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. 

Plant the Sapling First

I've been reading this book, The Jew in the Lotus: A Poet's Rediscovery of Jewish Identity in Buddhist India by Rodger Kamenetz, for about a week. I've been looking forward to doing so since I saw it, what, 25 years ago, as I was stocking copies in the Religions-Judaism section in Barnes and Noble. I had somehow thought of it all these years as an exploration of Kamenetz' own experiences in India, but he was actually operating as a journalist traveling with a Jewish delegation meeting with the Dalai Lama. Doesn't matter, it's a good book. 

It's in his position as the outsider, secular Jew traveling with rabbis and their coterie, that he raises fascinating and difficult questions about both Judaism and religion. The Dalai Lama had requested, after a visit to the US, to meet with Jews who might commiserate with him regarding being a part of a diaspora, recognizing  the reality of Tibetan spiritual homelessness. There are many good segments but this one comes during the presentation by Rabbi Yitz Greenberg, the Orthodox representative, who takes the Dalai Lama through the early history of Jewish diaspora. 

[The] Babylonian story offers...hope. But I knew why Yitz chose instead to make a parallel with events surrounding the Roman destruction. The Tibetans might well be facing a long exile. And not far from his mind was also the Holocaust and the theological questions it raises...How can Jews affirm faith in God and his covenant with the chosen people after Auschwitz? The question is settled for most secular and liberal Jews--they can't. Obviously such a position is unacceptable to an Orthodox Jew...In contemporary Orthdox Jewish theology, Rabbi Greenberg's own substantial contribution has been the concept of the "voluntary covenant." According to [sociologist Arnold] Eisen, "The word 'voluntary' is crucial...It emphasizes that the initiative--now, more than ever--is on the human side rather than on God's. It suggests that we will be faithful, we will uphold the covenant, even if God in the Holocaust did not." 

Here, I would add a massive exclamation point to the text if I could. This is radical Orthodoxy as I understand it. 

[Rabbi] Greenberg told the Dalai Lama that the covenant is "the most seminal idea" in Judaism. The covenant that began with Abraham has not been abrogated--even at Auschwitz. Instead..."The creator God seeds the universe with life. Humanity can become a partner with the divine in making the world better or perfect." 

What has changed is the human role in the partnership. And that happened, not in recent times, but "about nineteen hundred years ago, halfway in the history of the religion. The Jewish people in Judea were conquered by the Romans and their Temple destroyed by the Roman  empire. It was devastating." 

...In the first century, many interpreted the Roman destruction as abandonment by God, the end of the covenant. "And since the whole Jewish idea of covenant is that the world can be made better, this would be such a victory for evil that many Jew simply gave up. They assimilated and joined the very dynamic culture around them, Hellenism. Another large groups, the Zealots, put all of their energy to recapturing and rebuilding the Temple..."

The Romans not only destroyed Jerusalem, they renamed the capital and drove her people into exile. More than one million Jews died at that time...But Judaism did not die..."There was one great rabbi of the time, Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai. The Talmud says, when the Romans had Jerusalem surrounded and were about to destroy it, he was able to break through to the Roman emperor and was given one wish. He said, 'Give me Yavneh and its scholars. I want to set up an academy there.'" There he told his students that they would outlast the exile by teaching, interpreting, and preserving the tradition.

"Yochanan ben Zakkai basically said, 'If we don't have our Temple, but we have our learning, our texts--our Bible with us, we have the power by learning to create the equivalent of the Temple. It's a portable homeland.' 

"It's not enough to preserve...[As] partners in the covenant, fallible humans have the authority to add new insights, so that their activity was the equivalent of a renewal of the covenant. Their courage to renew preserved the past."

[Yitz said the first-century rabbis] did not choose to believe that God had abandoned them, and they insisted that the Torah was still fully binding and valid. They interpreted God's nonintervention with the Roman destruction as a sign that, henceforth, in history, the human partner in covenant must take more responsibility for the outcome...God was no longer going to step in and do the miracles for his human partners.

