going to prove that god did not exist.
Having announced this to the throng of students, the auditorium went morgue silent- all attention was drawn to the professor and his willful act of catrission.
"God- if you do exist, I demand that you prove yourself by acting out upon me..." he began.
Noting the bug eyed expression of many in the large room, he smirked as he continued.
"If you truly do exist- knock me off this pulpit! I am but one man and defy you to prove your existence! I will only give you fifteen minutes to prove your power over me!"
As the captive audience sat dumbfounded the professor flipped his jacket sleeves in a flourished ruffle and continued on with his lesson plan. By the time 5 minutes had passed he paused for a moment, mockingly looked to the heavens and pronounced, "Ten minutes, God! You've got ten minutes to show yourself and knock me off this pulpit!"
Without even so much as an acknowledgement that he'd said such a thing, the professor continued on with [insert morals or ethical study here]. Again, after another 5 minutes, the professor grinned an evil grin and shouted at the ceiling...
"God- you're trying my patience! If you exist, you have a lousy way of showing it! You have 5 minutes to show yourself or I'll have proved my point that you don't exist!"
With two minutes left in the professor's "God Countdown Showdown" he placed his arms in a faux crucifix style and taunted God to reveal himself.
Then came the final 30 seconds.
Exuding all manner of braggadocio, the professor began a countdown with the mark of 30 seconds.
Off in the corner as the count reached 25, a lone figure was seen walking from the middle of the auditorium, his expression only that of calm, quiet, determination.
The countdown still filed in ernest, the professor mockingly dripping his cadence with sarcasm and droll wit. The lone figure was just short of the pulpit as the count reached 'ten'.
At the count of three, the figure was immediately upon the professor cocked back and administering a rock solid punch to the forehead of the professor, just as the count reached "one".
There the professor layed, sprawled on the floor of the pulpit, out cold. The lone figure sharply turning and taking an open seat at the very front of auditorium, as close as he could be to the now unconscious professor.
Again, everyone in the auditorium were silent, gawking, mouths agape at the sight they had all just witnessed.
Eventually the professor regained his senses, if not his composure, and scowled at the silent, yet strangely meek young man across from him.
"What the hell did you do that for?" The professor blurted. "I was trying to prove a point!"
With all candor, the young man spoke, "God couldn't come to the pulpit right now, he's currently out protecting my brothers and sisters who's lives have been shed and are in harm's way so that you can spout off that drivel."
"Brothers and Sisters?!" The Professor sputters. "What are you, some kind of Jesus freak? Brothers and sisters indeed!"
The young man sadly smiles, "Since God couldn't come right away to accept your call, he sent me."
"What makes you think you're so special you impudent thug?" The Professor mocks.
"I guess you could say that God wanted to send you the very best. I was a United States Navy SEAL. He wanted to be sure you got HIS point."
I continue to be: Russ
Friday, November 04, 2005
Land of The Dead
I don't know if one could call this particular feeling I've been having as a form of enlightenment, or just an amusing notion played out to it's inevitable conclusions.
There's been a few films out recently that are commonly referred to as "survival horror" genre movies. George Romero kind of created the genre with the release of his low budget cult classic Night of the Living Dead, which not only put him on the map- but had the strange ability to put Pittsburgh back on the map as well.
The Survival Horror movie usually revolves around a mismatched group of desperate people trying to fend off, outrun, or otherwise stay one step ahead of an ever increasing army of "X".
"X" tends to be the one variable factor that's unleashed on our hapless group of heroes and heroines- they can be anything from acid bleeding xenomorphs [Aliens] to the living dead I'd mentioned earlier. The idea being that this allows the audience to be voyueristically compelled into a human relations character study by placing The Human Condition into an extreme environment or event and noting the reactions played out between the survivors.
The oddity I want to present to you fine readers, is simply this- "Do you ever catch yourself playing out this scenario in your own day-to-day life?"
There's a line in most of these "undead" movies that has one character noting to another "These dead people keep walking around acting like they're alive."
Only to be followed with the retort, "You call what we're doing living? Isn't this nothing more than an act?"
Have you ever had a day so mundane that you were able to step out of it and notice the milling and shuffling of the people around you? Depending on your area of the country [planet?] and whether you're in a rural, urban or suburban setting; this could play out one of many ways...
Could something be said about yourself as a survival character in these regards? Granted, it's all play- and what you think you see in yourself, real or imagined, could be played out as your own character study.
Would you go the mindset of The Survivalist- plotting your barricade, your food stores and your escape methods from your office building in the event the undead start looking for brains... Or perhaps you're the Thunder Road type, where only constantly moving with the wind in your hair and the zombies too far back to even care...
Now for the Zen-Taoist part to this post...
Have you looked around yourself and started noting your friends and acquaintances and then taking tally of who would survive and who would become chowder? Now there's an interesting perspective on not only yourself- but on how you perceive others!
Now- taking this just one more step further; have you looked around and noted your location, your perspective on the day and then whether you see any difference between The Living and The Existing..?
Do you see yourself as Alive, [vibrant, involved, engaged] or simply alive [existing, breathing, using up oxygen and space]?
George Romero has said in an interview that his films revolve around The Problem. Whether social discourse, racism, yuppie-ism any number of "isms" out there; the undertone to his films were to expose and confront The Problem. Many times to a gruesome and otherwise ugly truth.
The scary part is, that whatever "ism" is exposed within the mise-en-scene of these films, the survivors are only respites of humanity by the end of the movies.
Even though the credits roll, much like real life, The Problem is still out there and by running away, our heroes have only prolonged facing the inevitable, oppressive encroachment.
I continue to be; Russ
There's been a few films out recently that are commonly referred to as "survival horror" genre movies. George Romero kind of created the genre with the release of his low budget cult classic Night of the Living Dead, which not only put him on the map- but had the strange ability to put Pittsburgh back on the map as well.
The Survival Horror movie usually revolves around a mismatched group of desperate people trying to fend off, outrun, or otherwise stay one step ahead of an ever increasing army of "X".
"X" tends to be the one variable factor that's unleashed on our hapless group of heroes and heroines- they can be anything from acid bleeding xenomorphs [Aliens] to the living dead I'd mentioned earlier. The idea being that this allows the audience to be voyueristically compelled into a human relations character study by placing The Human Condition into an extreme environment or event and noting the reactions played out between the survivors.
The oddity I want to present to you fine readers, is simply this- "Do you ever catch yourself playing out this scenario in your own day-to-day life?"
There's a line in most of these "undead" movies that has one character noting to another "These dead people keep walking around acting like they're alive."
Only to be followed with the retort, "You call what we're doing living? Isn't this nothing more than an act?"
Have you ever had a day so mundane that you were able to step out of it and notice the milling and shuffling of the people around you? Depending on your area of the country [planet?] and whether you're in a rural, urban or suburban setting; this could play out one of many ways...
Could something be said about yourself as a survival character in these regards? Granted, it's all play- and what you think you see in yourself, real or imagined, could be played out as your own character study.
Would you go the mindset of The Survivalist- plotting your barricade, your food stores and your escape methods from your office building in the event the undead start looking for brains... Or perhaps you're the Thunder Road type, where only constantly moving with the wind in your hair and the zombies too far back to even care...
Now for the Zen-Taoist part to this post...
