When the Truth Is Found to Be Lies

I'm on a quote of the day list, and today's was this:

"The larger question: Has our culture become so private that no one knows how to behave anymore in public? Is selfishness the rule rather than exception? Are people who say, "Shut up and turn off your phone" today's version of "You kids get off my lawn"?"

- David Edelstein, movie critic, on people who make noise in movie theatres.


It was taken from this article:

[http://www.vulture.com/2013/06/david-edelstein-on-texting-and-talking-at-movies.html]

The article asked for responses, and I sent this:

Dear David,

     I'm an English teacher who occasionally gets assigned a film course to teach. I love movies, and going to the cinema used to be one of my favorite ritualistic activities. Because of my teaching schedule, I usually have Fridays off. I used to "sneak off" to the theater and catch two movies. (I put that phrase in quotes because my wife knew what I did on Friday, but feeling like I was on the sly made the movie that much more fun -- Woody Allen makes a similar point in Crimes and Misdemeanors.) Movies in the late morning/early afternoon of a suburban Cincinnati Friday were blissfully desolate. Still, I didn't like how ticket prices kept inching upward, and I fumed that commercials ran before a feature I'd paid to see. (I saw these ads because I liked previews and also wanted to ensure that I got a spot in the back row. I like to see the whole screen, and I hate having people behind me.)

     What eventually got to me, though, was the proliferation of smart phones. I tell classes that opening your phone in a movie theater is like letting off an air horn during a concert. Film is a visual medium, and that infernal light is damn distracting. Our animal eyes can't help but be drawn to it, and we not only miss parts of the movie, we're -- as you express it so well -- pulled out of the experience. And that's what I miss. Buying a ticket was fun. I liked to go to the bathroom before the movie to ensure I wouldn't have to miss any of the story. I loved the long walk down the hall, the walk into the semi-darkened theater, and the climb up the stairs to the back row. I ritualistically entered another world, and I liked being absorbed in it. But, increasingly, even on Friday afternoons, knuckleheads with their phones pulled me out of the cinematic world I'd waited all week to enter. The final straw for me came in the autumn of 2009, when I was completely absorbed in what may be my favorite Cohen brothers film, A Serious Man. The movie has taken a turn toward its conclusion. Finally somebody gets to see and sit with the old wise reclusive Rabbi. The movie is reaching its big scene, the one it's been building toward, Joseph Campbell's innermost cave. Here comes the wisdom, here comes... The guy in front of me opens his phone and checks his messages. I hear the Rabbi quote Jefferson Airplane and ultimately tell his visitor to be a good boy, but it's from a distance. I'm not there, or in there.

     I've gone to one movie since then. I was in a big group, and I had a gift certificate in my pocket. It was for The Kids are Alright, at the same theater, actually. The crowd was actually polite. But it was over for me; I knew a polite crowd was now the exception rather than the rule. Anyway, my final thought on all of this is a half-baked one, but one I've been working on for a while now. Movies, concerts, plays, public readings, hiking trails and a host of other things don't seem to belong to the people who really love them, who honor them, who recognize that they contain the possibility of transcendence. They belong to the half-assers, the barely-there people whose narcissism is fed by their ability to recognize themselves only as customers. They're there to get whatever it is they think they paid for before they move on to the next thing they're going to consume. It must be an empty, spiritually bankrupt existence, and perhaps their behavior is an attempt -- I assume unconsciously -- to pull others into their hell. But I'm doing what I can to keep out of their reach.

Sincerely,
[my real initials]

Episode Ten -- Kerosene Mouth Wash and Hydroeletric Dildos

My wife said this: "I have this weird thing where I can't absorb information about Al Pacino."

I said this: "Keith Richards cures cancer -- I'm Jumpin' Jack Flash, and it's a gas, gas, gas."

Depression is rage turned inward. I learned that from The Sopranos, and apparently it's all over the internet. Of course the same basic idea is found in Nietzsche.

Shampoo commercials exist to mock the balding, but deodorant commercials seem to have no real impact on the smelly.

Going bald is like getting hate mail from God.

Getting cancer is like getting an eviction notice from the planet.

Having a baby is much more fear than any handful of dust could ever hold.

It seems silly to write anything at all now that the line "shave off my pubes and punch me in the face" already exists.

Episode Nine -- Burning Paint and Barbed Wire Jump Ropes

I. Random Thoughts

I don't know whether or not the Jews control the media, but they seem to wield quite an influence over my dog.

I remember my uncle's last words. He told me: "I may not have ever cum all over a girl's face, but I jacked off to a lot of yearbook photos."

I don't think handicapped people would be quite so depressing if we referred to them as crippadoodles.

Corn, dandruff, and snow -- think about it.

Could you imagine Hitler as a bank teller? Working the drive-though? Wouldn't that be fucked up!

My life is on a downward trajectory. I used to smell coffee roasting and listen to the bells of St. Christopher's Parish. Then for a long time I smelled Arby's roast beef and heard idiots over-enunciating "FRENCH FRIES." Now I smell pee and listen to imbeciles vomit.

I watched the first couple of Increcible Hulk movies from the late 1970s. There's a lot more sexual chemistry there than you might think would be in a movie starring Bill Bixby and the old lady from Dharma and Greg.


Ask Sherman Hemsley.

There is no God.

I can't remember my own phone number.

Episode Eight -- David Crosby's Liver

Overlooked Cinematic Classics from the Thirties

As you may know, I have taught film courses, and even in my English courses I've made it a point to teach some films. The 1930s are an overlooked decade in the history of cinema, and I think that's a shame. To remedy this injustice, I've made a list of three of that decade's overlooked classics, plus one bonus film for your edification and amazement.

