Thursday, December 16, 2010

Oh, What I'd Give Right Now For Some . . . . . (I Don't Know)

And so on a soon-to-be-winter's-day. . . . I pause and look around my neighborhood. The house I mentioned in a post last summer is still empty. The last newspapers left for recycling have turned into a mushy pulp. Last July 4th another house right across from it had a serious fire. The old couple who lived there had to move out (temporarily?) and renovations are ongoing. A stuffed Uncle Sam stayed on the front porch through September, when someone put it out of its misery. It disappeared. One day a couple of family pictures in elaborate frames were put out for the trash. Who were they? Who knows. The construction crew has gutted the interior, put on a new roof. . . they are almost finished rebuilding the garage.

In a season where good will toward men is supposed to be happening, the neighborhood seems even more isolated than it did last summer. Few people stir except to go to work. Those who still have jobs. By my reckoning about 50% of my immediate neighbors are unemployed right now. My guitar business hobbles on its last leg. Once I sell the remaining stock it will be gone. I see a horizon ahead with hope, but I can't tell you what the future will bring.

And it's funny because a few years ago I thought there were things you could hang your dreams on. Solid. Home "land-line" telephones. Books. Prime-time dramas presented by the major networks. Rock. Work. Manhattan as a center of. . . something or other. Now I don't feel that there's much one can depend upon. The future never seemed so open. . . and so empty.

I'll shake this mood. But right now the idea of "happy holidays" sounds like some sick, twisted oxymoron.

The sun will rise again tomorrow. And a new generation will grow up and there will be a few that will do unbelievable things. Great things. I wish them well.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Baby Huey's Birthday Parties

Baby Huey is giving another one of his birthday parties. We're all invited. But you know what? Last time I went Baby Huey decided he wanted all the cake, all the gifts, all the food because he didn't think he got enough last time. And we all just sat there wondering what kind of a party it was.

Well we're invited again. The party. There'll be cake, I guess. It's Baby Huey's big day. Some people are just stupid enough to show up thinking maybe THEY will be the ones to get all the cake. Why share? It's a kind of Tea Party this time. But it's really the same old scam. I am not going. You live, you learn, you know what that party is all about. Huey will say anything to get us to come. Have we learned from the last time? I have. I'm not going and to hell with his birthday.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

A Little History From A Dumpster Down the Block

During the course of my daily walks I out of habit nose around the things put out for the trash folks. The other day I noticed a dumpster outside a house that has been abandoned after foreclosure two years ago. I took a superficial look on the surface level and what was there? An Arthur Godfrey 78, not playable, a totally destroyed version of Ideal's toy called Jimmy Jet, which I got for a holiday present in I think 1958. It was damaged beyond salvaging, not that I would. That was a Cold War toy. You sited Russian planes on the screen and shot them both electronically and via four darts at the top of the simulated jet cockpit, onto a target silhouette of the plane. I think it was several weeks before I more or less destroyed my own Jimmy Jet.

Back to the walks and the dumpster. A few days later I noticed somebody had liberated the Jimmy Jet anyway, in spite of its terrible condition. I noticed one other thing that day, which I grabbed. It was a pretty elaborate, tiny Japanese finger bowl. I took it home for my wife. After we washed it and such, I looked at the back of it, on the bottom. It had printed on it "Product of Occupied Japan!" Wow. So I'll bet whoever lived in the house was stationed in Japan at the close of WWII. That dumpster was evidence of a life, of history. Two centuries from now a museum would probably be proud to display a significant part of that trash, as examples of 20th Century America.

Another weird thing in the dumpster. . . anybody remember those solid steel toy trucks the boomer generation had as kids? (OK they were boy toys...) Well, there was one of those, a dump truck, but its color was solid rust.

It was eerie. Like all the stuff in the house you grew up in had been left in that house, abandoned for the past 40 years, and finally somebody went in there and it was just like the whole family had disappeared into thin air some time in 1960. The stuff had sat there undisturbed except by the processes of time and only now somebody realized it was a good moment to throw it all out. There were reel-to-reel tapes, Bobsie Twins books, the guts of a 1950's TV set, a tube clock radio from like 1957...

This economic disaster we all are dealing with has as a by-product a kind of archaeological unearthing of cultural history. Every time someone loses their home, dumpsters of historical artifacts appear on the corner. This is not the way I would like to recall the history of my region. Dig we must, I suppose. No other choice. But I hope the foreclosures stop. Now.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

On the Miniaturization of the World

Small is better. We seem to think that. Why? In my experience the transistor radio of the early sixties was the first big commodity that capitalized on smallness. That the quality of the sound was akin to pre-wax-cylinder audio didn't seem to phase kids like me. I loved mine with a passion. I suppose the first wrist watches or before that, pocket watches, were a big deal when they first came out. And in the world of travel, small things were long a part of the package. Small bars of soap at the hotel. Little shampoo containers. The airlines in the fifties would serve beer in half-sized bottles. My father would bring unopened samples home from business trips and, man, I really dug them.

The New York World's Fair in 1965. . . I remember the Japan Pavilion. They had an electronics section where little TVs were on display. They worked, even. Wow.