Have you looked around yourself and started noting your friends and acquaintances and then taking tally of who would survive and who would become chowder? Now there's an interesting perspective on not only yourself- but on how you perceive others!
Now- taking this just one more step further; have you looked around and noted your location, your perspective on the day and then whether you see any difference between The Living and The Existing..?
Do you see yourself as Alive, [vibrant, involved, engaged] or simply alive [existing, breathing, using up oxygen and space]?
George Romero has said in an interview that his films revolve around The Problem. Whether social discourse, racism, yuppie-ism any number of "isms" out there; the undertone to his films were to expose and confront The Problem. Many times to a gruesome and otherwise ugly truth.
The scary part is, that whatever "ism" is exposed within the mise-en-scene of these films, the survivors are only respites of humanity by the end of the movies.
Even though the credits roll, much like real life, The Problem is still out there and by running away, our heroes have only prolonged facing the inevitable, oppressive encroachment.
I continue to be; Russ
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Bark Vader
Just to prove that not every bone in my body is curmudgeonly, here's a photo for the poor family dog made up as Daddy and Son's favorite movie villain...
Yes, it's the Bark Lord of the Sith himself!
Though belated, Happy Halloween to everyone!
Yes, it's the Bark Lord of the Sith himself!
Though belated, Happy Halloween to everyone!
Friday, October 28, 2005
Let That Be Your Last Battlefield
What does it take to get through mankind's generally thick skull?
Yes, for those of you that are as enchanted with science fiction as I am, my post title is from an episode of the 60s classic 3rd season of Star Trek.
The enchanting utopia of the TV series back in the sixties had an almost Taoist flare for looking at the absurd. This particular episode centered around a "bi-colored" humanoid duo that saw each other as oppressed and oppressor because one side of either's face was different than the others.
Yes, for those of you that are as enchanted with science fiction as I am, my post title is from an episode of the 60s classic 3rd season of Star Trek.
The enchanting utopia of the TV series back in the sixties had an almost Taoist flare for looking at the absurd. This particular episode centered around a "bi-colored" humanoid duo that saw each other as oppressed and oppressor because one side of either's face was different than the others.
The Enterprise crew is flabbergasted by the two alien's view of themselves because the earth crew's society had long since given up on the idea of segmentation and flourished on the principles of united individuality. Their questions are very whimsical and almost childlike as they try to understand their guests and their anger/hatred towards one another.
For it's time, this television show was able to put a relatively new twist on an age old problem that people couldn't bring themselves to comment or bring out into the open during the turbulent 1960s- racism.
Sadly, much hasn't changed.
The utopian world of Star Trek is a far cry from the semantic rich, politically polluted correct that we have spawned since the TV series first aired.
Though it still exists, the sad part of it all is that it's not just the loose cannon nut jobs wearing sheets and pillow cases over their heads with names like Grande Wizard or Rootin' Tootin' Potentate, it's the equally bigoted Ebony members of our society.
"Hate is as hate does" in a stupid Forest Gump way.
We have people who hate an entire segment [or segments] of our world because of a particular skin color, value judgment, religion or ethnic background- for what? Superiority? I doubt that- seeing as to tear someone down, you have to be pretty low in the self esteem category yourself...
The absolute inane thing I can think of is the bolstered belief that because of a pigment in their skin or an attribute about their culture- there are people out there that celebrate or perpetuate their ideology with praise and cloister.
Let me take you down my common sense path for a moment in the hopes you'll have a refreshed look at the absurd notion of "Fill-in-the-Blank" Power... I have a certain flare for Taoist philosophy, so here's a treat for you-
When did you last change your skin color?
If "being gay" is a genetic propensity, why do you celebrate what you had no choice in?
If you allow nothing to "bind" you, why do you hold another person for what-ever reason in such contempt?
If you hate oppression upon yourself, what truth do you carry that allows your repression of another?
What were you thinking before you were born? At what point did you decide your entrance into this world, pick your nation of origin and decide on a parentage or family that had the religious order to which you'd be inspired?
To answer those questions with any real candor or idealistically rich believability, is impossible.
The answer to all of the above is : "You didn't".
Anything "more" is incredibly "less".
I've read the smarminess of both scholars and internet writers alike and their common denominator in the Star Trek "Battlefield" episode is that it was "too simple", "too in your face", or [my favorite] "smacks you over the head with it's intimations".
You know what? By today's [and most any other point in generational history] standards- perhaps it is... But tell me this:
"IF it's so pounded into your skull the obvious truths of racism [or any other bigoted 'ism' for that matter] how come we don't have that clue some 40 [almost] years later, and put it to practice?"
Maybe it's time to have that trip back behind the woodshed for a sound "lesson administration" to the politically correct, the agitators, the rebel rousers and the malcontents.
I continue to be: Russ
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Pleased to Meet You, Mr. Brooks!
Those who know me well enough, know my propensity for speaking my mind; often this becomes relative to whether I have the proverbial "half a mind" or preferable "any" mind, but still...
Those self same people also know that I have a gentle demeanor and wish nothing but the best for most anyone- only the most heinous of our society/planet get the full brunt/gift of my incredibly powerful wrath.
So, it's not surprising that I'll often develop hoof-n-mouth disease at the most inopportune times and most likely under some very funny situations. A case in point on this "insert foot here" prose stands before you for both your amusement and benefit...
I began working at Walt Disney World, Florida back around January 1991. For a fresh upstart that had already followed paths of both enlightenment as well as destruction, this was to be probably my most unique "first" job:
I was assigned to the Disney-MGM Studios much to my glee as I was [still am] prepared to make my movie way to Hollywood via Florida! It's been a long story and a long 15 years ago, and a story for another time; suffice it to say I think I was headed the long way to Hollywood via the Atlantic- well, such is my bravado...
During all of 1991, Disney World was enjoying the anniversary of its theme park opening with a lavish production and full tilt use of their Florida Studios. I was slated to work at Star Tours, where I happily wore my "prison oranges" [I actually liked the outfit- it reminded me of the fighter pilot outfits from the original Star Wars films!] and conducted flights to Endor roughly every 6 minutes.
I can't recall the exact date- but the gala work for the television special fell around the summer months in order to have the raw footage edited and ready. I was lucky enough to work with one of the parade crews that day and set about the fairly ritualistically work needed to keep guests flowing or standing in relative safety to the parade.
Once the daily parade was over, and all the paraphenallia was stowed, I happened to notice a fellow in a white suit- he almost looked like one of the white-on-white tie types you'd see in The Godfather- but he had the most unmenacing look of worry and confusion on his face.
Being ever so "Disney" I trundled up to him and asked if he was lost and/or needed help.
"Sure do- I was supposed to meet my talent and his guys here, but they're just getting on property and I have no idea how to get to Soundstage One... Can you take me there?"
Firstly- if memory serves me well, I had only been working at The Studios for a grand total of about 6 months; which means most if not all of my time was spent onboard a Starspeeder making sure people were buckled in and that nobody 'yakked' in the spaceships. I spent little or no tour time of the rest of the 'job site' since most of that was spent off hours elsewhere while I was young and hormonal...
"SURE DO! Let's Go!" I faked.
The good news was I took him a route that would lead to the next claim from my White Linen businessman.
"Mr. Brooks is in a white limousine and he's coming around from the guardshack as we speak..!"
