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.

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

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:

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

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

"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.

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