For most of my adult life my preference in music has tended toward the melancholy. For anyone who really knows me, I guess that is no surprise. As a teenager I was brooding and surly. In fact, I could be downright mean. I could blame it on all the pseudoephedrine I took in my youth. Without that particular chemical I simply could not function, despite the behavioral side effects. My allergies were lethal and it kept me alive. But it just magnified a personality trait that already existed. These days, I try to subdue that side of my personality as much as possible. I have learned that being a mean SOB will not get you very far. As an adult I typically go about my day laughing, smiling and gossiping as much as time allows. I really do try to make the best out of the daily disasters which accompany being an adult, at least in my public life. The worse things get, the funnier I try to make it. It's a survival strategy and it works. And it puts others at ease. It keeps the peace.
But music is different. The more sad the song, the more I like it. I thrive on melancholy. And it has always been that way. And I can't be more serious when I say that I love music. I live for music. In my opinion, the iPod is the greatest invention in the history of human civilization, with iTunes not far behind. The iPod delivers sadness straight to my brain, anywhere, everywhere, unadulterated. And it is bliss. The irony is not lost on me.
So lately I have been listening to music by Sufjan Stevens. And his music is bleak. And acoustic. And peppered with tragedy. Naturally, I lap it up. But the more I listen to the lyrics, the more I come to the conclusion that he is one of two things: a repressed homosexual and/or a man struggling with his faith in Christianity, magnified by the conflict of repressed homosexuality. Taken in combination, his prospects for ever achieving happiness in his life are pretty poor. His faith is shaken, his sexuality is in crisis. It's killer stuff. And he lets it be known. The song "Casimir Pulaski Day" has to be the saddest song I have ever heard in my entire life. "To Be Alone With You" comes in a close second. Is it about him or Christ? I can't quite tell. And it doesn't matter. I can't wait for more.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Something More Mundane
Today is Father's Day. As I have 4 children, I qualify. In honor of the day and the incredible sacrifices I have made to be a father, my lovely wife lets me sleep in. This is a tremendous gift. It is gift because I hate morning. I hate morning with a contempt beyond words. I am pretty sure that my hatred of morning is a genetically controlled emotion, dependent upon a myriad of misfiring chemical signals in my brain, but I digress. I hate morning. And I have hated it since I was about 11. My father literally had to kick me out of bed to get me to school. He was good at kicking. Or my mother would sing at me. My mother is an awful singer. And she knows it. So not having to get up with Everett at 6:15 am is a gift. Being left alone in bed until 10 am is blessing. And that is what I got this morning. When I was 15 I could sleep until 1 pm. Nowadays I can't go much past 10 am until my conscience kicks in and I realize I really should get my lazy ass out of bed and go yell at somebody (by 10 am, all the shit has hit the fan and I can hear the screaming of at least 3 children). If I were an amoral man I would just stick a pillow over my head and go until at least noon. Unfortunately, I have the burden of conscience and not really being interested in having my wife scowl at me all morning.
Ok, here is my point. When I sleep late, it's not actually a great sleep. I do appreciate it, but I am half-conscious. I am slowly waking up so I often remember a lot of my dreams. This is a rare pleasure. This morning, I dreamed of my elementary school walk. When I was in elementary school I lived in Milford, CT. I walked about a half-a-mile to school. I went to Central Grammar School. It's a middle school now, if it even exists. Anyway, I remember the whole walk. I remembered going to the corner of the street, to the apartment complex. I remembered turning onto Green Street, going past the telephone company building, past the Chief of Police's house, through the parking lot behind the doctor's office, past the bicycle shop, crossing the Milford Green, walking under the train tracks and finally past the private girl's school and into the elementary school grounds. The killer thing is that I remember it all with almost perfect clarity. The last time I made that walk was maybe 22 years ago. I have not thought of that walk or those places in a decade. But it's crystal clear. And then I remember the school. It's all perfectly formed in my mind. I remember the kids I went to school with. I remember their names and their faces. I remember the first girl I had a crush on.