...The memory of the Temple was never lost--but it was turned into literature...More--the magical side of religion, especially the yearning for a messiah--was subdued, if not basically suppressed, by the rabbinic sages. And this became a dominant cautionary note in rabbinic thought for centuries to come, extended not just to messianism but to mysticism in general...Reason became the keynote of Jewish religion, and though some of the rabbinic sages were themselves mystical practitioners, the Talmud certainly expresses strong caution against too much interest in mystical topics.

Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai had had good reason for such caution. He had seen that excessive messianic faith had led the Zealots to challenge Rome, only to bring destruction on all of Israel. His is quoted in the Talmud as saying, "If you holding a sapling in your hand, and someone tell you the Messiah has come, plant the sapling first, then go looking for the Messiah." 

Look to the Bloggers

 I'm not bright enough to come up with a solution to the Hamas-Israel war/conflict, nor to the issues that existed before their Cold War became a Hot one. I wish i could claim to have one, since nearly everyone does. But the simple truth is that I can't even be certain which side has the lesser guilt.

That may sound like a copout. But there is no dearth of people, politicians, journalists, commentators, who are full of certainty. I am just saddened by the incredible loss of life. The killing has been indiscriminate and however and by whomever it is done, the result is the same. 

For my information I go to the BBC and The New York Times but they only provide me with the number of deaths and how they were done. The ways citizens celebrating or sleeping in their beds were killed or the ways citizens with no connection except they lived where missiles and rockets were killed. What I'm more interested in is in the people who are doing what I would be doing in their place: Reflecting out into the world what is happening all around me and what it does to me.

What I've been doing is looking for bloggers who are live in Gaza and the Israeli cities being hit. Thought experiment: Imagine yourself living your life day to day and suddenly bombs begin falling and people start dying all around you. What would you have to say?

I'm not listing any of the bloggers I'm reading, Palestinian and Israeli, because I want you to find them the same way I did. At random and through a lot of trial and error. What you will find is a lot of anger, hatred, fear, frustration, thoughts of vengeance; And you will find thoughts of forgiveness, exhaustion, pride, compassion, hope. No one has a monopoly on those, and certainly no state or group. 

Fred Rogers used to say, "Look for the helpers." I would paraphrase that to say, "Look for the bloggers," especially the ones who live in the areas under attack. They are the ones bearing the brunt of what is being done and blasting out, as best they can, what they experience. If we want the human condition, we can do no better than look to the humans under bad conditions.

 

What's Going On With Me, pt 2

 My wife says I am mourning my body's betraying me, and that's true. I've never thought of myself as someone who can shake things off easily, but I do think of myself as someone who can keep lumbering despite what holds him back. And I suppose that's also true. I'm still alive and can move all my limbs. Not everyone can claim that.

But what has bothered me is my illness. In addition to the stroke I've only recently discovered I had, I have been struck down by covid+19. Twice. There was about a week's reprieve between bouts, and while I don't think I'm as bad off as the first time--less congestion, greater ability to be active for short periods--I am tethered to my toilet and my bed. Diarrhea comes, especially in the morning, and leaves me feeling wasted for hours. I try to nap or at least rest for a few hours, but it's hard to pretend the sun is shining and the warmth convinces me I can do anything. I read, which is good. 

But I'm always aware that I'm not well. I had wonderful plans to visit an organic farm and community in Tennessee. But the closer the time came, the less my body seemed prepared. Only yesterday, the day I planned to leave, I was unable to make it home while on a short walk. The urge--I can't even call it that, I didn't feel an urge, there was just the sudden feeling of letting go--came on so fast and quietly I had no time to slip off into the weeds. 

It's hard to admit the jealousy I feel seeing and reading about other people doing the things I want to do. I know in the largeness of the world I'm fortunate not to have to survive. Enlightenment doesn't bestow any improvement in your character, it makes you painfully aware how much improvement you need to make. It doesn't make you less an asshole, it means you're aware how much an asshole you are.

To put it plainly, I'm currently a walking asshole.

