Harold Ramis and Bob Casale climbed up on the roof. This is the tailored version of the punchline from one of my all-time favorite jokes. It has been, for many years now, the way I deal with mortality. When my family gathered to remember my father, the raconteur of so many jokes himself, I chose to remember him that way: Dad climbed up on the roof.
For those of you unfamiliar with the entire joke, I encourage you to take in the version performed by a young Sam Waterston in Capricorn One. That's where I learned it. Spoiler alert: When Sam gets to the top of his climb, the bad guys are waiting for him. The joke ends, and so does he. The good news here is that Sam is still around. It was just his character that climbed up on the roof.
Sadly, this is not the case with Messrs. Ramis and Casale. Bob 1, as he was known in the band, was guitarist and keyboardist for DEVO. He died from heart failure at the age of sixty-one. It came as quite a shock to me, especially since I had only recently learned that their original drummer, Alan Myers, had passed on eight months earlier from brain cancer. The potential for a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame reunion for these guys is now out of the question.
Harold Ramis, writer and director of so much of the late seventies, early eighties comedy that informed a generation of would-be comedians died last Monday from autoimmune inflammatory vasculitis, a disease he contracted four years ago. He was sixty-nine. All those lines I stored from "Caddyshack" and "Stripes" and "Ghostbusters" now rest in a more hallowed place. That collection will not be expanding.
For me, both of these gentlemen were part of my youth. They were part of the building blocks of my cultural DNA. Even though it has been five years since Harold Ramis made a movie, even though it has been even longer since I took my son to see his first rock and roll concert: DEVO. I will miss having these guys around, but from a selfish point of view, it would have been nice for someone to let us know that they weren't feeling well in the first place. That way we wouldn't have that sudden jolt when we open Yahoo News. Somebody really ought to start a page that lets us know that a particular celebrity has crawled up on the roof.
Aloha, Bob and Harold. You stomped on the Terra.
Friday, February 28, 2014
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Kiss Off
Calling all members of the KISS Army! If you already bought your tickets to Sunday's Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony, prepare to be disappointed. No, the powers that be are not rescinding their acceptance of your favorite band into that hallowed Hall, but the powers that be Gene and Peter are rescinding their acceptance of any particular lineup of the band that would perform to celebrate that long-awaited induction.
"Our intention was to celebrate the entire history of KISS and give credit to all members, including longtime present members Tommy Thayer and Eric Singer, and additionally Bruce Kulick and Eric Carr all who have made this band what it is, regardless of the Rock and Roll Hall Of Fame's point of view," the band wrote on its web site. "Although KISS has moved forward far longer without them, Ace and Peter are at the very foundation of what we have built and this would all be impossible had they not been a part of it in the beginning." Hold on a second. "The band's web site?" Isn't that the disembodied voice of Gene Simmons I hear behind all that hubris? Tommy Thayer? Eric Carr or Singer? It sure is nice of The God of Thunder to consider the feelings of his fellow bandmates. Or maybe he just didn't feel like burying the hatchet when it came to all those bitter feelings that fester just beneath the Kabuki makeup of sixty plus year old rock and rollers.
The Spaceman, Ace Frehley had this to say on Eddie Trunk's radio show last week: "They just shot down any type of reunion with us," Frehley said during the broadcast. "It's very frustrating. It's what the fans wanted, it's what the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame wanted, and it's not gonna happen. You don't want to do something for the fans after forty years of them supporting you?"
Well, there is that part about showing up for the big dinner and picking up your trophy. That's pretty much what it's all about, isn't it? The partying every day? Don't you think these guys owe it to us all to rock and roll all night? After all those years, whining about not getting into the Hall of Fame. Really?
"Our intention was to celebrate the entire history of KISS and give credit to all members, including longtime present members Tommy Thayer and Eric Singer, and additionally Bruce Kulick and Eric Carr all who have made this band what it is, regardless of the Rock and Roll Hall Of Fame's point of view," the band wrote on its web site. "Although KISS has moved forward far longer without them, Ace and Peter are at the very foundation of what we have built and this would all be impossible had they not been a part of it in the beginning." Hold on a second. "The band's web site?" Isn't that the disembodied voice of Gene Simmons I hear behind all that hubris? Tommy Thayer? Eric Carr or Singer? It sure is nice of The God of Thunder to consider the feelings of his fellow bandmates. Or maybe he just didn't feel like burying the hatchet when it came to all those bitter feelings that fester just beneath the Kabuki makeup of sixty plus year old rock and rollers.