Flash forward to 2001. I'm a graduate student. I get off a van everyday at 5 pm and make a 3 mile walk from the bus stop to my apartment. I'm 25. And this is only 7 years back. But I can't remember a damn thing about the walk. I did it for at least 2 years, maybe 3? All I remember is being attacked by tree swallows going past the horse corrals. I just can't pull any of it back and the little i do see is fuzzy.
Memory is a funny thing. I guess we don't realize how much our childhood sticks with us. Which brings up the important ponderable: despite how banal we (as jaded, angry, irritable adults) may see each day, each day may be critically important to the development of the children standing around and watching us. These memories will stick with them. Despite their attempts to rid themselves of childhood scars, the memories all remain. Memory, it's always there. On this day, I hope to remember that the next 364 days aren't about me at all, but the little children around me, both mine and yours.
Happy Fathers Day.
(Editor's Note: Nathaniel's mother insists that she does not have an awful voice. She has a beautiful voice but intentionally sang poorly to wake Nathaniel up. Nathaniel retorts that this was the only time her ever heard her sing and it was not "beautiful").
Ok, here is my point. When I sleep late, it's not actually a great sleep. I do appreciate it, but I am half-conscious. I am slowly waking up so I often remember a lot of my dreams. This is a rare pleasure. This morning, I dreamed of my elementary school walk. When I was in elementary school I lived in Milford, CT. I walked about a half-a-mile to school. I went to Central Grammar School. It's a middle school now, if it even exists. Anyway, I remember the whole walk. I remembered going to the corner of the street, to the apartment complex. I remembered turning onto Green Street, going past the telephone company building, past the Chief of Police's house, through the parking lot behind the doctor's office, past the bicycle shop, crossing the Milford Green, walking under the train tracks and finally past the private girl's school and into the elementary school grounds. The killer thing is that I remember it all with almost perfect clarity. The last time I made that walk was maybe 22 years ago. I have not thought of that walk or those places in a decade. But it's crystal clear. And then I remember the school. It's all perfectly formed in my mind. I remember the kids I went to school with. I remember their names and their faces. I remember the first girl I had a crush on.
Flash forward to 2001. I'm a graduate student. I get off a van everyday at 5 pm and make a 3 mile walk from the bus stop to my apartment. I'm 25. And this is only 7 years back. But I can't remember a damn thing about the walk. I did it for at least 2 years, maybe 3? All I remember is being attacked by tree swallows going past the horse corrals. I just can't pull any of it back and the little i do see is fuzzy.
Memory is a funny thing. I guess we don't realize how much our childhood sticks with us. Which brings up the important ponderable: despite how banal we (as jaded, angry, irritable adults) may see each day, each day may be critically important to the development of the children standing around and watching us. These memories will stick with them. Despite their attempts to rid themselves of childhood scars, the memories all remain. Memory, it's always there. On this day, I hope to remember that the next 364 days aren't about me at all, but the little children around me, both mine and yours.
Happy Fathers Day.
(Editor's Note: Nathaniel's mother insists that she does not have an awful voice. She has a beautiful voice but intentionally sang poorly to wake Nathaniel up. Nathaniel retorts that this was the only time her ever heard her sing and it was not "beautiful").
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Wake-Up, Goddamnit
The facts are pretty clear cut: we’re running out of oil. In fact, we’ve been running out of oil since 1971, at least on this continent. Although we won’t know for sure for another couple years, the rest of the world started running out of oil between 2005 and 2008. Hindsight is 20/20 as they say, but it’s a sure bet. Unless, of course, every reputable geologist on the planet is retarded. And I find this unlikely. Running of oil is bad, especially for those of us who love our iPods and our Cheetos. And what makes it worse is that the recent industrial explosion in China and India have increased the rate of oil consumption to such a degree that it’s likely the planet will be out of the stuff by 2030 (That’s not entirely true. There will still be oil in the ground at that point, but by 2030 it will cost 2-3 barrels to remove each remaining barrel). Most people respond to this by saying, “Ok, so we’ll use nuclear and wind power for electricity and hydrogen will fuel our cars”. My response is, “You’ve been paying too much attention to George Bush, and he is a certifiable retard”.
