GET UP!

A few weeks ago I joined the beginning of a local chapter of a larger group, Singing Resistance. Born from the movement of locals in Minneapolis during the ICE disturbances, it has become a larger, more broad-based movement that seeks to make nationwide the differences made in that instance. 

I am not a good singer, not even much of a mediocre singer. My wife often tells me she can't tell what I'm singing even if she listens. But I was told decades ago I had a voice for protest songs, that I make up in volume what I lack in talent, and I'm content with that. 

We learned several songs which we will use when deployed. The one that stuck most with me is called "Sola El Pueblo, Salva El Pueblo," meaning "Only the people will save the people." Per Francis Russell, it is a phrase grown out of Puerto Rico after the disasters of Hurricane Maria and privatization of electricity and distribution. Perhaps the greatest symbol of the US response to this was the infamous photo op of trump tossing rolls of paper towels into a crowd. 

A five man singing group called Peace Poets put it to an a capella tune and added another line; "And if one of us falls, we all rise up!" It's this image I want to focus on. 

One of my favorite punk songs is "Get Up" by Sleater-Kinney. Released at the very end of the millennium, it's come to mean more to me as the years wear on. That charge, "Get up!", strikes a chord in my soul time after time. The song's lyrics, credit for which is shared by the three members, cut through a miasma of despair with the refrain.

A large part of why it's remained so resonant with me is the video to it by Miranda July. Here is blogger Jovana Babovic running down the origin of the video. "The video for “Get Up” was a collaborative effort between the producer, the band, and their fans. The vision for the video, as guitarist Carrie Brownstein explained, “was Miranda July’s interpretation of our song.” The band invited friends and fans to star as extras and, on the day of the shoot, everyone assembled in a field outside Olympia. The band’s publicist Julie Butterfield remembered that filming stated early in the morning, around seven, while it was still cold and frosty outside. For drummer Janet Weiss, the experience was overwhelmingly positive. “It was fun,” she told the zine Rockrgrl. More than that, the band was pleased with the video because, as they described it, it was provocative rather than cliché."

The video, if you have never seen it, is simple in its execution, its effects, and its black and white coloring. Take a moment to watch it. See if you agree with Pitchfork's Julianne Escobido Shepherd who calls it Sleater-Kinney's best video. 

[It] is a black-and-white motif of women walking through a field, the evergreens of Oregon piercing the sky behind them. They are holding hands; as they walk through the grass, they pick Weiss, Tucker and Brownstein off the ground, as their warm notes and high-hat hits seem to cloak the specks of light in the lens. Shots of meteors flash in and out. The images are an evocative metaphor for Sleater-Kinney's career: leg-ups for downtrodden women; hope, promise, and humor through ingenuity and virtuosity; a coalition of ideas without bounds. The video ends with a hot pink cartoon supernova. Brownstein looks up in awe. Their impact fans out.

What would I add to that? That the image of women crossing a field holding hands and bodily lifting others off the ground, those others then joining the line, is a powerful and mesmerizing one. It's one of the best impulses of the Beloved Community, the act of lifting another and continuing forward. I would also add that the final shot reinforces that, in moving forward, we will always come across more fallen. There will always be people in the grass, and there will always be a need for helpers.

Home

 About a week and a half ago the message at my church centered on one's return home, especially to a home town where one doesn't feel welcomed. That's had me thinking about it since. 

I've returned at different times to the area where I grew up, and sometimes it's been good and sometimes not. I think that's most people's experience. I'm a part of the estimated 25% of men who have moved far away from their hometown and I have been for a lot of years. There were periods when I stayed at my parents home or even lived in a cabin at the end of the road I grew up on. But I knew in each case I wouldn't remain there.

Which when I look back seems strange. I grew up thinking my area was a reasonably all right place and I would remain in its environs for life. I mean, it had access to nearly everything I wanted: a big city (NYC, where a lot of my friends moved to), lots of bookstores and schools (including my alma mater), deep woods and nearby mountains (the Berkshires and one end of the Appalachian Trail), good local music I could listen to for free when I wanted, even one of the best art collections in the country (the Clark Art). 

Still, I left early in my late teens, and I've stayed away as far as I can for what's probably the rest of my life. On occasion I imagine it's because of the potential me that might have been if I'd remained: a conservative rednecked mouth-breathing rethuglican. That image warms me for my decision to stay away.

But I really know that's not true. A lot of my friends who are still in the area are not that way at all (especially of course the ones who moved south to The City but even a fair number who stayed in nearby counties). I suspect the truth is it's not the environment that makes you but your reaction to it.

Besides, if stultifying right wingery is what I'd hoped to avoid, I wouldn't have spent the bulk of 30 years living in the central midwest and a few years ago having retired to the deep south. It should seem the opposite.

There's where a part of the paradox may lay, that having grown up in the bastion of red state behavior in one of the bluest states I find myself in adulthood more comfortable in the bluer segments of some of the reddest states. 

I'm well aware it's a privilege to live somewhere one is comfortable, not afforded to everyone. When I was younger and I found where I was staying didn't fulfill me, I'd leave. It was a comfort, knowing I was a step away from being gone if I wanted to be. That's how I disappeared from a lot of people's lives too and as I grow older I wonder where and how they are. The internet and Facebook have been great for catching up and I'm glad for that. But I sometimes wonder what it would have been like to watch the people I knew age and change, both for the better and worse. 

Where Are We Now?

I am looking for some direction and comfort like I think most of us are, and on days when it becomes very, very hard to keep track of how best to continue being human and not give in to anger, despair, and doom, it's good to remember music. 

I've spoken before of what David Bowie's music meant for me growing up and how it influenced my outlook on life. I don't play his music as often as I did when he was alive, although I don't there's anything wrong with doing that--did anyone only play Beethoven when he was alive? But on reflection today I realized one song that gives me hope.

