Ahhhhh. I have a new CD and I’m happy. (Actually, I have three new CDs. But my wife needn’t know that.) I’m surrounded by a sonic bliss that makes me feel . . . good.
Don’t confuse that with happy. I’m still as bitter and irritated as ever. I just feel good because I have new music to throw myself into. And I do mean throw myself into.
(Warning: Entering a long, rambling musical lovefest.)
My main purchase today was David Byrne’s latest, Grown Backwards. And, quite frankly, this is the best Byrne work in a decade at least. It’s different, strange and catchy, filled with captivating melodies, interesting harmonies and bitingly funny lyrics about life, politics, sex and beer. Not necessarily in that order.
At one point Byrne exclaims, “I’m going to be that really cool guy someday.” Of course, he was that really cool guy once. Always has been, despite the fact that he fell out of favor with popular culture. Still, the man has a track record of creativity that shames most musicians. Not to mention filmmakers, writers, photographers and artists. In fact, Byrne’s creativity is in such a high gear that he created a new form of art using PowerPoint. Yes, the ubiquitous meeting presentation software. The kicker is the art was interesting.
Most surprising on this disc, perhaps, is the inclusion of two arias, one by Verdi the other by Bizet. Yes, “Au Fond du Temple Saint” follows a cover version of Lambchop’s (no, not the sock puppet, though that would be funny) “The Man Who Loves Beer”. Byrne’s haunting voice soars through the aria while being chased by the warm and unique tones of Rufus Wainwright. In the end they come crashing together in an orgasmic moment of harmony and crescendo.
There’s a joy in this CD that I haven’t heard in a disc for a while. It’s not that it’s happy music. There’s a joy in the making of this music. In the construction and execution of the music. You can tell, as you listen to a cello playing a counter-melody, while the harp plays a nice run and the marimba is hammering out an interesting repetitive figure. Add on top of that Byrne’s recognizable, unusual voice and you’ve got a fascinating disc that draws on Byrne’s years of experimentation and mold them into a irresistible hybrid of classical, rock, funk, samba, fused with John Cage’s sense of normality and filtered through Byrne’s wry wit. Throw in some interesting cameos from the likes of John Linnell of They Might Be Giants, Rufus Wainwright and an interesting string arrangement by Phillip Glass, and you’re looking at something unusual.
David Byrne has constructed a series of songs that enjoy playing with every piece of music: odd tempo changes, sudden key shifts, time signature swaps, soaring melodies that move in unexpected directions, fascinating silences. Quite honestly, Grown Backwards is unlike any other album I’ve ever heard and certainly Byrne’s most unique to date. And that’s saying something.
Had this album been recorded by someone younger and less accomplished, say the aforementioned Rufus Wainwright, he would be hailed as a genius. Because this is David Byrne, former leader of Talking Heads, the man who wrote “Burning Down the House”, “Once in a Lifetime”, “Life During Wartime”, etc., it will be touted as a nice piece of art and nothing more. Byrne is in the unfortunate position of being an aging rocker who has matured to the point of being Grown Backwards. Because he’s someone who has already achieved both acclaim (as a songwriter, performer, film maker and photographer) and fame, his achievement will be dismissed. Had he written something that sounded like Talking Heads, this would be labeled a comeback.
It’s a shame, too, because the majority of people will not hear the last minute of “Empire” as it works through a soaring fanfare. Most people won’t hear the lovely silliness of “Glad” nor the beauty of “Why”.
But hey, I’m like David. Maybe someday I’ll be that cool guy.
Doubtful, but maybe.
Discuss
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
Monday, March 15, 2004
I’m The Best Daddy in the World
It’s true. I have proof. Gertrude told me so. Twice. Once in public and once when I changed the TV to “Gertrude Shows”. Not only am I the best daddy in the world, she gave me kisses to seal the deal. So, if anyone else believes they hold this title, you have my daughter to answer to. She’ll disagree with you and, if you’re lucky, she won’t hurt you.