Just at that moment, I spotted a white stretch limo peaking from around what was the air-conditioning plant for the park. Not wanting to lose it- I blurted out a commanding "Wait Here!" and shot off in the direction of the limo.
I was in MUCH better shape then, than I am now- but for me to run up to the limo, moving at 10 to 15 mph- it wasn't too difficult.
wheezing only slightly I convinced the driver to follow me and I jogged back with the limo to where I had left our planted and dutiful businessman waiting. As I approached with the limo, he had a look of relief and mild astonishment- at first I couldn't understand why. As I approached him, he held out his hand to shake mine...
"That was incredible! I've not seen somebody move like that except maybe football! Do you jog or something?"
I gulped a breath or two and replied, "Nah- my last job was getting shot at."
He guffawed and then pointed to the limo, "I want you to meet Garth Brooks- it's your turn to wait okay?"
There was that name again- Brooks.
Brooks, Brooks, Brooks... Where had I heard that name before? Remember gang, this was 1991- he'd only made a name for himself by the end of 1989 and was on his way to skyrocketting by the end of '91- so for a few people out there, the name and the face just didn't match up yet- my sorry thick head being one of the more "denser" to penetrate.
Brooks... Brooks. Ah! I know! Mel Brooks' son! This guy I have got to meet!
Well- the limo door pops open and out steps a tall fellow, slightly unshaven, but has that MidWestern look all us rugged handsome men have...
"Mr. Brooks- so glad to meet you!" I exclaim- the possibility of a business card in the future.
The blonde, curly haired fellow smiles and points his thumb to the limo and the person still inside...
"Naw, Man- sorry. I ain't Garth- he's still in the car.
Undaunted, I smile and wait for this important star to pop his head out of the vehicle and I'm not disappointed. Black cowboy hat, styled shirt and simple jeans- well, if Mel's kid likes country/Western- hell, I like Country/Western!
"Mr Brooks! Finally! I'm sure I've heard good things about you!"
The fully bearded man hiccups a laugh and holds his hands up like I were about to lift his wallet.
"Woa- sorry Chief, I'm not Garth, we've still got 'em in the car here!"
Now I feel like an ass.
This time I peer into the limo from my vantage point and only notice two other men- so I've now boiled my chances of identifying Mr Brooks to 50/50 and so far I've managed to flub the first 50%!
A fellow steps out of the limo, again, definitely the MidWestern kind of fellow but he's sporting very little that would identify him with the Country/Western scene. Ahhh, he might be incognito! Got it! Still, now I'm gun shy, I don't want to blow the introduction for a third time...
"Um- Mr Brooks?"
If he'd been a hand grenade I'd have been the idiot that pulled his pin.
"Naw," the gruff, mild mannered fellow says, "I ain't Garth- sure would like to be his banker though..."
So now I've managed to prove to what would be a major [if not THE major player] in Country music just what a Dork I was.
Out from the limo comes a wide brimmed hat, and the facial curves of a man well known in the record industry today. The brightest, sincerest smile I've yet to see on too many a star's face. I reach out with my paw like a well healed dog...
"Hi, my name is Russell- but you can call me Mudd. You must be Mr. Brooks?"
He slapped his hand into mine and with all congeniality said; "Glad to meet you Russ, you can call me Garth!"
"Oh thank God" I thought to myself.
Since this story has become an epic- suffice it to say I was lucky enough to be part of his entourage for the rest of his stay at The Studios, I was their eyes and ears to getting where they needed to go and on time.
What people say to the positive of Mr Brooks is exactly as you see it. There is no pretense. He is original. Even though I am not one for Country music- his was a brand of music that nurtured me into listening- as his music was [and still is] inclusary- it's not just for the C/W fans- it's for everyone.
Even a Bozo like me.
I hope he comes to visit again- I'll be honored to call him Mr Brooks once more.
Before, during and after then, I'll continue to be-
Russ
Those self same people also know that I have a gentle demeanor and wish nothing but the best for most anyone- only the most heinous of our society/planet get the full brunt/gift of my incredibly powerful wrath.
So, it's not surprising that I'll often develop hoof-n-mouth disease at the most inopportune times and most likely under some very funny situations. A case in point on this "insert foot here" prose stands before you for both your amusement and benefit...
I began working at Walt Disney World, Florida back around January 1991. For a fresh upstart that had already followed paths of both enlightenment as well as destruction, this was to be probably my most unique "first" job:
Working for a mouse...
I was assigned to the Disney-MGM Studios much to my glee as I was [still am] prepared to make my movie way to Hollywood via Florida! It's been a long story and a long 15 years ago, and a story for another time; suffice it to say I think I was headed the long way to Hollywood via the Atlantic- well, such is my bravado...
During all of 1991, Disney World was enjoying the anniversary of its theme park opening with a lavish production and full tilt use of their Florida Studios. I was slated to work at Star Tours, where I happily wore my "prison oranges" [I actually liked the outfit- it reminded me of the fighter pilot outfits from the original Star Wars films!] and conducted flights to Endor roughly every 6 minutes.
I can't recall the exact date- but the gala work for the television special fell around the summer months in order to have the raw footage edited and ready. I was lucky enough to work with one of the parade crews that day and set about the fairly ritualistically work needed to keep guests flowing or standing in relative safety to the parade.
Once the daily parade was over, and all the paraphenallia was stowed, I happened to notice a fellow in a white suit- he almost looked like one of the white-on-white tie types you'd see in The Godfather- but he had the most unmenacing look of worry and confusion on his face.
Being ever so "Disney" I trundled up to him and asked if he was lost and/or needed help.
"Sure do- I was supposed to meet my talent and his guys here, but they're just getting on property and I have no idea how to get to Soundstage One... Can you take me there?"
Firstly- if memory serves me well, I had only been working at The Studios for a grand total of about 6 months; which means most if not all of my time was spent onboard a Starspeeder making sure people were buckled in and that nobody 'yakked' in the spaceships. I spent little or no tour time of the rest of the 'job site' since most of that was spent off hours elsewhere while I was young and hormonal...
"SURE DO! Let's Go!" I faked.
The good news was I took him a route that would lead to the next claim from my White Linen businessman.
"Mr. Brooks is in a white limousine and he's coming around from the guardshack as we speak..!"
Just at that moment, I spotted a white stretch limo peaking from around what was the air-conditioning plant for the park. Not wanting to lose it- I blurted out a commanding "Wait Here!" and shot off in the direction of the limo.
I was in MUCH better shape then, than I am now- but for me to run up to the limo, moving at 10 to 15 mph- it wasn't too difficult.
wheezing only slightly I convinced the driver to follow me and I jogged back with the limo to where I had left our planted and dutiful businessman waiting. As I approached with the limo, he had a look of relief and mild astonishment- at first I couldn't understand why. As I approached him, he held out his hand to shake mine...
"That was incredible! I've not seen somebody move like that except maybe football! Do you jog or something?"
I gulped a breath or two and replied, "Nah- my last job was getting shot at."
He guffawed and then pointed to the limo, "I want you to meet Garth Brooks- it's your turn to wait okay?"
There was that name again- Brooks.
Brooks, Brooks, Brooks... Where had I heard that name before? Remember gang, this was 1991- he'd only made a name for himself by the end of 1989 and was on his way to skyrocketting by the end of '91- so for a few people out there, the name and the face just didn't match up yet- my sorry thick head being one of the more "denser" to penetrate.