My Life Has Become a Less Freaky Memento

 

For several years I have had issues with short term memory--recent conversations, for instance, plans I've made with others--as well as  with dizziness and, sometimes, fainting. Since moving south I've attended a memory clinic suggested by my doctor, and have taken tests.

One such test was an MRI (magnetic resonance imaging), a nonsurgical procedure that produces a detailed image of an organ, in my case my brain. This was intended to see if I was suffering from traumatic or other brain injury. In the results I was given before my diagnosis, it was noted I had a ganglia on my left hemisphere. I knew this already, having been given the information from a previous MRI from a few years ago. I had even mentioned its existence to the technicians in relation to their questions about anything I might know was already there (e.g., lesions, metal plate). 

Now, my big fear was that I was experiencing the first symptoms of the sort of dementia from which my father died (in fact, when I had been told about the ganglia's location, my wife and I understood it was in the same place as one found in my dad's MRI). I was somewhat comfortable with this possibility, assuming that my dementia, like his, would be fast-acting but otherwise peaceful. My father was one of those people for whom the dementia made him more himself, in his case, more patient and calm most of the time. 

My appointment for my diagnosis was postponed for a day because the Nurse Practitioner in charge of my results was ill. As a result, my anxiety, already heightened, became nearly unmanageable for 24 hours. I woke early, did some stretching and tai chi to ground myself as best I could, but went in with a blood pressure reading almost off the charts. The NP and medical social worker, once they found out why I was anxious, told me right off that dementia was actually off the table. I had done much, much better than I expected on the memory test: the top score was a 30 and I had reached 27 (I never found out what those were points of), a score reached by people who had, at worst, "some" memory issues. "Where have I left my keys?" "Why did I come to the kitchen?" that sort of thing.

This is not my brain or MRI

So I was relieved until the NP turned back to her notes and said, "But now, tell me about your stroke." 

I don't recall saying anything although I might have because my ears were stopped up by the sound of blood pumping through my veins. When I did answer, I gurgled something along the lines of "Stroke? I had a stroke?'

The ganglia on my brain, she explained, was a holdover from an "old stroke" that I might have had decades ago. (It was later explained to me an "old stroke" is any over two years, and isn't to worry about because whatever damage done had happened long before.) Had I ever had periods of weakness on one side, or face-drooping, or long loss of consciousness?

No, never, I said. At least not that I remembered. 

I was the only one who thought that was funny. 

Over the course of the next hour and change, and over the next couple weeks, I would find that a) it is not unusual for someone to be unaware he or she has had a stroke; there are about 11M of us. And b) unless doctors have a pre-stroke MRI to compare it with, unless symptoms occur, there's no telling when the stroke happened. I do not have a pre-stroke MRI handy, so I'm left with racking my brain for memories of stroke behavior. I find none. 

And c} the fact that I had no indication I had a stroke means that the brain area affected was not "important", it wasn't responsible for motor skills or balance or speech; the duties of whatever was affected were easily taken on by another area. Something like a full professor falling ill and a teaching assistant filling in for a class.. 

However, my doctor pointed out to me that I had suffered a loss; the effected area was in charge of short term memories. Like recent conversations or plans. 

When I was teaching writing, I used to show the movie Memento to classes. Because it's filmed "backwards", it's a perfect way to teach cause and effect by stopping it at different points and asking "Why did that happen?", letting them guess before running the "previous" scene that explained why Leonard, the protagonist, reacted the way he did. My life is currently a less extreme version of Memento. I don't need Leonard's "freaky tattoo" directions on me, but I do have to make notes about where I go in the future and why. 

They Are Who They Are

In the past few months, no fewer than three Facebook friends have come out as transgendered. I want to clarify they didn't come out to only me. All three did so unreservedly on their pages, telling everyone who cared (and even those who didn't). 

Did they do so because it's become something trendy? No, of course not. In fact, if anything, doing so puts them and the people they love  at risk, even if it's "only" verbally by people hiding behind their anonymity. 