Most likely she will, however. I don’t know what it is about children, but they have an innate ability to make sure they are the last in their genetic line. They will tolerate no replacements. For those little biods who may come later are insufficient replicants, built out of the same genetic materials, but without the same magic quotient that made the child who she is.
Any father knows this is the truth. You’re sitting there, watching TV, minding your own business. Perhaps you have a nice hot cup of coffee, but we’ll get to that in a second. Out of nowhere, like a crack team of Ninjas, a two year old appears, flying through the air at top speed with one foot extended in what’s known as the “Genetic Death Arch”. You try to prepare yourself, you shuffle your body, grab a pillow, but your aging joints are no match for the limber toddler assassin. She’s found her target and is locked on like a laser-guided missile.
You start to scream and everything moves into slow-motion. “Noooooooooooooo!” And she lands, squarely on your crotch, sending lightning bolts of pain through out your entire body. You’re seeing dead inventors, lecturing you about the qualities of electric pulse, your ear drums burst and the nausea hits.
When you get your vision back, the toddler is sitting on your lap. Looking completely innocent. Her face says to you, “Why father, what is wrong? Are you feeling sad?”
This is what you see:
There she is, with her very first set of pig tails, looking adorable. Your anger and paranoia starts to fade with the pain.
“What’s wrong Daddy,” she asks.
“That hurt, honey.”
“I sorry Daddy. I love you.”
“I know honey. It was an accident.”
“Is Mommy still fertile, Daddy?”
“What?”
“You’re the best daddy in the world!”
“Thank you honey. What are you doing with my coffee? Say, when did you get that bionic eye? ”
Discuss
Most likely she will, however. I don’t know what it is about children, but they have an innate ability to make sure they are the last in their genetic line. They will tolerate no replacements. For those little biods who may come later are insufficient replicants, built out of the same genetic materials, but without the same magic quotient that made the child who she is.
Any father knows this is the truth. You’re sitting there, watching TV, minding your own business. Perhaps you have a nice hot cup of coffee, but we’ll get to that in a second. Out of nowhere, like a crack team of Ninjas, a two year old appears, flying through the air at top speed with one foot extended in what’s known as the “Genetic Death Arch”. You try to prepare yourself, you shuffle your body, grab a pillow, but your aging joints are no match for the limber toddler assassin. She’s found her target and is locked on like a laser-guided missile.
You start to scream and everything moves into slow-motion. “Noooooooooooooo!” And she lands, squarely on your crotch, sending lightning bolts of pain through out your entire body. You’re seeing dead inventors, lecturing you about the qualities of electric pulse, your ear drums burst and the nausea hits.
When you get your vision back, the toddler is sitting on your lap. Looking completely innocent. Her face says to you, “Why father, what is wrong? Are you feeling sad?”
This is what you see:
There she is, with her very first set of pig tails, looking adorable. Your anger and paranoia starts to fade with the pain.
“What’s wrong Daddy,” she asks.
“That hurt, honey.”
“I sorry Daddy. I love you.”
“I know honey. It was an accident.”
“Is Mommy still fertile, Daddy?”
“What?”
“You’re the best daddy in the world!”
“Thank you honey. What are you doing with my coffee? Say, when did you get that bionic eye? ”
Discuss
Friday, March 12, 2004
Note To Toddlers
If you call Joe the Coffee Guy "Uncle Joe" he will give you a bag of Swedish Fish for free. If you then tell him that fishes are better than gummy worms because worms are "ucky" he will give you extra red ones.
It is a proven fact. Gertrude just tried and succeeded.
It is a proven fact. Gertrude just tried and succeeded.
Thursday, March 11, 2004
720 Times Happier Than the Unjust Man
Thought Jeff would like that title.
Anyway . . . one of the things I’m trying to do more these days is spend time with the kids where I’m not being a parent. You know, I’m not watching out for them, not worrying about them, not telling them how the world works. Instead, I’m running around, digging in the mud with them and, well, just having a good time.
