I recently was at my parent's house, or as I like to call them, Mom and Dad, and as I drove up, they were busy bundling some branches they had cut down. I of course had my hands full so I couldn't help them, but as they were hard at work, Mrs. Weeklund, who used to baby-sit my brother and I, walked by with a friend. She stopped and chatted with "Mom" and "Dad" and they asked her if she remembered who I was. She said she did, that in fact she was just telling her friend that she remembered the time she baby-sat my brother and I, and I wouldn't stop crying. She asked my brother what I wanted, and he told her I wanted to hear my record of Yellow Submarine. And damn it, I wouldn't be happy until I did.
Yes, even as a kid, I had a fondness for the music industry. I wasn't merely fascinated by things that went round and round and made noise, I was transfixed and calmed, and entertained by music. My one talent as a child was long before I was able to read, I could pick out of my pile of 45's any song I had that anyone requested. To this day no one quite knows how I managed to identify my records which had identical labels, and all I can remember is looking at the grooves and knowing.
Last Tuesday, October 24th, I saw Bob Dylan perform live for the 13th time in my life (please no jokes about how in his Dome appearance in 1986 Bob didn't show any signs of life). All those shows have taken place in the last nine years so during that time, I've seen Bob more than: 1) the number of times I've cleaned my refrigerator; 2) the number of times I've seen my "buddy" since she's moved on; 3) the number of times I've managed to do something right. Bob is fast becoming like an old friend but lest you think I've gone overboard, one of the things I've discovered as I've surfed the Internet, is there are people who've seen Bob hundreds of times and make me look like a virgin, as far as my knowledge, so to speak.
This time around the venue was larger than I have become accustomed to (the Target Center), and I actually went with a group of ten as opposed to the solo excursions I've become used to. It was great sharing the moment with somebody, even if I had to let that somebody violate my code of rules and touch me, but Bob as usual was his incredible self. He opened the show with Drifters Escape from 1968's John Wesley Harding, and for me it wasn't quite the forceful opening as the spring's Crash the Levee or last year's Jokerman. Still, some have wondered if this choice of an opening number might not have something to do with current events in this country. Most of the vocals were lost in the imbalance of sounds but one could clearly hear Bob sing, "The trial was bad enough, but this is ten times worse. Just then a bolt of lightening struck the courthouse out of shape, and while everybody knelt to pray, the drifter did escape" (which of course got people howling).
An early highlight for me was the second song, If You See Her Say Hello (along with a later impassioned performance of a similar in theme number, I'll Remember You). My favorite tune from Blood on the Tracks used to be You're a Big Girl Now, a song about the hurt of loss and reconciling one's self with that loss and moving on and not being able to move on, but I might have to reconsider that after hearing If You See Her live, because this particular performance struck a place deep inside rarely visited these days. "If she's passing back this way, I'm not that hard to find. Tell her she can look me up, if she's got the time."
Other highlights included a cover of the Grateful Dead's Alabama Getaway, and also the acoustic Mr. Tambourine Man where Bob sang the song with his 1995 sense of renewal, discovery, and really knocked the audience, hanging on every word, swaying with every note, dead with a harmonica solo that crescendoed into something spellbinding. Just Like a Woman, Masters of War, Watching the River Flow, Highway 61 Revisited (very much the rocker unleashed at last year's Woodstock), and the searing God Knows made even the most skeptical and nostalgic in the audience rise to their feet and applaud the performers who were obviously putting a lot into this night's performances (including some electrifying and funky lead guitar work by Bob).
Yes indeed, twenty seven years after Mrs. Weeklund couldn't quite calm me down by finding my then favorite tune, this evening wound me up, and lightened the burden just a little tiny bit. The music was scorching and inspiring and above all else, way cool. Rumor has Bob hitting another West Coast swing, which I may have to see. I may fast becoming the very thing I hated in college (like a Deadhead) but this is too good to miss. I don't know if I hate being a groupie more than I love the passion of the music and how on a particular night, for a particular moment it can still knock down the walls of defense and cynicism. I dare to find anyone who is giving better and more convincing performances than what the masses saw at Target Center last Tuesday Night. I would even take my worst enemy to one of these shows. And all of you too. Mercy and Amen.
Monday, October 30, 1995
Monday, October 16, 1995
Out of the Blue
A free newsletter tip in the form of three simple words for all of you who like me spent the entire summer sun tanning- "MOISTURIZE MOISTURIZE MOISTURIZE."
Next time you run out of after dinner mints, a great replacement/altnerative are those little globs of toothpaste leftover in the sink. Once they harden, they make a tasty, breath cleaning, mouth watering delight sure to liven any party!
I have adopted the following philosophy after reading yet another self help book: "I can't wait 'til tomorrow because I keep getting better looking every day..."