1. Race You to Wisconsin! This sleeper stars those lovable moppets, Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney. The young lovers are engaged to be married, and a week before the ceremony, a gang of hooligans at the YMCA make fun of the size of Mickey Rooney's penis. Being innocent, he had not realized that his endowment might be an issue. The mischief-makers explain to Mickey that he couldn't fill a midget with what he's packing. Realizing that he's both gullible and insecure, the hooligans decide to have some more fun with him. They tell Mickey about a tonic that is only available in Wisconsin, and away he goes! Then Judy catches wind of Mickey's trip. Fearing that he's come down with cold feet, or worse, that he has an old love he hasn't gotten over, she stows away in the luggage compartment. When the pair get to Madison, wackiness ensues. You can be sure that there's plenty of blackface and catchy tunes! The catchy tunes include "Hotdog Down a Hallway," "Shufflin' to Madison," and "For Full Effect, Don't Pasteurize It."

2. The Worst Years of Our Lives. Before The Grapes of Wrath, there was The Worst Years of Our Lives. Jimmy Stewart plays Preacherman Randy Justice, a man of faith who has just suffered the foreclosure of his church due to the Great Depression's impact on the donation plate. Randy throws his collar into the river, gets drunk on Wild Turkey, and with a tommy gun and a volume of the complete works of Nietzsche, he climbs onto the roof of the bank that repossessed his church. As the townsfolk gather, Randy Justice reads from The Will to Power and threatens to shoot anybody who leaves before the reading is done. As he's reading, Randy becomes increasingly sober and he notices some G-Men in the crowd. Randy throws down the book and his gun and yells "Now, now before it's too late!" In Washington, under the harsh interrogation of Hoover, Randy lies about his motive. He explains that Tim Casey, the local Red agitator, had threatened to kill one child per week unless Randy helped him break the town's addiction to that opiate of the people, religion. He goes on that he yelled what he did because he saw the G-Men and thought it was the best time for them to make their move, especially since he was getting to the most atheistic part of the book. Hoover asks Randy if he'd be willing to testify against Casey, and Randy agrees. The Worst Years of Our Lives is famous for the graphic depiction of an eletric chair electrocution. For realism, Capra filmed a real live commie being put to death!

3. I Killed Her at the State Fair. Although many cite Psycho as the prototypical slasher movie, I Killed Her at the State Fair is the genre's true progenitor. The film tells the story of Ricky Nicholas, a shy newcomer who's really keen on Mary Beth Truevirtue. Too awkward to express his feelings, Ricky becomes Mary Beth's "secret admirer" and leaves little notes in her locker and sends her a weekly batch of flowers. On the day that he's finally wound up enough courage to ask her out, Ricky walks behind the school barn for one more nerve-soothing Camel. There he sees Mary Beth giving handjobs to Biff Manmeat, the captain of the football team, and Jasper Slopbucket, the school janitor. Furious, Ricky's lovenotes and weekly flowers are replaced with death threats and rat carcasses. The climatic scene on the Merry-Go-Round has been recognized as the inspiration for the Ferris Wheel scene in The Third Man, and is a classic of cinematography, suspense, and "makes you think" philosophizing. I Killed Her at the State Fair was remade as It Happened at the World's Fair, a 1963 Elvis Presley vehicle.

BONUS

Don't Look Under the Washtub. Before Chester Erskine struck comedic gold with Ma and Pa Kettle, he struggled as an ambitious director with a disturbing vision. It's rare and hard to find, but keep your "eye out" for Don't Look Under the Washtub, Erskine's adaptation of Edgar Allan Poe's "The Telltale Heart." Grandma Pickens can't stand the sight of her husband Cotton's blind eye. After a late night down at the still, Grandma drops her tobacco pouch in a field of wildly growing psychedelic mushrooms. The mushrooms get into her tobacco, and when Grandma fills her corncob pipe the next morning, she gets more than she bargained for. Tripping her ass off, Grandma Pickens starts to take orders from a chorus of demons in overalls who tell her how to get rid of that bothersome eye once and for all. If you don't want to discover the hole that contains Cotton Pickens' decomposing body, then Don't Look Under the Washtub!

Episode Seven -- Lunch Pail Writer

I. George Carlin and the February Lesson

Last summer George Carlin died. I was blue about it, but I was fine -- he was older, he lived hard for a good while, etc. Then I turned on YouTube and watched his last concert special. The first words out of his mouth were "Fuck Lance Armstrong." That's when I cried just a little. Who's going to say "Fuck Lance Armstrong" now? Because, goddammit, somebody in this pitiful excuse for a culture has to say "Fuck Lance Armstrong."

God, I hate Lance Armstrong.

Last autumn they honored Carlin with the Mark Twain Award, and they broadcast the special in February. Here is my favorite part. This is John Stewart from the Daily Show:


George Carlin's transformation was amazing, and one of the reasons that I'm here today is I was fortunate enough to be asked to host "Forty Years in Comedy: A Night with George Carlin." Now, the idea was that we were going to take this amazing comedian, who had been doing comedy for forty years, and had two heart attacks, and we were going to send him to Aspen, Colorado, the highest point in America, where there's very little oxygen. And then we were going to bring in a heavy smoker from New York to interview him.

So my job was to interview George, and I got the chance to get to know him a little bit beforehand. I flew out to California to meet him and to sit down with him and to talk with him, and I think that's where I learned the lesson about George Carlin and what he meant to comedy and what he was like as an artist. I didn't know what to expect. I went over to his office on Brentwood, and I sort of had this idea that I was going to watch The Master create. You know, we were going to go there, and he was going to be like, "Hey man, let's go out to the desert, I'm going to take some peyote, I'm going to get in the earth, and shit's going to come to me."

And I walked into his office, and it's just a computer, and a desk, and this incredibly anti-establishment mind punched in every day and sat and worked. He cared enough about his comedy, and what he was doing, that every day he punched the clock. This was a blue-collar guy. That was the main message that I took from him.


