In Your Ear

For my birthday, my family gave me new headphones. These were a practical gift from the standpoint of current usage. I am running most every day now, and I take my music with me. It is during this hour or so each day that my tastes and volume are my own. I don't have to program with anyone else but me in mind. It is also my preferred way of listening to music, since all the sounds pour directly into my ear holes and wash over the hearing part of my brain.
I had a great big pair of headphones handed down to me by my older brother when I was twelve. That's how I heard all those pre-teen angst manifestos. I still remember the way my ears would sweat after an hour or two being vacuum sealed under those great big sound mufflers. Many years later I arrived at my parents' house for Christmas eve, and my big present was one of those newfangled compact disc players. And the Pink Floyd album Wish You Were Here in this glorious new format. And a new pair of headphones. Lightweight, but with the capacity to bring all those noises directly from their digital source. I spent the night on the foldout bed in my parents' basement, listening to that one disc on repeat. It was the same kind of revelation that I experienced years before when I heard Sergeant Pepper on those clunky cans of my teens.
Then there was a period during which my music was played in a one bedroom apartment where I only worried a little about scaring my neighbors. No headphones were necessary during those years, but I confess that the details that I missed were quantum. I missed that intimate connection to the words and notes that spilled out all over the room and missed my ears entirely.
Once I began running as a real and true avocation, I went through as many sets of headphones as I did cassette players. Each one promised me better and real and true sound. Each one brought me more disappointment. When my son became immersed in stereophonics, he felt compelled to hook me up with earbuds that could more adequately recreate the way I had once listened. These tiny things with extra bass. Because that may have been what I was missing. Each time I plugged them into my head, I waited for that chance to hear a song that had somehow escaped me previously. Hearing voices and harmonies and instruments for the first time because I could actually differentiate them was a joy.
I had one of those moments with my newest headset the other day. Listening to Warren Zevon pound out a live version of French Inhaler, I marveled at the strength and the dexterity with which he worked his piano, and the way his voice came along behind it. And I missed Warren for the first time in a few years. Which, as it turns out, was kind of a good thing.
What will I hear tomorrow? Tune in and find out.

In Dependence

This defiance of authority thing is pretty troubling.
We, as a nation, actively encourage people rising up against tyranny. In Germany during World War II. In Vietnam during the late sixties and seventies. In Tienanmen Square in 1989. In Iraq in 2003. We have this lengthy list of freedom fighters for good reason: We started a country from those very roots. As noted historian and surfer Jeff Spicoli once noted, "So what Jefferson was saying was 'Hey! You know, we left this England place because it was bogus. So if we don't get some cool rules ourselves, pronto, we'll just be bogus too.' Yeah?" We fought a war about that. The colonists here in the English colonies didn't like the bogus rules put forth by the King of England who wanted to be the boss of us, so we said, "No way." And the King of England said, "Way." And that's pretty much how this whole thing got started.
About a forty years after that, England came sniffing around again, looking for trouble and we gave them what for and sent them packing, but not before they burned down the White House. Fifty years after that, some of our own southern states, many of whom had been part of that overthrow of bogusness back in 1776 decided they wanted to start their own revolution. Their plan was more like keeping things the same. "Let us keep our slaves or we won't be part of your country." So Abraham Lincoln was like, "Guys, it's my way or the highway," and the Confederacy picked the highway. Which historically turned out to be a pretty bad choice, but some people kind of resented giving up their owning slaves lifestyle.
And some seem to still. 
There have been some wars since then. Most of them taking place in other countries on other continents where we could feel good about blowing things up in the name of freedom. Part of our reasoning stemmed from our deep-seated need to be the good guys, and the other part was a fear that bad guys like Nazis or Commies might come looking for a fight with us, sooner or later. So we took the fight to them. That worked out pretty well in Europe, but not so much in Southeast Asia. 
Oh, and here's an interesting trend in the soldiers who fought those wars. Initially they were lily white, and the few "colored regiments" they let fight were kept to themselves. The Buffalo Soldiers fought with bravery and distinction in both World Wars. They fought alongside their white comrades in arms, but from a discrete distance. By the time the Vietnam war raged on and on, though the total number of African Americans serving was still a minority, there was a disproportionate number of blacks serving in combat units, and only a tiny percentage were ever made officers. Many of these soldiers were trained at places like Fort Bragg and Fort Benning, named for generals who fought on the losing side of the Civil War. They were, ostensibly, fighting for freedom. 
The first person to die in the Boston Massacre of 1770 was Crispus Attucks. He was a black man. Black men and women have been fighting and dying for this country since before the Declaration of Independence was signed. And while battles are being waged in some corners of the country these days about being oppressed by a strip of cloth placed over the face to prevent the spread of disease, Black Lives are still being lost to the cause of freedom. 
Respect that. Fight with them. We all deserve to be a little more free. 