Well we've come quite a ways since then. Now EVERYTHING seems to be small. Yeah, the phones with the little screens and the "apps." You can watch a movie the size of a commemorative postage stamp. And graphic arts: our television screens, stuff on the internet, CD booklet type, all so small I personally have a hard time reading it. My wife and I tune in to the middle of a Mets game, for example, and she asks, "what inning does it say it is?" I can't make it out from where we are sitting. "Either six. . .or nine. Can't tell," I reply. Now there are plenty of graphics designers, I assume, that are 20 years old, getting paid peanuts, and they have 20/20 vision. Maybe if the Art Director was over 35 he or she would make them up the point sizes? But no, anybody over 35 would have to be properly paid, so there isn't anybody left. They are gone. Home squinting at their TVs, or gazing at their phone, trying to figure out what show it is they are watching. "Must be Lucy. I can tell by her voice."

And even the logos for products. . . tiny, so the message seems to be lost. But no, it's in fashion.

Watch a video of an old baseball game. Mickey Mantle comes up. . . on the screen flashes MICKEY MANTLE .322 AVE in a huge typeface. It looks so. . . old fashioned. But you don't have to squint to read it.

It's a small world. Maybe it's getting too small. Are we that cramped for space?

I like to go to the seashore because you can look out at the ocean where the horizon line of sky and sea meet. It's so open, so big. I wonder if there are any plans to shrink it down in the future? It's so passe, isn't it? And the universe. Much too big for modern times. Must do something about that.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

On Reading and Writing

Is anybody out there?

I know there are some people who read these posts, but right now I don't know how many. I just trust that they are there, and will be there. But today I am thinking of the larger picture.

When I was a kid one of my favorite movies (and later, books) was The Time Machine. When "Million Dollar Movie" aired the adaptation of the book on Channel Nine you could watch it every night for a week and twice on Saturday. And at least at one point I nearly did that. There was a scene far in the future where Rod Taylor asked the refined-to-degeneracy flower children living on the earth's surface whether they had any books. They did. One of them took him to a building filled with them. Rod went to pick one up and it disintegrated into dust. People had forgotten how to read.

That scene seemed unbelievable to me. "That will never happen," I thought to myself. Now I am not sure. Then, my parents read books regularly, though neither went to college. They encouraged us to read. We went to school. We read the books. And we read books for fun too.

I look around the world I am in today and wonder. Many of my friends seem to have stopped reading, books anyway. Sometimes you visit people and see books lined up on a shelf, perhaps unread, and it brings to mind that scene from the movie. If I pick one up will it turn to dust?

The concept of the public library lives on. Imagine, a government pays for a building, a bunch of books, and they allow anyone to read them, for free. Shouldn't that be illegal? Isn't that somehow communist? You perhaps laugh (or not), but the idea that somebody might argue that some day in the near future doesn't seem as impossible as it might have seemed when I was five years old. Benjamin Franklin and his ilk had the right idea. Reading is good. It is a cornerstone of civilization and needs to be encouraged. Yes, and the government at whatever level needs to subsidize it.

That's not in line with the ULTRA-CAPITALIZATION-OF-EVERYTHING the Far Right has been pushing for, the deregulate-and-destroy policy. The lean, mean, and socially suicidal policy. So guess what? We now see where it leads. Ultimately untrammeled Capital, in the escalating extremism of profit at all costs, destroys itself and everything around it, destroys its own ability to exist and do whatever with those profits. So, in the very least, some group of people have to be literate enough to communicate with one another with more than GET BANANA AND EAT icons for the whole game to continue. I do believe, as is obvious, that greed must be regulated and channeled to the public good, though that might mean that profits in the short term are lesser.

So what to do? It seems that people think that the new generation must be "computer literate" if we are to survive. We need to develop more scientists and technological workers so we can innovate, solve the energy crises, revive the economy and all of that. Fine. But reading and writing, literacy, is the basis for it all. And not texting. Not cell phones with lots of "apps" that take the place of literacy. See picture of dog. Click on it. Click on the send arrow. Friend gets picture of dog. Anybody can do it. (And actually, I believe apes probably already know how and are out there sending each other pictures of dogs even as I write this.)

Our survival depends upon our literacy. Sounds simple and obvious, but are we forgetting it anyway, little by little? We cannot afford that.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Some Big Apple Moments

At the beginning of the many years I worked in Manhattan (or went to school there) it took me a little effort to get in synch with the anarchy of the rhythm of events. Everything has always happening, nothing was happening too. There was no telling.

The first time I went into the city alone with my friends, it was right about the time the Fugs were starting to hit it "big" in the area. Now Tuli Kupferberg is ill, I hear. I am sorry. At the same time Manhattan was at the height of its influence on the hyper-normal American music scene. Brill Building Jingle-Pop ruled the airwaves, though the British Invasion was cutting great swatches into their piece of the action.

Anyway we were tooling around the streets, not exactly knowing what we were after, when we came upon a fellow with a wild look in his eyes. He was gesticulating animatedly at a garbage truck and saying "I understand this machine. . . " Being naive kids we just started laughing at him. He didn't like it. He ran across the street to us and shouted, "Have you ever heard of HELL???" We had. "Well you *&@$s are IN it."