That aired while I was in the early stages of writing my dissertation. Don't get me wrong, I had been reading a ton, I had written up a long proposal, and I had done a ton of writing (other projects) in the past. Still, though, I had held onto a certain conception of writing. And I looked upon becoming a professor in much the same way. Although I worked hard at teaching (extensive comments, hours of preparation, tracking down interesting pieces to complement what we were studying), I did not have the right attitude about scholarship. Or any kind of writing, for that matter. And the lesson I was learning, and that was becoming increasingly coherent in my mind after a month of at least three hours a day/six days a week of clocking in, sitting down in front of the computer, and finding word after word, constructing sentence after sentence until they seemed to be paragraphs, was that it is a job. Labor. You sit down and build what you can each day and let time take care of the rest. The rest being, of course, accumulation. There are no magic pills or herbs or buttons or anything like that – nothing psychedelic in its literal, "mind-revealing," sense. The process is accumulation rather than revelation. It's work; it's a job.

Now that reads like something a mature person would write.


II. Good Point

This very astute argument was in my comments section, and I'd like to post it here:

I gotta call you out on one thing, though--lumping Updike together with all such "high art." Why is his brand of bad writing (and I don't like him particularly) illustrative of high art--and symphonies?! And Updike aside, what's wrong with high art? What IS high art? Aren't the Rolling Stones high art? Within the pop music world, they pretty much define the canon--no music is more played, known, or abused in popular culture. And they're virtual royalty, with money, models, and castles to boot. In 100 years, won't we being going to the symphony to hear them? (hopefully they will have finally retired by this point, but you get my meaning).

I think much of what we consider high art is that which has been commodified by a cultural elite which has little hand in actually creating it (though they often support it--usually posthumously). Just because Regan played "Born in the USA" at his rallies doesn't make Springsteen a sell-out tool or a Republican elitist (especially since he didn't agree to lend it!). On similar grounds, I have to take exception to your comment of rather being on fire than listening to a symphony, as if the very art form is compromised by its elitist values. The very same life force that penetrates the Stones best songs is found in music from Bach onwards (and even before). Beethoven was a working class nobody whose father beat him and who tried to scrape together a life as a touring pianist, before finally giving that up and trying to compose. He broke all the rules, shocked one of his teachers, the venerable Joseph Haydn, and even wrote a symphony dedicated to what he saw as a true hero of the people--Napoleon (until said dictator invaded Austria--he then rubbed out the dedication so hard the page tore). My point being that classical music (a bad generic term), far from being "rich white men's music," was largely composed by moody, dissident, impoverished, angry artists who were ignored in their time and often defrauded by the very elitist society who now trumpets their works in every concert hall.

Updike is Updike, and he has a reputation. But I hope everyone's reputation doesn't damn them to mediocrity, especially when many of these reputations are posthumous. High art is in the eye of the beholder, and I hope we can judge the work on its own values (as you do Updike), rather than dismissing all symphonic music--or epistolary novels--or impressionist paintings--to the dung heap. That which we love, we love. Even KISS has its place. But isn't damning KISS over the Stones a kind of judgment of high vs. low art? (though I agree--I hate their music).


Here is my response, with some modifications:

I just read your comments, and I think they're insightful and spot-on. If I read you correctly, you're arguing that creative output is creative output, and designations of high and low, classical and pop, and etc. are terms that are applied (usually long) after the fact by critics and taste-makers. I really hated that book, and I had a bug up my ass about it because a) It looks like I'll be engaging it even more thoroughly b) Updike seems like an Ivy League guy writing about his perception of the working-class. So I teed off on my perception of elite tastes to make an awkward point. I'm going to leave it up because it's honest from that moment, but with your permission I would like to highlight your points, especially about Beethoven. Truth be told, I like Beethoven, and I listened to parts of one of his symphonies with a class when I taught The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. (I do think that good rock and roll music represents the Lifeforce, though.)

The other point you make that I really like is that even in pop culture a low/high dichotomy emerges. Critics will laud The Velvet Underground, who sold only a handful of records, and denigrate KISS and their ilk. It's the elite/popular struggle, and it eventually emerges in every new medium -- it emerges as soon as somebody takes a mode of expression seriously enough to write about it. First it's trashed, then it's taken seriously, then there's the elite/popular clash. It happened with film, it happened with television, it happened with rock and roll, and it will probably happen with webisodes. Ironically, critical darlings such as Goddard love the "trashy" stuff, just as critical darlings such as Cobain grew up on KISS and Sammy Hagar.

Plus I was really sad about Michael Jackson dying. Mean dads can fuck a guy up.

Episode Six -- Tufts and Orbs; or, Was John Updike Fucking Serious? (What The Hell Am I Missing Here?)

I. John Updike: Big Weirdo Creep

It's the Third of July. I guess at this point in our nation's history Thomas Jefferson was in the final stages of peer review and revisions. Does one wear a powdered wig when workshopping political treatises? Probably. One could only hope.