One of life's more difficult concepts to grasp is not being fully able to appreciate what you have until you place all of it in its context with the events, struggles and triumphs that make up your past. Sometimes it is easy to complain about the troubles of the day without remembering how hard it was just to make it to that point anyway. YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU GOT UNTIL YOU LOSE IT! If you've never been there before, you'll never be there again. But go forth with caution! Those that choose to proceed from this point do so at their own risk! Self indulgence lies ahead! There is nothing I like to talk about more than my personal life. Those that know me best know I just love using my feelings and my knowledge to enlighten others about who we really are. I am nothing if not a people person. My long drawn out "blue period" has been well chronicled and discussed about in all its glorious detail. DIRTY LAUNDRY, BUT CLEAN BOXER SHORTS! Yes, there was a time not all that long ago when you might say I wasn't doing very well, or certainly not as well as I could have been doing. Those around me might not have noticed had it not been for my incessant outbursts of crying. NOT EVEN THE CHAMBER OF COMMERCE COULD OFFER A LOAN BIG ENOUGH TO BEGIN TO SOLVE THIS HERE MESS! So how did I get past that and move on to my now burgeoning and successful life? Some say it may or may not have to do with the high volume of Prozac I consumed, or the many hours spent in my Primal Scream therapy sessions; maybe it was the pile of gin bottles I left behind; or maybe even it had to do with my dear, dear devoted wife Samantha; I like to think it had more to do with an inner change- I sunk to such a low that I could sink no lower, and after a while, I developed the philosophy that nobody else's opinion mattered much anymore. If I was going to screw up, I was going to screw up my own way, on my own terms, and damn all those who with or more commonly without malice, tried to knock me off the long lost beaten path. WANNA TALK ABOUT BEAUTY? I've seen it personally. She exists and I don't know exactly which one she is but I know she is part of my life. I used to truly believe that somehow I missed that day in school when they explained to everyone what all of it is about, the very meaning of our lives. Yes it was like me to miss the one and only day of school that was invaluable. THE JOKE WAS ON ME. BUT YOU KNOW, THERE ARE WORSE THINGS IN LIFE THAN BEING THE PUNCHLINE. LIKE BEING A HUMAN PUNCHING BAG! There are so many souls out there with self esteem issues, and as inscrutable as I was and still sometimes am, that fortunately was not one of my problems. Rather you might say my problem was quite the opposite, I had such a large self assured ego that when the kite string began to unravel, I wasn't ready for any of the self searching/ questioning going on, and couldn't understand why others weren't all that shocked I was falling apart in front of all their beady little eyes. Thus it was a still secret, but often silently thanked individual who came along and called me on my own terms. She may have well as bonked me over the head with a sledge hammer, but it took that much to get her message: trust yourself, and pick yourself up because damn it, no one else should have that responsibility, and more importantly, no one else can carry that load. Some may say it is a bit selfish when you are reaching out to someone that they decide to let go, but sometimes it is exactly what you need. And no one believed in me quite so strongly. Self confidence ain't necessarily the same thing as self belief, but they are at the least distant cousins. Once you learn how to believe that the mind's eye is the vision you should be following, and following alone, that is when you begin to show signs of self confidence and that is when others begin to acknowledge that and trust your judgment, tainted as it may or may not be. The little outer environmental successes lead to stepping stone sized strokes to that all important inner voice. Once you decide to take that HUGE step, the one that comes from trusting yourself, and believing you have the ONLY voice that should be listened to without question, is when others begin to see you in different shades of light. BUT DON'T GET COCKY KID! Your voice is your voice alone and as much as it pays to share it, no one else can really listen to it without hearing all those others that may or may not lead them astray. You call her up not when you need her but when you want to. Hers is a voice that sings to you and you listen not because she knows what is right or wrong, but because hers is a voice that knows what you know. You got to remember how to forgive as well as you remember to forget. Being lucky has nothing to do with being blessed. SHREDDED COASTERS. The old isolated predictions ring like a bell, but you know? IT DON'T MATTER. It was all in French.
Next time you run out of after dinner mints, a great replacement/altnerative are those little globs of toothpaste leftover in the sink. Once they harden, they make a tasty, breath cleaning, mouth watering delight sure to liven any party!
I have adopted the following philosophy after reading yet another self help book: "I can't wait 'til tomorrow because I keep getting better looking every day..."
One of life's more difficult concepts to grasp is not being fully able to appreciate what you have until you place all of it in its context with the events, struggles and triumphs that make up your past. Sometimes it is easy to complain about the troubles of the day without remembering how hard it was just to make it to that point anyway. YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU GOT UNTIL YOU LOSE IT! If you've never been there before, you'll never be there again. But go forth with caution! Those that choose to proceed from this point do so at their own risk! Self indulgence lies ahead! There is nothing I like to talk about more than my personal life. Those that know me best know I just love using my feelings and my knowledge to enlighten others about who we really are. I am nothing if not a people person. My long drawn out "blue period" has been well chronicled and discussed about in all its glorious detail. DIRTY LAUNDRY, BUT CLEAN BOXER SHORTS! Yes, there was a time not all that long ago when you might say I wasn't doing very well, or certainly not as well as I could have been doing. Those around me might not have noticed had it not been for my incessant outbursts of crying. NOT EVEN THE CHAMBER OF COMMERCE COULD OFFER A LOAN BIG ENOUGH TO BEGIN TO SOLVE THIS HERE MESS! So how did I get past that and move on to my now burgeoning and successful life? Some say it may or may not have to do with the high volume of Prozac I consumed, or the many hours spent in my Primal Scream therapy sessions; maybe it was the pile of gin bottles I left behind; or maybe even it had to do with my dear, dear devoted wife Samantha; I like to think it had more to do with an inner change- I sunk to such a low that I could sink no lower, and after a while, I developed the philosophy that nobody else's opinion mattered much anymore. If I was going to screw up, I was going to screw up my own way, on my own terms, and damn all those who with or more commonly without malice, tried to knock me off the long lost beaten path. WANNA TALK ABOUT BEAUTY? I've seen it personally. She exists and I don't know exactly which one she is but I know she is part of my life. I used to truly believe that somehow I missed that day in school when they explained to everyone what all of it is about, the very meaning of our lives. Yes it was like me to miss the one and only day of school that was invaluable. THE JOKE WAS ON ME. BUT YOU KNOW, THERE ARE WORSE THINGS IN LIFE THAN BEING THE PUNCHLINE. LIKE BEING A HUMAN PUNCHING