It's probably fitting that, as important as his early work was for me when I was a pup, his final works hold some resonance for me as I age. I recall that Bowie had sort of disappeared from the public when "Where Are We Now?" dropped into rotation. Here is a history of that period, mostly per Tony Visconti. I heard about the song before I heard it, and I had to look for it online. 

There's much I can say about the song and its haunting refrain, but others have said it better. I want to focus for a moment on why it gives me hope. 

This is from Bowie's penultimate album, when he knew he had cancer and he only had so much time left. He looked back to when he was, he said, probably happiest up to then, during his Berlin period when he produced Low, Heroes, and Lodger. In doing so he also notes in the song the incredible image of "twenty thousand people cross[ing] Bosebrucke."  What makes this an indelible image is that it is the moment in history when an error in communication between authorities and the boots on the ground allowed for the crossing of so many from East to West Berlin, leading to the destruction of the Wall itself. Why it resonates with me? The following lyric: "[their] fingers are crossed just in case." They were afraid they would be cut down (and perhaps any other day they might have) but they bundled their dignity and crossed not only their fingers but the bridge too. We should have as much courage.

Another reason? The hope suggested in the lines "As long as there's sun.../As long as there's rain.../As long as there's fire.../As long as there's me/As long as there's you." As long as there's a world and an us there's life. And as long as there's life there's hope. 

Rule Number One: Don't Isolate

This is an issue I'm particularly prone to. I feel embarrassment after a political loss, as if I somehow failed the people I worry for. As a result, I would self-isolate if I could. It's a hard thing, dragging myself to meetings and church services and even work when all I want to do is hide in the bed for the next four years. 

But we know that's not productive, either on a communal or personal level, and I know from past experience it doesn't leave you or the people you love any less a target. As the author writes, "you just need to show up consistently. How else do we get to know the people around us if we don’t make the effort to get together?...[Every] interaction and every group meeting is an opportunity to get to know one another and create trust." 

And trust is our weapon the opposition can't replicate. 

Old People at Concerts

 

Last night my wife and I attended a concert and at intermission I went to the restroom. I was surprised at the sight: the women's room was nearly empty while both entrances to the men's room had lines ten deep. I said, "You've got to be shitting me, no lines to the women's and long lines for the men's?" To which one ahead of me shot back, "Yeah, look at the age of the guys waiting."

I've written in the past of the hope I draw from the energy young people bring to music from before they were born, but I want to celebrate too the opposite, the energy of old men and women to music they may have grown up with but is being played by people younger than themselves. This concert was one by the Allman Betts Family Revival, a rotating group of musicians made up of relations of Gregg Allman, Dickie Betts, Berry Oakley, and Butch Trucks. Other than a few geezers who played with Duane and Gregg while alive, the average age of the musicians was probably late 20s or early 30s. 

The music they played was pretty spot-on versions of original Allman Brothers tunes, sometimes a little harder rocking than the originals. Make no mistake, there were younger folks there too, but the bulk of the audience, and the ones making the most noise, were geezers like us who had seen the Brothers in their heyday. Now when I call us geezers, I am referring to an audience whose average age was probably 65, and whose younger selves would have looked down their noses at their balding, pudgy, finger-shaking, Indian-whistling, lite beer-sucking, trucker hat-shaking, snake-dancing elders for all that uncool behavior, but didn't give a fuck anymore. They were just digging the vibe of listening to music played by young people who understood its appeal and what it meant for them. 

Are they going to watch those videos they took on their phones at some future date? I think they're likelier to than most people who record concert moments. We wish we'd had that technology in our prime to waste. Were these old men wagging their fingers and shaking their cowboy hats trying to get in touch again with their younger selves, or were they touching something divine? I'm biased, but I think it is the latter. Enough people in wheelchairs were slithering and sliding to suggest, not their youth, but some liquid self that could still lay in all our futures. I don't doubt today there are lots more creaking bones and handfuls of ibuprofen going down instead of hangovers, but that we can still embarrass ourselves this well this late in our lives fills me with a kind of contentment maybe unique to our age and ability to appreciate. 

Shane MacGowan Wishes You a Merry Effing Ho-Ho

 

[Shane MacGowan died and he was much too young, although at 65 maybe he was also too old. In memorium, and because 'tis the season, I repost this essay I wrote a decade or so ago, a sample for my research classes examining the then-recent development of traditional (read: vanilla) Xmas songs clogging up pre-Thanksgiving radio. This was pre-satellite radio with its devoted channels and the year-round slogfest of a dedicated Hallmark Channel. Shane, we only wanted you to live.]

 

            I was driving my usual commute during the first week of November.  I hit the “scan” button on my radio and various music and talk shows faded in and out.  My attention was caught when dulcet tones sang, “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…”

            I knew those dulcet tones.  That was Perry Como.  When I was a kid my folks were avid listeners of what’s now called Adult Contemporary Music but in my childhood was simply referred to as Elevator Music.  Perry Como, Mel Torme, Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Kate Smith, Rosemary Clooney.  I’d learned to know those singers in the first couple notes as a child by repetitive play on the stereo.  But the novelty of hearing the late Honeyed Voice in the Sweater on the radio was soon overtaken by the realization that I was listening to a Christmas song.  On the radio.  The first week in November.

            Now, when I was a kid, Christmas was my favorite time of the year.  I didn’t have to come up with excuses not to go outside if I didn’t want to, and the cold nipping at my exposed nose on waking was neat.  Plus it was wonderful to lie on my belly and read a junk novel by the bottom lights on the Christmas tree with a plateful of cookies and some hot chocolate.  I’d start playing Christmas albums around September and not cut it out, despite firm requests from my family, until about the first week of January. 