He was right about hell and the garbage truck. But we didn't really get it.

I used to thumb through the Manhattan Yellow Pages when I had a spare moment where I worked. It was a thick bugger. I am sure it still is, even though i phones and the net have made it less indispensable. I remember under "Auto Towing Services" there was a group of listings that started with the A's. There was A1 Auto Towing, AAAA1 Auto Towing and, not to be outdone, there was something like an AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA1 Auto Towing company listed. That's NYC for you. Everybody is scrambling to get on top, one way or another.

When I was about to graduate from New York University I went out to the University of Chicago to see about their graduate program. I met with the professor who was to become my main mentor. We were talking and I asked about other professors in the department who might be good to study with as well. She hesitated. Then I asked, "well, who do you speak to?" "That's very New York," she replied.

I didn't think it was at the time. In retrospect, she was right. It was.

Friday, February 19, 2010

Writing and Memory

When I recollect my early writing experiments and what went with them, I realize it was a product of mutually influential creative interactions with people close to me, starting in seventh grade. I've carried what I gained beginning then through my life without thinking about it much. It hit me around 30 years ago when I first started writing as a livelihood.

I never thought my memory was anything unusual. When I started telling my brothers and sister about things which happened when I was two that they didn’t remember, I took some notice. There are things I remember all the time without trying; not all of them great memories either, of course. If there is something I want to call up, I usually start with the objects and the faces of those involved. Once you dig out the object world and the visuals of people, the incidents follow. It’s visual and it’s also aural—the sound of a friend's voice in telephone conversations we had in 1966, for example. I can conjure it up right now. Not that that makes me different. But it is an important part of what makes me a writer.

It relates to music. Musical-memory and writing-memory are related. It has to do with the sound of life, your life.

Like sometimes I’d be talking a mile a minute on the phone about something and I’d stop and ask the other person something and that person would blurt out the answer in a low-high, two toned answer. That, like music, stays in my memory and always will. And when I write I hear my past, like that two-toned phrase, and it's part of what prefigures my excursion into words.

I can remember just about everything outside of the classroom from 7th grade on—activity wise—what movies, what plays, and you name it. That is true of my interactions with all my friends, and every Christmas. I remember and can conjure up in my head every record I ever had and what it sounded like. It’s the visual and aural memories that are especially vivid. I’ll remember distinctly conversations with certain college girlfriends but wont always recall their names straight off, sometimes.

That is not to say I remember everything about everything, just those things that somehow were important experientially in my life. I think it really became more active when I started writing the first novel 15 years ago. I needed to create a fictional world out of pieces of my life and so started conjuring up in contemplation all sorts of pieces of my memory life from which I picked and chose in constructing my scene and plot.

The main house involved in the first novel (Pineapple Still-Life) is a cross between the house I grew up in Pompton Plains until 1956, parts of the Kinnelon house, a few apartments (Boston, Chicago) and very strangely enough (I am not kidding) the house my wife and I live in now that we bought only after I finished the novel and had not seen before in my life!! The main characters in the novel are pieces of people—the two female leads are part my mother, my sister, old girlfriends, my wife, some friends I knew at the time, my cat of childhood, etc. In constructing these situations and people I started really being able to conjure up near totalities and then play with the combinations of them in imagining this world of 1955 Butler and an artist couple who lived there.

So writing is memory transfigured. It also is crafting. The first two chapters for example I rewrote about 10 or 11 times, at least. There is the additive way to go about things and that's one way—you string something together and add on; then of course subtractive, what you end up erasing.

Just a few thoughts. . .

All sort of in the light of Shakespeare:

“Look what is best, that best I wish in thee:
This wish I have; ten times happy me!”

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Excerpt from Unpublished, Still-In-Progress Novel "Cows"

Tommy is a bowling ball salesman who's not meeting his sales quotas. It's the late '50s. He's alone in the office one night when he gets a visit from some people out of another book.

The Salesman with A Dream in His. . .

Oh, Tommy's seen some tough days. And he's seen her. And she's just over the horizon, in the same field, walking towards the cows. She's the dream of a bowling ball salesman. And she has a dream, too. Any relation between the dreams? Oh, there's always some relation, one supposes. Futures loom widely, wildly, at any age, if it is springtime. His dreams fix on objects, human objects mostly, in various guises and life situations. One object, really. He thinks of her as "her." Out there with the cows, like when he knew of her.

He's at work again. And he's been going at the job like mad, trying to reach his quota. So far, not so good. Never mind how hard he tries. He's been putting in long hours--mostly pondering, strategizing, practicing different sales pitches. He's worn himself to a frazzle such that he goes limp on the phone when it comes time to produce a coherently persuasive argument for a batch of A. King balls.

What more can be done?

Go get drunk. It's 8:10 and no one is left in the office but me. I 've got my strategy for tomorrow. Humor. It used to work. Why not now? It will.

The front door creaks open. Who's coming in at this hour?

"Doggone it!" Chet Morton exclaims. "No more sleuthing until we eat."

The fat, happy-old boy stands halfway between Frank and Joe Hardy as they walk through the door.