The Spaceman, Ace Frehley had this to say on Eddie Trunk's radio show last week: "They just shot down any type of reunion with us," Frehley said during the broadcast. "It's very frustrating. It's what the fans wanted, it's what the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame wanted, and it's not gonna happen. You don't want to do something for the fans after forty years of them supporting you?"
Well, there is that part about showing up for the big dinner and picking up your trophy. That's pretty much what it's all about, isn't it? The partying every day? Don't you think these guys owe it to us all to rock and roll all night? After all those years, whining about not getting into the Hall of Fame. Really?
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Celebrating Closeness
It was a guy weekend. Mom went out of town to meet her new nephew, and her boys stayed home. We made a point of going outside, a couple of times. We managed to eat something besides frozen pizza and ice cream. It should also be noted here that the frozen pizza we did eat was warmed up in a real oven before it was inhaled.
On Saturday night we had steak. Dad grilled and son made a salad. As another concession to propriety, we chose to eat off plates. The bites may have been larger than we could have gotten away with mom watching, but we did use forks and knives and there was some chewing involved. It was the kind of low-impact/high reward meal that exists primarily as an experiment: red meat and roughage. What will win out?
Of course, we didn't bother to sit at the dinner table, preferring instead to hunch over the coffee table in front of the television. It is a well known fact that nothing aids digestion of guy food like action movies. On steak night, we chose "Hot Fuzz," the second of the Cornetto trilogy starring Simon Pegg and Nick Frost. We did take a pause for clearing the dishes, and my son was kind enough to bring us each a napkin. Then it was time for a little Ben and Jerry's. If you're keeping score at home, neither one of us exceeded our half-pint limit.
Then came the part of the evening when we both leaned back on the couch to savor our good fortune and full bellies. This was the bonding moment. With our feet now resting where our plates once were, I noticed that my sixteen year old son had leaned over and his head was now resting lightly on my shoulder. We were close. We are close.
We missed mom, but it felt good to have that opportunity. We were glad to have her back, and we might even invite her to have meat in front of the TV with us one day. We're close.
On Saturday night we had steak. Dad grilled and son made a salad. As another concession to propriety, we chose to eat off plates. The bites may have been larger than we could have gotten away with mom watching, but we did use forks and knives and there was some chewing involved. It was the kind of low-impact/high reward meal that exists primarily as an experiment: red meat and roughage. What will win out?
Of course, we didn't bother to sit at the dinner table, preferring instead to hunch over the coffee table in front of the television. It is a well known fact that nothing aids digestion of guy food like action movies. On steak night, we chose "Hot Fuzz," the second of the Cornetto trilogy starring Simon Pegg and Nick Frost. We did take a pause for clearing the dishes, and my son was kind enough to bring us each a napkin. Then it was time for a little Ben and Jerry's. If you're keeping score at home, neither one of us exceeded our half-pint limit.
Then came the part of the evening when we both leaned back on the couch to savor our good fortune and full bellies. This was the bonding moment. With our feet now resting where our plates once were, I noticed that my sixteen year old son had leaned over and his head was now resting lightly on my shoulder. We were close. We are close.
We missed mom, but it felt good to have that opportunity. We were glad to have her back, and we might even invite her to have meat in front of the TV with us one day. We're close.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
In So Many Words
Here are just a few of the myriad of reasons that I can't get that worked up about Ted Nugent referring to our President as a "subhuman mongrel:"
Ted's comments were made in an interview given to Guns.com, a website that is pretty much what you would expect from a website called "Guns.com." Rule number one in showbiz is "know your audience."
That brings me to the second reason: Showbiz. Ted has been romping around for decades, in and out of his loincloth, espousing his own peculiar cartoon-ish vision of America and its way of life. He's not a politician. He's an entertainer. So was Bozo the Clown.
Here in America, we have a bunch of Amendments to our Constitution beyond the Second. The one that comes just before it, known as the First Amendment. That's the one about free speech, and while it's not the kind of speech that the framers of our nation's rule book may have had in mind back in the day, I suspect that Ben Franklin may have had some colorful epithets for King George, but his penmanship was a little pinched.