Comedy Is Hard

Okay: It's probably my fault that Carl Reiner is dead.
Just yesterday I was lamenting about how my blog has become more moribund and stuck in the weeds of all the tragedy currently facing our world. And I may have made some comment about how I was no longer doing those celebrity obituaries that had become such a staple of my routine here. Then along comes this one.
Carl was ninety-eight years old. Recently he had been tweeting "As I arose at 7:30 this morning, I was saddened to relive the day that led up to the election of a bankrupted and corrupt businessman who had no qualifications to be the leader of any country in the civilized world...At the same time, Hillary Clinton, who had all the needed qualifications to lead our beloved nation, had received 3 million more popular votes than our Russian-installed puppet president." I will miss that voice.
I will also miss the man who provided my older brother and I with an opportunity to do laps in a cineplex. We walked out of a preview screening of Pee Wee's Big Adventure and straight into the theater next door showing Summer School, directed by Carl Reiner. Afterward we congratulated ourselves on being two for two when it came to giddy comedies.
To be clear: Summer School was not Mister Reiner's magnum opus. That honor may have to be spread across his delivery of Steve Martin to the big screen: The Jerk. Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid. The Man With Two Brains.Or his long and winding collaborations with best friend Mel Brooks. All 2000 years of it.
But upon further reflection, I believe I will settle on his creation of The Dick Van Dyke Show. It was sitting in front of these reruns that I gained knowledge of the dangers of hassocks and how to pratfall over them. Originally, Carl had written a show that he thought he might star in, but instead became the seed for one of the most perfect sit-coms ever produced. Rob, Laura, Buddy, Sally, and even Mel shared their lives of suburban desperation and showbiz. And Carl found a place for himself as uber-star Alan Brady, master of toupee comedy. Mary Tyler Moore. Dick Van Dyke. Stars who shone bright on their own after their ever-relatable coupling way back then. The Petrie's next-door neighbor Jerry became not only a director of that series but went on to direct almost every episode of a little show called Happy Days.
Maybe we could just celebrate the gift of his son, Rob. It is no overstatement to suggest that American comedy would have been very different if not for the loving presence of Carl Reiner. For nearly a hundred years, he stomped on the Terra and made certain that we were all rolling around on it with laughter. To say that he will be missed is definitely an understatement. His was a voice to be reckoned with. And laughed along with.
Aloha, Carl. The world needs to make room in their hearts and minds for all the joy you brought to keep it safe forever.

