Summer Of Stars

 There were those seemingly endless summers of my youth that were filled with concerts. Live music under the stars, out in the sun. Colorado Sun Days as they were called. Held in the University of Colorado's football stadium, the each show would start up slowly, building as the crowd would eventually crowd the field to catch the headliner. Fleetwood Mac. The Eagles. Cheap Trick. Boston. These were big deals, but somewhere in that mix I managed to catch a pre-Van Halen Sammy Hagar, Boulder's own Firefall, and Bob Seger doing one of the hardest possible rocking version of "Get Out Of Denver." Not to mention the illustrious set performed by one John "Welcome Back" Sebastian who kept calling out to the crowd "Hey, Denver," even though he was thirty miles away in Boulder. 

And these were events that required days of planning and preparation, since we were going to be standing out in the elements from morning until nightfall. As I got a little older, I started bringing something "a little extra" in a Thermos. No need to bring any pot. By showtime, marijuana smoke made up roughly fifty percent of the air available for breathing. 

Trips down the road to Red Rocks required similar arrangements. Though the bills were generally smaller, just an opener before the star, the amphitheater's general admission policy required you to show up as early as possible if you wanted to actually see the performers. This is where I earned my Parrothead badge of honor, attending a Jimmy Buffett show there once a summer for as long as I can remember. Which isn't as easy as it sounds, given the necessitation of Margaritas. I saw Steve Martin there. I saw the Blues Brothers. I saw Dire Straits. As a favor to my girlfriend, I took her sister to the Go-Gos. I saw Talking Heads stop making sense. And I saw Bruce Springsteen. That was one of those life-changing moments. 

It is here that I would like to pause and reflect for just a moment on the ticket price for that Springsteen show: Thirteen dollars and fifty cents. These were actual tickets. Printed tickets that were torn and the stub was handed back to you so that you could hold onto it and obsess over it for weeks, months and years to come. 

Which is what I did. 

In 1988, Fiddler's Green Amphitheater opened just south of Denver. With its plastic seats and metropolitan location, the vibe that was once summer concert season shifted to a more refined and, for me, more uptight vision. This was a pre-packaged venue in every sense of the word. It was never as arduous a trek as those to Folsom Field or Red Rocks. This was a family venue. When I left Colorado for northern California in 1992, I was not surprised to find a Fiddler's Green clone perched just above Silicon Valley. They called this Shoreline Amphitheater, even though it was miles from any shore. I saw Jimmy Buffett there. I saw Bruce Springsteen there. 

It wasn't the same. 

Cruise Control

 Full disclosure: I paid to see Top Gun: Maverick. I bought tickets for my family with whom I sat. My son was there to scratch the itch he has for things that go fast. Like jet fighters. I was there to close a circle that was opened back in 1986. It was the most requested VHS tape at the video store I worked at during college. My wife was there to show what a good sport she could be. 

When the lights came up, the three of us shared a moment that suggested what good sports we had all been. We all felt a bit sheepish as we meandered toward the exit. It took us a while before we were able to begin to sum up our feelings. On the drive home, as is often our habit, we tried to tease out where things had gone so wrong. Maybe it was the extra two years of anticipation, having been locked away in the summer blockbuster warehouse while the world adjusted to COVID-19. Perhaps we had simply missed the point. Asking questions of a movie that features Tom Cruise as a naval aviator who has managed to remain a captain over the course of a thirty-five year career ignores the reason for the movie's existence in the first place. It brought me back to my son's ragged insistence that any giant robot movie worth its salt needs to deliver solely on that bottom line: giant robots. Any deviation from this formula for "characters" or "plot" shall be deemed unnecessary and only gets in the way of giant robots fighting. 

The makers of Top Gun: Maverick certainly delivered on their bottom line: jet fighters. And with every jump cut to Tom Cruise sitting in the cockpit makes it that much more compelling. "Hey, Tom Cruise is pulling five Gs!" "Wow, Tom Cruise is going Mach whatever!" And now I must give credit to Letterboxd reviewer Brett for pointing out what should have been obvious to anyone watching: "Hey, Tom Cruise is about to start World War III!" That is, in a nutshell, the plot of Maverick. Whereas the original focused primarily on the challenge of becoming "the best of the best," and operating as a solid piece of recruiting propaganda, the sequel is about blowing up an Iranian nuclear facility. With video game simplicity, the mission is laid out for the hot shot pilots as impossible, unless you happen to be as good as Maverick. The fact that it resembles the attack on the Death Star in another fantasy movie only exacerbates the surreality. Like some sort of airborne Ocean's Eleven, when our boys get away with it, they fly back to their carrier without a thought about being blown out of the water in retaliation. 