Then there's this: perspective. I grew up writing limericks and haiku about Richard Nixon. As a fourth grader I was referring to our President as "Tricky Dick." Questionable taste? Perhaps, but I certainly had the zeitgeist on my side. Decades later, I used this very blog to refer, on hundreds of occasions, to our forty-third President as "Pinhead." I don't have a leg to stand on. Respect for the office? Sorry, but I can't expect any sort of double standard.
Finally, for now, I won't be that upset with Mister Nugent's tirades since they are generally linked with folks with whom I tend to disagree in the first place. If the Motor City Madman wants to spout his vitriol in the service of this or that Republican candidate, especially in the state of Texas, who am I to argue? If this is the voice that the Grand Old Party would like to have blaring from their Marshall Stack Amps, so be it.
And that's showbiz.
Ted's comments were made in an interview given to Guns.com, a website that is pretty much what you would expect from a website called "Guns.com." Rule number one in showbiz is "know your audience."
That brings me to the second reason: Showbiz. Ted has been romping around for decades, in and out of his loincloth, espousing his own peculiar cartoon-ish vision of America and its way of life. He's not a politician. He's an entertainer. So was Bozo the Clown.
Here in America, we have a bunch of Amendments to our Constitution beyond the Second. The one that comes just before it, known as the First Amendment. That's the one about free speech, and while it's not the kind of speech that the framers of our nation's rule book may have had in mind back in the day, I suspect that Ben Franklin may have had some colorful epithets for King George, but his penmanship was a little pinched.
Then there's this: perspective. I grew up writing limericks and haiku about Richard Nixon. As a fourth grader I was referring to our President as "Tricky Dick." Questionable taste? Perhaps, but I certainly had the zeitgeist on my side. Decades later, I used this very blog to refer, on hundreds of occasions, to our forty-third President as "Pinhead." I don't have a leg to stand on. Respect for the office? Sorry, but I can't expect any sort of double standard.
Finally, for now, I won't be that upset with Mister Nugent's tirades since they are generally linked with folks with whom I tend to disagree in the first place. If the Motor City Madman wants to spout his vitriol in the service of this or that Republican candidate, especially in the state of Texas, who am I to argue? If this is the voice that the Grand Old Party would like to have blaring from their Marshall Stack Amps, so be it.
And that's showbiz.
Monday, February 24, 2014
Scrub A Dub
I haven't used shampoo for a good long time. I haven't needed to. Shampoo is for washing hair. This isn't a lack of washing, it's a lack of hair.
It's not the hair that I miss so much. I miss all that hair care discussion. I miss the ablutions. There was a time that I was very interested in hair care products and their use. Back in the seventies, I used a separate shampoo and then a conditioner. I listened when the powers that be suggested that blow drying could be bad for your follicles. I was haunted by the image of clumps of hair flying from my scalp as I aimed those ninety thousand watts of drying power at my head. It was not an inspiring thought and it was the beginning of the end of my love affair with hair.
By the time I was in college, I had moved on to using Silkience: shampoo and conditioner in one bottle. I was still in the game, but the idea of hauling two or three bottles down the hall to my freshman dorm shower was untenable. I was much more interested in getting hosed off and on my way to the SAGA food service line than I was in getting the right bounce in my wave. This was the era of the "could-have-been-a-fro." The hair I had was curly enough that if I kept it clean and dry, it fluffed up nicely enough for those around me to be impressed by the cloud of hair I could sustain.
That didn't last long. By my late twenties, I was left with the left and right tufts that are often found on clowns or mad scientists. The shampoo I did use went to work on the hair I had left, and after another decade of fighting the good fight, I decided to cut it all off. Showers are a brisk affair, and I am pleased and happy to say that I don't have to worry about clogging the drain with any misbegotten strands that took their leave during the five minutes I was busy scrubbing the rest of me. That distinction belongs to my wife and son. Just like that shampoo bottle.
It's not the hair that I miss so much. I miss all that hair care discussion. I miss the ablutions. There was a time that I was very interested in hair care products and their use. Back in the seventies, I used a separate shampoo and then a conditioner. I listened when the powers that be suggested that blow drying could be bad for your follicles. I was haunted by the image of clumps of hair flying from my scalp as I aimed those ninety thousand watts of drying power at my head. It was not an inspiring thought and it was the beginning of the end of my love affair with hair.