            But that stopped when puberty kicked in.  Here were adults—Professional Adults!—programming Christmas music when everyone’s Halloween candy was still fresh.

            Rather than ranting and raving about it, I decided to look into the reason for this.  There had to be a reason.  There were several.

            No radio station exists as an island.  Every station, whether owned by a conglomerate like Clear Channel or Fred over at the Fish Shack, exists as part of a market.  The market can be as small as a city and its environs—the Twin Cities, for example—or as large as a region—the Iron Range, which is the full upper third of Minnesota from Bemidji to the Canadian border (excluding Duluth).  There is an unwritten agreement between radio stations that one station, generally the Adult Contemporary or Lite station, within the market will provide twenty-four hour, seven-day-a-week Christmas music starting in November.  On December 24^th, every station is welcome to play as much Christmas music as it chooses. 

            The reasons this agreement came about are diffuse.  Some argue it is because, well, someone has to do it, so it might as well be the station whose listeners are accustomed to listening to Easy Listenin’ Music.  If the station is an oldies station, whose listeners are accustomed to the sounds of the classic Christmas songs from mid 20^th Century—Patti Page, Mitch Miller, the Jackie Gleason Orchestra, Sinatra, Como, Torme—so much the better.  It should come as no surprise then that the most often played Christmas song is Nat “King” Cole’s version of “The Christmas Song (Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire),” but what should surprise us is the number of popular songs with at best a tangential connection to Christmas, often merely a mention, that also pop up regularly in rotation, such as Joni Mitchell’s “River,” the Pretenders’ “2000 Miles,” and DanFogelberg’s “Same Old Lang Syne” (this last divorced not only from the holiday but from reality:  how hard is it to find an open bar on Christmas Eve?), while ignoring several more controversial ones with secure roots in the holiday, like the Kink’s “Father Christmas” and ThePogues’ “Fairytale of New York.”

            The difficulty may come when a market has only, say, country and rock stations.  One of them will likely take on the duty, but this will often be a choke for regular listeners, since there are comparatively few Christmas-themed country or rock songs, and certainly not enough to program twenty-four hours a day for nearly sixty days.

            This is the interesting part to me.  While it’s been a given of every generation to bemoan how quickly the Christmas season begins, as if its generation could wait longer, and while I thought I had some memory that this was an omnipresent condition, radio stations starting earlier and earlier until we’d finally reached saturation point with Halloween, that isn’t the case.  While some stations make a practice of starting earlier—KOSY in Salt Lake City, Utah, is apparently the earliest, beginning its Christmas rotation Halloween night [although this has changed only this past January]—the practice used to have as a common starting point the day after Thanksgiving. 

            Until 2001.  Yes, 9-11 changed everything.  That was the year George W. Bush asked us to help America remain solvent by spending money, and one of the ways gleaned by merchandisers and radio programmers in tandem was to begin the Christmas season early, two weeks before Thanksgiving.  The practice has simply escalated and the dates fallen back since then.

            And here we come to the dirty secret why radio stations, especially Adult Contemporary and Oldies stations, fall all over themselves to be the first to begin the Christmas season:  Stores and shops generally play Christmas music for their customers, the better to suggest “buy early and buy often.”  A few stores, like Walmart and Kmart, have their own radio systems, and some big chains, like Best Buy and [late, unlamented] Circuit City, use piped-in Muzak.  But aside from the big boxes, the majority of stores and shops rely on the good old fashioned free radio signal to accelerate buying habits.  Naturally, the mix of garlanded shelving and spruce-scented spray with tchochkes and knickknacks with the background fuzz of Herb Alpert and His Tijuana Brass and their version of “Sleigh Ride” is a marriage made in Retail Heaven.  Most importantly, these stations are played at least for the operating hours for the store and occasionally simply left turned on for the cleaning crew.  This is a bump in Arbitron ratings for a station, sometimes as much as three points.  Arbitron ratings are an important part of a station’s profile.  The place each fits on the scorecard for its market determines how much it can charge advertisers for 10, 20, and 30 second spots.  In a market of ten stations, getting bumped from number 6 to number 3 for the year can mean a bump of tens of thousands of dollars in advertising revenue. 

            It doesn’t matter, of course, if anyone actually listens to this stuff.  The stations provide “ears” to the advertisers, and they’re selling potential sales.  It isn’t important if the employees end up by the third week of November muttering x-rated versions of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” on its tenth play of the day.  What is important is that at least ten times that day, different customers have heard it and their desire for, say, another twenty dollar stocking stuffer for Jimmy has been pricked. 

 

 

Works Cited

• Arbitron Radio Ratings and Media Research Information.  2007.  Last accessed November 26, 2007, at http://www.arbitron.com/home/content.stm
• “Christmas Music.” 2007.  Wikipedia.  Last accessed November 26, 2007, at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christmas_music
• Ho, Rodney.  2007.  “Bull Goes All Christmas.”  The Atlanta Journal Constitution.  November 23:  B1. 

·         Virgin, Bill.  2007.  “On Radio: All-Christmas format is a ratings gift for KRWM-FM, boosting it to first.”  Seattlepi.com.  Last Accessed November 25, 2007, at http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/tv/300965_radiobeat25.html. .

Too Young to Lose My Best Friend

 I'm listening to my Cocteau Twins Pandora station. It was one of the groups she'd introduced me to, along with the Bush Tetras, Hazel O'Connor, the Sugarcubes and Bjork, Echo and the Bunnymen, the Violent Femmes, and dozens of others I've forgotten in the ensuing decades. 