The only John Updike I'd read until now is Rabbit, Run. I thought it was alright. Some nice phrases. I just finished Rabbit Redux and I've come to the conclusion that I hate John Updike. Basically, somebody has sex in that book every seven or so pages. The descriptions are godawful. Why did this man use the word cunt so often? Was he trying to speak in what he thought was a "working class" voice? But why am I telling you this. Enjoy:

"It is true: all her talk, her wild wanting it, have scared him down to nothing. She is too wet; something has enlarged her. And the waxen solidity of her young body, her buttocks spheres too perfect, feels alien to him: he grasps her across a distance clouded with Mom's dry warm bones and Janice's dark curves, Janice's ribs crescent above where the waist dipped. He senses winds playing through Jill's nerve-ends, feels her moved by something beyond him, of which he is only a shadow, a shadow of white, his chest a radiant shield crushing her. She disengages herself and kneels to tongue his belly. They play with each other in a fog. The furniture dims around them. They are on the scratchy carpet, the television screen a mother-planet above them. Her hair is in his mouth. Her ass is two humps under his eyes. She tries to come against his face but his tongue isn't that strong. She rubs her clitoris against his chin upside down until he hurts. Elsewhere she is nibbling him. He feels gutted, silly, limp. As last he asks her to drag her breasts, the tough little tips, across his genitals, that lie cradled at the join of his legs. In this way he arouses himself, and attempts to satisfy her, and does, though by the time she trembles and comes they are crying over secrets far at their backs, in opposite directions, moonchild and earthman. 'I love you,' he says, and the fact that he doesn't makes it true. She is sitting on him, still working like some angry mechanic who, having made a difficult fit, keeps testing it."

So let's review: "he grasps her across a distance clouded with Mom's dry warm bones" -- what the fuck?

"the television screen a mother-planet above them" -- what the fucking fuck?

"moonchild and earthman" -- what the goddamn fucking fuck?

"'I love you,' he says, and the fact that he doesn't makes it true. " -- Okay. Fuck you, John Updike. You fucking charlatan. This is nothing short of fraudulent writing. It means exactly nothing. It's faux deep. It's wankery. It's horseshit. IT MEANS NOTHING. Do you know what means more than this? Oh, I don't know. Let's start with this: "Mama-se, mama-sa, ma-ma-coo-sa." You see, that means something. That I can understand. I can hear it, I can feel it, and I can dig it. John Updike encapsulates why people don't read anymore. Too much pretentious nonsense. Absolute utter nonsense. If you liked Rabbit Redux, you're a bad person. And stupid. I'm sorry, bud. I don't make the rules. I just work here.

You see, I hate "high art." I'd rather be on fire than listen to a symphony. I like pop songs. Three-minute pop songs. Everybody knows that civilization peaked with "Jumping Jack Flash." There's nothing better than "Jumping Jack Flash." Two beats of the main chord (bump-bumm) then the four-five-flatted seventh of the scale (bah-na-naa, bah-na-naa). See, it's that four-five flatted seventh that makes it. Puts it in the blues tradition. And it's a song about perseverance. It means something. Listen:

I was born in a crossfire hurricane
And I howled at my mom in the driving rain
but it's alright now
in fact its a gas
it's alright now
I'm Jumping Jack Flash
it's a gas, gas, gas

This is a song written by war babies. Born in 1943, maybe in a goddamn bomb shelter. Getting bombed by the Nazis -- a crossfire hurricane. This is what it means to survive. Who the hell fucks during a war? Who brings children into that? But it's alright now. In fact, it's a gas. Listen to more:

I was raised by a toothless bearded hag
I was schooled with a strap across my back

Child abuse! Surviving child abuse. One might also say: "Lift Your Head Up High/And Scream Out To The World/I Know I Am Someone/And Let The Truth Unfurl/No One Can Hurt You Now/Because You Know What's True/Yes, I Believe In Me/So You Believe In You." Yes, that's the point we need to get at. That's the point I need to get at: no one can hurt me now. That's empowerment. That's what it means. Please also consider:

I was drowned
I was washed up left for dead
I looked down
at my feet and I saw they bled
I frowned at the crumbs of a crust of bread
I was crowned
with a spike right through my head

But it's alright now. In fact it's a gas.

Weird nebulous crucifixion imagery. Resurrection! Rebirth! Perseverance. Rock and Roll music, the beat, that's the Lifeforce. We're all Pagans now, and in the end we'll be better for it. Fuck you John Updike. You big weirdo creep. Everybody, please read books that don't suck. And listen to these songs. They're like church, man:

1. Bo Diddley -- Bo Diddley

2. Somethin' Else -- Eddie Cochran

3. Jumping Jack Flash -- The Rolling Stones

There are many more. But let's start with those. You'll be on your way to good mental health, lower blood pressure, and an understanding of what it means to live at peace with the universe.


II. The Deaf Guy Upstairs

Halloween 2008 was particularly bad. People across the alley, a floor above us, were having a party and pissing and vomiting off of their balcony. They were drunk and loud and engaging in the general douchebaggery that has made living near them the special treat it's been. Let's be honest. Isn't this why we have ground wars? So one nation can agree with another nation to clean these types out of their gene pools? What a terrible thing to say. A lot of decent and intelligent people have died in ground wars. Yeah, that's more than true. It's just that when I get to thinking about binge-drinkers and hockey fans and Metallica concerts, I think that it has to be possible to give nature a gentle nudge. Isn't there an action I can take now to prevent my future children from getting picked on while riding the bus home from school?

Anyway. Wife and I decide to go upstairs and ask the people above us how they stand it. I mean, for them, those fucktards are even closer. They're directly across the way there. So up we went. Turns out the guy who lives there has a girlfriend that visits there one weekend a month. She was having some trouble dealing with them. And the guy, well, it turns out he just turns off his hearing aid. That's right. He pulls a Stockdale. He told us, "I just turn off my hearing aid," and he turned his ear toward us and showed us his ear, which had in it a hearing aid. Now I may have mentioned before that I, in many ways, envy the deaf. You don't have to listen to the stupid things people say to each other. You don't have to listen to people chew, slurp, and all of the other horrendous noises they make when eating. I'd miss the goddamn rock and roll music, though. Hmm. What a quandary! I don't know what to wish for!

But the thing about the deaf guy upstairs is, he walks around like he's got goddamn cinderblocks attached to his feet. He must have no idea how goddamn loud he is when he's stomping around. Crashing, booming, and bamming. Man alive did that guy make a racket himself. Not musically. Not drink and vomit-y. Just Stompy. Wife and I called him Stompy McStomperson. I like the guy, though. We always exchanged pleasantries in the building after our Halloween conversation. We're allies.