Brooks... Brooks. Ah! I know! Mel Brooks' son! This guy I have got to meet!
Well- the limo door pops open and out steps a tall fellow, slightly unshaven, but has that MidWestern look all us rugged handsome men have...
"Mr. Brooks- so glad to meet you!" I exclaim- the possibility of a business card in the future.
The blonde, curly haired fellow smiles and points his thumb to the limo and the person still inside...
"Naw, Man- sorry. I ain't Garth- he's still in the car.
Undaunted, I smile and wait for this important star to pop his head out of the vehicle and I'm not disappointed. Black cowboy hat, styled shirt and simple jeans- well, if Mel's kid likes country/Western- hell, I like Country/Western!
"Mr Brooks! Finally! I'm sure I've heard good things about you!"
The fully bearded man hiccups a laugh and holds his hands up like I were about to lift his wallet.
"Woa- sorry Chief, I'm not Garth, we've still got 'em in the car here!"
Now I feel like an ass.
This time I peer into the limo from my vantage point and only notice two other men- so I've now boiled my chances of identifying Mr Brooks to 50/50 and so far I've managed to flub the first 50%!
A fellow steps out of the limo, again, definitely the MidWestern kind of fellow but he's sporting very little that would identify him with the Country/Western scene. Ahhh, he might be incognito! Got it! Still, now I'm gun shy, I don't want to blow the introduction for a third time...
"Um- Mr Brooks?"
If he'd been a hand grenade I'd have been the idiot that pulled his pin.
"Naw," the gruff, mild mannered fellow says, "I ain't Garth- sure would like to be his banker though..."
So now I've managed to prove to what would be a major [if not THE major player] in Country music just what a Dork I was.
Out from the limo comes a wide brimmed hat, and the facial curves of a man well known in the record industry today. The brightest, sincerest smile I've yet to see on too many a star's face. I reach out with my paw like a well healed dog...
"Hi, my name is Russell- but you can call me Mudd. You must be Mr. Brooks?"
He slapped his hand into mine and with all congeniality said; "Glad to meet you Russ, you can call me Garth!"
"Oh thank God" I thought to myself.
Since this story has become an epic- suffice it to say I was lucky enough to be part of his entourage for the rest of his stay at The Studios, I was their eyes and ears to getting where they needed to go and on time.
What people say to the positive of Mr Brooks is exactly as you see it. There is no pretense. He is original. Even though I am not one for Country music- his was a brand of music that nurtured me into listening- as his music was [and still is] inclusary- it's not just for the C/W fans- it's for everyone.
Even a Bozo like me.
I hope he comes to visit again- I'll be honored to call him Mr Brooks once more.
Before, during and after then, I'll continue to be-
Russ
Friday, October 14, 2005
Babylon
What's in a song?
Better yet, what's it take to communicate with each of us- so that our feelings, wants and desires can be fulfilled?
If it sounds like I'm on a tangent with music, yes- perhaps I am; but I promise there's a point to even the most dim of my musings. Much like a Zen koan- there's a nugget of truth, enlightenment or knowledge in what I have to say- no matter how small in the universe.
For those of us addicted to Ipods, the music of our lives seems to be truly portable. My father could only dream of a day where something the size of a dwarf harmonica can store up to 5 or 6 dozen of your most choice songs. The general consensous of music I'm sure is what-ever is popular for now, but there's a different story I'd like us to explore...
Here's where the 'Zen tangent' breaks and we get to the meat of this posting:
"If I were hit by a car and killed with no other form of identification than my Ipod- what would it say about me?"
There's always the physical and what a coroner could gleen from my sorry carcass; the clothing on my back and the gum wrappers and pocket notepad tucked into the numerous pockets of my favorite clothing item- the camera vest. But is it at that point the mystery concludes, or is there a story told on that little Ipod machine?
I'd most likely have been listening to Chris Grey's Babylon [much like now while I write this]. There's also Heaven, by Birds of Pray, I'm already There, Break Away and the ubiquitous and ecclectic blend of 80's classics [jeez I hate that my music is now played on "classic" stations"!]
If the selections were downloaded they'd be labled under general titled headings like "Moody", "Pump You Up", and "Driving" and there's interpretation to be made by just that- but does it identify me?
Perhaps I'd be just as equally unknown had I possessed nothing?
What about your Ipod? If we as outsiders to this music in your head, would there be something to identify you: Your moods, intellect or frame of mind?
Is it even an Ipod?
Perhaps it's a Sony Version or an Iriver- does that say something about you? Perhaps the technology is out of your grasp- socially, technologically or financially? It's a Walkman tape player, minidisc player or cd machine...
Just a thought- like any other riddle I'd give you, oh readers of RussViews.
Until then- I continue to be:
Russ
Better yet, what's it take to communicate with each of us- so that our feelings, wants and desires can be fulfilled?
If it sounds like I'm on a tangent with music, yes- perhaps I am; but I promise there's a point to even the most dim of my musings. Much like a Zen koan- there's a nugget of truth, enlightenment or knowledge in what I have to say- no matter how small in the universe.
For those of us addicted to Ipods, the music of our lives seems to be truly portable. My father could only dream of a day where something the size of a dwarf harmonica can store up to 5 or 6 dozen of your most choice songs. The general consensous of music I'm sure is what-ever is popular for now, but there's a different story I'd like us to explore...
Here's where the 'Zen tangent' breaks and we get to the meat of this posting:
"If I were hit by a car and killed with no other form of identification than my Ipod- what would it say about me?"
There's always the physical and what a coroner could gleen from my sorry carcass; the clothing on my back and the gum wrappers and pocket notepad tucked into the numerous pockets of my favorite clothing item- the camera vest. But is it at that point the mystery concludes, or is there a story told on that little Ipod machine?
I'd most likely have been listening to Chris Grey's Babylon [much like now while I write this]. There's also Heaven, by Birds of Pray, I'm already There, Break Away and the ubiquitous and ecclectic blend of 80's classics [jeez I hate that my music is now played on "classic" stations"!]
If the selections were downloaded they'd be labled under general titled headings like "Moody", "Pump You Up", and "Driving" and there's interpretation to be made by just that- but does it identify me?
Perhaps I'd be just as equally unknown had I possessed nothing?
What about your Ipod? If we as outsiders to this music in your head, would there be something to identify you: Your moods, intellect or frame of mind?
Is it even an Ipod?
Perhaps it's a Sony Version or an Iriver- does that say something about you? Perhaps the technology is out of your grasp- socially, technologically or financially? It's a Walkman tape player, minidisc player or cd machine...
Just a thought- like any other riddle I'd give you, oh readers of RussViews.
Until then- I continue to be:
Russ
Friday, October 07, 2005
"What is it about men your age and Dillon?"
It was a defining question one character asked another in the popular TV series The West Wing.
Men my age... Well; perhaps not my age- but those in their late 40s to early 50s I suppose.
Yeah- I'll just keep believing that... One of the ailments that defines what many elitist FemaNatzis believe to be this disease called The Human Male is a certain dellusional quality to his frame of mind.
As I'm often heard joking to friends and collegues alike- quite tongue-in-cheek- I have no frame of reference, so ipso-defacto, no frame of mind to be catagorized.