I don't remember our meeting but I have an approximate year: 1982 or 83. I was a tutor and she was one of my students in for writing help. I don't remember what her issues were beyond misspellings and the occasional missing punctuation, but somehow we bonded beyond the needs of Composition 1 and our friendship took on greater importance as the years passed. She was the first to get me drunk. It was my 25th birthday and we celebrated with several of her housemates with Melon Balls, Kamikazes, and, in a final booze-filled marathon chess session played among a half dozen sleeping bodies, Malibu Rum. 

We attended a half dozen Rainbow Gatherings together, and at the Nantahala Forest Gathering, the 1st for both of us, she managed to dodge the dysentery that laid most of us low. After, she told me how she accidentally avoided getting arrested 60 miles inside Babylon, by absently reaching down to pet the head of the drug-sniffing dog that was about to find the stash in her pocket. The grateful animal, as she said it, "just looked up into my eyes with her tongue out and such a look of, 'Oh, hi, do you want to play?', that her handler yanked her back hard and that was the end of that. They had to let us go." 

I'm unsure which of us graduated first, or if she graduated. Those years, graduation wasn't really very important to any of us back then, although we all expected to. What was important then were adventures, the sorts of events that happened and you talked about them later. We attended a couple weekend workshops but didn't have the money to stay in a motel. So we slept in my car. At one, after we'd finished for the day and had some dinner, we found an out-of-the-way road, mostly dirt track, and figured it was remote enough to safely sleep there. Along 1 or 2 o'clock I was woken by her insistent, "Someone's at the door" next to my ear, not so much whispered as said in amazement. It was a cop. 

Windows rolled down in cars then so I rolled the one closest to me and said, very quizzically, "Hi?" He said, "Do you know the owner of this property? Has he said you could stay here?" I said, "We didn't even know it was property, we thought we were out in the woods." He said, "Well, you're in someone's driveway and he's not around apparently, but if he comes by you'll have to move." That seemed reasonable to me, the having to move part, so I agreed and he got back in his car and we went back to sleep. In the early morning as the fog lifted, we could dimly see a house at the other end of the drive. The owner had either never come home or he'd never left. 

Another story, this one not involving me, one she told me. She'd been walking through the Student Union on her way somewhere when she'd got a whiff of someone's patchouli as he walked by. The tribe we hung with loved patchouli but found it hard to locate. She walked swiftly beside him and asked, "Is that patchouli? Did you get it around here? I love patchouli and..." He stopped suddenly, looked down at her--in her story he was over 6 feet--and announced, "It's obvious you want to engage me in  conversation but I don't want to." And he strode off, leaving her open-mouthed in his wake, incredulous when she told me, as if it was impossible someone wouldn't want to talk with her. I could not imagine why not. I was honored by her friendship. 

We attended more Gatherings, went more places, did more things. Most everyone wanted to talk with one of us everywhere we went. Somewhere in there we became lovers, although never exclusive, in defiance of everything we'd thought we were to each other. What she became to me, I'm sorry to say, was the human equivalent of home, someone that when you go there she has to take you in. I told myself that's all I was to her as well. Of course, that was wrong, both factually and morally. When she stopped talking to me after I married, my wife encouraged me to contact her. "You're too young to lose your best friend," she told me. 

That's a lousy story to end on, so here's a better one. Another Gathering, we had dropped acid together (when we talked about this last week while she was in hospice and I'd driven 1500 miles to spend time with her she insisted it was her first time, a possibility her sister later doubted, so we'll let it go) and then found ourselves at night at a jam session where, for some reason, she'd needed to take medicine. She dropped it and the two of us bent in the shadows, heads down, rummaging around among the leaves and twigs and loam for the pill. Suddenly, something dropped on her head, bounced, and landed in her open hand. It was the pill. We laughed because the universe opened a rift in time below our hands and another above our heads. It had decided to fuck with us and that was all right with us. That is how I will remember her, laughing. 

See How We Are

SEE HOW WE ARE

A Sermon Delivered to Pathways Unitarian 

Universalist Church in Hurst, TX, June 4, 2023

Some of you can do this and some of you will have to imagine it, but I want to take you back a moment to 1987, when the band X released its penultimate album See How We Are. We’re in the final dying throes of what Mark Green would call Ronald Reagan’s Reign of Error, whose cultivated meanness of spirit and deeds we thought we’d never experience again.

          Into this miasma waded songwriters John Doe and ex-wife Exene Cervenka, whose punk group X had achieved some success with their 83 release, Los Angeles, eventually one of Rolling Stones’ Top 100 albums, The title song swiftly became an anthem for the disaffected punk of the times. What was punk? If you watched American TV at that time, programs like Phil Donahue and Quincy and even CPO Sharkey convinced you punk music was music about nihilism and what you hate. On CHiPs its lead punk was portrayed by Donny Most, an actor better known for Ralph Malph on Happy Days. It may have been an accurate portrayal of Donny Most but not of punk.

Punk, rather than being rooted in hate, is rooted in love. You don’t bother singing about what you don’t like. Just for fun I typed “punk rock wedding songs” and received at least one list with nearly 100 options. Admittedly, many of them were about wedding-type love rather than agape. But while Chuck D famously called hip hop and rap “the CNN of the ghetto” and rock historian Greil Marcus wrote “the goal of every rock n roll band is to make everyone listen;” I would argue the goal of every punk song is to make everyone aware what needs to change. Natalie, a young woman in Manchester, England, has said, “’punk’ isn’t just a mohawk and leather jacket, it's about being true to yourself and not being afraid of who you are, being brave and bold and strong.” You can’t change what you don’t love.