So recently, a month or so ago, I run into the deaf guy upstairs and he tells me he's moving. I said, "Oh man, that sucks. What the hell happened?" He didn't hear me. He turned his hearing aid toward me about half way, half way so he could keep his eyes on my lips. Knowing this, I enunciated and shouted, "WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?" And he smiled a bit and said that graduate school wasn't working out for him, that his boss over at the university "threw him under the bus." That's a phrase I never heard until I met my wife. Her family said it all of the time, usually in reference to my wife's mean old granny. They were always throwing somebody under the bus, as in, Mean Old Granny is mad about this, so we threw [insert poor bastard's name here] under the bus and said he is the reason we couldn't make it because he has to be at the airport by dawn. Or something like that. To throw under the bus is to scapegoat. Then the goddamn conservatives tried to say that Obama "threw his white grandmother under the bus" during his historic race speech in Philadelphia in March 2008 when he basically saved his campaign from the Reverend Wright debacle. So anyway, the deaf guy upstairs said, "My boss threw me under the bus." Apparently his program, his boss, and his getting thrown under the bus were all interrelated. And he's not in the program anymore. Whatever it was. And he's moved. So anyway, I see he's moving his stuff out a couple of days later, and like a lot of people who move, he's leaving a lot of his stuff on the curb. Guess what's there? Two big-ass cans, the kind that could have been super big cans of tomatoes or coffee, filled with cement and attached to a barbell. Seriously. It was some kind of deranged, Mad Max post-apocalyptic homemade weight set. Well, that explains the occasional crashes. The deaf guy upstairs was pumping iron. Lifting steel. Uh, pumping concrete. Lifting cement.

Oh, and I almost forgot the best part. He had a vibrating alarm clock. Because obviously, what goddamn good would a beeping alarm clock had done him? Because he's deaf. So some mornings, the goddamn thing would go off before 7 AM (on a Saturday). And it would rattle his floor, our ceiling. One morning, it went off for an hour before we had to call the property managers and they had to go into his place and turn off the crazy thing. He was gone, presumably to visit his girlfriend. And he had presumably left his set vibrating alarm clock behind. One other morning it was going off for going on a half hour when wife and I went up and pounded politely on his door. The roommate answered and said "turn off your alarm." We heard a "What?," which was followed by "TURN OFF YOUR ALARM." "Oh, sorry."

So long, deaf guy upstairs. You seemed like a good guy. And you never played music. So all told, it was a mixed bag. I dug you, though. You seemed profoundly decent to me.

III. The Library Downtown

I'm in love. Oh, baby. I'm in love with the Boston Public Library. The Boston Public Library might very well be the greatest place on earth. First of all, it's downtown, and it's beautiful inside, and it has an ambiance, an essence, a real spirit to it. And the train leaves you off literally in its basement. Oh my Lord how I do love that library. And do you know what else? Suppose you want the Fortune magazine from December 1969? Well guess what, Captain? You just fill out a little piece of paper, hand it to a lady or dude who will tell you, "Come back in twenty minutes," and then it's there waiting for you. In fact, it's there waiting for you in less than that. More like fifteen, tops. I'm getting excited just writing about it. Thinking about it. I want to scream it, shout it, shake my mind all about it. You understand, don't you? You know what I'm talking about. Come on now, people. It's cold outside. I got on my long-ass scarf. My black and orange scarf that is modeled in design (if not color) on the one Keith Richards wore in the film Gimme Shelter. I have on my knit black cap. Come on, people. It is cold outside and I have my list of sources that I need to make my dissertation a reality. Put in that time and place. I need a context for this literature. Yes, you know that I do. A context via periodicals. Sources ascertained from the bibliographies of the books I have read. Come on now, people. How is this going to happen? How is this dissertation going to live and breath if I have no electricity with which to fill the volts in its poor cobbled together neck? You know how. You know how. Copley Square is where. Copley Square. Where Craig's Lists hookers are killed by gambling addicts. Ah, yes. Muggers buggers and thieves. I do indeed love that dirty water. You fill out a piece of paper and they bring it to you. They bring it to you. Love that dirty water.

So I did just that again and again. Bound periodicals from anther time. A copy card. Copies copies copies. Reading and discerning. Constructing a narrative. Finding that line. All that place has to offer plus the New York Times, which of course you understand is available on the Boston Public Library's site now that yours truly has a card. A library card. A library card, which does indeed make the PDFs of articles from generations ago downloadable to one's computer. Mine all mine. History at my fingertips. Another lifetime in this one.

And one time I was walking down the street after a particularly successful day at the greatest place on earth. It was cold outside and my spirits you must know are always in direct inversion to the thermometer. Ah yes, the thermo-meter reads oppositely of my mood-o-meter. And there I am bipping and bopping and non-stopping and you must see that part of the sidewalk is closed off. The chainlink fence lined with a green tarp because what these workers are doing is a secret. It's a union thing, you understand. Shhhhh. And the sidewalk has us walking single-file and this makes it easier for the homeless man with change in a plastic cup to reside at the mouth of the chain-link fence and panhandle the river of people spilling into the double-lane sidewalk. I told him I didn't have any change. And I didn't. The copy machines done got all my change, and I am walking down the street with history in my backpack. And the man said to me, "You got yourself a long scarf, though." Yeah. I got myself a long scarf. Life is just that good in wintertime. Life in a Northern Town.

Oh, one more story about the library. It was a cold winter last year. And as you can imagine, homeless folks were in the library. The librarians would try to move them along. One gentleman told the librarian, "Well, I have to find me a book first." And seeing the section he was in, said, "Russian. Yeah. I'm going to be learning me some Russian."