I've had many Facebook friends who are trans~ for years. Some are former students, some school friends, several are friends I've socialized with for years. In all instances, I can genuinely say I hadn't a clue they were trans~ until they came out, their closeted lives were so well-guarded I never saw inside.

And that, I think, is why this gives me hope. Because in this period when hate and willful misunderstanding of people's identity has become a political football bandied about in legislative chambers and school board meetings as if there aren't real, live people involved, and as a group are being held up to ridicule, stereotype, and blame, as individuals they have opened the closet themselves, letting the rest of us see them as they are. Opening themselves not only to the surprise and of their friends but to the blows, sometimes real blows, of strangers or acquaintances who can't imagine a world beyond their own noses, or whose imagination provides them with fear of such a world, in order to live their lives, as my old friend Roger used to say, "in their authenticity." 

It is such a big but such a small thing to declare "this is who I am," whether intentionally or not echoing God's statement to Moses, "I am who I am." When even the Baptists recognize God is genderless, can the rest of us accept any less of one another? No, we shouldn't. This is what points up the whole mishigas of states and courts decrying help for the people looking for guidance and giving them punishment as the bellowing of dinosaurs drowning in the mud. This is what gives me hope. 

Why I prefer uncomfortable places

 

One of the truest things is how, in spending time with people, stuff comes up that you're not sure you want to deal with. My volunteering at Daybreak brings me in contact with people I'm both familiar and uneasy with. I don't know if I should be proud of it but I admire my own comfort with the crazy and drunk and the plain weird, and their comfort with me. 

In talking with one of my regulars, I'm always checking in with her about her safety. She carries all her belongings in a large rolling solid plastic suitcase, a development I've noticed a lot of people also use. It's unwieldy and limits her ability to move quickly. But she doesn't move fast to begin with: in her early 50s and a grandmother, she already has osteoarthritis, is pudgy in the way homeless people often are, and short. 

I've sometimes suggested places I've seen on my walks to her as places to stay dry and safe, but she's turned down each one, and I've come to see why. She prefers to stay under the railroad trestle where a lot of people gather, both a noisy and a cramped and damp place. But she's also found a dryer spot inside a tunnel a bit further down the road. When I asked her about the tunnel, she said she only stays there when it's raining hard, "otherwise I'm too lonely." 

And there it was. There is something to be said about the safety of being with others, becoming less a target, and I understand that. But what it pricked up in me was the realization that, in all my time on the road, I rarely bedded down where others did. I always sought out the lonely places, far out in the woods or abandoned houses or off the paths and out of sight. I like to be around people but on my terms. It might have been because it was easier to tell myself I was camping out than homeless  but even at Rainbow Gatherings, I'll pack up my tent and find a place more hidden away.  I prefer my solitude both when sleeping and relaxing. I don't think it's for physical safety--I've never been attacked or hurt when sleeping and don't think much about the possibility when I'm choosing a spot--but it is a more comfortable situation. 

There's a fellow I notice when I drive to Daybreak who sleeps in the doorway of an otherwise abandoned office building. Near as I can tell, he spends most of the day there. The concrete must be cooler in the heat as I see him lying there staring out at the world in the middle of the day. And each time I note that, if it was me, I'd walk the next block where the multistory parking garage is also empty. It would be easy to climb the wire gate and hoist my stuff in, scramble up and then be set for the foreseeable future in the cool of the covered second floor. I would be alone. 

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.”

Uncomfortable Places I Have Slept

 

US 1 Somewhere Between Maryland and Virginia

            I was on my way south, or it might have been north, but as usual I was on my way somewhere. I settled down for the night along a little-visited rest stop. Normally, I’d have slept in my car, but I was getting tired of that. It didn’t seem likely to rain that night and it was warm—probably late spring, early summer—and I preferred to sleep outdoors when I could. I took my sleeping bag to the furthest part of the stop and, just in case, rolled atop the picnic table.

            Aside from my bag, which was top shelf or toppest shelf as I could afford, I was dressed in some lightweight clothes, I slept without a pillow back then, priding myself that I could do that. If I really needed something under my head, I’d crook my arm under some rolled up clothes.