        *I cut this section in the sermon for time but it does explain why I call this what I do.  [By the way, what I’ve identified as Punk Spirituality I’ve named that because when I was beginning to articulate my beliefs I was listening to a lot of Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground, numbered by Marcus among the “cult prophets” of the late 60s and early 70s like Captain Beefheart, Iggy Pop and the Stooges, and the New York Dolls and made up early punk playlists. At a different time and in a different mind I would identify my spirituality, as Donald Miller does, with jazz, or like Moya Harris with the hip hop of Lauryn Hill. And while both of them root their revelations in Christianity, my life has had greater spiritual experiences with non-Christians, so my spirirtuality is, I think, faster and noisier.] 

What needed to change in 1987? According to John Doe and Exene Cervenka, crowded jails, women “knowing their place”, dividing ourselves physically and emotionally, the capitalist emphasis on commodification of wants while ignoring kids going without basic needs. An emphasis too on “what can I get out of you, what can you do for me while I give nothing in return?” What little you have is what someone else wants so we’ll push you another rung down, addict you, poison you, literally displace you if necessary to take it. In the ensuing 35 years, how much has changed? A major element of punk is Do-it-yourself, exemplified by the probably apocryphal comment by Brian Eno that the Velvet Underground didn’t sell many records but everyone who bought one started their own band. You’re responsible to change what you don’t like, even in music. To paraphrase Toni Morrison, If you can’t find the life you want to live, make it yourself.

There is something in us that wants to be better than we were. A part of our makeup that tries to improve, even if briefly, that gets us up in the morning and puts us to sleep at night. Leaving us unfulfilled if, throughout the day, we haven’t moved otherwise. I’m not talking about ambition. I mean an urge to do, even if it’s “just” thinking or eating, so that we ruminate, if nothing else.

Maybe that’s what theists mean when they say we’re made in the image of God. Taking them at their word, God made everything in God’s image. It might be for this reason they also say, and I agree, that you can’t meet anyone or anything God doesn’t love. Yes, even mosquitoes. Yes, even Donald Trump.

We laugh but let me give you a literary example. Unitarian Universalist Kurt Vonnegut, Jr, in his play Happy Birthday, Wanda June, includes a character who was a Nazi in life. He describes heaven to us. No one in heaven is singled out for punishment or exhortation. Everyone, even Jesus, even Hitler, spends eternity basking in the sun. Hitler, he tells us, is just another guy playing shuffleboard.

I’m going to leave you with another video. I’m not going to read the lyrics to you, because the lyrics, by Iggy Pop and David Bowie, won’t make much sense to you unless you’re familiar with William Burroughs’ novel The Ticket that Exploded. The song, “Lust for Life”, was released in 1979, somewhat at the height of US punk music but this video is from a concert this past April. Despite its esoteric lyrics, the song quickly became an anthem of punk for its energy. “Got a lust for life”. To add a little extra oomph, the guitarist and percussionist on his recording, who later went on with David Bowie and Reeves Gabrels to form the group Tin Machine, were Hunt and Tony Sales, sons of Soupy Sales. Iggy has famously performed shirtless since at least 1980. You might be familiar with the song if you saw the movie Trainspotting, based on the Irvine Welsch novel about Glasgow heroin addicts. If you saw the trailer for that film you’d have seen a couple dozen men and boys “dressed” like Iggy, all of them flaunting their huge bellies or their chicken wings or their sunken chests. 

In the absence of the lyrics what do I want you to notice? This is a cut-down version of an 8 minute video [the video played during service was necessarily short] and what I want you to pay attention to at first is Iggy. Notice that he’s limping and not trying to hide that he’s tired. The man is 74 years old. His belly is sagging, he’s developing moobs, and his scraggly beard is gray. He rests against a stool before he starts singing. But he has no trouble demanding of his audience that they come up there and dance with him. And they do.

And look at those kids! Fewer than a third of the people who jump up there with him were even alive when the song was released, and certainly not the age to have attended one of his shows. The vast majority of his companion dancers are celebrating and singing along to music released 45 years ago. At best, it’s their parents or their grandparent’s music.

This is what it means to be at one with God or the universe or reality. To  see ourselves as we really are, warts, moobs, and all, the way the universe or God sees us and nonetheless to celebrate our own and God’s lust for life. You’ve heard the phrase “dance like nobody can see you”. My friend’s daughter improved on it: “Dance like everyone wants to see you dance.”

The Fred Durst of Presidents

I'll own to more than a frisson of schadenfreude at trump's indictment and arrest. And while it's a shame not to see him frog-marched ahead of members of his administration, or the sight of trump Force One disappearing over the horizon carrying him, his family, and the clothes on their backs and bound for Argentina or Moscow, there is some pleasure to be had by his being taken down a peg by the petty act of not having a door held for him. But that is petty on my part too, and the truth is he's not worthy of my disappointment or disdain.

Those I save for the United States and the rethuglicans in Congress, the Senate, state and local offices, and individuals in the streets and on TV who support him and would, given the opportunity, vote for him. Again. 

It says something repugnant about our nation that trump won the 2016 election and avoided removal from office for four  very long years in which the policies his sycophants enacted under his--well, you can't call it "supervision" or "governance," so call it "willingness"--caused the deaths and misfortunes of countless citizens and would-be citizens. They were allowed not only to occur but encouraged those results. Donald trump, in retrospect, should have been allowed no closer to the Oval Office than Fred Durst should be allowed on a stage without the involvement of a broom. 

So while I delight somewhat in his troubles, I mourn our own acquiescence in the the fact he was allowed to make them. It should not have happened, and once it did, should have been repaired as quickly as possible. We have the legal means granted by the Constitution and laws to have done so but that we did not is a black mark against us, adult US citizens, a millstone that will hang on our necks. It should. We are finally, finally seeing the results of careful investigation and prosecution, and even if he never spends an hour in an orange jumpsuit, his loss of prestige will inevitably lead to the loss of his apologists. Or it should. I don't think we're headed in any way toward an active war, civil or otherwise, but that trumpanistas and rethuglicans are entrenched in their spider holes and mom's basements, as well as in the seats of power, tells us all we need to know about what they believe. 