A Dark Place

I miss writing about celebrities and their ongoing travails. Problems with the paparazzi and so forth. Holding up the magnifying glass to those already over-sized personalities. All paths seem to wind back on coronavirus or social justice. The somewhat regular feature here in Entropical Pardise, the celebrity obituary, has faded away because of the sheer amount of death surrounding us on a daily basis. Half a million and counting.
And the list of victims of police brutality doesn't seem to be getting any shorter either. New day, new outrage. New day, new sorrow.
I used to make greeting cards. Not professionally, but for my family and friends. Occasions that needed some sort of outward recognition got a hand-drawn and lettered piece of art from yours truly. These days, I resort to whatever Trader Joe's has in stock, or if I get involved at all I stick to clip art or email. This was a time when I cared about each and ever interaction enough that I would sit down with a pen and paper and make sense of my feelings for whomever would be on the receiving end of my sentiments.
I don't think I could do that now. Like I gave up decorating cakes. That one was a little more short-lived, but there were a great many pieces of edible art suitable for celebration that came to life under my hands.
My creative process has become more focused, especially in the past few months. I know that it is desperation for something to shine. The stories of hope and inspiration that make it out of the darkness these days come as a welcome relief, but they are flashes. I know that eliminating new movies opening in theaters has put a cap on my enthusiasms. Like the vicarious thrills of watching the local sports franchise go through their paces, I have spent far too long looking for inspiration from outside sources.
Inspiration, it seems to me, ought to come from inside. The kid who made those cakes and cards had a ton of it. Maybe you were lucky enough to get one of them. I don't want them back so much as I want the brain space to imagine such things. I miss those things that used to serve as distractions from all the horrible things.
The word could use them too.
This would explain all those cat videos.

Save One For Elijah

It would be so much easier to just chalk it up to the survival of the fittest and leave it at that, but last week the United States saw its biggest uptick in COVID-19 cases in months. Twenty-six states reported an increase in the number of new infections. If you were the sort who listens patiently to the "president," you might believe this is because we are so good at testing. That's not what scientists say, which comes as little or no surprise. The east coast is one of the few spots in the US that has managed to keep their caseloads down in May and June. Now might be a good time to remind everyone of how the "president" used to tell us that the warmer months would bring an end to this plague. It would just disappear. Some of us harbor this feeling about the "president."
Neither one seems to just go away. And as each day passes, the virus and the "president" seems to defy predictions by getting worse instead of better. I rely on our "president" for continuing to mine the lowest of all common denominators, but I had hoped that as a country we would get better at pandemic. Instead we seem bent on finding ways to bring ourselves back to normal. I paused there for a moment before I typed the end of the sentence to decide whether or not to put quotation marks around that last word: normal. It is the thing that continues to evade us. It is the reckoning with this obscure state that keeps folks champing at the bit, or mask, as the case may be.
Leaving the somewhat protective bubble of my neighborhood to travel four hours down the coast to visit our son brought a bit of a shock. California's governor had only recently made a statewide mandate for residents to wear a mask while in public or high-risk settings, including when shopping, taking public transit or seeking medical care. Perhaps because I'm a fan, or because I have decided to surrender my freedom to the state that wants to keep me alive, I have continued to cover my face when I leave the house. Not everyone seems to feel the way I do. Across California, at least a dozen municipal governments have asserted that Governor Newsom is not the boss of them. If the soft-sell of his "do your part, wear a mask" is wasted on those who prefer to imagine this as draconian oppression it would explain the number of noses, mouths and chins that I saw on my travels. Our son, the softhearted individual his mother and I raised continues to be skeptical of the loosened restrictions in his county. He steered us away from the temptations of sit-down restaurants. When we went out into the world, our smiles were hidden from one another. Even so, my wife and I worried that our social bubble might collide with someone else's. 
In the background there was the hue and cry of those who felt that fascists were keeping them from breathing. I briefly considered the overlap between that group and those that insist there is no pattern of systemic racism in our country. Elijah McClain wore a mask. He was doing that a year ago this August when he was contacted by police in Aurora, Colorado. At that time, a young black man in a ski mask generated a 911 call. Officers were dispatched and when they encountered the twenty-three year old on his walk back from a nearby convenience store. When a frightened and confused McClain "resisted arrest," officers used a carotid hold to subdue him. Paramedics who responded to the scene injected Elijah with ketamine to "calm him down." Elijah, who was wearing the mask because he sometimes experienced cold as a result of his anemia, died of a heart attack on the way to the hospital. 
So, I guess we can see just how dangerous wearing a mask can be. Meanwhile, save a prayer for the one hundred thirty thousand Americans who have died from COVID-19. And one for Elijah. 