BAG! There are so many souls out there with self esteem issues, and as inscrutable as I was and still sometimes am, that fortunately was not one of my problems. Rather you might say my problem was quite the opposite, I had such a large self assured ego that when the kite string began to unravel, I wasn't ready for any of the self searching/ questioning going on, and couldn't understand why others weren't all that shocked I was falling apart in front of all their beady little eyes. Thus it was a still secret, but often silently thanked individual who came along and called me on my own terms. She may have well as bonked me over the head with a sledge hammer, but it took that much to get her message: trust yourself, and pick yourself up because damn it, no one else should have that responsibility, and more importantly, no one else can carry that load. Some may say it is a bit selfish when you are reaching out to someone that they decide to let go, but sometimes it is exactly what you need. And no one believed in me quite so strongly. Self confidence ain't necessarily the same thing as self belief, but they are at the least distant cousins. Once you learn how to believe that the mind's eye is the vision you should be following, and following alone, that is when you begin to show signs of self confidence and that is when others begin to acknowledge that and trust your judgment, tainted as it may or may not be. The little outer environmental successes lead to stepping stone sized strokes to that all important inner voice. Once you decide to take that HUGE step, the one that comes from trusting yourself, and believing you have the ONLY voice that should be listened to without question, is when others begin to see you in different shades of light. BUT DON'T GET COCKY KID! Your voice is your voice alone and as much as it pays to share it, no one else can really listen to it without hearing all those others that may or may not lead them astray. You call her up not when you need her but when you want to. Hers is a voice that sings to you and you listen not because she knows what is right or wrong, but because hers is a voice that knows what you know. You got to remember how to forgive as well as you remember to forget. Being lucky has nothing to do with being blessed. SHREDDED COASTERS. The old isolated predictions ring like a bell, but you know? IT DON'T MATTER. It was all in French.
Monday, October 9, 1995
Second Hand News
On a brisk fall morning, car pooling with a certain influential individual, the usual quiet of the shared space hung heavy in the air, when I made the declaration that the most powerful man in America was not then President Bush, but the king of prime time television, Bill Cosby. As was her nature, she jumped all over me and called me on the outrageousness of my statement.
My point was not to provoke the wrath of my car pooling partner. I would be the first to admit politicians set the agenda, they make the laws and determine what topics are to be addressed. Since they also determine where money is to be spent, they do hold power that many people don't examine. But people these days hold so much cynicism towards the system and believe that there exists in the political arenas so much corruption, that they believe solutions are inevitably tainted and nothing important actually gets done. People thus tend to tune all this out and discount it, but every night they do go home and watch lots and lots of television. Our current discussions don't deal so much with the incredible historical changes Congress is proposing for the welfare system, but rather the latest episode of Friends. Television creates for its viewers surrogate feelings they no longer get from their day to day lives. What can possibly be more powerful than that?
I was wrong in my declaration however. I wasn't mistaken in identifying the forum of where true power exists, I was wrong in picking the proper area of the entertainment world. Prime time television sends undeniable political messages, but the real filter in which people's thoughts and feelings are formed is born in the newsrooms across America.
Back in the days when I was studying journalism as a possible profession, I used to go out to cover a story and inevitably a feeling of fear would well up inside. I would go and witness an event, interview some people, jot down some notes and head back to my typewriter where I would try to come up with a story. And a story it felt like- I always felt like I was fakin' it and what I was putting down on paper wasn't exactly what really happened, or my own personal bias colored the true important message of the story. I was trying to make sense out of what made no sense. And when I would read the end result the next day in a publication, I always wondered if others believed what I wrote to be the truth.
The amazing thing to me is people either have no idea, or don't care that all the news they get is being influenced by the ears and eyes of the reporter. We tend not to question what we read or hear if it comes from a credible news source simply because that's what news is and has always been in this country. One reporter may go to a city council meeting, listen to all the agenda items and lead with a small bit of information that came about at the very end of a minor discussion. Another reporter may attend the same meeting and pick something entirely different for the lead and the emphasis of the story. Both reporters may or may not have been oblivious to what the council members, or the attending public thought was the most important thing that happened that evening.
Covering a news story is not easy because life's events most of the time don't exactly qualify as stories. We don't often enjoy the luxury of knowing when there is a beginning, when the climax of the story occurs or when the actual end happens so we can gleam the meaning of the entire episode. Chaos is more often the norm, and bits and pieces of common and diverse elements make up our lives. It is too easy to fall into the trap of looking for greater meanings that often don't exist. Things don't always happen for a reason, sometimes they just happen. There is a danger in attaching all encompassing lessons to what we read and hear about through the news without thinking for ourselves what biases may or may not exist. There are far too many who think they know what's going on because they heard it on the news.
The most disturbing lesson on display from this past week was not so much that our country's justice system does not work; or that the abuse of power is as frightening as the abuse of money; or that there are deepening rifts existing between races; nope the overwhelming message emphasized was that in our current culture, the way people assimilate information is through a filter of second hand knowledge learned through the incredible influence of the media.
My point was not to provoke the wrath of my car pooling partner. I would be the first to admit politicians set the agenda, they make the laws and determine what topics are to be addressed. Since they also determine where money is to be spent, they do hold power that many people don't examine. But people these days hold so much cynicism towards the system and believe that there exists in the political arenas so much corruption, that they believe solutions are inevitably tainted and nothing important actually gets done. People thus tend to tune all this out and discount it, but every night they do go home and watch lots and lots of television. Our current discussions don't deal so much with the incredible historical changes Congress is proposing for the welfare system, but rather the latest episode of Friends. Television creates for its viewers surrogate feelings they no longer get from their day to day lives. What can possibly be more powerful than that?