We should not have to think about him any more, and that we do is our own fault. 

I'd like to think if I was tested I would pass

This has been a busy, busy month and it's been a while since I've had the time and opportunity to post this second recent message from a service at the facility. This was recorded for the first Sunday in March.  

 Luke 4:1-13

4:1 Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit in the wilderness, 4:2 where for forty days he was tempted by the devil. He ate nothing at all during those days, and when they were over, he was famished. 4:3 The devil said to him, If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread. 4:4 Jesus answered him, It is written, One does not live by bread alone. 4:5 Then the devil led him up and showed him in an instant all the kingdoms of the world. 4:6 And the devil said to him, To you I will give their glory and all this authority; for it has been given over to me, and I give it to anyone I please. 4:7 If you, then, will worship me, it will all be yours. 4:8 Jesus answered him, It is written, Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him. 4:9 Then the devil took him to Jerusalem, and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him, If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, 4:10 for it is written, He will command his angels concerning you, to protect you, 4:11 and On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone. 4:12 Jesus answered him, It is said, Do not put the Lord your God to the test. 4:13 When the devil had finished every test, he departed from him until an opportune time.

 Mara Upasatha Sutra

The holy one directed his steps to that blessed Bodhi-tree beneath whose shade he was to accomplish his search. As he walked, the earth shook and a brilliant light transfigured the world. When he sat down the heavens resounded with joy and all living beings were filled with good cheer. Mara alone, lord of the five desires, bringer of death and enemy of truth, was grieved and rejoiced not. With his three daughters, Tanha, Raga and Arati, the tempters, and with his host of evil demons, he went to the place where the great Samana sat. But Shakyamuni heeded him not. Mara uttered fear-inspiring threats and raised a whirlwind so that the skies were darkened and the ocean roared and trembled. But the Blessed One under the Bodhi-tree remained calm and feared not. The Enlightened One knew that no harm could befall him. The three daughters of Mara tempted the Bodhisattva, but he paid no attention to them, and when Mara saw that he could kindle no desire in the heart of the victorious Samana, he ordered all the evil spirits at his command to attack him and overawe the great Muni. But the Blessed One watched them as one would watch the harmless games of children. All the fierce hatred of the evil spirits was of no avail. The flames of hell became wholesome breezes of perfume, and the angry thunderbolts were changed into lotus-blossoms. 

 

 I’m not telling you anything new by saying words have meaning. But when we apply it to scriptures like the Bible or the Koran or Buddhist Sutras, we often use words that have come down to us from centuries of use as meaning something they no longer mean. For instance, in this scripture we hear an important word, “devil,” that conjures up an image our parents might have given it that doesn’t quite match the original word. We think of a guy in red with a pointed tail and horns and a pitchfork. 

But that’s not what’s meant by the Greek word, “diabolos.” While it does translate as devil, diabolos meant a different creature like an accuser or a trickster, one who tests the truth of a statement. Think of the devil here as The Tester, one who is fulfilling an important job, like Coyote in Native American stories or Loki in Norse myth. Think of diabolos, not as someone against Jesus or you, but someone whose job is to make sure you’re up to whatever task is ahead of you. 

Diabolos’ job is not to make Jesus transform stone to bread but to see if he’s learned to control his wants. Similarly, when Jesus is told “You can rule everywhere and everyone and all you have to do is worship me,” he controls his greed. The Tester tells him he could rival God and his response is “Only God is God.” Finally, The Tester gives Jesus an ultimate test: “Jump off this temple roof, let yourself be saved by angels. God  has a lot riding on you, God won’t let you die.” But Jesus says, “Don’t test God. Just accept.” We don’t climb to the roof of a building and jump. We know better than that. 

 When we talk about temptation, we’re talking about an urge to do something we wouldn’t normally do. The word itself comes to us from Old French out of the Latin word temptare "to feel, try out, attempt to influence."  We’re tempted sometimes to do something that helps someone. Holding open a door suddenly for someone we see behind us struggling with a box, or picking up the tab for someone we’ve joined for a drink. 

While we obviously don’t have exactly the same temptations as in Luke’s story, to say we have temptations in today’s world is an understatement. In place of commanding stones into bread, we’re tempted to claim of one thing that it’s another. Like if we’ve insulted someone and they catch us in it we’re tempted to say, “No, it’s a joke. I didn’t mean it.” Instead of worshipping Diabolos to rule the kingdoms of the world, we’re tempted to do something we don’t like or that hurts someone to make more money. Or in place of throwing ourselves from a high spot to see if God will send angels to protect us, we might be tempted to put ourselves in danger by refusing to be vaccinated or taking precautions, certain our faith will protect us.

Dickey Barrett, the singer and lyricist of the Mighty Mighty Bosstones, the band playing the song I played you earlier, has a wonderful line: “I’m not a coward, I’ve just never been tested. I like to think if I was I would pass. Look at the tested and think, There but for the grace go I. I might be a coward, I’m afraid of what I might find out.” We test ourselves constantly and sometimes, yes, we prove to be cowards. That’s all right. If you’re tempted to take a bite out of a stone or to jump off the roof, you should be a coward. You’ll only hurt yourself that way. 

Better to test yourself in small ways. This woman’s voice bothers me. Can I be kind to her anyway? My roommate is driving me crazy; can I voluntarily go somewhere I don’t have to see or hear him? I spill juice, I forget my hat sometimes, I misplace my favorite book. Can I be patient with myself about the thousands of mistakes I make daily? It’s in passing the little tests we set for ourselves that we become better people. This is what God intends for us, to become better who we are. 