IV. We Try To Avoid That

I made a mistake at my work. I coded something incorrectly. The supervisor, literally the overseer, told me, "We try to avoid that." I replied, "You try to avoid mistakes?" Supervisor said, "Yeah. We generally try to avoid making mistakes like that." I told her I understood, and from then on out, I have tried to avoid making mistakes. Because up until then, I was all about fucking up.

Oh, and here's a conversation I heard one night at work. I jotted it down word for word:

Helen: They should close this place for a day and give it a real cleaning.

Mary: I brought in a Swifter Duster, but I don't know what became of it.

Linda: Are you talking about a dictionary?

Mary: No.

V. Applause Fascists

I am going to admit something to you that I'm ashamed of. I went to see a KISS concert from January 1976 in a movie theatre. Aren't you ashamed of me? I'm ashamed of myself. I shave in the dark because I can't stand to see my big ugly face. God, I hate KISS. Why won't they go away and leave me in peace? Older brothers listened to KISS in the 70s, you must understand. And when these older brothers, who stopped listening to KISS in those same 70s, yes when those older brothers die, you find yourself attached to a time and place trying to talk to him one more time. You want to get straight with him, love him by talking to him on that weird orange porch where you watched the rain fall in fat splats on the sidewalk leading to the rocky driveway. Can't I talk to him just one more time? I saw a KISS concert in person just days after he died. Years after the 70s had passed. Reagan was long gone then. Halfway between Reagan and Clinton, you will ascertain the year. My younger brother and his friends needed a ride and I agreed for a ticket. Older brother had just died. They opened with "I Stole Your Love," a song I hadn't heard in years. Literally years. And I stood on the arms of my chair in the rain, just out of reach of the overhang, and I sang every word. It was weird. Where were these lyrics coming from?

I'm something different
Ain't I correct?
How does it feel
To find out you failed your test?

Stupid lyrics, too. I knew every last one of them. God, I was so happy. I was so relieved. And when it was over, I found a sopping wet five dollar bill. It was my night. And when we got to the parking lot, somebody had slashed two of our tires. The two on the right side. The passenger side. My older brother's car. KISS fans. They're the worst.

So years later I want to see this goddamn KISS concert at a movie theatre south of Dayton because I'm retarded (literally in some goddamn sense, my guess would be emotionally) and I half expect to see a 1978 version of my brother appearing as a ghost in the corner of the goddamn screen. Lower right hand corner. Seems plausible. So KISS opens with "Deuce." And when the opening song's over, this fucking asshole stands up and applauds. He not only applauds, he looks around and starts shouting at people, "COME ON. PUT YOUR FUCKING HANDS TOGETHER. FUCK YEAH!!!" And the worst part? People around him start applauding and yelling. "Yeah! Whoo! Yeah! Alright!"

And this reminded me of the time I saw the Black Crowes, who were headlinging the Horde Festival. I'm thinking 1995. Hot fucking day. And do you know who I don't like? The Black Crowes. They suck. And they opened with a fifteen minute song. Who the hell opens with a fifteen minute song? I was high and tired and hot. I'd been at that godforsaken place for hours upon hours. I sat through Blues Traveler with their dipshit guitar player and fatassed harmonica honker. I can't even remember who else was on the goddamn bill. But I'm sure they sucked. They sucked, as Dick Cheney might put it, "Big Time." And the Black Crowes are up there, all of them stoned out of their pathetic heads, making goldawful noises with glass slides and harmonicas, just reeking like sonic cow shit. I ask you again, who the hell opens with a fifteen minute song? Jesus Christ I wanted to go home. Or die. I'd have settled for either. And this asshead, somewhere around the third song, which must have been at least a half hour into the concert, comes up behind me and my girlfriend at the time's friend's boyfriend and yells, "They're up there working their asses off for you. Get up and cheer for them. GET UP!!!" I look at the guy to make sure this isn't somebody who can beat the hell out of me. He isn't. So I yell back, "LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!!!" And he yells back, "I'M JUST SAYING, THEY'RE UP THERE..." And I yell back, "I DON'T KNOW YOU. I DIDN'T COME HERE WITH YOU. MIND YOUR OWN FUCKING BUSINESS." And he starts yelling again, "I'M JUST SAYING..." And I say, "LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE. BEAT IT, ASSHOLE." And he does. Until later when he realizes that girlfriend's friend's boyfriend has a tape recorder because the Black Crowes for some stupid fucking reason want people to tape their shows and further damage the planet by propagating the shit they blare. And the guy comes out of nowhere and starts yelling into the tape recorder the date, the location, the "fact" that the Black Crowes kick ass, and that this fucking guy (me) isn't giving "the Crowes" the respect they deserve. And that's all I remember. I probably left. I probably left a third of the concerts I ever attended early. I hate concerts. They suck. Do you know why? Because people go to concerts. Thousands and thousands of people.

So who are these applause fascists? How can I link them to the ones too scared to stop applauding Stalin? How can we link that to the movie The Wall? These and other questions just might get answered during the next episode of Frank Sinatra Ate My Pancakes.

But before I go. I should tell you how the KISS movie saga ends. Oh, I should tell you this, first. Paul Stanley's solo album Live to Win had just come out. (I know.) And there was a guy (different than Applause Fascist) in the concession stand line bloviating about it. He actually said in reference to it "...Paul's new album, which is excellent, by the way..." Yikes. Anyway, when that horrible concert from 1976 is over, I say to the guy next to me, "Man, I'd forgotten what a drummer Peter Criss was back then. His hands were fast. Shows you what a bastard drugs are." And the guy said back to me, "Yeah. He kicks ass." And I said, "Indeed."