I was wrong in my declaration however. I wasn't mistaken in identifying the forum of where true power exists, I was wrong in picking the proper area of the entertainment world. Prime time television sends undeniable political messages, but the real filter in which people's thoughts and feelings are formed is born in the newsrooms across America.
Back in the days when I was studying journalism as a possible profession, I used to go out to cover a story and inevitably a feeling of fear would well up inside. I would go and witness an event, interview some people, jot down some notes and head back to my typewriter where I would try to come up with a story. And a story it felt like- I always felt like I was fakin' it and what I was putting down on paper wasn't exactly what really happened, or my own personal bias colored the true important message of the story. I was trying to make sense out of what made no sense. And when I would read the end result the next day in a publication, I always wondered if others believed what I wrote to be the truth.
The amazing thing to me is people either have no idea, or don't care that all the news they get is being influenced by the ears and eyes of the reporter. We tend not to question what we read or hear if it comes from a credible news source simply because that's what news is and has always been in this country. One reporter may go to a city council meeting, listen to all the agenda items and lead with a small bit of information that came about at the very end of a minor discussion. Another reporter may attend the same meeting and pick something entirely different for the lead and the emphasis of the story. Both reporters may or may not have been oblivious to what the council members, or the attending public thought was the most important thing that happened that evening.
Covering a news story is not easy because life's events most of the time don't exactly qualify as stories. We don't often enjoy the luxury of knowing when there is a beginning, when the climax of the story occurs or when the actual end happens so we can gleam the meaning of the entire episode. Chaos is more often the norm, and bits and pieces of common and diverse elements make up our lives. It is too easy to fall into the trap of looking for greater meanings that often don't exist. Things don't always happen for a reason, sometimes they just happen. There is a danger in attaching all encompassing lessons to what we read and hear about through the news without thinking for ourselves what biases may or may not exist. There are far too many who think they know what's going on because they heard it on the news.
The most disturbing lesson on display from this past week was not so much that our country's justice system does not work; or that the abuse of power is as frightening as the abuse of money; or that there are deepening rifts existing between races; nope the overwhelming message emphasized was that in our current culture, the way people assimilate information is through a filter of second hand knowledge learned through the incredible influence of the media.
Sunday, October 1, 1995
Good as I've Bean to You
Dans un reve je regarde dans un miroir et ne vois pas ma reflexion mais un visage d'un etranger. Et en tant que lui me continue se voient se trouver. Se situer dans un lit legerement eleve avec une lumiere solitaire simple juste au-dessus de la tete du lit. Périodiquement une femme a habille tous dans le blanc ouvre la porte et signe juste pour voir si je suis toujours la. Et la majeure partie du temps je suis. Et alors je réveiller et penser où je dix année il y a et comment étroit et loin parti qui sembler et ce point je connaître là aucun tourner dos tel que mon cerveau non arrêter et sommeil échapper pour repos nuit juste comme alors. Il n'y a rien tout à fait si effrayant en tant que commande perdante de votre esprit. Dans bon trame esprit je rendre compte comment je pouvoir jamais pouvoir pour oublier que temps et tout qui amener, mais en même temps je devoir jamais oublier combien je avoir accomplir depuis et à quel point chanceux je pour où je considérer où je. Vous ne vous rendez pas compte vraiment que non seulement à quelle distance vous pouvez tomber mais comment rapide qui la chute peut être. Et une fois que vous êtes tombés que loin l'élever en arrière est déchiqueté et difficile et vous vous trouvez mettre tellement l'énergie en faisant quelque chose que vous aviez l'habitude de prendre pour accordé. Je souvent sentir comme tout ces année il y a je atteindre proverbial fourchette dans route et voie d'accès je choisir pour suivre faux un et je devenir désespéré perdu essayer pour trouver mon voie dos et I quelque point juste devoir recevoir que je jamais trouver que autre voie d'accès encore mais jusqu' pour faire meilleur hors voie d'accès je maintenant en fonction et surtout d'autre mouvement en avant et non en arrière. Il était très difficile, et extrêmement pénible que de venir au point où j'ai dû prendre cette décision si j'ai même voulu continuer. Et réaliser alors la seule voie que je pourrais continuer était de découper mon passé et d'essayer et commencer encore une fois. Cette philosophie a signifié l'essai encore mais dans une voie prudente. La coupure I toutes mes amitiés passées sachant j'ai dû seul aller à la trouvaille moi-même. J'ai obtenu un travail mais un qui n'importeraient pas tout que beaucoup si je ne pourrais pas l'entailler et ne le détruisais pas par la suite. J'ai entré jour après jour et ai délibérément fait le mon mieux à juste fais les tâches professionnelles bien et pas ai laissé n'importe lequel de lui matière et ne pas atteindre tous avec émotion attaché à tout ce qui continuait autour de moi. Et j'ai réussi. C'était à ce point que j'ai découvert la réponse à un des questions qui se sont attardé. J'étais venu pour me demander si l'intérieur de douleur une question du sentiment trop ou ne se sentait pas du tout. Par les tâches menial il est apparu clairement qu'un des raisons que je pourrais prendre que le pas en avant est pour la première fois dans un moment