I remember my Dad doing things like that. Specifically, he’d let me go to work with him on a Saturday. This wasn’t a time when I, the four year old, and my Dad, the adult, would spend time learning about his business. No, this is when I was also a man and I helped him do whatever he needed. Plus, I was allowed to take something from his desk.
So, those are the types of memories I’m trying to give my kids. The times when Dad is a human being, not just an authority figure.
Yesterday before dinner, we were playing in the back yard. What started out as an innocent game of kicking a ball around devolved into a game of chase. That is the girls were the hunters and I was the hunted.
As I ran around the backyard, dodging their outstretched arms, I began to scream, “No! Don’t get me! Ahhh!” Matilda, being the more mature of the two children, went along with the whole game and started to threaten me with all sorts of bizarre, 8-year-old playground tortures.
Gertrude, on the other hand, didn’t understand. She suddenly stopped running and called my name.
I trotted over to her and looked at her face, which was filled with worry and guilt. “Daddy,” she said, as she reached up and put her cold hand on my cheek reassuringly, “don’t be scared. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not scared honey. We’re just having fun.”
“You’re not scared,” she asked.
“No, honey. I’m just having fun.”
“Daddy’s not scared of anything,” she said with extreme confidence.
At that moment, the levity left the situation and I was filled with a sudden sense of responsibility.
Sure, dads aren’t afraid of anything in our children’s eyes. To them, we’re the ones who check the house in the dark when they hear a noise. We always go into the scary situations first, to make sure it’s okay for them. And we’re the one who confronts that jerk at the mall who is cussing up a storm in front of the kids. We’re not afraid of anything because, when it comes to our children, nothing is more important than their safety or well being.
But that’s where the fearlessness ends. Much like Alvy Singer, and his modern day cohort, Slate columnist Jim Holt, I’m terrified of a few things.
Alvy, the protagonist of Annie Hall, stopped doing his homework after learning that the universe is expanding. "The universe is everything, and if it's expanding, some day it will break apart and that will be the end of everything." He wonders, what’s the point of doing his homework if everything is going to end in a great flash? Sure, it may be billions of years off, but after that there’s nothing. So why bother now?
In a way I agree with Alvy and Mr. Holt. The thought of all matter contracting back into a singularity scares me. Not because I will be around, or conceivably, any other human. But if everything that has been, is and will be in our universe is suddenly wiped from existence only to have the possibility of another universe burst forth from the same singularity, what’s the point now?
Think of all we’d lose! Dali, Vonnegut, the Sistine Chapel, The Beatles, the concept of human love, Average Joe: Adam Returns.
Or maybe I’m more like Joe Banks, from Joe Versus the Volcano (a highly underrated movie). Joe is a hypochondriac who thinks he is dying. After learning his fate, he decides to take control of his life. He quits his job and tells his boss, “And why, I ask myself, why have I put up with you? I can't imagine but I know. Fear. Yellow freakin' fear. I've been too chicken shit afraid to live my life so I sold it to you for three hundred freakin' dollars a week! You're lucky I don't kill you! You're lucky I don't rip your freakin' throat out! But I'm not going to and maybe you're not so lucky at that. 'Cause I'm gonna leave you here, Mister Wa-a-Waturi, and what could be worse than that?”
But Joe’s courage is short lived. Soon he’s back into his cycle of fear. Even after falling in love and having a spectacular adventure, he’s floating on a raft with his one true love, aware that he’s never been sick. That’ it’s all been in his head. He’s been battling fear all these years. Still . . . his throat starts to close up, he’s not feeling well. His true love says to him, “It’s always going to be something with you Joe, isn’t it?”
And that’s me. There’s always going to be something. Locking the door a thousand times a night. Wandering the halls making sure the kids are still breathing, reaching out to feel my wife’s warm body in the middle of the night because it somehow reassures me.
Fear is part of life, but I couldn’t tell the baby that. I just hugged her and said yeah.
But as Alvy would say, “There's an old joke. Uh, two elderly women are at a Catskills mountain resort, and one of 'em says, ‘Boy, the food at this place is really terrible.’ The other one says, ‘Yeah, I know, and such small portions.’ Well, that's essentially how I feel about life. Full of loneliness and misery and suffering and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly.”