Dark-haired, eighteen-year-old Frank Hardy takes the lead in the purposeful walk through the reception area of A. King Holes.

Meanwhile, his blond-haired younger brother Joe says, "There used to be some reason for our existence. See this place? It's a sign we no longer matter."

He points to the bowling balls and photos of happy families chucking them down alleys.

Chet Morton opens an eye as they move past a rack of balls. Then a few photos. “What are they?” he asks.

“Bowlers,” Joe tells him. “Supposed to be having fun. Makes this company some money.”

"Bowlers!” The plump boy straightens up, looking worried. “Today?”

"Sure,” Joe Hardy goes on teasingly. "If a bowler puts a spell on your cow, she won't give milk. These pictures keep off the curse.”

Nervously Chet looks at the next two photos, and the balls over to the left, and then once all around him.

"Aw, nobody believes in that kind of stuff anymore. This is the twentieth century. Stop kidding me, will you, fellows? This is a novel. All I'm going to do is sleep and eat. Let's not have any mysteries!”

While their friend settles down and closes his eyes once more, Frank and Joe exchange knowing grins. As sons of the internationally famous detective, Fenton Hardy, they have many times been drawn into baffling and dangerous mysteries, where their brilliant sleuthing has earned them fine reputations of their own. Easygoing Chet Morton, the Hardy's best friend, always seems to become involved.

"Hey, who the hell, is there?” calls out Tommy.

“It’s us, the Hardy Boys, and we're working on The Mystery of the Atomic Toilet.

“Hey!” Chet yells, “I thought we were looking for food.”

"Not in this novel, you're not!" Tommy warns. "Not food, not toilets. I'm about to be shitcanned and there's no space for your adolescent authority fantasies.”

"Uh, OK. I guess we've got the wrong book." Frank says, puzzled. "Comon you guys. We've got a mystery to solve."

They go out the front door.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Another Referential Misfire: On Vishvington

As in the last posting, I would like to recount an example of a language flub that I experienced not so long ago.

Like I wrote last time, we pride ourselves as superior to the apes for our use of language, among other things. And we are so accustomed to assuming we understand each other that when we do not, it throws us well off our pace. At least that happens to me sometimes.

Ten years ago, around 2000, I was in the thick of another publishing project that to me was very illuminating but onerous in its workload and responsibility. So there were times when I felt an exhaustion that had some effect on my reception of certain communications.

It was sometime in January-February of that millennial year. My ‘86 Nissan pickup was parked in the front lot of the building where I worked, in a section of New Jersey not far from Manhattan. It had begun snowing and sleeting rather heavily about 5:30 PM that night. By 6:30 I thought it was time to get back home before the roads got worse. So I jumped in the truck, started it, put it in reverse and let the clutch go. Nothing happened. I increased the gas to the engine. The truck barely moved. Uh-oh. Well I belonged to an auto club that was supposed to cover me in these situations. So I went back inside and called them to have them tow my truck to the auto repair placed I used, about ten miles from where I was.

“Is your truck parked and out of the way of traffic?” the lady on the other end of the phone asked. “Because we are keeping our trucks off the streets as much as we can in this weather tonight.” Great! When I need them, they don’t want to go out because it’s snowing. Well, the hell with them, I thought. I’m going to get this truck to the repair place if it kills me.

So I went back to my truck, got in, put it in reverse, floored it and let the clutch out. The truck began moving backwards very slowly. I finally got it into position to go forward, and it did . . . barely. By flooring it I managed to get going about two miles an hour. I barely made it up the slight incline to a stop light at the corner of the street whose name I forgot, but the light was red and I had to stop. By the time it turned green, the incline made it impossible to turn left like I needed to. I had to turn right, where the incline tilted downwards. So I did. It was a two-lane highway and cars were speeding past me in the fast lane, honking their horns while I plodded along at two miles an hour, the engine straining at full throttle, smoke beginning to come out of the hood. The sleet and snow had begun coming down even harder and visibility was bad. The road was very slippery. I was going the opposite direction from where I wanted to be. It was bad. I swore to myself.

Finally after an agonizing amount of time I managed to cover a half mile. There was a gas station on the right! It was a concrete island with two pumps and a little shack-like building where the cash register was. That was it. As I slowly pulled into the area to the side of the pumps, engine straining to the max, smoke coming out of the hood in billows, crawling along at a snail’s pace, the gas station attendant, a fellow in a turban and a longish gray beard, looked at me with some kind of perplexity and hostility combined.

I stopped the truck and got out.

He motioned to the truck,
“No service!
Gas only!
No parking!”

I tried to explain to him that my truck was in trouble and I needed to at least use the phone.

“No phone!” he shot back at me.

Then he motioned to a phone booth about 100 yards away, at the corner of the wide empty paved expanse.

“Pay phone!” he shouted, a kind of crazy look in his eyes.

I wasn’t going to argue. The sleet was falling in buckets. Luckily I had a lot of quarters in my truck’s ash tray. I got them and schlepped over to the booth, called the automobile club again and explained to them that I had tried to get the truck to the repair place but that it was disabled now in a spot where I was not permitted to remain.