I was literally born into radio.
I grew up the son of a career radio man. My father, was involved in small market radio ever since he was in high school [this was around the 1950s]; but his is a story I'll share in another post.
Suffice it to say I was born wrything and squeeling into the world of music from the very beginning.
Now- here's "what it's all about with me".
Music as I can best describe it, is this etherial fog that offers sollace, and yet bolsters, it regales refinement, and at the same time presumes debauchery. Once you think you have a grasp of what you've known to be unconventional- someone else steps up to the plate and tosses conventionality out on its ear [pun intended].
What's new, innovative and 'out there, man' becomes 'a sell-out' once it clears its first real paycheck.
So, in this instance- let's just say I see music as a fog, the same way John Carpenter [and this new remake] did- it's there, it defies analysis, and there's spirits in there.
With this definition, we then have to ask- "What defines me?" within the parameters of this phantom. Now- even though you may presume to know me one day- which will be totally farscical we'll 'define' me- and maybe gain some insight about Russ...
Growing up, I had the opportunity to hear it all. In the mid-to-late 1960s music, much like the culture was changing what seemed almost daily. Being around music as ecclectic as Jimi Hendrix and The Who, were met with equally innovative yet not nearly as longevital as The Carpenters and The Association.
Kids- you may laugh at them now- but acts that included Tom Jones and Engleburg Humperdink had women throwing their panties on stage long before Prince and Madonna had us questioning our social moores...
My original thought was that I could rattle off some tunes- but all that would do is boor you. Instead- I'm going to rattle off some feelings contained in the tunes and the lyrics that help me define, well; me...
When I was around 6 years old, I remember my mother playing a certain set of Tom Jones records over and over during the day. Foregoing the notion that many a nightclub singer [and you know the type that I'm loosely- [very loosely] basing this characture] has trashed what used to be a legitimate form of higher classed entertainment- Tom Jones was a staple both on radio, record and eventually TV back in the day- but there was one song that would make me cry as a kid- Help Yourself...
To listen to it now I can understand the mechanics of the song, welling up emotions in a little boy that as yet wasn't even sure how to define his emotions let alone comprehend or understand their implications. But here's the clincher-
I still define part of my life by that number. I can no longer look in a mirror and see a little boy- I'm well past that now- but I can see a phantom in the fog of that music that holds premonition to the heartache and pain that little boy will experience in another 2 or three years as his parents divorce- again, another story for later... Take a moment and remember an 'adult' tune from your childhood and how it affected you...
Let's fast-forward a little and into the 1970s.
Coming into older boyhood, enjoying the spirit of lingering pieces of The Space Race, and the wonderful implications of masturbation- there's another change...
The writing was on the wall when GI Joe was no longer an acceptable toy figure- soldiers coming back from some place called Viet Nam didn't appear to be too happy and then there's that boring presidential stuff with Pres. Nixon that seemed to cancel all a kid's favorite programming...
And the music- everything had a strangely morose or heavy tone. Jim Croce's Time in a Bottle fought for space next to Pink Floyd's Money. Then, God Forbid, came Disco.
Now before we move on to the 1980s, let me be the first to say that Disco as a whole was bad- BUT; it wasn't THAT bad. When I made reference to styles and types of music earlier- in my view Disco as a genre of music was innovative at first- the idea of a throbbing drum beat that you could dance to is not new- but how it was introduced was- and Disco first set out to do just that.
Then like anything else, the shlock masters turned a good thing into ubercrap.
By the time I was fully into the 1970s, "having found my nether regions" [as my Grandfather called masturbation] and Star Wars were all I thought of, so thankfully other than some jousts with ELO, Kansas, Chicago, Bachman Turner Overdrive- and a few others, I managed to get through the 70s reletively unscathed.
By the late 70s and early 1980s, music was now becoming important again- as there was now the personal intellect allowing me to ponder the lyrics of hits to see what I could identify with. Anything that was later than 1979 was considered old- a casted holdover thought from the mid/early 70s that said "anything played once immediately goes into the oldies collection".
This led to a mixture of conventional and 'alternative' music being my mainstay. Blondie came with Talking Heads [Peter Gabriel] and you might even find a John Hall number along with Billy Joel and U2 [if you could find U2 at teh time]. God help me I often identified with the one hit wonder machine that was the 80s- more because I PLAYED them at that point on radio and tape both as a DJ and as a casual listener. I dare say that if you'd heard it, I'd know it back in the 1980s and up until about 1995.
And it's there that I'll hold you mystified- because, you see, "what it is" about me and the here and now- is that "now" still isn't written- guys my age listen to Dillon not because it's old, but because his music offers the clarity of hindsight now that it didn't then.
Much like that little boy I see crying in the mists of time, music allows me a gateway to both memory and forshadow.
"Guys my age" no longer seek validation that the music of our times represented- remember that I noted earlier the grail search then was for something to identify with- eventually music becomes something you identify to and then even further still, the music seems to seek and identify you.
Again- think The Fog.
Music is that etheral flotsom of codified and conjectured noise that becomes spirited, living, perhaps both beckoning and equally repulsive in it's ability to have you account, recount and wish to forget.
Dillon?
Perhaps he's not a legend- perhaps he's as mythical as the songs he's written/sang- perhaps he's as much as or nothing more than the fog of our dreams, memories and wishes- our loves lost, and our desires met.
I'll sum it up in a simple Zen answer.
"What is it about men your age and Dillon?"
"What isn't it?"
I continue to be RusS
Men my age... Well; perhaps not my age- but those in their late 40s to early 50s I suppose.
Yeah- I'll just keep believing that... One of the ailments that defines what many elitist FemaNatzis believe to be this disease called The Human Male is a certain dellusional quality to his frame of mind.
As I'm often heard joking to friends and collegues alike- quite tongue-in-cheek- I have no frame of reference, so ipso-defacto, no frame of mind to be catagorized.
But there-in lies an important question if one looks beyond the tangential 'slam' of the forementioned comment. If you have the want, desire or ability to enjoy music to the extent that there are scores that symbolize your life; what would they be?
Obviously, I'll make my case for this whimsical point simply by refering to myself. You'll have to decide on your own who you are and why the music that stands out as a favorite has such meaning in your life.I was literally born into radio.
I grew up the son of a career radio man. My father, was involved in small market radio ever since he was in high school [this was around the 1950s]; but his is a story I'll share in another post.
Suffice it to say I was born wrything and squeeling into the world of music from the very beginning.
Now- here's "what it's all about with me".
Music as I can best describe it, is this etherial fog that offers sollace, and yet bolsters, it regales refinement, and at the same time presumes debauchery. Once you think you have a grasp of what you've known to be unconventional- someone else steps up to the plate and tosses conventionality out on its ear [pun intended].
What's new, innovative and 'out there, man' becomes 'a sell-out' once it clears its first real paycheck.
So, in this instance- let's just say I see music as a fog, the same way John Carpenter [and this new remake] did- it's there, it defies analysis, and there's spirits in there.
With this definition, we then have to ask- "What defines me?" within the parameters of this phantom. Now- even though you may presume to know me one day- which will be totally farscical we'll 'define' me- and maybe gain some insight about Russ...