What It Takes

I don't know where my son is going, exactly, but I know that he'll be fine once he gets there.
I say this because he managed a couple of things: Completed his undergraduate degree in less time than either one of his parents. He replaced the engine in his car. When it comes to getting your hands dirty, he's the man. The motto of Cal Poly San Luis Obispo is "learn by doing," and if it were just the past five years that taught him that, all that tuition was well spent.
But I know that he showed up to those hallowed halls with great chunks of that ethos already in place. There is the story from his formative years, when his mother was rushing him away from sand castle construction on the beach and he begged for just a little more time. When he was done, he exclaimed, "See? Give a kid an extra fifteen minutes and he'll create a masterpiece." Probably the most impressive thing about that assertion was his own confidence in what he had accomplished. A masterpiece. By his own reckoning.
It was during these days that he was linked almost inexorably with his childhood home. It was a rare occurrence that took him far from his mom and dad, and the place where all his stuff was. He was most comfortable with the people, places and things that he knew. His parents didn't do much to keep this from being the case. We were happy to go everywhere together. When it came time to go to college. He was ready. I confess that I wasn't sure how this was going to work. Four hours away? I steeled myself for the phone call that would come, begging for rescue.
It never came. We got some calls, but not that one. A speeding ticket. Some requests for additional funds. He was doing his thing. He was ready. When things got tough, and the grades weren't there, he did the things he needed to do to push on through. I would be lying if I said that he didn't want to give up a couple of times.
He didn't.
He took all the things he had learned and put them to great use. He learned more, and he put those things to still more use. He terrified his parents by announcing that he was going to replace his own brakes. Not the part of the car that made it stop. That could work out so horribly. But it didn't. Then he announced that he was going to put a V8 in his Toyota Supra. The one he named Hobbes. He was sure he could do it. Over the course of weeks that drifted into months and into completing his degree and a global pandemic, he kept working. He learned by doing. I remember the phone call we got on the day that he finally got the engine to seat properly in his beloved car. He told us he was bouncing around the house. We didn't need to see it. We could hear it in his voice. I confess that I was a little jealous. All those extra fifteen minutes, he had created a masterpiece.
And he knew it.
I'm not worried about my son. He's ready for whatever this wacky world into which he is wandering out into. He has what it takes.

Little Moves

My, how things change.
Lady Antebellum has become Lady A, in recognition of the somewhat tarnished glow of the "old south." A similar fate came to the country-music band Dixie Chicks who will heretofore be referred to only as The Chicks. And they will no longer be whistling, in case you were curious.
Pretty solid cosmetic changes, but changes nonetheless. People are starting to question just how woke they care to be. Many of us have been asleep for a long, long time.
Which is why, when I read the news that Disney was going to rework their Splash Mountain attraction to a Princess and the Frog theme, I took notice. For decades now, Disneyland has kept their little corner of Critter Country an embarrassing little sore that featured characters from their 1946 live action/animated feature Song Of The South. Zipadeedoodah indeed. A movie that is all but completely disavowed by the house that the Mouse built will now be moved to the "remember when" pile of rides. Recent live-action remakes of such classics as Lady and the Tramp and Dumbo have excised some of the more egregious dollops of racial stereotypes. Gone are the Siamese cats from Lady. Away went the crows from Dumbo. As it turns out, all of that pandering to baser elements was just lazy storytelling. Writing real characters with human concerns and complications instead of low-hanging cliches makes it a little more work. But it's worth it.
Speaking of children, at this same time I received notice that the Oakland School Board had voted to dismantle their police force. "School Security Officers" will stop being a thing at the end of 2020. They approved the “George Floyd Resolution” which eliminates the school district's police force of ten sworn officers and fifty unarmed campus safety officers. Superintendent Kyla Johnson-Trammell wrote, "Police in schools are ultimately a symptom of much larger issues. If we are going to really make progress, it is not enough to merely remove the symptom. We have to transform the underlying conditions within the school system that have brought us to this place in the first instance."
Little moves. You can't turn an ocean liner around in a parking lot, it takes a lot of sea. But it can be done. 
Keep watching. And applauding. And helping where you can.