Here’s the real problem: fertilizer is all produced by natural gas. Stick natural gas in the category of “oil” for the sake of simplicity. So if we run out of oil, we run out of fertilizer. If we run out of fertilizer, we run out of food. All of modern civilization is predicated on the fact that cheap fertilizer can triple or quadruple the output of every acre of arable land. It was called the green revolution. If you run out of fertilizer, you lose 2/3 to 3/4 of your agricultural output. And that means famine. I don’t care about global warming. I don’t care about the price of oil. I don’t care about driving to work. I don’t care about heating my home and I don’t care about getting cable. But I care about eating. You might say that I have grown accustomed to food. And I care about the fact that paying $25 for a pound of rice will drive us all into the poor house, if we can even get it at that price. Never mind the Cheetos.
I’m not the first to notice this. I’ve been mulling it over for the past couple years. Actually, I’ve been trying to forget it for the past two years. $4.00 gas just jogged my memory. Like I said, I’m not the first to notice this. All the brilliant people I know are much more attuned to this than me. It’s well documented. I’m just the most recent guy to start freaking out about it. I hate to sound like a kook, but I’m preparing for this. Call me the good boy scout that I am (Eagle Scout- April, 1994). Despite the fact that it might not happen, I am preparing for this. Hell, maybe we will find some magic bullet that makes oil moot. It could happen. Really. And I could win Powerball. The odds are only 1 in 150,000,000. Yeah, that is a lot. But I’m pretty goddamn lucky. How about you?
I’m putting in chickens. I am starting large gardens. Eventually I’ll have 4 acres in vegetables and fruit. I am learning to can. I have a huge pear tree. I am growing apples. I am buying a wood stove. I am putting in a manual water pump. I am building a root cellar. Eventually I’m going to learn how to make moonshine, my great-grandmother, Bupka, would be proud. I expect to be thrown unhappily into 1890 sometime in the next 20 years.
No, I don’t like this. I like my life today. I love civilization as it now stands. But what can you do? The past 150 years are probably a blip in the 5000 year history of modern humanity. When faced with the inevitable end of civilization you gotta plan for the worst and hope to god (anyone’s god) for the best. It’s all any of us can do. So when are you building your chicken coop?
Here’s the real problem: fertilizer is all produced by natural gas. Stick natural gas in the category of “oil” for the sake of simplicity. So if we run out of oil, we run out of fertilizer. If we run out of fertilizer, we run out of food. All of modern civilization is predicated on the fact that cheap fertilizer can triple or quadruple the output of every acre of arable land. It was called the green revolution. If you run out of fertilizer, you lose 2/3 to 3/4 of your agricultural output. And that means famine. I don’t care about global warming. I don’t care about the price of oil. I don’t care about driving to work. I don’t care about heating my home and I don’t care about getting cable. But I care about eating. You might say that I have grown accustomed to food. And I care about the fact that paying $25 for a pound of rice will drive us all into the poor house, if we can even get it at that price. Never mind the Cheetos.
I’m not the first to notice this. I’ve been mulling it over for the past couple years. Actually, I’ve been trying to forget it for the past two years. $4.00 gas just jogged my memory. Like I said, I’m not the first to notice this. All the brilliant people I know are much more attuned to this than me. It’s well documented. I’m just the most recent guy to start freaking out about it. I hate to sound like a kook, but I’m preparing for this. Call me the good boy scout that I am (Eagle Scout- April, 1994). Despite the fact that it might not happen, I am preparing for this. Hell, maybe we will find some magic bullet that makes oil moot. It could happen. Really. And I could win Powerball. The odds are only 1 in 150,000,000. Yeah, that is a lot. But I’m pretty goddamn lucky. How about you?
I’m putting in chickens. I am starting large gardens. Eventually I’ll have 4 acres in vegetables and fruit. I am learning to can. I have a huge pear tree. I am growing apples. I am buying a wood stove. I am putting in a manual water pump. I am building a root cellar. Eventually I’m going to learn how to make moonshine, my great-grandmother, Bupka, would be proud. I expect to be thrown unhappily into 1890 sometime in the next 20 years.