“Where are you located?” asked the lady.

I named the town, and then realized I had never really memorized the name of the road I was on, even though I travelled down it every weekday. I told her to hold on, and walked the hundred yards back to the pumps, where the guy in the turban eyed me suspiciously.

“What’s the name of this road?” I asked.

“Vishvington!” he shot back loudly and angrily.

I plodded back to the booth, explained to the lady on the phone “I’m on Vishvington.”

“How do you spell that?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. Hold on again,” I answered and walked back the 100 yards to the guy. He was looking increasingly infuriated with me and I wasn’t sure why.

"How do you spell 'Vishvington?'” I asked.

That was the last straw. He flipped his veritable lid and screamed “VISHVINGTON!!! VISHVINGTON!!! DEEE PRESIDENT!!!!!”

Oh, shit. I was on Washington Avenue! I went back to the phone booth and told the lady. And you know what? We both started laughing uproariously. It was funny!! I had sooo misunderstood the guy. And it all just seemed so ridiculous, in the middle of this God-forsaken blizzard.

So I waited an hour over to the side in my truck and the tow truck finally came. It turned out the driver still wasn’t allowed to take me the ten miles to the repair place. So he ended up towing me back the ½ mile to my original spot, in the parking lot where I worked!!! After all that.

I had to call a cab and the next day the tow truck came back after work and took me to the repair service place. Turns out the clutch had failed all at once. That was what was wrong. They fixed it in a few days and I was back in action.

But to this day I still laugh when I think of that guy and the look on his face when he screamed at me “VISHVINGTON!! VISHVINGTON!!! DEE PRESIDENT!!!”

Monday, January 11, 2010

A Referential Misfire

Language is what makes us better than apes. One of the things, anyway. And when language goes wrong, when we say the wrong thing or we mishear what is said, it can teach us something about who we are. And it can make us laugh. I have two referential misfires that occurred in my recent past that can still get me chuckling to myself. Here is one of them. The other next time.

It was a Monday morning in February, I believe. The year was 1991, I think. I was working for the book publishing division of a prominent science publishing company. They were located on Madison Avenue in New York and at the time I was living at a suburban apartment complex in New Jersey. I had been working for this company for around two years and the commute was a killer. If I drove to and from the Park and Ride lot in North Bergen during regular rush hours, my combined trip lasted as much as three to five hours, a huge chunk of daily life. I had recently been promoted and needed to put in long hours to keep things hopping.

I decided that, in order to beat traffic and to give myself the office time I really needed to get everything in order, I would arrive at the Park and Ride depot for the first bus into the city, which was 6:00 AM. Then I’d leave the office around 8:00 PM and catch the 8:30 bus back to North Bergen.

So it was a Monday morning in the middle of winter. I got up around 4:30, shaved and showered in a foul mood and left the apartment building on my way to my truck, which was parked in the lot outside. It turned out it had been sleeting all night and there were huge patches of black ice lurking on all the paved surfaces. The building superintendent was still sleeping and had not put down any sand or salt. The moment I left the sidewalk and stepped into the lot, I slipped and bashed my left knee painfully onto the asphalt. Man, it hurt! I was seeing stars! Nothing seemed seriously amiss, except for the throbbing pain, so I got into my truck and hot-foot-it down Route 23 and eventually to North Bergen.

I had worked in the city in 1975-76, then went to New York University, and now had made the commute for several years to Madison Avenue. I had used the Park and Ride lot off and on during all these times. At the entrance to the lot was a booth where you paid your $6 and received the round-trip bus ticket from the guy that was manning the post. Now over the years there was a fellow who had worked there since ancient times and I had gotten on a familiar basis with him.

Because I always tried to be creative in my life, and thought spontaneity was a good thing, I made a point of trying never to say the same thing to the ticket booth guy when we met every day. Because of the icy conditions that morning I arrived right at 6:00. I wanted to explain to him what had happened to me that morning, but I guess I was tired and it came out all wrong.

I greeted him with:

“Hey, I just took a dump in the parking lot!”

Of course, it should have been:

“Hey, I just took a spill in the parking lot back home. I hurt my knee!”

Anyway, the bus was there and was just about to leave. He gave me my ticket and gave me a look that said:

“Well, don’t expect me to clean it up!”

There was no time to explain. I took the ticket in silence, raced the truck to a parking slot and got on the bus just in time. After that, he always looked at me like I was nuts, and I limited my greetings to “good morning,” robotically, predictably and safely.

I got into Manhattan about 6:10. Walking the empty streets to 27th and Madison, the steam emitting from the Con Edison conduits, the pavements shiny with wet and ice and multi-yellow with the reflection of streetlights, it occurred to me in a kind of revelation just how much I hated my life. All my life’s energy was being sapped by the commute, the daily grind. There was nothing left. I didn’t have a life at all. And my spontaneity with the poor guy at the booth was about the only thing creative I had left in me.

At the same time my referential misfire was funny as hell to me and so at the same time I laughed uproariously while walking down Madison Avenue around 6:30 that morning, the madman of Manhattan!

That morning and in days following, I resolved to do something about the life I was living.