Or, more to the point, “Honey, there's a spider in your bathroom the size of a Buick.”
Discuss
Anyway . . . one of the things I’m trying to do more these days is spend time with the kids where I’m not being a parent. You know, I’m not watching out for them, not worrying about them, not telling them how the world works. Instead, I’m running around, digging in the mud with them and, well, just having a good time.
I remember my Dad doing things like that. Specifically, he’d let me go to work with him on a Saturday. This wasn’t a time when I, the four year old, and my Dad, the adult, would spend time learning about his business. No, this is when I was also a man and I helped him do whatever he needed. Plus, I was allowed to take something from his desk.
So, those are the types of memories I’m trying to give my kids. The times when Dad is a human being, not just an authority figure.
Yesterday before dinner, we were playing in the back yard. What started out as an innocent game of kicking a ball around devolved into a game of chase. That is the girls were the hunters and I was the hunted.
As I ran around the backyard, dodging their outstretched arms, I began to scream, “No! Don’t get me! Ahhh!” Matilda, being the more mature of the two children, went along with the whole game and started to threaten me with all sorts of bizarre, 8-year-old playground tortures.
Gertrude, on the other hand, didn’t understand. She suddenly stopped running and called my name.
I trotted over to her and looked at her face, which was filled with worry and guilt. “Daddy,” she said, as she reached up and put her cold hand on my cheek reassuringly, “don’t be scared. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not scared honey. We’re just having fun.”
“You’re not scared,” she asked.
“No, honey. I’m just having fun.”
“Daddy’s not scared of anything,” she said with extreme confidence.
At that moment, the levity left the situation and I was filled with a sudden sense of responsibility.
Sure, dads aren’t afraid of anything in our children’s eyes. To them, we’re the ones who check the house in the dark when they hear a noise. We always go into the scary situations first, to make sure it’s okay for them. And we’re the one who confronts that jerk at the mall who is cussing up a storm in front of the kids. We’re not afraid of anything because, when it comes to our children, nothing is more important than their safety or well being.
But that’s where the fearlessness ends. Much like Alvy Singer, and his modern day cohort, Slate columnist Jim Holt, I’m terrified of a few things.
Alvy, the protagonist of Annie Hall, stopped doing his homework after learning that the universe is expanding. "The universe is everything, and if it's expanding, some day it will break apart and that will be the end of everything." He wonders, what’s the point of doing his homework if everything is going to end in a great flash? Sure, it may be billions of years off, but after that there’s nothing. So why bother now?
In a way I agree with Alvy and Mr. Holt. The thought of all matter contracting back into a singularity scares me. Not because I will be around, or conceivably, any other human. But if everything that has been, is and will be in our universe is suddenly wiped from existence only to have the possibility of another universe burst forth from the same singularity, what’s the point now?
Think of all we’d lose! Dali, Vonnegut, the Sistine Chapel, The Beatles, the concept of human love, Average Joe: Adam Returns.
Or maybe I’m more like Joe Banks, from Joe Versus the Volcano (a highly underrated movie). Joe is a hypochondriac who thinks he is dying. After learning his fate, he decides to take control of his life. He quits his job and tells his boss, “And why, I ask myself, why have I put up with you? I can't imagine but I know. Fear. Yellow freakin' fear. I've been too chicken shit afraid to live my life so I sold it to you for three hundred freakin' dollars a week! You're lucky I don't kill you! You're lucky I don't rip your freakin' throat out! But I'm not going to and maybe you're not so lucky at that. 'Cause I'm gonna leave you here, Mister Wa-a-Waturi, and what could be worse than that?”
But Joe’s courage is short lived. Soon he’s back into his cycle of fear. Even after falling in love and having a spectacular adventure, he’s floating on a raft with his one true love, aware that he’s never been sick. That’ it’s all been in his head. He’s been battling fear all these years. Still . . . his throat starts to close up, he’s not feeling well. His true love says to him, “It’s always going to be something with you Joe, isn’t it?”