le sentiment du sentiment trop et de ce fait le grillage et ne pas se sentir du tout sont partis. J'étais engourdi mais c'était un bon genre d'engourdi. Et la clé devait faire ce pas en avant. Une fois que cela se produisait d'autres éléments de ma vie ont commencé à réapparaître. J'étais amoureux. J'ai développé la meilleure amitié que j'ai jamais eue. J'ai trouvé ma voix et mon écriture est devenue plus comme elle était avant. Je suis devenu navré mais il était bon d'une voie de voir que mon coeur était toujours là et pourrait la prendre. Je me suis déplacé en fonction de ce travail à un qui m'a donné davantage d'un défi et de plus d'une récompense. Une partie du passé ne m'a pas tout à fait hanté de la même manière qu'elle a eu avant. J'ai progressé jusqu'ici cela le printemps dernier à ma réunion I d'université de dix ans trouvé admettant à un classmate (tout à fait par surprise) que j'étais plus heureux puis que j'avais eu lieu dans tout à fait un moment. Mais il est comme une fois que vous admettez que vous vous êtes maudits. Et les choses rapidement ont démêlé encore. Et je la trouvaille moi-même dans un endroit où je ne me pense pas jamais ai maintenant été tout à fait ceci malheureux avant. N'est pas étant enfoncé une question d'être juste triste. C'est une question de ne pouvoir pas sentir n'importe quel type de joie. C'est différent. Je sais que j'ai détruit quelque chose ici que je n'ai pas voulu détruire. Je me sens perdu à ce que faire et effrayé que la confusion me mènera à cet endroit j'étais et avoir vécu dans la crainte de depuis. La sortie de l'obscurité ne devait pas s'attendre à quelque chose de d'autres. Plutôt elle devait trouver la voie à l'élasticité de me encore. Cette dernière amitié a signifié cela à moi. Il s'est senti bon d'être le type d'ami que j'étais pour elle. Dans le retour elle a renvoyé l'élément de l'amusement dans ma vie encore. Elle était comme tourner en arrière l'horloge. J'ai dépensé tellement le temps et l'énergie par le voyage essayant à la trouvaille moimême; maintenant je me sens comme je trouvais cet individu et n'aime plus cette personne. L'amitié a offert tellement des possibilités intéressantes et tellement aller plus loin pourtant j'étais heureux à à où nous étions. Maintenant elle est allée et le trou est mesurablement plus grand. J'appuie sur mais je sens plus que détruit. J'essaye de voir que ce n'est pas identique, ce ceci est juste un de pertes décevantes inévitables de la vie. Mais l'équilibre est allé et j'ai frappé le dur moulu encore. Je puis seulement espérer que la terre est un bit plus plein cette fois autour. Je ne veux pas tomber cela loin toujours encore. Et bien que le weariness vienne et alarmes que je veux juste apprécier tous j'ai parce que je sais où j'ai été. Quelque chose de précieux et rare, disparaît en air mince et il semble si injuste
Monday, September 25, 1995
Dave's Manifesto
Nobody out, nobody on, batter hits a grounder to short. Blinkey, the saddest clown in the whole damn circus, playing catcher, follows through on his duty and runs with the batter down to first to back up the throw. The batter flings his bat back. The bat twirls barrel over handle, past the baseline, and though Blinkey tries his best to deflect it with his arms, the thick aluminum barrel still strikes him on the forehead.
Had Blinkey been a lazy player and remained squatting behind the plate, the bat would not have hit him. Still as he woozily finished out the game, he marveled at how sometimes when you do your job the little things can go unnoticed. He had already saved a couple of errant throws earlier in the season, yet most catchers weren't quite so conscientious in performing all the tasks of the position. He understood however, for a team to be successful the importance of all members of a team contributing all the little "extras" that made up the difference between winning and losing. And thus he didn't mind the throbbing inside his head. It was all part of the job in the name of teamwork.
Later that night, as he sat in his aluminum sided apartment contemplating what to make for dinner in his stainless steel pan, Blinkey wearily removed his makeup mask, one that had grown more and more into a face of stunned disbelief. The mask still cloaked his face in decency even though Blinkey, the saddest clown in the whole damn circus, had dropped out of the spotlight long ago. He glanced through his cupboards and his wheezing refrigerator. The milk was sour, the cheese moldy; the bananas had gone brown and the shrimp salad was rancid. Upon further reflection, all he owned, all he was holding on to shared the exact same expiration date! Who would have thunk it?! Everything had gone bad at once! Blinkey now was the most unlucky clown in the whole damn circus!
The store was too far away and thus it struck him that what he wanted was quite out of grasp both in time and distance. What was in front of him was frustratingly as out of reach because of its expired dates, as that which lie far far away. He went to bed that night with a bump on his noggin, cold, hungry and a wee bit disoriented.
He had wanted to call up one who was many miles away, still traveling within the greatest show on earth. He still saw her in all that was beautiful. He knew that her words would give him a different perspective on the way things were going than he could think of by himself. But he had no idea where the show was, and how he could ever reach her again if he ever had in the first place. Did he regret not being out there? No not really. Maybe she would even have been proud of what he was accomplishing most days.
Blinkey did soundly sleep unlike most nights which were spent restlessly tossing and turning. He was tired and perhaps the benefit of his injury was that his head was truly in a different time and place than normal. The image of the flying bat etched its way through his mind. Slow motion. By the time his alarmed buzzed in the morning, he had almost been able to convince himself that his head didn't hurt. He still had his job to do and that was all that mattered these days.