 [Lord’s Prayer]

 Benediction by Wayne Arneson

“Take courage friends. The way is often hard, the path is never clear, and the stakes are very high. Take courage. For deep down, there is another truth: you are not alone.”

Are you satisfied?

 

Since I've been at my new work, I've been pressed to write and record a few homilies for replay on Sundays on the units. This is the first written for February 27th, and it's taken a while because it's required both my computer and my work computer to play nicely together when they are probably a decade apart in production, and I don't think either involved 2020 as the decade. 

SERVICE FOR FEBRUARY 27TH, 2022, AT WINNEBAGO MENTAL HEALTH INSTITUTION

First Reading Exodus 34

29 Moses came down from Mount Sinai, carrying the Ten Commandments. His face was shining brightly because the LORD had been speaking to him. But Moses did not know at first that his face was shining. 30When Aaron and the others looked at Moses, they saw this, and they were afraid to go near him. 31Moses called out for Aaron and the leaders to come to him, and he spoke with them. 32Then the rest of the people of Israel gathered around Moses, and he gave them the laws that the LORD had given him on Mount Sinai.

33The face of Moses kept shining, and after he had spoken with the people, he covered his face with a veil. 34Moses would always remove the veil when he went into the sacred tent to speak with the LORD. And when he came out, he would tell the people everything the LORD had told him to say. 35They could see that his face was still shining. So after he had spoken with them, he would put the veil back on and leave it on until the next time he went to speak with the LORD.

Second Reading Sura 7 “The Elevated Places”

144[God] said: O Musa! Surely I have chosen you above the people with My messages and with My words, therefore take hold of what I give you and be [among] the grateful ones. 145And We ordained for him in the tablets admonition of every kind and clear explanation of all things; so take hold of them with firmness and enjoin your people to take hold of what is best thereof…

I'm pretty certain we all have heard Bob Marley at one time or another. He was a great man whose death, 40 years ago, is remembered by all of us. We all have, I'm sure, our own favorite Marley song but it's generally agreed that his greatest is "Exodus" from the same titled album. I'm going to take a few minutes to play this for you. 

    

        You know, bouncing around a little up here I'm reminded of a commercial for a beer from Jamaica. The tagline is "Red Stripe and reggae, helping our white friends to dance for  seventy years." You have doubtless heard the song many times, and one phrase that comes through clearly, in tone and in meaning, are the words, “Open your eyes and look within. Are you satisfied with the life you’re living?”

            I want to turn to the scripture reading. In seminary one of the most important clues to interpreting scripture I was taught is the habit of reading the chapters before and after the selected one to put it into context. So here’s what’s happening in this selection. The Jews have left Egypt, they’re on their desert journey, God has given Moses the first set of Commandments. In his absence, the travelers have built a gold image and imbued it with their faith, and in fury Moses has flung the tablets to the ground and ground the calf to dust. Oddly, perhaps, after berating his people, Moses returns to Mount Sinai to ask God’s forgiveness and favor. Surprisingly, he finds it. God gives him another set of tablets, he returns to the travelers. Having spoken with God, his face shows a glowing difference that marks him as someone other, and he goes on to oversee the construction of the Tabernacle.

            Here’s where the song “Exodus” and the book Exodus intersect.

            Marley’s words are a reflection of a simple question we probably all ask ourselves. Does the way I’m living satisfy me? Am I doing the things I ought to be doing? Is this the life I should live? The author Jiddu Krishnamurti put it in a form I like. Does this path I’m following have a heart?

            The response, according to Moses’ people in the book Exodus, is a resounding “No.” The path they’re on might have a heart but after several decades of searching it’s really hard for them to see it. That’s why Moses climbs Mount Sinai to speak with God. God’s response is, “These are the laws you need to follow to live a good life.”

            Millenia later, we still ask that question. We all wonder what we need to do to live a good life. Our answer may lie in the tablets God gives to Moses. They’re great lessons to live by. But for most of us the day to day answer requires a response that’s a bit more complicated. We probably don’t daily have to make a choice whether or not to steal, should we kill or not. It’s likelier we’re going to ask, How should I behave in this situation? I guess it’s an old copout but it’s up to each of us individually what rules we need to follow to lead a life with heart. The sad truth is my path is not the same as yours. Buddhist monks say, “Many paths, one mountain.” So no one else can know what your path is like.

            But, for better and worse, change is our only constant. Everything can change between one day and another. As a result, don’t try to navigate your path alone because you’ll get lost. Find someone you trust and let them see you at your best and even your worst. And start small. Take your time. Smile as genuinely as you can when you see someone you like and acknowledge them. Be angry at people if you must but don’t be mean. We can’t know what’s ahead. We might live 120 years, like Moses, but die within sight of our Promised Land. We might, like Bob Marley, die at 36 from a cancer under our toenail. Whatever our path, it’s ours alone to travel. We should have good companions and comfortable places to rest.

[Lord’s Prayer]

Benediction by Wayne Arneson

“Take courage friends. The way is often hard, the path is never clear, and the stakes are very high. Take courage. For deep down, there is another truth: you are not alone.”

 

 

 

Poetry from a dozen years ago

I mentioned in passing recently that it's been a while since I've written poetry. Most of it has not been confessional but it often is based in my experiences, sometimes on work or relationships. These are, I think, the last I had worked on. In 2009 I was teaching creative writing and produced these as examples for the classes. I wanted to present them before I publish the new work, maybe to show the changes I'm making, the focus I'm recalibrating. 