It took many years to get back to where I should have been in 1991. And I still remember that morning when I have doubts of what I’ve made for myself since then. I compare now with that “dump” and feel much better. The pain in my knee comes back to me every so often. I can’t play softball anymore. But I have my life back.

Friday, January 8, 2010

The World Takes on Color at 13

The summer of 1965 to me was huge with anticipation. And it was the last summer of adolescence in some ways, for me at least. There I was, some dufus kid graduated from Stonybrook and I had the summer to more or less fluff off or whatever kids were suppose to do.

So I went fishing—by myself. I’d take out our rowboat and bring along my prized farmer’s alarm clock to mark time and make sure I docked in time to catch the ride back home from my father. I think the clock scared the fish. I never caught anything but that pre-dusk stillness. I caught that every time. A few plops of fish coming to the surface, the echo of a few kids left on the beach, the arc of the sun and the oddly bright shadows it left on the rocks on the then uninhabited side of the lake. Then home and down in the cool damp basement feeling a little creaky from the day, playing solitaire, watching TV, eating potato chips. The teen castle of HIGH SCHOOL was going to be there in September and we 7th Graders had better be ready!! How? Who new?

So I hung out with a kid named John that summer—he lived across the street from me. Man could that family eat! His father was always accusing him of taking “those stupid pills” whenever they were doing yardwork.

He and I went camping in August, actually only a few hundred yards into the woods behind his house and he brought pancake batter. Somehow we managed to get leaves in it and it was a hell of a wait before it was light enough to have an excuse to fix breakfast, but no matter. They were some funky pancakes.

I had a crush on someone that summer—big time. I finally sent her a letter in August. And she wrote back!! Now I knew September was going to be BIG!

Well, I had to have some cool clothes if I was going to make the scene on that first day. I found a red turtleneck sweater, the height of coolness, at Levine’s, and black chinos. I was ready! I was terrified!

The summer flew by. Some kind of innocence, early geekhood, that was all about to end.

Then, there it was, that first day of school. Donning my red turtleneck and my chinos I reported to Homeroom 322. The upperclassmen were so BIG. So we, the 322 group of little weasels, sat there that first morning, wondering what life would be like. In came in T. Hoyt Walker. Wow. He got our attention by speaking in as quiet a tone of voice as he could. “My name is Mr. Walker. . .” He wasn’t like the Stonybrook teachers. He was weird. So, bells would ring and we would fly all over the place to get to the next class and those big high school folks would be walking the same halls, looking down at us from their incredible six or more feet. If you ran into Big Fred in the hall, you ran into something! Man!

A few weeks into the year an eighth grader approached me, Bob, saying he was forming a band that would play the 7th-8th grade dance in October and he heard I played drums. Well, sure I was interested. He played rhythm guitar, Bill was on lead, then a bunch of other neighbors were trying to play but eventually got embarrassed and never showed up. So I looked in the dictionary for a name. Found one that everybody liked—we were the Aztecs. Our song list then had stuff by the Ventures, the Beatles, Stones and the Beau Brummels, and we practiced hard. My drum set was half-Slingerland, half-Ludwig and came from around 1955, or earlier, I guess. I bought it at Robbie’s Music Hall in sixth grade and I remember looking at the Beatles album cover Something New to figure out how to set it up—like Ringo did! It was my favorite thing from then, no doubt. We were slated to play the dance in the cafeteria—a place of much importance for all of us from 7th to 12th grade. There was that little stage and that’s where we set up to play. Whew what a rush it was playing that first October dance. Cal, the upper-classman old guy who had a column in the Trends newspaper on local bands was the DJ during intermission. One of the first records he played was “Turn Turn Turn” by the Byrds and it flabbergasted me! I had never heard anything like it before. Or after.

We played the Christmas dance and by then we had added Blaine and Jeff on vocals (sort of like a Righteous Brothers deal) and Scott on third guitar (nobody knew how to play bass then!). Well that one was in the cafeteria too. We started wearing velour shirts with the zip down collar and we thought that was cool.

And right around then I was amazed to find that I had a girlfriend! Not the one I had a crush on five months before—instead someone I didn’t even know until high school.

Well we added Bill II and Lee to the group, started sounding pretty good, and played a couple of dances in the gym. By the end of the year, it was all over. To me, everything after was anti-climax. I was in several really good bands afterwards and yeah, we played the cafeteria dances—one with Rick and Steve, one with Bob and Jeff, one with Lee and Jeff. Oh yeah, then there was that last one, Orchard—Chris, are you reading this???—but we played the gym three times that last year, no cafeteria.

And our semi-final act as the class of ’71 was the Senior Breakfast in the cafe. I remember looking around at all of us, astonished that this was the end. We had traveled so far as a class since that first day in 7th grade, taken our stupid pills (or not), had our romantic intrigues, learned something (not a lot for me—I think I learned more outside of high school in my spare time than I did in school, in retrospect), grown several inches taller, eaten copious quantities of cafeteria food, changed into scores of different outfits over the years, and the Beatles had already made their final album. It was all over.

Still, that first year, 1965-66 was the year I won’t forget quickly. They say the first time is the best. That was the first time for me. The first time for just about everything.