Smile Blinkey, he said to himself. Teamwork, TEAMwork, TEAMWORK!!! The tasks of his job did energize him. He knew whatever he felt, he needed to do his work because what he did had an impact on those around him. That in itself made him feel a little better. It may not have been like the game he had been involved in the night before, but a job was a job, a role a role, and this was his duty now. He turned on his computer and checked his Internet mail. The mask he wore certainly could continue to shield him and prove most effective. Flying bats flew by the wayside, expiration dates continued to pass and go but Blinkey wobbly as he now felt, would continue to press on. He thought about the way things had been going and he began to laugh like he never laughed before. He laughed so long. So long.
Had Blinkey been a lazy player and remained squatting behind the plate, the bat would not have hit him. Still as he woozily finished out the game, he marveled at how sometimes when you do your job the little things can go unnoticed. He had already saved a couple of errant throws earlier in the season, yet most catchers weren't quite so conscientious in performing all the tasks of the position. He understood however, for a team to be successful the importance of all members of a team contributing all the little "extras" that made up the difference between winning and losing. And thus he didn't mind the throbbing inside his head. It was all part of the job in the name of teamwork.
Later that night, as he sat in his aluminum sided apartment contemplating what to make for dinner in his stainless steel pan, Blinkey wearily removed his makeup mask, one that had grown more and more into a face of stunned disbelief. The mask still cloaked his face in decency even though Blinkey, the saddest clown in the whole damn circus, had dropped out of the spotlight long ago. He glanced through his cupboards and his wheezing refrigerator. The milk was sour, the cheese moldy; the bananas had gone brown and the shrimp salad was rancid. Upon further reflection, all he owned, all he was holding on to shared the exact same expiration date! Who would have thunk it?! Everything had gone bad at once! Blinkey now was the most unlucky clown in the whole damn circus!
The store was too far away and thus it struck him that what he wanted was quite out of grasp both in time and distance. What was in front of him was frustratingly as out of reach because of its expired dates, as that which lie far far away. He went to bed that night with a bump on his noggin, cold, hungry and a wee bit disoriented.
He had wanted to call up one who was many miles away, still traveling within the greatest show on earth. He still saw her in all that was beautiful. He knew that her words would give him a different perspective on the way things were going than he could think of by himself. But he had no idea where the show was, and how he could ever reach her again if he ever had in the first place. Did he regret not being out there? No not really. Maybe she would even have been proud of what he was accomplishing most days.
Blinkey did soundly sleep unlike most nights which were spent restlessly tossing and turning. He was tired and perhaps the benefit of his injury was that his head was truly in a different time and place than normal. The image of the flying bat etched its way through his mind. Slow motion. By the time his alarmed buzzed in the morning, he had almost been able to convince himself that his head didn't hurt. He still had his job to do and that was all that mattered these days.
Smile Blinkey, he said to himself. Teamwork, TEAMwork, TEAMWORK!!! The tasks of his job did energize him. He knew whatever he felt, he needed to do his work because what he did had an impact on those around him. That in itself made him feel a little better. It may not have been like the game he had been involved in the night before, but a job was a job, a role a role, and this was his duty now. He turned on his computer and checked his Internet mail. The mask he wore certainly could continue to shield him and prove most effective. Flying bats flew by the wayside, expiration dates continued to pass and go but Blinkey wobbly as he now felt, would continue to press on. He thought about the way things had been going and he began to laugh like he never laughed before. He laughed so long. So long.
Monday, September 18, 1995
Infinity Goes Up on Trial
Those of us who are now experts at the game of golf, can tell you the most intriguing thing about the game is that you can hit bad shot after bad shot, hole after hole, but it's that one good shot, the one that you stroke just right, that keeps you going. For just that instant instance, everything falls into place, and all seems perfect.
The game of golf began in Scotland. Don't think it merely a coincidence that many years later, I decided to attend Macalester College, a college with proud Scottish traditions. Those who know me well know that I'm nothing if not a golfin' fool. There is after all, a certain female player on the women's side of the PGA, with whose career I have closely monitored over the last few years and wondered what might have been. Indulge me now if you will, back to another day, another time.
*************
Once upon a time, a much simpler time, a boy could wake up earlier than usual on a Saturday morning, amble out into the streets, and find himself a good parade to watch. There was marching band music forever swirling in the air, with floats filled with smiling local celebrities throwing candy to the onlooking kids, and kings and queens with their screw in a light bulb waves riding in shiny convertibles. These were days when most people didn't know what a FAX machine was, when a PC was something as wacky and as far into the future as the OJ Simpson trial. These were days when people didn't wear high fashion designer sunglasses, but rather, on a sunny day they would place their hand to their forehead in a mock salute, creating their own mini-visor. Those who were too lazy to do even that would do the next best thing, they would squint.
It was a gentler time when a boy could be smitten with a girl, creating a wave of creativity never again matched. So smitten was this certain boy, that he was equally as miserable as he was happy. He felt sublimely, infinitely inspired. But as is so often the case in these mini Romeo and Juliet sagas, the romance never quite blossomed the way the boy would have liked. And to add to the confusion, the boy soon also became infatuated with the young lass' sister. So for the one and only time in his young life, the boy now was interested in two members of the same household.
The two sisters were of a different variety. The older was serious, an excellent student with a quiet determination that impressed the boy. She was musical, graceful and possessed all the traits poets throughout the years have written about. The younger was more cynical, spunky and athletic. She teased the boy's sense of humor, chiding his silliness while at the same time encouraging it. The only common connection the boy felt for the two sisters was the inescapable feeling that through all the other faces and souls he encountered on a daily basis, somehow these two knew him without him having to verbalize his thoughts and feelings. There existed a certain fizz between them.