By the time I was in college, I had moved on to using Silkience: shampoo and conditioner in one bottle. I was still in the game, but the idea of hauling two or three bottles down the hall to my freshman dorm shower was untenable. I was much more interested in getting hosed off and on my way to the SAGA food service line than I was in getting the right bounce in my wave. This was the era of the "could-have-been-a-fro." The hair I had was curly enough that if I kept it clean and dry, it fluffed up nicely enough for those around me to be impressed by the cloud of hair I could sustain.
That didn't last long. By my late twenties, I was left with the left and right tufts that are often found on clowns or mad scientists. The shampoo I did use went to work on the hair I had left, and after another decade of fighting the good fight, I decided to cut it all off. Showers are a brisk affair, and I am pleased and happy to say that I don't have to worry about clogging the drain with any misbegotten strands that took their leave during the five minutes I was busy scrubbing the rest of me. That distinction belongs to my wife and son. Just like that shampoo bottle.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
The Shirt Off My Back
It was a great shirt. It was blue and green plaid flannel. It was one of those items in my wardrobe that appeared as Fall made its inexorably slow turn into Winter. It was long sleeved and button up. It met my fashion requirements of being wash and wear. And now it's all washed and worn out.
I was suddenly thrust into a wave of mourning. I felt the loss of all those favorite shirts. The ones that fit so well. The ones that never did. I had a sweatshirt given to me when I was just a lad. It came from a cousin who attended Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute. I don't know if he ever wore it. It was small when it came to me, and I proceeded to wear it for years after that, until the sleeves only came down to my forearms and the collar began to chafe. My mother finally persuaded me to let that powder blue monstrosity go. It was time.
As an adult, the job of informing me when the shirts I wear have outlived their freshness factor. She will tell anyone who will listen the tale of my running shirts, one of which is a T-shirt I rescued from a dumpster behind the University of Colorado fieldhouse. It was a souvenir. That was closing in on forty years ago. Now it is a relic. It is also the secret shame for my wife. Even though I only wear it one day a week, and it's usually covered by another layer, each time I pull that rag over my head, I know she dies a little inside. Someday I know that I will go to the drawer to find the shirt that was once black and I will find nothing in its place. I imagine that it will have collapsed in on itself like a dying star. Or my wife will have finally exacted her revenge for all those years of suffering in relative silence.
Generally, she is more vocal in her approval or disapproval of what I am wearing when I leave the house. Often it is in the harsh morning light that she sees the threadbare or the irrevocably stained tatters that I choose to don on my way to another day of teaching. Over the years she has grown much more kind and deferential, coming a long way from, "You're going out like that?" to something more neutral and affirming like, "Do you think it's time you thought about..."
This time it was all me. I noticed the way the collar had worn through to white as I glanced in the mirror after I had brushed my teeth. It was time to retire the old green and blue. When I announced this decision, after wearing it to work that day and making it home alive, I got a surprised reaction from my wife. She sensed my attachment, and then went one further: she offered to adopt it for herself. There may be another life left in that old rag still. We'll see if we can find any trace of it after it goes through the laundry one last time.
I was suddenly thrust into a wave of mourning. I felt the loss of all those favorite shirts. The ones that fit so well. The ones that never did. I had a sweatshirt given to me when I was just a lad. It came from a cousin who attended Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute. I don't know if he ever wore it. It was small when it came to me, and I proceeded to wear it for years after that, until the sleeves only came down to my forearms and the collar began to chafe. My mother finally persuaded me to let that powder blue monstrosity go. It was time.
As an adult, the job of informing me when the shirts I wear have outlived their freshness factor. She will tell anyone who will listen the tale of my running shirts, one of which is a T-shirt I rescued from a dumpster behind the University of Colorado fieldhouse. It was a souvenir. That was closing in on forty years ago. Now it is a relic. It is also the secret shame for my wife. Even though I only wear it one day a week, and it's usually covered by another layer, each time I pull that rag over my head, I know she dies a little inside. Someday I know that I will go to the drawer to find the shirt that was once black and I will find nothing in its place. I imagine that it will have collapsed in on itself like a dying star. Or my wife will have finally exacted her revenge for all those years of suffering in relative silence.