No, I don’t like this. I like my life today. I love civilization as it now stands. But what can you do? The past 150 years are probably a blip in the 5000 year history of modern humanity. When faced with the inevitable end of civilization you gotta plan for the worst and hope to god (anyone’s god) for the best. It’s all any of us can do. So when are you building your chicken coop?
Monday, April 28, 2008
Damn that Hank Steinbrenner
Here's my problem: I think Hank Steinbrenner is a jerk. And I am not the only one. A lot of people think this. And I think the evidence supports this assertion. My problem is that I love the New York Yankees. I grew up a Yankees fan, I have always been a Yankees fan. For those of you who have forgotten, the Yankees spent a lot of time sucking in the 80's and 90's. I grew up watching them suck. I loved Mattingly and Winfield, but the Yankees still sucked. I watched them every chance I got on Channel 11. And I listened to Phil Rizzuto hoot and holler. But suck they did, despite all my efforts to the contrary (which were few and meager- I've never gotten voodoo to work).
And I could live with the sucking. And I could live with Derek Jeeter. And I could live with them getting trounced for no good reason on a regular basis. But I cannot live with Hank Steinbrenner. George Steinbrenner was bad enough. But his kid (little Hank) is a complete and total jerk. He's obnoxious, he's rude, he's pompous and he has no class. And if you want to run the biggest legacy in baseball history, you have to do it with finesse and some humility. But not this guy. Holy crap, not this guy.
So what is a fan to do? My problem is compounded by the fact that I do, in fact, live in Red Sox Nation. Actually, my household is a member of the Nation, as my wife repeatedly reminds me. What's more is the Paw Sox, their triple-A team, is here in Rhode Island. Out of respect for said Nation, I refrain from wearing Yankees paraphernalia. I refrain from being an active fan. And that's fine. I cheer to myself and am thrilled when they win. But Hank Steinbrenner is not going anywhere, he'll be the co-owner until he dies. Or I die. And it appears as though he is always going to be a jerk.
So why do I care? Although not always the case, an owner of a team can actually become "the team". He or she is the long-term image and soul of that team. That person is the front man. Players change. Managers change. Fans change. But owners can stick around for a long time, especially when a team becomes more than just a business. Maybe I'm making too big a deal out of it. Maybe it doesn't matter. But I look at Robert Kraft and the comparison to the Steinbrenners is stark. When you respect the owner, respect for the team comes naturally, even when they lose. It's quite a conundrum. Defection may be my only recourse.
And I could live with the sucking. And I could live with Derek Jeeter. And I could live with them getting trounced for no good reason on a regular basis. But I cannot live with Hank Steinbrenner. George Steinbrenner was bad enough. But his kid (little Hank) is a complete and total jerk. He's obnoxious, he's rude, he's pompous and he has no class. And if you want to run the biggest legacy in baseball history, you have to do it with finesse and some humility. But not this guy. Holy crap, not this guy.
So what is a fan to do? My problem is compounded by the fact that I do, in fact, live in Red Sox Nation. Actually, my household is a member of the Nation, as my wife repeatedly reminds me. What's more is the Paw Sox, their triple-A team, is here in Rhode Island. Out of respect for said Nation, I refrain from wearing Yankees paraphernalia. I refrain from being an active fan. And that's fine. I cheer to myself and am thrilled when they win. But Hank Steinbrenner is not going anywhere, he'll be the co-owner until he dies. Or I die. And it appears as though he is always going to be a jerk.
So why do I care? Although not always the case, an owner of a team can actually become "the team". He or she is the long-term image and soul of that team. That person is the front man. Players change. Managers change. Fans change. But owners can stick around for a long time, especially when a team becomes more than just a business. Maybe I'm making too big a deal out of it. Maybe it doesn't matter. But I look at Robert Kraft and the comparison to the Steinbrenners is stark. When you respect the owner, respect for the team comes naturally, even when they lose. It's quite a conundrum. Defection may be my only recourse.
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