ON THE APPEARANCE OF KURT VONNEGUT
IN A RODNEY DANGERFIELD MOVIE 

This face that looks like it has covered a lot of ground

Or ground much under it.  This face looks
Like it has ground much and covered much.
This face is a dog’s lapping unconcernedly at water.
This face considered granfalloons and I hear the sirens, I hear
The call to my karass.  It would fit so beautifully next to
Dangerfield’s, with whom he never shares a
Scene, GE PR beside aluminum siding.  Nixon, Hitler, Pol Pot,
They would not fear this face, this sleepy, disheveled
Face with a crazy son and coughing while he’s dying.  I see
Frustration and laughter, anger and resignation, this face
Cracking under the strain of living too long, asking for not much, a glass
Of water, some of my time. 

Of Your Rope
You’ve reached it not
when everything
stops, but
when nothing
is anymore,
when it wraps
around you
like your grandmother
’s afghan but
warmthlessly, no
cold there
either, the eyelets
she embroidered
staring like
her own dead eyes. 
How will you know? 
The end will
be a taunt, a bolt
that stares
up from
the floor
uselessly
beside the engine. 

 

SUZI QUATRO IN SAN REMO
I can’t get her out of my head.  Like an
            ice pick jabbed over and over
                        into my hippocampus, she’s
burrowed into my consciousness.  Those lips,
            that mullet framing a face already running to fat.
                        Years later latex pants make
sausages of her legs.  She’s
            the girl of my dreams, circa 1974, now
                        in early 1980 singing her biggest hit, her worst song,
duetting on Italian television with a guy whose muttonchops
            are probably more familiar with English
                        than he is.  But
there she is, little girl face, this voice that can
            burnish steel, can melt the paint off a car,
                        siren song of so many coke dreams, hash reveries.
Drummers are the “Q” keys of rock music. 
I would be her drummer, fold her cellulite
in, zip up that latex.

 

The Dead Girls Club 

It’d be nice if ghosts filed in,

like the future kings in MacBeth,

stately, decorous, in order.  But they don’t.

They enter like students, noisily, banging desks, dropping bags,

full of outside life.  And they don’t take their places

either, whether you’ve set them up in assigned places

or all in chairs facing one way but arrange

the room to fit around them, a corner here

to accentuate The Cutter’s curls.  A window there

so The Junkie can stare out when she gets bored.

The Crazy One makes the walls, the furniture, the others ricochet around her, mouth

open for an occasional comment or a shriek.  But that’s the thing.

They never utter a word, or none you hear.  Except for their entrances, ghosts are silent.

Except The Silent One on the floor, now spread eagled, now fetal,

mewling like a hungry kitten.  They’ve come

with the others—The Successful One,

The Trust Fund Punk, The Cold-Handed Sculptor, The Big Mother

(Big Grandmother now!), The Really

Crazy One you never fully see, the Others you don’t have names for—to do what?  Serenade you? 

You’ll never know.  They come, they shuffle around

the room, themselves.  One by one, softly,

one by one they leave you.

Ghosts always eventually leave you.

Flashy queer stuff

 

A new patient this morning, a retired funeral home director, said to me something along the lines of, When you're older you start reminiscing more often. He thought it was funny that, some 20+ years younger than him, I was already doing that. But it's true that much of my time while driving or doing crosswords is spent with the equivalent of 16mm film clacking in the back of my head. 

In 1973, I was a fat, ungainly, probably acned tween, although the term wasn't used then, on the way from middle school to high school. In the next year I'd start acting in school productions, reading pulp novels, and lose my virginity. But at 13 I was just a schlub who, on Friday nights, stayed up late to watch The Midnight Special. 

Most of the artists they played were pretty good, if not terribly innovative. I mean, I was just starting to listen to groups like the Doobie Brothers and Steely Dan and appreciate the comedy of Monty Python. But Mac Davis and Anne Murray were more the stuff I'd see, and they were all right, although I could hear them in regular rotation on local radio. But in November they played the David Bowie 1980 Floor Show. 

I can't say if I knew Bowie was appearing on that show or not. I'd heard "Space Oddity" of course. It had penetrated even the stodgy AM wasteland of rural upstate New York. There had been something to the sound that appealed to me, so it's possible I was paying attention that he was headlining. 

But the first minutes of the show, a videoed version of the two night farewell to Ziggy Stardust Bowie performed at London's Marquee Club that previous October, did not prepare me adequately for the moment as he began the title song "1984" and two of his backup singers stepped forward to rip the gaudy gauzy costume he was wearing from him to show he was actually wearing a spangled bustier with fishnets and garters and high heels. That moment smacked me across the forehead with a force it would take me decades and my first experiences with LSD to identify as pleasure in the unexpected and unexplainable. 

I would go to bed that night having sat on the edge of my dad's padded rocker for an hour and a half hearing sounds and seeing things I couldn't articulate to anyone. On Monday, no one I knew or asked had remained with the show much beyond the first minutes. "You kidding, that flashy queer stuff? What was that, anyway?"

It was flashy queer stuff, no mistaking. And while my response was not equal to the imagined reaction of Christian Bale in Velvet Goldmine, it was a solid, rock hard love that's lasted my life since. Bowie's sexually charged pas de deux with strutting Mick Ronson awakened feelings in me I couldn't articulate and certainly couldn't act on for years. My first Bowie was the Changes One album bought that week at Barker's, the local department store that everyone knew had the better selection, and played deep grooves into the nylon. 

Decades later, teaching the Orwell novel, I tried to introduce it and make its messages relatable to classes by playing cuts from Diamond Dogs for them, trying to explain what seeing the songs acted out was like. But it left them staring at me like I was showing them nude photos of their mothers. I suppose some things, like the life-altering media experience one goes through at that certain age, are  untranslatable.