Growing up, I had the opportunity to hear it all. In the mid-to-late 1960s music, much like the culture was changing what seemed almost daily. Being around music as ecclectic as Jimi Hendrix and The Who, were met with equally innovative yet not nearly as longevital as The Carpenters and The Association.
Kids- you may laugh at them now- but acts that included Tom Jones and Engleburg Humperdink had women throwing their panties on stage long before Prince and Madonna had us questioning our social moores...
My original thought was that I could rattle off some tunes- but all that would do is boor you. Instead- I'm going to rattle off some feelings contained in the tunes and the lyrics that help me define, well; me...
When I was around 6 years old, I remember my mother playing a certain set of Tom Jones records over and over during the day. Foregoing the notion that many a nightclub singer [and you know the type that I'm loosely- [very loosely] basing this characture] has trashed what used to be a legitimate form of higher classed entertainment- Tom Jones was a staple both on radio, record and eventually TV back in the day- but there was one song that would make me cry as a kid- Help Yourself...
To listen to it now I can understand the mechanics of the song, welling up emotions in a little boy that as yet wasn't even sure how to define his emotions let alone comprehend or understand their implications. But here's the clincher-
I still define part of my life by that number. I can no longer look in a mirror and see a little boy- I'm well past that now- but I can see a phantom in the fog of that music that holds premonition to the heartache and pain that little boy will experience in another 2 or three years as his parents divorce- again, another story for later... Take a moment and remember an 'adult' tune from your childhood and how it affected you...
Let's fast-forward a little and into the 1970s.
Coming into older boyhood, enjoying the spirit of lingering pieces of The Space Race, and the wonderful implications of masturbation- there's another change...
The writing was on the wall when GI Joe was no longer an acceptable toy figure- soldiers coming back from some place called Viet Nam didn't appear to be too happy and then there's that boring presidential stuff with Pres. Nixon that seemed to cancel all a kid's favorite programming...
And the music- everything had a strangely morose or heavy tone. Jim Croce's Time in a Bottle fought for space next to Pink Floyd's Money. Then, God Forbid, came Disco.
Now before we move on to the 1980s, let me be the first to say that Disco as a whole was bad- BUT; it wasn't THAT bad. When I made reference to styles and types of music earlier- in my view Disco as a genre of music was innovative at first- the idea of a throbbing drum beat that you could dance to is not new- but how it was introduced was- and Disco first set out to do just that.
Then like anything else, the shlock masters turned a good thing into ubercrap.
By the time I was fully into the 1970s, "having found my nether regions" [as my Grandfather called masturbation] and Star Wars were all I thought of, so thankfully other than some jousts with ELO, Kansas, Chicago, Bachman Turner Overdrive- and a few others, I managed to get through the 70s reletively unscathed.
By the late 70s and early 1980s, music was now becoming important again- as there was now the personal intellect allowing me to ponder the lyrics of hits to see what I could identify with. Anything that was later than 1979 was considered old- a casted holdover thought from the mid/early 70s that said "anything played once immediately goes into the oldies collection".
This led to a mixture of conventional and 'alternative' music being my mainstay. Blondie came with Talking Heads [Peter Gabriel] and you might even find a John Hall number along with Billy Joel and U2 [if you could find U2 at teh time]. God help me I often identified with the one hit wonder machine that was the 80s- more because I PLAYED them at that point on radio and tape both as a DJ and as a casual listener. I dare say that if you'd heard it, I'd know it back in the 1980s and up until about 1995.
And it's there that I'll hold you mystified- because, you see, "what it is" about me and the here and now- is that "now" still isn't written- guys my age listen to Dillon not because it's old, but because his music offers the clarity of hindsight now that it didn't then.
Much like that little boy I see crying in the mists of time, music allows me a gateway to both memory and forshadow.
"Guys my age" no longer seek validation that the music of our times represented- remember that I noted earlier the grail search then was for something to identify with- eventually music becomes something you identify to and then even further still, the music seems to seek and identify you.
Again- think The Fog.
Music is that etheral flotsom of codified and conjectured noise that becomes spirited, living, perhaps both beckoning and equally repulsive in it's ability to have you account, recount and wish to forget.
Dillon?
Perhaps he's not a legend- perhaps he's as mythical as the songs he's written/sang- perhaps he's as much as or nothing more than the fog of our dreams, memories and wishes- our loves lost, and our desires met.
I'll sum it up in a simple Zen answer.
"What is it about men your age and Dillon?"
"What isn't it?"
I continue to be RusS
Friday, September 30, 2005
Collector's Conundrum...
At what point does a person's passion become their "possession"?
Here, in this instance 'possession' isn't in the "nine tenths of the law" type, oh no... No, I'm considering more like the "Linda Blaire with Dick Smith working the tubes, green pea soup spraying" kind of possession.
I'll go as far back as Cabbage Patch Kids- if you remember those little mounds of angelic fluff, course linen and dim "beef cheek" plastic heads that came in all manner of hair style and ethnic dirivitave colors and the all out "Thunderdome" craze it created back in the day... Why?
At what point did sane people begin to lose those tenacious strings of common sense and abandon them for a meelee with complete strangers over a stuffed doll that today, no one seems to have [or, last I checked, there doesn't seem to be a trade fair for these things]?
I suppose I'll have to check the 'Net for sites dedicated to their continued survival [and possible revival- I seem to remember seeing their slow and methodical return as a mediocre attempt at their "Elvis Revival" in a Wal-mart just recently].
Beany Babies.
Personally- one question... "Why?" This question would also apply to Smurfs...
Please don't get me wrong- I certainly won't begrudge ANYONE their fun, and if that fun and amusement comes in the form of a cheaply strung together figurine filled with beans, [really- no kidding?] and an "official" sticker or card signifying it's "authenticity"- I will certainly NOT point a finger and laugh. My passions are surely as equal, if not greater, an oddity to any other person or group of persons' desires for the simpler things.
Other than to mention my own personal axiom "The Only Good Smurf, is a Dead One"- here's where I'm going with this...
I'm a big fanatic [no, not fan- a fan is someone that enjoys a craft, trade, possession or past time: I'm a fanatic- I can not live without that which I wish to possess!] for the space program- especially manned space flight. As a child I watched Neil Armstrong step on the moon- not only for the significant importance of the event but because it was well past my 5 year old bed time so "it had to be an important event to get to stay up that late"!
That Christmas back in 1969 saw both Apollo 11 and Apollo 12 come and go. Christmas shopping was all about "Space". Two items I lived for as part of my childhood experience was GI Joe and Major Matt Mason. If it existed and it wasn't so expensive my parents couldn't justify me tearing it up in 20 minutes time, I most likely had that product.
One thing that I "rubbed every bit of love off of" as a child was a toy Snoopy wearing a remarkably similar Apollo style spacesuit with the "bubble gum" style helmet known to be worn by Neil, Buzz, Al and Pete.
One day back in the blurr of youth, Snoopy had eventually worn out of his suit and the imaginary cartoon adventures I'd sent him on. Sooner, rather than later, eventually even that toy Snoopy succumbed to either the ravages of rough play or a mother who's momentary [and decidedly unbiased] lapse in judgement most likely sent him to a landfill somewhere in the bowels of Southern Illinois.
Fast forward some 35 years later.