            It was a noneventful night until around two or three in the morning. A few drops hit me, waking me and sending me under the picnic table. The rain wasn’t much and didn’t last long. I crooked my arm under my head for comfort against the gravel under the table. Can’t say I lost much sleep, despite my squirreling around the rest of the morning avoiding the few drops coming through. The next morning, after wiping down in the rest room and a breakfast from the vending machine, I took off.

But to quote the sainted Arlo Guthrie, “That’s not what I came to tell you about.”.

The following year I had a job at a health food store. It was a good job. After three months I earned insurance and used it to access a local doctor for my semiannual checkup. I rarely stayed in one place long enough to use the perks I received from my occasional gigs, so the few times I could I made certain I checked for health issues.

The doctor was thorough and gave me a clean bill of health. When we were done she asked, “Is there anything else?”

I said, “You know, I’ve always had a hearing problem but lately it’s been worse. I feel like I’m listening underwater.”

She said, “How long has this been?”

“Well, like I say, it’s been all my life but, yeah, it’s been getting worse the last few months, Five or six, maybe.”

“Let’s take a look.”

I sat on a stool and she checked my responses to a couple whispers and snaps and then said, “Well, you’re definitely on the spectrum for hearing loss. Let’s look inside to see if there’s anything physical.”

My left ear was first. There was nothing there except for some wax that she dug out, and then she started on my right ear. After a few minutes she said, “There’s a large accumulation of wax in this ear, a lot more than the other. Is this the ear where you have a harder time hearing?”

“Yeah, if I turn my left toward whatever I’m trying to hear I can usually hear better.”

“Let’s see if we can clear out this wax.” She used a tiny spoon-shaped probe and went at the obstruction. At first her digging was gentle, deft, probing at the edges. After a while, she said, “This is a really good-sized ball of wax.” She started using the probe like a pry bar, looking to pop the ball out. I began to feel the probe against the sides of my outer ear and then inside the auditory canal.

She asked, “Am I hurting you?”

I said, “A little.” In truth, I had started to feel like she was jabbing at the ball using the probe like an ice pick. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but I was very aware of its presence shape.

            “Okay, I’m going to inject some warm water into your ear canal, see if we can melt some of that wax.” She stepped over and came back with a ball syringe she filled with some warm tap water. “You know, sometimes an insect flies into people’s ears and get stuck in the hair in there and then wax forms over it. That might be what you have here.”

            “Huh.” She placed a small white towel on my shoulder and against my ear and began pumping the warm water into my ear. The warmth felt good. I felt the trickle around the obstruction and back up into my lobe and then into the towel.

            “There, that’s doing it. We just do this nice and slow, we can get this out.”

            She applied the water a while longer. I snuck a peek at the clock on the wall to my left. I hadn’t paid attention to when she’d started but my appointment had been for 1 and now it was nearly 10 past 2. I looked again and it was a quarter past.

            Seemed like the second hand was moving very slowly and she was filling up the syringe now for the 6^th time. Finally, she said, “This is a really stubborn bug. Let me get something else.” She stepped away again to a closet and came back with a small Water Pik-looking thing with a long tube attached to a tank. She switched on something and while we waited for the water in the tank to warm up she said, “I can direct the flow and the pressure with this. We’ll get whatever it is out.”

            She began at the edges and worked her way around and around. I could feel the trickle turn to a pulse. After a few moments, she said, “Oh yeah, here we go. It’s coming out like butter.”

            As she said it, I could feel the faster pulse moving over and around the obstruction. A few more moments and it would be free.

            And then she said, “Oh, my god.”

            That is absolutely not the phrase you want to hear your doctor say while examining you..

            She said, “It’s not an insect.” I’m sure her hesitation wasn’t more than a moment but it seemed like I waited an hour.

            I said, “What is it?”

            She said, “It’s a pebble.” She set down the probe-thing and took a pair of tweezers out of her pocket with which she gingerly plucked the obstruction out of my ear. It was covered in places with what looked like wax. But it was absolutely a bit of gravel.           