And that’s me. There’s always going to be something. Locking the door a thousand times a night. Wandering the halls making sure the kids are still breathing, reaching out to feel my wife’s warm body in the middle of the night because it somehow reassures me.
Fear is part of life, but I couldn’t tell the baby that. I just hugged her and said yeah.
But as Alvy would say, “There's an old joke. Uh, two elderly women are at a Catskills mountain resort, and one of 'em says, ‘Boy, the food at this place is really terrible.’ The other one says, ‘Yeah, I know, and such small portions.’ Well, that's essentially how I feel about life. Full of loneliness and misery and suffering and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly.”
Or, more to the point, “Honey, there's a spider in your bathroom the size of a Buick.”
Discuss
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
How Can You Laugh
When you know that I’m down?
(Don’t read this if you don’t want to. It’s less of a post, more of a free-writing experiment to figure some things out in my own head. Seriously, click away now if you don’t want to read a treatise, with quotes from Bob Dylan and Randy Newman, about my recent bad mood. Seriously. If you need the goofy strangeness I usually post go here instead. Trust me on that.)
I had this great big post planned for today, explaining this mood I’ve been in lately that has spurred me to take my mental vacation that has never exactly come to fruition. But I realized, quite simply, I can’t figure it out myself. So, how can I explain to others what I can’t figure out on my own? You could probably trace my mood back to the Neil Young post of a few weeks ago.
Facts: I’m feeling down in the dumps. Reasons? Could be many, could be few. It’s hard to tell. But I do know that my moods swing like a razor sharp pendulum that can take your head off if you’re standing too close.
I’m also changing a variety of things in my life; including self-destructive behavior that I’ve clutched to since I was a young, rebellious idiot. Between the personal inventory I’m constantly taking because of the changes, and the general sense of doom I feel, I’ve been kind of a jerk.
So far I’ve pissed off my wife and a good friend in the span of about 24 hours. So, I’d say my track record is pretty good. One’s not mad at me anymore, the other . . . well, I’m not so sure.
Here’s the thing though. Sometimes people need to deal with their problems in their own way. Some people use medication, others therapy, others drink until they forget who they are. Some people enjoy being with friends and family until they just feel better. Me? Well . . . as the great Rap stylist MC Bobby D would say:
What's the matter with me,
I don't have much to say,
Daylight sneakin' through the window
And I'm still in this all-night cafe.
Walkin' to and fro beneath the moon
Out to where the trucks are rollin' slow,
To sit down on this bank of sand
And watch the river flow.
See me, I’m different, I guess. Over the years, for various reasons, I’ve grown attached to the concept of home. We could go into the deep psychological meanings of this need to cocoon, but I don’t think it would illuminate anything that no one really knows already.
But as soon as something goes wrong, I head for the confines of home and stay there until it blows over. Whether it be a job I can’t stand to a disagreement with a friend to a death in the family to the general malaise that is creeping over me now, I run home to heal. Maybe that’s wrong, maybe it’s not. Maybe there are better ways to deal with it, I don’t know. All I know is that when I have a problem, it’s easier for me to deal with it with my family close by. Again, I leave it to the wandering poet:
Throw my ticket out the window,
Throw my suitcase out there, too,
Throw my troubles out the door,
I don't need them any more
'Cause tonight I'll be staying here with you.
Or, really, it could be more like Randy Newman said:
Well, if you knew how much this moment means to me
And how long I've waited for your touch
And if you knew how happy you are making me
I never thought that I'd love anyone so much
It feels like home to me
So, let’s just say that I’m sorry to anyone I’ve trampled over recently. It hasn’t been intentional and it’s nothing personal.
I’ve run out of Bob Dylan quotes I can remember off the top of my head today. So I guess I’m done. But, for the record, I think all Greatest Hits CDs should be in chronological order. Not that it has anything to do with this. But I felt it was important.