There really isn't much more to the story between the boy and the two sisters. They went their separate ways and the only thing that remained were a few motivated memories of the times, a lingering feeling of remembering how he once used to feel, plus an occasional news clipping about the younger sister who sort of established herself as a competitor on the women's professional golf circuit.
There were many, many years in between, but meanwhile, the boy found another who somehow ties into the mixture of the fizz. Her encouragement and humor take him back while at the same time pushing him gently ahead to accomplish all that is left to accomplish. Like the two sisters, she speaks his language, and best of all, understands it. After a shared golfing outing last week, he as always, thanked his lucky stars for her continuing friendship. Together they moved forward striving for a common goal. At times one of them would land in a trap, in the wilderness, but somehow they always managed to find their way back on to the course. The flags might have marked a final destination, but there was still much, much more ahead. Inspired, infinitely inspired.
The game of golf began in Scotland. Don't think it merely a coincidence that many years later, I decided to attend Macalester College, a college with proud Scottish traditions. Those who know me well know that I'm nothing if not a golfin' fool. There is after all, a certain female player on the women's side of the PGA, with whose career I have closely monitored over the last few years and wondered what might have been. Indulge me now if you will, back to another day, another time.
*************
Once upon a time, a much simpler time, a boy could wake up earlier than usual on a Saturday morning, amble out into the streets, and find himself a good parade to watch. There was marching band music forever swirling in the air, with floats filled with smiling local celebrities throwing candy to the onlooking kids, and kings and queens with their screw in a light bulb waves riding in shiny convertibles. These were days when most people didn't know what a FAX machine was, when a PC was something as wacky and as far into the future as the OJ Simpson trial. These were days when people didn't wear high fashion designer sunglasses, but rather, on a sunny day they would place their hand to their forehead in a mock salute, creating their own mini-visor. Those who were too lazy to do even that would do the next best thing, they would squint.
It was a gentler time when a boy could be smitten with a girl, creating a wave of creativity never again matched. So smitten was this certain boy, that he was equally as miserable as he was happy. He felt sublimely, infinitely inspired. But as is so often the case in these mini Romeo and Juliet sagas, the romance never quite blossomed the way the boy would have liked. And to add to the confusion, the boy soon also became infatuated with the young lass' sister. So for the one and only time in his young life, the boy now was interested in two members of the same household.
The two sisters were of a different variety. The older was serious, an excellent student with a quiet determination that impressed the boy. She was musical, graceful and possessed all the traits poets throughout the years have written about. The younger was more cynical, spunky and athletic. She teased the boy's sense of humor, chiding his silliness while at the same time encouraging it. The only common connection the boy felt for the two sisters was the inescapable feeling that through all the other faces and souls he encountered on a daily basis, somehow these two knew him without him having to verbalize his thoughts and feelings. There existed a certain fizz between them.
There really isn't much more to the story between the boy and the two sisters. They went their separate ways and the only thing that remained were a few motivated memories of the times, a lingering feeling of remembering how he once used to feel, plus an occasional news clipping about the younger sister who sort of established herself as a competitor on the women's professional golf circuit.
There were many, many years in between, but meanwhile, the boy found another who somehow ties into the mixture of the fizz. Her encouragement and humor take him back while at the same time pushing him gently ahead to accomplish all that is left to accomplish. Like the two sisters, she speaks his language, and best of all, understands it. After a shared golfing outing last week, he as always, thanked his lucky stars for her continuing friendship. Together they moved forward striving for a common goal. At times one of them would land in a trap, in the wilderness, but somehow they always managed to find their way back on to the course. The flags might have marked a final destination, but there was still much, much more ahead. Inspired, infinitely inspired.
Monday, September 11, 1995
Bye Bye Now Amy
This past week history was made. The record for the most consecutive baseball games played by one player, two thousand one hundred and thirty, held by Lou Gehrig, was surpassed by Baltimore Oriole shortstop Cal Ripken Jr. For the longest time while Ripken was pursuing the record I for one, remained unimpressed. What's so damned impressive about just doing your job by showing up everyday? Why should that be recognized? But the more you think about it, the more impressive Ripken's streak is. For the past thirteen years, day in and day out, he has done his job in a quietly effective way. Most of us would do well to accomplish the same.
The reverence toward its own past is one of the reasons baseball remains our national pastime. Certainly there have been flashier records broken over the years: Hank Aaron blowing by Babe Ruth's career home run record; Roger Maris beating Ruth's single season home run record; Pete Rose steady pursuit of Ty Cobb's hits record; and Rickey Henderson overcoming Lou Brock's single season and Cobb's career stolen base record; these are all records of outstanding skill and ability. Ripken's consecutive game record is one more built on determination and endurance than sheer talent. Yet to play every game for thirteen years means you have to be good enough for the team to want you out there. Ripken is a steady fielder who yields a better than average bat for a shortstop. He is a consistent player, one who may not impress with flashy plays, but one who also never hurts his team with untimely mistakes.
Thirteen years ago, I was the original wiener boy, fumbling my way through high school. All these years later the one thing I have retained is my wienerability, but most everything else has changed. To think that there has been an athlete who every summer has gone out day after day, night after night, and has played one of the most difficult positions, and played it damn well, is admirable. Steadiness, longevity and dependability are traits all too rare in any field these days.