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

The Bicycle Safety Assembly, or My Brush with the Future

It was around 1962-1965 that the future as concept really started hitting home to me. I was in 4th or 5th grade at a suburban New Jersey elementary school. The usual sort of place, red bricks, playground/fields in back. There was a day back then that remains in my memory.

It was a spring morning, if I recall correctly. It was a school day and the bus picked us up at the usual time. Years later they built a house where the bus shelter was, but the brown shelter back then was our little haven and a literary sounding board, so to speak. It had various kinds of kid graffiti inscribed inside it, on the walls.

We were all on our way to Stonybrook School. Our usual bus driver was on the job, a guy with thinning red hair, slicked back. He usually wore some kind of cap. The bus itself was one of the earlier GM ones with a triangular window for the speedometer, a defroster that consisted of a round fan on the driver side with a heating element within. These earlier buses did not let off a flatulent blast when shifting from first to second, like the later ones did. The seats were flat and uncomfortable, brown with some kind of simulated leather.

We arrived as always to the long, narrow paved disembarkation point with its overhanging part-roof-on-poles at the front of the school. The school flag was raised, indicating that today was an “out day,” a day when the weather was OK and so we could run around a little in the playground after lunch. The trip from my house in the local hill region and the school, on the eastern edge of the lake area, was a long one, and because of the Jetsons spaceport look of where the buses let us off, I used to pretend that the bus was a spaceship and that the school was another planet. Hey, it felt like it sometimes, anyway, even after we got there.

Once we had pledged allegiance to the flag and what-not there was an air of excitement as our teacher let us know that there was going to be an assembly that morning. I don’t remember which grade I was in. Either Mrs. Aldrich, Mrs. Kitchell, or Mr. Kramer announced it. So eventually we all dragged our little chairs with the orange plastic butt-buckets and aluminum legs out into the hall (where some kid had probably puked earlier), as we rounded the hall towards the gymnasium/auditorium we could experience the olfactory sensation of the overripe, overcooked concoction that was to be our hot lunch. Don’t get me wrong, I loved that stuff! We were big kids once they let us eat hot food like that! And it was all thanks to Lawrence Schwimmer, Cafeteria Manager, who deigned to sign the lunch tickets!

Anyway around and into the auditorium, to the rhythm of a John Philip Sousa march played on the PA system, the hardwood floor showing the various boundary lines for basketball even though most of us were a little too physically retarded as yet to play that game. There was a wooden door on the corner of the gymnasium with a tiny rectangular window and written in bold black letters, “Physical Education.” At least in fourth grade, I had no idea what that meant. So it scared me a little. It still doesn’t make complete sense to me. Physical Education? Sort of like Music for the Nose. Or Head Shoes. The two things don’t really go together.

On the stage there stood a shiny new bicycle, complete with mud flap, twin side mirrors and raccoon tail, I think. Those in the know (5th or 6th graders) had already experienced this annual bicycle safety assembly. This was what we all were about to witness. That room had a stage and curtains. The curtains were open; the bike perched in the center, American flag on the left. There were many events held in that room that I can remember. The class plays (I was a pilgrim in one; a Chinese drummer in another), the music concerts, puppet shows on Saturdays (Pinocchio, anyway), the Pinewood Derby, sometimes movies on Saturday afternoons, starting with a Mickey Mouse cartoon. During the regular school week we saw the educational movies done by Bell Telephone on the human body (“rub-dub” was what the heart would say). This day it was about our bikes.

With an introduction by Principal Greed (our personal representative for the Seven Deadly Sins, and one of the more appropriate ones for this time and place?) out of the way, a local policeman proceeded to run down, point by point, what we needed to consider when riding a bike—have red reflector, don’t wear black, drive against traffic, etc. The harangue finished—every year it was virtually identical—we all clapped. But it was the clapping itself and what followed that I can’t seem to forget. We didn’t clap in the regular, anarchic way, like on, say, the Ed Sullivan show. We clapped in unison, rhythmically, and I’m not sure why. Clap-clap-clap-clap. It wasn’t that we especially enjoyed the presentation. It was pretty perfunctory. Were we being sarcastic? Was it just a spontaneous experiment in kid-crowd-behavior? Well Mr. Greed did not like it one bit. He froze us, waving both arms, shouting “Children! Children! Stop it! That’s the way they clap in Russia, not America!!!”

I was puzzled. Who were these people, really, and why did they clap this way? Why couldn’t we? What were these people like? From the absolute terror on Mr.Greed’s face, they must have been frightening people indeed. That clapping was just the beginning—and we had fallen prey to their influence somehow. God knew what other horrors were to come. It was Mad Magazine and Rocky and Bullwinkle that had poisoned our minds. Of course Greed never explained further and all it did was make you think of some very, very bad people in that place that clapped funny and we were all in for it!!!! From that day at least, I knew our future involved some inevitable direct clash with evil, these people clapping funny and aiming their rockets at us, preparing for the big invasion, etc. By that time, I think, Martian cards were out and the graphic war between the formidably armed USA and the horrific aliens with their exposed brains and ray guns was elaborated scene-by-gruesome-scene. And that’s what I thought of when I imagined the coming war. I used to go down in the family basement and see in the little alcove in the work area the couple of cans of tomato soup that were there for us when we were to go into hiding during the nuclear finale. I didn’t feel reassured. I felt sick to my stomach.