She placed the gravel in my hand and when I got back to where I was living, I put it in an empty film canister. This is how I have a visual aid to show I have rocks in my head.

The Curse of Enlightenment

 

Something I'm grateful to the pandemic for is the development and greater use of Zoom as a method for attending meetings and lectures. This week I've been at several webinars sponsored by the Buddhist magazine Tricycle, an event they're calling The Buddhism and Ecology Summit: Transforming Anxiety into Awakened Action.  Today's seminar was titled From Mindfulness to Movements and featured activists Michelle King, Dekila Chungyalpa, and Bill McKibben

I've been attending because, like I think.many people are, I am anxious about what is happening to the environment. I'm a child of the 60s and recall too clearly the information, new to the public, that the ecosystem (brand new term) was in trouble and certain things needed to be done or be stopped in order for people to live comfortably in the then-far future of the 21st century. Like many, I calmed myself saying, "By then, practices.will be put into place to counteract all that. There's nothing to worry about, the adults will have it taken care of."

Of course, the adults have not, and in terms of our likelihood of avoiding environmental crises, we're at a further remove than we were then, as solutions like solar, wind, geothermal are more controversial among leaders of industry than to their forebears. President Jimmy Carter had solar panels installed on the White House roof. They become a source of ridicule to the opposition and Reagan had them removed.

So yes, I worry about the end of human life and civilization, although I was also startled by my agreement a few days ago with author Michael Hinton's statement that the so-called 6th Extinction which we are doing our best to bring about by doing nothing at all is as natural as previous extinction events brought about by volcanoes, meteors, and ice ages, and may in fact herald "another set of miracles" like all those others. 

Like Hinton observed I am jealous of anything like that because I'm "in love with the environment as it is now" and don't want to see it changed in a huge way. But a remark by Michelle King about "being the practice" rather than just doing it reminded me too of something I was told at Dhammapada monastery so many years ago.

First, we have to recognize we aren't going to solve the crises. It will take many generations to turn them around just as it took many generations to fuck them up. And secondly, we can't abdicate our--those of us who see clearly and dismsyingly what is happening--responsibility for opening the eyes of others to it. After a period of time at Dhammapada I approached the Abbott during my weekly interview and told him, "Well, I've become enlightened." He looked at me blankly for a few moments and then it terrible sadness crossed his face. "I am so very sorry," he said, clinching my diagnosis. Because it's axiomatic in practice that, once you become enlightened you will see all the problems of the world. Once you can no longer ignore them or rationalize them away, you are responsible for doing what you can to rectify them.

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. 

Audrey and Aiden and Chambers

 I remember my first time driving into Nashville. It was 1988 and I was coming from the west. I  crested a big hill and suddenly, there it was, a beautiful shining city in a valley ringed by a haze visible in the early light. It must have been about 5 or 6 in the morning, and the haze was the residue of tobacco smoke I could clearly smell through my open window. I saw the Cumberland River snake through the city, and I heard faint hints of music on the wind, although that was really the radio station I had on. 

I haven't spent appreciable time in Nashville since then, a quick drive=through skirting the city on my way somewhere else, so I don't know what it's like there. But my reading has given me some indication that, like most big cities, it has citizens who love and cherish it and would protect its people from their fears. For some, that's the easy accessibility of guns, and for others, it's the life-altering identities their children can access. 

I fear the proliferation of guns, myself, and I try to understand the fears of the opposite side. Usually that's a moot debate but a week ago the two fears collided in the person of Audrey Elizabeth Hale, born a woman and often seen dressed and acting like a younger kid, but also identifying as Aiden and using male pronouns. Audrey had attended the Covenant School as a child, leaving for middle school in 2006, but why Aiden went there with guns and shot three adults and three 9 year-olds, we don't know.