(Don’t read this if you don’t want to. It’s less of a post, more of a free-writing experiment to figure some things out in my own head. Seriously, click away now if you don’t want to read a treatise, with quotes from Bob Dylan and Randy Newman, about my recent bad mood. Seriously. If you need the goofy strangeness I usually post go here instead. Trust me on that.)
I had this great big post planned for today, explaining this mood I’ve been in lately that has spurred me to take my mental vacation that has never exactly come to fruition. But I realized, quite simply, I can’t figure it out myself. So, how can I explain to others what I can’t figure out on my own? You could probably trace my mood back to the Neil Young post of a few weeks ago.
Facts: I’m feeling down in the dumps. Reasons? Could be many, could be few. It’s hard to tell. But I do know that my moods swing like a razor sharp pendulum that can take your head off if you’re standing too close.
I’m also changing a variety of things in my life; including self-destructive behavior that I’ve clutched to since I was a young, rebellious idiot. Between the personal inventory I’m constantly taking because of the changes, and the general sense of doom I feel, I’ve been kind of a jerk.
So far I’ve pissed off my wife and a good friend in the span of about 24 hours. So, I’d say my track record is pretty good. One’s not mad at me anymore, the other . . . well, I’m not so sure.
Here’s the thing though. Sometimes people need to deal with their problems in their own way. Some people use medication, others therapy, others drink until they forget who they are. Some people enjoy being with friends and family until they just feel better. Me? Well . . . as the great Rap stylist MC Bobby D would say:
What's the matter with me,
I don't have much to say,
Daylight sneakin' through the window
And I'm still in this all-night cafe.
Walkin' to and fro beneath the moon
Out to where the trucks are rollin' slow,
To sit down on this bank of sand
And watch the river flow.
See me, I’m different, I guess. Over the years, for various reasons, I’ve grown attached to the concept of home. We could go into the deep psychological meanings of this need to cocoon, but I don’t think it would illuminate anything that no one really knows already.
But as soon as something goes wrong, I head for the confines of home and stay there until it blows over. Whether it be a job I can’t stand to a disagreement with a friend to a death in the family to the general malaise that is creeping over me now, I run home to heal. Maybe that’s wrong, maybe it’s not. Maybe there are better ways to deal with it, I don’t know. All I know is that when I have a problem, it’s easier for me to deal with it with my family close by. Again, I leave it to the wandering poet:
Throw my ticket out the window,
Throw my suitcase out there, too,
Throw my troubles out the door,
I don't need them any more
'Cause tonight I'll be staying here with you.
Or, really, it could be more like Randy Newman said:
Well, if you knew how much this moment means to me
And how long I've waited for your touch
And if you knew how happy you are making me
I never thought that I'd love anyone so much
It feels like home to me
So, let’s just say that I’m sorry to anyone I’ve trampled over recently. It hasn’t been intentional and it’s nothing personal.
I’ve run out of Bob Dylan quotes I can remember off the top of my head today. So I guess I’m done. But, for the record, I think all Greatest Hits CDs should be in chronological order. Not that it has anything to do with this. But I felt it was important.
Tuesday, March 09, 2004
Currently on Deck
George Harrison's "Give Me Love (Give Me Peace on Earth)".
Considering the stuff I've posted the last few days, current events, and the conversations I've had with friends, I thought it's kind of appropriate:
Give me love
Give me love
Give me peace on earth
Give me light
Give me life
Keep me free from birth
Give me hope
Help me cope, with this heavy load
Trying to, touch and reach you with,
heart and soul
I swear, mental vacation is imminent. I think. Or something.
Considering the stuff I've posted the last few days, current events, and the conversations I've had with friends, I thought it's kind of appropriate:
Give me love
Give me love
Give me peace on earth
Give me light
Give me life
Keep me free from birth
Give me hope
Help me cope, with this heavy load
Trying to, touch and reach you with,
heart and soul
I swear, mental vacation is imminent. I think. Or something.
In Memorium
I have left a stack of essays I've written and a glass of ice water on my table for the day. In honor of Spaulding.
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