I'm missing much of the hair I once had, but the boyish passion for all things space haven't left my mind or body. One day I find myself missing this little hunk of plastic and cloth shaped like a dog. Perhaps it's because by this time I have a 3 year old- and he's dangerously close to that age I was when it was all new and perhaps even magical.
At any rate, suffice it to say I attend a particular show here called Florida Extraveganza, or FX for short. It's one of teh biggest toy shows and collector/vendor 'ground zero' for Central Florida. Being as GI Joe is my passion, I have attended all but one since it's inception.
Well- I managed to find one of those Snoopy Astronauts lodged in a cabinet of one of the 'dog row' isles [how apropos!]. He wasn't the cheapest thing in the world [I seem to remember paying about $85 for a moderately decent one- but certainly not perfect by any stretch of the imagination] but just cheap enough to keep me from walking away from a piece of my childhood...
Paying that much for a hunk of plastic- old plastic in this instance- seems crazy. I have to look at myself and ask- is what I did any crazier than what others are doing with beef cheek dolls, bean bags, or small die-cast metal racers?
Perhaps- but I have a story to back up each and everything I have on my shelf. And maybe that's where I mark the line in the sand between passion and perversion- possession and possessed.
I think it's the stories- not the hunt and capture of the sail or the one of a kind- it's the history, teh mythos of a life well lived- and if not well, then lived none-the-less...
I continue to be;
Russ
Here, in this instance 'possession' isn't in the "nine tenths of the law" type, oh no... No, I'm considering more like the "Linda Blaire with Dick Smith working the tubes, green pea soup spraying" kind of possession.
I'll go as far back as Cabbage Patch Kids- if you remember those little mounds of angelic fluff, course linen and dim "beef cheek" plastic heads that came in all manner of hair style and ethnic dirivitave colors and the all out "Thunderdome" craze it created back in the day... Why?
At what point did sane people begin to lose those tenacious strings of common sense and abandon them for a meelee with complete strangers over a stuffed doll that today, no one seems to have [or, last I checked, there doesn't seem to be a trade fair for these things]?
I suppose I'll have to check the 'Net for sites dedicated to their continued survival [and possible revival- I seem to remember seeing their slow and methodical return as a mediocre attempt at their "Elvis Revival" in a Wal-mart just recently].
Beany Babies.
Personally- one question... "Why?" This question would also apply to Smurfs...
Please don't get me wrong- I certainly won't begrudge ANYONE their fun, and if that fun and amusement comes in the form of a cheaply strung together figurine filled with beans, [really- no kidding?] and an "official" sticker or card signifying it's "authenticity"- I will certainly NOT point a finger and laugh. My passions are surely as equal, if not greater, an oddity to any other person or group of persons' desires for the simpler things.
Other than to mention my own personal axiom "The Only Good Smurf, is a Dead One"- here's where I'm going with this...
I'm a big fanatic [no, not fan- a fan is someone that enjoys a craft, trade, possession or past time: I'm a fanatic- I can not live without that which I wish to possess!] for the space program- especially manned space flight. As a child I watched Neil Armstrong step on the moon- not only for the significant importance of the event but because it was well past my 5 year old bed time so "it had to be an important event to get to stay up that late"!
That Christmas back in 1969 saw both Apollo 11 and Apollo 12 come and go. Christmas shopping was all about "Space". Two items I lived for as part of my childhood experience was GI Joe and Major Matt Mason. If it existed and it wasn't so expensive my parents couldn't justify me tearing it up in 20 minutes time, I most likely had that product.
One thing that I "rubbed every bit of love off of" as a child was a toy Snoopy wearing a remarkably similar Apollo style spacesuit with the "bubble gum" style helmet known to be worn by Neil, Buzz, Al and Pete.One day back in the blurr of youth, Snoopy had eventually worn out of his suit and the imaginary cartoon adventures I'd sent him on. Sooner, rather than later, eventually even that toy Snoopy succumbed to either the ravages of rough play or a mother who's momentary [and decidedly unbiased] lapse in judgement most likely sent him to a landfill somewhere in the bowels of Southern Illinois.
Fast forward some 35 years later.
I'm missing much of the hair I once had, but the boyish passion for all things space haven't left my mind or body. One day I find myself missing this little hunk of plastic and cloth shaped like a dog. Perhaps it's because by this time I have a 3 year old- and he's dangerously close to that age I was when it was all new and perhaps even magical.
At any rate, suffice it to say I attend a particular show here called Florida Extraveganza, or FX for short. It's one of teh biggest toy shows and collector/vendor 'ground zero' for Central Florida. Being as GI Joe is my passion, I have attended all but one since it's inception.
Well- I managed to find one of those Snoopy Astronauts lodged in a cabinet of one of the 'dog row' isles [how apropos!]. He wasn't the cheapest thing in the world [I seem to remember paying about $85 for a moderately decent one- but certainly not perfect by any stretch of the imagination] but just cheap enough to keep me from walking away from a piece of my childhood...
Paying that much for a hunk of plastic- old plastic in this instance- seems crazy. I have to look at myself and ask- is what I did any crazier than what others are doing with beef cheek dolls, bean bags, or small die-cast metal racers?
Perhaps- but I have a story to back up each and everything I have on my shelf. And maybe that's where I mark the line in the sand between passion and perversion- possession and possessed.
I think it's the stories- not the hunt and capture of the sail or the one of a kind- it's the history, teh mythos of a life well lived- and if not well, then lived none-the-less...
I continue to be;
Russ
Sunday, September 11, 2005
So Many lives; So Little Time...
Here's an interesting piece of life for you...
9/11, 911, September 11, 2001...
For many of us this date, like the day John F. Kennedy was assassinated, or when Neil Armstrong Walked on the moon, or when the Challenger Space shuttle exploded will have a personal etch on our individual psychees.
Though these images, and stories will play a momentary part in the visage of who we are as a collective group and what we stand for in the coming days, [years?] as individuals- it's not really that "moment" or any singular event that becomes a defining allegory- it most likely is the culmination of all those events and perhaps something I'd call "The No-events" that make up our definition of who we've become or the culminated singularity that defines "me" [or "us" or "we"]...
9/11, 911, September 11, 2001...
For many of us this date, like the day John F. Kennedy was assassinated, or when Neil Armstrong Walked on the moon, or when the Challenger Space shuttle exploded will have a personal etch on our individual psychees.
Though these images, and stories will play a momentary part in the visage of who we are as a collective group and what we stand for in the coming days, [years?] as individuals- it's not really that "moment" or any singular event that becomes a defining allegory- it most likely is the culmination of all those events and perhaps something I'd call "The No-events" that make up our definition of who we've become or the culminated singularity that defines "me" [or "us" or "we"]...
Follow my logic here- no one event during the course of our day truly defines how that day has gone; provided that event in its own singularity didn't monopolize that set of waking hours. But have you noticed that tehre can be trends of events that inexorably begin to create life altering points of view?
Here's how I see things having shaped up starting with July of 2001:
July 12, 2001- Space Shuttle Atlantis [at least, I think it was Atlantis...] makes its next flight into space- and almost at the very same hour, my son is born into this world.
September 11, 2001- There's been enough written, speculated, truncated, flipped, slipped, boogered and snookered concerning "9/11" to the point of ad-nauseum. I'm not tired of reliving the facts and heartbreak of that day- I'm just tired of the finger pointing for something the majority of America found "unthinkable". Take a good look people. "Somebody" thought it up.