I'll admit to being conflicted, because I want to honor Aiden's choice and use male pronouns. But I don't want to honor what Aiden did. I'm uninterested in the rationales school shooters tell themselves and I don't want to start now. But I don't want to lend ammunition to haters telling us it was Audrey's opting to be Aiden that somehow caused the "quiet, shy girl", as Audrey is described by nearly everyone who knew her, to purchase seven (!) guns, all legally despite being treated by a doctor for an "undisclosed emotional disorder.
They try to lay Audrey/Aiden's possible use of medication containing testosterone as having been responsible for the shooting. Per experts, there's anecdotal evidence that high testosterone levels can lead to more aggressive behavior than usual. I don't know if Audrey or Aiden took testosterone in any form but I know any doctor trusted with a patient's well-being monitors both dosage and behavior. closely I also know the desire to kill strangers is not a side effect of taking too much. Testosterone is no more responsible for this horror than it is for other male public shooters. 

So how do I deal with this conflict? Do I mourn Audrey and condemn Aiden? That may be one solution. As possible as it is to hold two conflicting thoughts in your head, it's possible to celebrate one person's life and disdain a part of the same person. If there's a model for this, it's my former friend Chambers. 

Chambers was a good man who was a road dog of mine. We traveled many places together, visited Rainbow Gatherings together, sometimes worked together. I went across country to start a new life and eventually heard from another good friend he had murdered a woman. There were probably signs most of us ignored or were blind to, but Chambers had become a dealer, and while there is much more to this story, the upshot is that one early evening he broke into another dealer's home, was surprised by her, and beat both her and her dog to death. It was neither drugs nor testosterone that gave him the impetus to kill someone, it was simple greed.

None of us knows what caused Aiden to dress in camo, take two long guns and a handgun -and shoot his way into the school, and then shoot six random people including three 9 year-olds but he left a "manifesto". Once it's read and its contents reported, we may have an idea what prompted his action. 

Meanwhile, we have a situation different from and yet too-similar to other mass shootings. A person undergoing treatment legally purchased a number of guns and then shot several vulnerable people. Despite other information we also know, it comes to that.

Why Aren't Comics Better?

 

Well, of course I don't really have an answer to that. To do so would require knowing inside baseball like costs, publication periods, working with creatives including writers, artists, inkers, colorists, even editors. It would require knowing about readership and buying habits and brand loyalty and other important and necessary stuff. And I don't know any of that.

But I do think I know what's good and what makes for good stories and, frankly, there aren't enough of them available. Every few months I go out and sit to look at the latest offerings (and I'll be the first to admit that skews what I see because I read graphic novels, which necessarily take sometimes years to accumulate enough story to be printed), so what I am looking at is not technically the latest offering. But what I see leaves me depressed.

So I suppose what I really mean is, why aren't comics as good as I wish they were? It's true, don't damn a story for what it's not. But there's so much else they can be. What I think disturbs me most is the tendency in so many stories to kill minor characters or passersby easily. I applaud where this has come from as a response against the unrealistic ability of everyone to save everyone. 

But there's too great the temptation, I guess, to whack people willy nilly to show how irredeemable a character is, how little human life means to them, all that. Is it necessary to show a character slaughtering, sometimes people on his own side, and joking while doing so? The recent Mr Miracle series was offensive in the killing of members of Scott and Barda's own forces while they argued about renovation. There aren't any noble ways to die but it's certainly insulting to be slain by the leaders of your own community while they banter about who puts their closet to better use.

I have, of course, other issues, mostly about the hypocrisy of fine tuning the reality of a series which continues to feature the same cast of a half century or a century ago. But there's something instructive too about looking backwards at those old series. What sets art, even middlebrow art, apart from the sniggering of porn and nihilistic jokes is that it presents a world a reader wants to work for or against. Here's where the optimism of space opera and the pessimism of dystopian stories come in. At their worst, they leave the reader with the sense that "this is a future I want to see/avoid." The Ronin/Hawkeye vignette in Avengers: Endgame, which might seem counter to my point, is instead an excellent example. Ronin's indiscriminate killing of drug dealers while cosmic forces are at play elsewhere is perfectly at home with his (and maybe the viewer's) belief that a world in which people who profit off other people's pain are punished as resolutely as a multiple world destroyer is a future worth working toward.