Generally, she is more vocal in her approval or disapproval of what I am wearing when I leave the house. Often it is in the harsh morning light that she sees the threadbare or the irrevocably stained tatters that I choose to don on my way to another day of teaching. Over the years she has grown much more kind and deferential, coming a long way from, "You're going out like that?" to something more neutral and affirming like, "Do you think it's time you thought about..."
This time it was all me. I noticed the way the collar had worn through to white as I glanced in the mirror after I had brushed my teeth. It was time to retire the old green and blue. When I announced this decision, after wearing it to work that day and making it home alive, I got a surprised reaction from my wife. She sensed my attachment, and then went one further: she offered to adopt it for herself. There may be another life left in that old rag still. We'll see if we can find any trace of it after it goes through the laundry one last time.
Saturday, February 22, 2014
In My Life
I got a call from a dear friend the other day. She wanted to tag off on me to be sure she told me how much she cares about me. It was one of those calls I didn't mind taking. This is to say that there are plenty of calls that I do mind taking. This was no telemarketer. This was someone who had every right to call me and it made me just a little shameful for even asking, "Who is it?"
It is the time of our lives we find ourselves in, when even the good friends are calling to share news that isn't so good. Pending babies and wedding announcements are giving way to dire proclamations of disease, divorce and the biggest D: death. I liked the ones about babies. I felt proud about the ones that brought me into that bigger circle of friends generated by weddings. I'm not a big fan of that circle diminishing.
That's why this call was so unusual. It was generated by a call she had received from a friend of hers that came with an announcement of the Big C: Cancer. Her friend's husband was dying, and it set off a chain of emotions that brought her to the other end of my telephone line. She was calling, not to check up on me, but to make sure that she let me know how much she loved me.
I know. Suddenly we're in that AT&T/Stevie Wonder territory of commercial-grade sentimentality. That's not what this was. This was the pure stuff, from which that treacle was so callously distilled. So pure, in fact, that it caused my own sincerity defenses to spring into action. My impulse to reply with smart aleck was almost as intense as the wave of sweetness I was getting. Happily, the sincerity won out, and I was able to rein in those wiseacre impulses long enough to respond in kind, if not a little slowly. It was, in the words of my son, totally worth it.
It got me to thinking about "The Big Chill." All those old friends gathering together as the news changes from pleasant to less than. I used to sneer a little at this contrived situation, driven by Motown hits and trumped up connections between these old college buddies. Now it doesn't seem so trite. All of a sudden, Lawrence Kasdan seems to have locked in on a particular moment in time and put it on film. The soundtrack of my life is different, but many of those emotions ring true. I'm very lucky to be able to have that in real life. I'm very lucky to have friends like her. I'm very lucky to have her in my life.
There, that wasn't so hard, was it?
It is the time of our lives we find ourselves in, when even the good friends are calling to share news that isn't so good. Pending babies and wedding announcements are giving way to dire proclamations of disease, divorce and the biggest D: death. I liked the ones about babies. I felt proud about the ones that brought me into that bigger circle of friends generated by weddings. I'm not a big fan of that circle diminishing.
That's why this call was so unusual. It was generated by a call she had received from a friend of hers that came with an announcement of the Big C: Cancer. Her friend's husband was dying, and it set off a chain of emotions that brought her to the other end of my telephone line. She was calling, not to check up on me, but to make sure that she let me know how much she loved me.
I know. Suddenly we're in that AT&T/Stevie Wonder territory of commercial-grade sentimentality. That's not what this was. This was the pure stuff, from which that treacle was so callously distilled. So pure, in fact, that it caused my own sincerity defenses to spring into action. My impulse to reply with smart aleck was almost as intense as the wave of sweetness I was getting. Happily, the sincerity won out, and I was able to rein in those wiseacre impulses long enough to respond in kind, if not a little slowly. It was, in the words of my son, totally worth it.
It got me to thinking about "The Big Chill." All those old friends gathering together as the news changes from pleasant to less than. I used to sneer a little at this contrived situation, driven by Motown hits and trumped up connections between these old college buddies. Now it doesn't seem so trite. All of a sudden, Lawrence Kasdan seems to have locked in on a particular moment in time and put it on film. The soundtrack of my life is different, but many of those emotions ring true. I'm very lucky to be able to have that in real life. I'm very lucky to have friends like her. I'm very lucky to have her in my life.
There, that wasn't so hard, was it?
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