Episode Five -- The Lifeforce and the Kick Drum in Eddie Cochran's "Somethin' Else"

I haven't posted in a while, but a lot has happened. My dissertation continues to take shape. I am kind of obsessed with Richard Nixon, and I am torn between empathy and deep hatred toward the crazy corrupt son of a bitch. What drove Nixon? A mean dad and a lot of resentment. I wonder why I can relate to him so much? Oh, I keed. I keed, I say. Seriously, though, my dad is a prick and I hate everybody. Anyway, I think my dissertation is going to be called, "Suck My Balls and Eat My Shit." No. I probably won't call it that. But I might. Goddamn it. I might.

What else is going on? I suppose you want to hear about my job searches. I have been looking for jobs. First of all, I found a job on Craig's List for a tutor. This looked like a great gig: something like 25 dollars an hour to teach English to a couple of kids who just moved to the country with their high-flying flag-waving well-to-do parents. Then the guy who runs the agency screwed up my first check -- mind you, I haven't tutored, let alone met, anybody yet -- and he asked that I go ahead and cash the check, but wire him the change. Yeah. So he sends me an email explaining that I should go ahead and cash the check for three thousand dollars, then send him the remaining (I don't remember the exact total, but this is probably close) twenty-seven hundred. I wrote back and said "this sounds completely legitimate, and it's definitely something I want to be a part of" and then thought nothing of it. Do internet scammers have any shred of irony? You bet they don't. I get a goddamn FedEx with what I assume is some sort of check in it. I didn't open it, and I destroyed it. Then I wrote a very clear email saying that I don't want anything to do with you people and to please stop emailing me and please seriously please stop sending me stuff. I haven't heard any more from them since. So let that be a lesson to you: internet scammers do not have a finely honed sense of irony.

Right around this time I decided to be an insurance salesman. I decided this because I put my goddamn resume on those job sites, you know which ones I'm talking about: Profession Manufacturer and Godzilla. Next thing you know Old Jed's a Millionaire. No, he really isn't. But he is seriously considering drowning himself in the cement pond down the street. I get contacted pretty quickly by two insurance companies, Metropolitan Existence and Talking Duck. I go to a job seminar that Metropolitan Existence is holding first. This crazy fucker drones on and on about how it's easy to sell insurance and financial packages for them because they have a famous cartoon character as their logo. He said that makes the brand recognizable. Then they herded us into a room and made us take a battery of tests on laptop computers. The main test was some sort of personality evaluator. It asked the same six fucking questions over and over again in about seventeen different ways. Finally I said out loud "this thing is asking us the same six fucking questions over and over again in about seventeen different ways." There was an impossibly handsome guy there named Raoul who said "you got that right, my man." Raoul had been a lawyer in Argentina and he moved up here and wanted to get into finance. He looked like Antonio Banderas must have when he was just crowding thirty. I kind of hate guys with awesome hair but I let it slide this time since he was Latino. I heard a long time ago that ninety-eight percent of Dominican men lose absolutely no hair throughout the course of their lives. I realize that Raoul (not his real name, by the way) was not Dominican but you get the idea. The guy's got great hair and I don't mind. So he and I start laughing and cutting up. The guy who ran the "seminar" was nowhere to be found. I'll just tell you his real last name because I can't think of one that would even convey how hilarious I think this name is: Breedlove. Jesus Christ. Jesus Breedlove. Breedlove -- there's a lot going on there, man. And he was okay, as far as all that goes, I guess. He gave the presentation as if he had given the presentation about a thousand times. He also gave it as if only about one out of every fifty or so people who hear it actually pursue a career with Metropolitan Existence, and he wasn't seeing that special one in the ten he had before him right then. He kind of reminded me of Richard Jenkins, before I really had a sense of who the hell Richard Jenkins was. By the way, and this is what they mean by a digression, Stepbrothers might just be the funniest movie of all time. Also, Six Feet Under is probably a really great show, but my wife and I didn't watch it per the recommended dosage. We watched five seasons in a month, and pretty much hated everybody by the time it was over. We decided the show should be called "The Story of the Unlikeable Funeral Home Family." When you think about it, that obviously has a much better ring than "Six Feet Under." "Six Feet Under" -- you don't know what the fuck you're getting there. But I digress, as I said I would. So Richard Jenkins Breedlove the III said a bunch of stuff about how cartoon characters sell a lot of insurance and then he gave us personality tests on laptops. For the life of me I could not figure out if it was good to want a lot of credit and accolades or bad to want a lot of credit and accolades. I figured I would split the difference, which probably made me seem like I had a split personality. Those fuckers never called back and I guess I'm glad.

Then, a few days later, the HR guy from Talking Duck Insurance calls me up and asks me to come in for a job seminar. I figured my suit is out so what the hell. The guy who ran this was a lot better than Breedlove. This fucking guy was the greatest person in the world. He was Practical. That should have been his name: Practical. He would say things such as "our commercials are funny. You know, the duck talks and people like that. And if you say who you work for, people go 'oh yeah. That duck talks.' And they laugh. Because the duck is funny." And then he ran with this particular point: "And we show fender-benders in our ads. You can't show people getting hurt bad because that wouldn't be funny. Fender-benders can be funny. Not people getting hurt bad, though." This is really very true when you think about it. He wasn't done, though. He talked about a new plan that they have been having great success with. Apparently no companies want to provide their employees with insurance anymore, but they still want to seem as if they are. So said companies have basically outsourced it to companies like Talking Duck, who provides policies to cover the holder in the event of a "health event." Practical talked about how they don't discuss this in their ads because the ads are designed to be funny. According to Practical: "You take a kid with cancer. That ain't funny. But a talking duck, that's funny." And he really has a point. I have a duck on my key chain. It's awesome. It quacks, and there's a flashlight in there, too. But I don't have a kid with cancer at the end of my key chain. That wouldn't be funny. That would be fucked up.