Most of 2002 is spent in reletive docility- my father in law has cancer, but he's plugging along as best he knows how and places a dignified face to an otherwise sidious malady. A dear uncle of the family passes away from the inevitable effects of Alzheimer's.
February 2003- My father in law learns that his cancer is terminal. by August of this same year he will hav succumbed to the malignancy that he fought to overcome.
March, 2004- My mother in law's sister also suffers from cancer, and begins to fade. My mother in law stays upstate to care for her ailing sister and watches her fade from this world by the end of July.
August 1, 2004- Shirl [my mother in law, she deserves "a name"] has had her house near ruint by a toilet pipe bursting and filling the entire house with 3 inches of water... She comes home from settling her sister's affairs to deal with the problem.
August 13, 2004- Hurricane Charlie hits us. If you ever get the opportunity to experience a hurricane for yourself, with the incessant howling winds, the sounds of God-knows-what flapping, cracking, popping, pounding against your house that seemed so invincible under any other conditions... Do yourself a favor- don't take anyone up on that opportunity.
September 6, 2004- if you didn't get enough of your house getting smacked flat here comes Frances- more of the aforementioned, just now you can add a generator to the mix so you have food, A light and a tv to know what's going on out there...
September 13- Shirly is diagnosed with 3rd stage pancreatic cancer. I still remember sitting next to her at the family table as my wife ran off into the other room to cry and Shirls looks to me and says, "I'm not ready, it's too early for this..."
September 26, 2004- trust me when I say, there is no horse so dead that you can't keep on beating it just that much longer- Mother Nature has a nasty way of proving that point... At the height of the hurricane, Shirly goes into pancreatic attack and there's no ambulance willing to brave the weather until teh storm settles to 50 mph winds- I risk the family and make the trip to the hospital myslef.
October 20, 2004- Shirly passes from her ailments.
Now you might look at this series of events and say "Wow- tough luck, pal" or perhaps there's a chagrinned element of "better him than me" that slips it's nose from benieth your computer desk...
What matters is that the events took place seperately- and though I certainly feel that all of these events have changed how I view the world [in this case, more from the subject [or should I say, subjecitve?] of life and death- not so to more "earthly concerns"] but they are distinct, and the only association is from that which springs these "coincidentals"- me.
Most all of the other events were more or less tied to other individuals, other places, other times- I wasn't the only one who got bitchslapped by three hurricanes in as little as two months, I wasn't the only one to lose a reletive- or five...
The defining goal of any one event isn't that a particular singularity created your perception of the world- it's that you allowed it to compound to other events in your life.
Big testimony coming from such a small fry as me- but you know what- this is my blog... It's my one "event" where I have some say in its creation. Where it goes, what it does.
But it's still the events of my past that will dictate how it sounds, what it will become.
That my dear reader is in some small way a form of singularity of purpose.
I continue to be- Russ
They Say "The First Time Ain't The Greatest"
Perhaps "Prince" had it correct in his Purple Rain album [well, "CD" now- but I'm referring back to a day and time of technological and social change]- and so it may be with this first publishing of the RussView- my own little dive into the exhibitionistic world of blogging...
"The first time ain't the greatest"... How many things can we look back on and make that comment? Sex, politics, fuel injection, turbo-charged V8s... The first time at bat for many things aren't neccessarily the best of what we'd hoped for... Give this blog a year and perhaps I'll be viewing this post with a shiver of catrission suited to a person who's discovered how trite a start he'd given his "gift" of this first time...
Could I make some social comment on the moores of our society, the jingoistic politics of a person who's outwardly conservative, but inwardly liberal; or perhaps wax eloquantly on the prose of some work of literature or matter of state that all but too obvious to solve, yet the beauracrasy of the day levels the point staunch and mute?
No... No- instead I choose to stroke my own sense of ego and pontificate like some long since forgotten "kernel" of the South who rocks in his ladderback rocker and tells all the "upstarts-n-younguns" how things were different when you wrote things down in a bokk and called them "memoires"...
I take this elequant moment to bloviate about "The Blog" and how my first few sentences will make or break my literary sojourn on the internet.
Sad? Perhaps, if we follow the backstory of a man just turned 40 with a 4 year old sone and another on the way in April with his mortgage, car, dog and all the BS that makes life in the good old "US of A"... But I don't think so.
Perhaps it's a view into the mind of a man who's taken the warrior's path of both strength by arms and strength by understanding. I've taken to technology more like that of a sooth, that may not understand how it works- but has chosen "it" [be ubiquitous, "it does a body good"...] as my path of knowledge for what it does and what I can do with it.
Perhaps, like the virginal overtones I speak of in the title, it's my first, and I want it to be special- original- exciting- and all those other adjectives one uses to describe what an aspirant would dream and hope for in their first...
But- as I look back; even now; at the words posted and the ideas formulating from my head, streaming through my fingers, and onto the CRT in front of my eyes- already I want to edit, specify and even delete- "The First" is no more than any other first.
Already, the high is receeding and my son who's potty trained but accident prone has managed to flush his underwear down the toilet...
Perhaps the first time is great- if not "the greatest"- simply because it's the shot of reality that brings it crashing down...
I continue to be- RusS
"The first time ain't the greatest"... How many things can we look back on and make that comment? Sex, politics, fuel injection, turbo-charged V8s... The first time at bat for many things aren't neccessarily the best of what we'd hoped for... Give this blog a year and perhaps I'll be viewing this post with a shiver of catrission suited to a person who's discovered how trite a start he'd given his "gift" of this first time...
Could I make some social comment on the moores of our society, the jingoistic politics of a person who's outwardly conservative, but inwardly liberal; or perhaps wax eloquantly on the prose of some work of literature or matter of state that all but too obvious to solve, yet the beauracrasy of the day levels the point staunch and mute?
No... No- instead I choose to stroke my own sense of ego and pontificate like some long since forgotten "kernel" of the South who rocks in his ladderback rocker and tells all the "upstarts-n-younguns" how things were different when you wrote things down in a bokk and called them "memoires"...
I take this elequant moment to bloviate about "The Blog" and how my first few sentences will make or break my literary sojourn on the internet.
Sad? Perhaps, if we follow the backstory of a man just turned 40 with a 4 year old sone and another on the way in April with his mortgage, car, dog and all the BS that makes life in the good old "US of A"... But I don't think so.
Perhaps it's a view into the mind of a man who's taken the warrior's path of both strength by arms and strength by understanding. I've taken to technology more like that of a sooth, that may not understand how it works- but has chosen "it" [be ubiquitous, "it does a body good"...] as my path of knowledge for what it does and what I can do with it.
Perhaps, like the virginal overtones I speak of in the title, it's my first, and I want it to be special- original- exciting- and all those other adjectives one uses to describe what an aspirant would dream and hope for in their first...
But- as I look back; even now; at the words posted and the ideas formulating from my head, streaming through my fingers, and onto the CRT in front of my eyes- already I want to edit, specify and even delete- "The First" is no more than any other first.
Already, the high is receeding and my son who's potty trained but accident prone has managed to flush his underwear down the toilet...
Perhaps the first time is great- if not "the greatest"- simply because it's the shot of reality that brings it crashing down...
I continue to be- RusS
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)