At the same time the space age was in full flower. I watched every launch like all of us did, mesmerized. Some future world where we all drank Tang, ate food out of toothpaste tubes, wore aluminum foil suits and lived in empty minimalist white rooms with not much furniture and one big-ass TV, that was one future I thought was surely coming. The cold war as we grew up gave us another possible future. The drills where we crouched and faced the hall cinder blocks, head down, thinking about it and what it meant. The future was either going to send us to Mars or drop a big H-Bomb on our heads. There seemed little doubt that it was one or the other.

As we grew up there of course was Vietnam, all sorts of crises and indirect conflicts, but the really big war and the big bombs never came, thank God. I must admit that I was absolutely shocked when, seemingly without warning, the USSR just crumbled with a whimper in the ‘80s. So that was one of the first important ways that the future wasn’t what I though it would be. It did not involve our perennial adversity with Russia. And with the progressive diminishing, the blunting of space-race competition with Russia, the space age more or less died along with the Cold War.

People were so giddy when the Berlin Wall came down and it all ended, some people actually started talking about the “end of history,” like that was all there was ever going to be. Not quite. As we have seen, a more sinister future is before us, something we could scarce imagine, war with a group of terrorist criminals—not a national government with its flags, uniforms and such—just a bunch of incredible thugs, worse than Lex Luther, Goldfinger, Boris Badinoff or any Cold War villains we might have grown up with. Far worse.

But the look and feel of this future we are in, funny to say, in some ways isn’t much different than it was in 1965. OK, most of us have personal computers. Laptops. Cell phones are all over the place, like in Star Trek, only they are used in the supermarket for stuff like “Hello dear, should I buy Fritos or Pringles?” And we haven’t knocked down all the old buildings, the slums look the same, cars are just recycling their looks, we don’t all live in space modules or towering aluminum thingies, our clothes aren’t much different—except of course we all wear jeans at least part of the time. The whole idea of a modern world, a world of progress, a world where everything is spanking new, shiny, beyond race, beyond class, where unpleasant work was done by machines, where the poverty and hatred in the world was eradicated, where intelligence ruled, where all energy had become solar or atomic or something other than that stinking oil-based, smelly, life- and peace-threatening stuff, where did it go? And that whole world of “love,” the hippie stuff, the version of Christianity I was taught—the Sermon on the Mount, remember? I sure don’t see much of that, especially in certain religious-political circles (ahem).

What’s more, I never thought I would ever wish that Richard Nixon was president again! At least he had some sense. A crook sure, but he knew history and diplomacy. Well, I got to feel that way in the past decade, before the last election anyway.

One more part of the future I never expected—that is the degeneration and potential death of music. At one time for better or worse every town had numerous places where live music was performed—bars, clubs, the bandstand in the park, etc., etc. The beginning of the end was Disco, which quite quickly closed perhaps half of the opportunities musicians once had. Then MTV came along and created non-music-music: music that was primarily a vehicle to sell the product of the cute plastic singers as product. Then came home entertainment centers, and now everyone stays home, buys movies and watches them 3,000 times, and it seems music is rarely listened to compared to before. Then, sorry, there’s rap and hip hop—often not really much music as far as I am concerned. OK, I try to listen. If you take a look on the Billboard Hot 100, you’ll find almost no Rock, no kidding.

And how about the news? I mean the news that used to be on TV. Why is the government-controlled BBC doing a more balanced job covering the news than we are?

OK, so I sound grouchy. But one more thing. . . when’s the last time you tried to find a Jersey Tomato—not one of those garbagy, thick-skinned-tasteless-pieces-of-junk you find in the supermarket? And what about these packages that are so hard to open up, you need the Army Core of Engineers to help???? And outsourcing jobs to the rest of the world?? We are the United States of America! We are supposed to be a free, prosperous democratic beacon that shines on the rest of the world and gives hope. (And, I must insist, where a man can open a bag of potato chips with his own two hands!!)

After all is said my mind still goes back to that school assembly. Maybe Greed was right. We shouldn’t have clapped like that. The future happened the way it did anyway, clapping or not. It’s a future that is still worth changing for the better. What grade have we as Boomers deserved for what we have contributed to the world so far? I hope not one of those D’s, of which I received a few later on in high school.

But I shouldn’t feel too badly. They started taking to calling my parents’ group “The Great Generation” a few years back. Maybe. Great for what? Look what they handed us? Sure they won a war in a big way. Then they made lots of money in the ‘50s, some of them. There’s more to life than that though. I don’t resent their legacy. I just don’t overvalue it either.

This future continues. We can help change it.

Monday, January 4, 2010

Opener: Sonic Boomer Yaks

This blog will be about "nothing." (That is, "nothing" fixed.) It will have essays and short stories and other stuff about life and the world, art, music and what I've learned or experienced as a boomer. It's pure yak, most of the time. I hope it will entertain, amuse and illuminate.