I forgot to tell you the best part. I'm getting on the elevator, and as the doors are closing who do I see coming in through the glass revolving doors? You guessed it. Raoul, Mr. Handsome Nice Hair himself. The best-looking Latin American Lawyer I have ever met has an appointment at Talking Duck to attend the same seminar that I do. And he gets on the elevator and we crack wise about the tests at Metropolitan Existence and he asks me if I'm heading downtown after this to the seminar at the Prudential Building. How did I miss that one?! No, I said. I'm not. And we sat through the Talking Duck Practical Kids with Cancer Ain't Funny Seminar and took it a hell of a lot more seriously than we did the Breedlove Presentation. And I actually signed up for an interview with the HR guy and they called me the next day to set it up. I get there a week after that and the HR guy can't make it and who is my interview with? You guessed it: Mr. Practical Kids with Cancer Ain't Funny Himself. We hit it off like fucking gangbusters. At one point he was actually writing down things I was saying because they kicked so much ass. For example, he was talking about how people need insurance because bills come due and you need income even when things are going calamitously and I said, to show that I get it, "that's right. You can't press pause on life." Holy shit he loved it. He wrote it down and asked if he could use it. I told him I was flattered and that I hoped he would. Then he was talking about the way companies outsource benefits and how it's like said companies are providing benefits when they're really only providing a chance for their employees to buy benefits from a third party but it's important for employees to feel like their company is taking care of them. I, again to show that I'm understanding, say, "sure. The idea of employees getting taken care of by their employers is culturally-ingrained." He got really enthusiastic and said, "Culturally ingrained. Yeah. I really like that. Can I use that, too?" I again said I was flattered and said sure. I was killing. KILLING. This might have been my greatest interview EVER. And it went on like that and I managed not to fuck it up and I went home.

The next day, I get a call from a lady from an organization called Higher Inspirations. The lady said she saw my resume and asked if I wanted to come in for a meeting. What the hell? So I ask what they do, and she replies that they're basically career coaches and mentors and I figure I never had an effective father figure so maybe I'd pay for one. So I agree to a meeting and I go in and meet a guy named Pablo. I won't go into great detail here because I ended up signing on with their services and I am getting a fuck ton out of the experience. I had an hour or so meeting with the guy and was ready to go, but then I realized that I really am salesman bait and I can get really enthusiastic really fast. I mean, for two whole days I thought of myself as an insurance salesman. So I asked my wife to come and talk to this guy with me and she agreed because she knows that I am really susceptiple to salesmen and to Italian people. Anyway, Pablo said a couple of things that her dad -- my father-in-law -- said and whamo cablamo Wife said let's do this. Higher Inspirations is not cheap, but the set-up is quite good. Frankly, I've learned a lot about the process of getting hired and for the first time in my life (absolutely no exaggeration) I am optimistic about my career. I even use the term, which I always hated. Soon after the HR guy from Talking Duck calls and leaves a message saying he heard what a great meeting I had with Practical and he wants to set something up real soon. I tell him that I decided to go in another directions (Pablo told me he doesn't want me selling insurance) and he says okay and wishes me luck. Then a couple of weeks later he leaves a message on the machine saying practically the same thing. I can't tell if this is a ploy or if they just don't have their shit together. Either way, I left a message for him telling him that I decided to go in another direction. But thank you.

So after that whole thing got going I had to look in the Sunday paper as part of an exercise with my career coach, Mr. Roberto. I found a data entry posting in there, which I pursued and got hired for. It's only part time, but it gives me an income and a reason to wear pants and leave the house. The job itself sucks balls, but it is not as horrible as it could be. Nobody there is a coke addict, but there is a supervisor who constantly catches me in embarrassing situations. For example, one day he asked me why I was out of breath. I had to be honest and tell him that I had spent my break running up and down the stairs because I hate to drink coffee too late because it keeps me up but I need to perk up so I thought I would get that blood flowing. Then just the other day he caught be doing fake karate in the men's room. He didn't even ask. He just looked at me.

When I got hired for that job I said to the wife "now begins the climb upward." And wouldn't you know it? I got a call from the Chimes Foundation about a grant-writing position. I had a phone interview, then an in-person interview, then an interview with the new CEO who conferenced in the old CEO and cofounder. I have a lot to say about this but there has been no decision that I know of about whether or not I got the job. I should know really soon and it's fucking killing me. I had to put a ton of money into the car and into my computer because the hard drive crashed. I have been good about backing up files, but I did lose a week's worth of dissertation. Writing about all of this makes me feel better. It feels good to talk about it all, but I am reticent to say anything about Chimes. I feel like they gave the job to somebody else. That will crush me, but I have to be honest and let you know how I feel. God, it would be so good if I got it. I would have a worthwhile job, and a truly decent income. It would be great for the resume, and the work would actually be more than worthwhile. I would be in. IN. I would be so great at that job. I'd be in the realm of education, but I wouldn't be teaching. I would be doing something tangible with my writing abilities. Oh God oh God oh God how I want this job. I think if I had it I would have heard by now, though. I had the application out before I hooked on with Higher Inspirations, but Mr. Roberto has seen me through the whole process from after the phone interview on. As I said, I'm learning a lot from him.

Closing thought: there was this Chinese Lady down in the Subway station playing a version of "Country Roads" that would make even the most hardened maniac cry. She played the guitar beautifully and had a pretty voice. More importantly, she sang the words as if she knew what they meant. Knew what they meant. And I thought the whole thing incongruent. Until last night. Bad insomnia. Flipping around. Keep returning to a John Denver documentary. What did I learn? Turns out that the Chinese Premier back in the 1970s was here in the States and asked to take back to China with him 500 cassettes of John Denver. When he got there, he distributed them to the State-run Radio and they got played. A lot. So John Denver was huge in China. And I realized that must have been why that lady played that song so well in the Park Street Station right down by the Red Line. Take me home, Mountain Momma. Take me home.