Thirteen years. Wow. For me the only comparable streak during that time was I didn't miss an episode of Late Night with David Letterman for the show's first six seasons. That's an impressive amount of TV watching if I do say so myself. And because of that streak, an inner growth occurred. Back in 1982, one of Dave's shows featured two guests- Bob Dylan and Liberace. I had just bought my first Dylan LP, Infidels, and was lukewarm toward the artist. His appearance on Late Night didn't really change any of that. It was a unique performance to say the least. Letterman allowed Dylan to play three songs (an unprecedented amount of the show's time); Dylan agreed to appear as long as he didn't have to talk to Dave.
Thus with a certain irony, the first song performed was a cover of Sonny Boy Williamson's Don't Start Me Talkin. The backing band, comprised of members from the group the Cruzados, tried its darndest to keep up with Dylan's lead. It was a ragged performance and I remember thinking at the time, "Who is this guy, and why is Dave fawning like a gap toothed idiot?" The next song, License to Kill was unrecognizable from the version on Infidels. Since this was my favorite song on the LP, I was a bit taken back. The last song, Jokerman again was very different than the version I had heard. To top it off, while the band was still playing, Dylan swaggered out of the camera's sight as the band repeated a riff over and over, grabbed a harmonica which was not in the right key, wandered off camera again, only to reappear with another harmonica to close out the song in a stumbling chaotic way. I couldn't wait until Liberace reestablished some calm to the show. Had it not been Dave, I probably would have turned off the set.
Thirteen years later, as I re-watch Dylan's appearance, I have a much different reaction. The strength of Letterman's show was the ability of Dave to come up with bits that broke through the usual TV frames. No other musical guest has done the same thing as electrically as Dylan did on that 1982 night. His singing is mesmerizing. His guitar playing and the screeching harmonica, counters with the rest of the band who is just trying its best to keep up and not let the whole thing fall apart. As he often does, he is playing on the edge, taking us all to that unknown place. The fire in Dylan's eyes, his awkward stage presence, it all makes for hypnotizing TV viewing.
Yes indeed thirteen years is a long time, an eternity in many ways. As Ripken rolls on, and continues his amazing quest and durability, it brings comfort to know that among all the incredible changes that time brings, there are still things out there that never let you down, that never leave, that you can always count on, and yet you can still look at things differently and appreciate something today that you might have overlooked yesterday.
The reverence toward its own past is one of the reasons baseball remains our national pastime. Certainly there have been flashier records broken over the years: Hank Aaron blowing by Babe Ruth's career home run record; Roger Maris beating Ruth's single season home run record; Pete Rose steady pursuit of Ty Cobb's hits record; and Rickey Henderson overcoming Lou Brock's single season and Cobb's career stolen base record; these are all records of outstanding skill and ability. Ripken's consecutive game record is one more built on determination and endurance than sheer talent. Yet to play every game for thirteen years means you have to be good enough for the team to want you out there. Ripken is a steady fielder who yields a better than average bat for a shortstop. He is a consistent player, one who may not impress with flashy plays, but one who also never hurts his team with untimely mistakes.
Thirteen years ago, I was the original wiener boy, fumbling my way through high school. All these years later the one thing I have retained is my wienerability, but most everything else has changed. To think that there has been an athlete who every summer has gone out day after day, night after night, and has played one of the most difficult positions, and played it damn well, is admirable. Steadiness, longevity and dependability are traits all too rare in any field these days.
Thirteen years. Wow. For me the only comparable streak during that time was I didn't miss an episode of Late Night with David Letterman for the show's first six seasons. That's an impressive amount of TV watching if I do say so myself. And because of that streak, an inner growth occurred. Back in 1982, one of Dave's shows featured two guests- Bob Dylan and Liberace. I had just bought my first Dylan LP, Infidels, and was lukewarm toward the artist. His appearance on Late Night didn't really change any of that. It was a unique performance to say the least. Letterman allowed Dylan to play three songs (an unprecedented amount of the show's time); Dylan agreed to appear as long as he didn't have to talk to Dave.
Thus with a certain irony, the first song performed was a cover of Sonny Boy Williamson's Don't Start Me Talkin. The backing band, comprised of members from the group the Cruzados, tried its darndest to keep up with Dylan's lead. It was a ragged performance and I remember thinking at the time, "Who is this guy, and why is Dave fawning like a gap toothed idiot?" The next song, License to Kill was unrecognizable from the version on Infidels. Since this was my favorite song on the LP, I was a bit taken back. The last song, Jokerman again was very different than the version I had heard. To top it off, while the band was still playing, Dylan swaggered out of the camera's sight as the band repeated a riff over and over, grabbed a harmonica which was not in the right key, wandered off camera again, only to reappear with another harmonica to close out the song in a stumbling chaotic way. I couldn't wait until Liberace reestablished some calm to the show. Had it not been Dave, I probably would have turned off the set.
Thirteen years later, as I re-watch Dylan's appearance, I have a much different reaction. The strength of Letterman's show was the ability of Dave to come up with bits that broke through the usual TV frames. No other musical guest has done the same thing as electrically as Dylan did on that 1982 night. His singing is mesmerizing. His guitar playing and the screeching harmonica, counters with the rest of the band who is just trying its best to keep up and not let the whole thing fall apart. As he often does, he is playing on the edge, taking us all to that unknown place. The fire in Dylan's eyes, his awkward stage presence, it all makes for hypnotizing TV viewing.
Yes indeed thirteen years is a long time, an eternity in many ways. As Ripken rolls on, and continues his amazing quest and durability, it brings comfort to know that among all the incredible changes that time brings, there are still things out there that never let you down, that never leave, that you can always count on, and yet you can still look at things differently and appreciate something today that you might have overlooked yesterday.
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