All of which puts a fine point on Hollywood's insistence that good guys with guns can fix just about any problem. And we will gladly pay of the chance to watch it happen. Suddenly those giant robots seem so much more relatable. Strap Tom Cruise into one of those babies and put Vin Diesel in the other one with machine guns and cruise missiles and all manner of things that go boom and you'll have us lined up around the block. Who wants to see a movie about a guy who spends his days saving lives? 

Spirit Of '76

 I have often held that it was in October of 1976 that American pop culture reached its lowest point. It was during this time period that Disco Duck reached the top of the Billboard Chart. I do not blame the "artist," Rick Dees, for unleashing this bit of musical chicanery upon an unsuspecting public. I do not blame that unsuspecting public for buying what Mister Dees had to sell. I can only blame the society that we had created at this point in history for providing this measuring stick for the depths of our national sickness. 

1976 aside from being celebrated as our county's bicentennial, featured much of the music that would eventually be considered by NASA to be sent into outer space. Not to subject alien civilizations to it, but rather simply to get it off our planet. I'm talking about Elton John and Kiki Dee singing, "Don't Go Breakin' My Heart." We also have Wild Cherry to blame for "Play That Funky Music." Oh, and how about former Beatle Paul McCartney bludgeoning us with "Silly Love Songs?" Again, I don't feel that it is completely fair to blame Messrs. John, Cherry and McCartney for the sugary pabulum they foisted on us during this time. It was this moment when we simply ran dry as a culture. K.C. and the Sunshine Band have this reduced attention to detail to thank for their career. TV theme songs like SWAT and Welcome Back Kotter were charting. All you needed to do was repeat the words boogie, bootie, dancing, or baby over a clap track and you had yourself a hit. 

And into this vortex dropped Dees' Disco Duck. Why wouldn't it sell in this era of lowered expectations? Not even his backing group, "His Cast of Idiots" were enough to send a message to a zoned-out public: This is a novelty record. It is created in much the same manner that Beethoven, Copeland, and Mozart generated their oeuvre. It was recorded with many of the same techniques that brought us Sergeant Pepper, Pet Sounds, and Born To Run. Except this was done by a Memphis disc jockey who was looking to cash in on the clever idea he had, and it even got included in a scene from Saturday Night Fever. But it should never be forgotten that this record was created as a satirical nose-thumb to the music industry that had been given permission to collapse on itself. 

Those were dark times indeed. Right up there with the announcement this summer of "Unfrosted: The Pop-Tart Story," written, directed and starring Jerry Seinfeld. I fully expect this to do what the Emoji Movie couldn't: Make us pine for 1976. 

I Read The News Today, Oh Boy

 You know that feeling you get when you look outside and see that it's raining? Even though the weather forecasters have been telling you for a week that there was going to be rain, you can't help but feel let down that this precipitation is going to spoil your day's plans. Imagine that feeling times several billion and you might come close to my reaction to the Supreme Court overturning Roe v. Wade. 

For months now we have known this was coming. It had been telegraphed by a leak of a draft of a decision to strike down fifty years of precedent for a woman's right to choose at the beginning of May. This had the effect of galvanizing both sides of the issue and eventually was played out on Friday morning, June 24, 2022. Twenty-six states had set their abortion ban legislation in motion ahead of this moment to ensure that their restrictions on women's reproductive rights would go into effect immediately after the decision was out in the open. 

No more skulking about during confirmation hearings, ensuring Congress that Roe v. Wade was a precedent, and was described by the Latin term stare decisis, meaning to "stand by things decided." The last three justices appointed gave effectively the same answer when asked, allowing them to move on in the process eventually landing them in a place to tear down a landmark decision that brought women's health out of the darkness and into the light. Abortions have been taking place here in America for hundreds of years, and historically longer than that. A lot longer. The difference is the stigma put on it by men. The need for men to control the most important and private decision that any human can make would be comical if it did not result in such terrible damage. To women and men. Families and individuals. 

The fact that this court chose to make guns more readily available one day and limit the control women have over their own bodies the next speaks to a problem that is much greater than red versus blue. Republican versus Democrat. Deeper still than men versus women. The hard rain has just begun to fall, but there is hope that this will instill the same vigor that came back in 1973 when the original "precedent" was made. The so-called "pro-life" movement played a long game and eventually rigged the system in a way that worked in their favor. It is now up to the majority of the women and men in the United States who believe in a woman's right to choose. It is time to fight back. 

Time To Act

 Like many thinking human beings, I was outraged by the Supreme Court's ruling on June 23 to strike down the restrictions New York state legislators put on carrying a concealed weapon. The New York law required those that wanted to carry a concealed handgun to be able to show "proper cause." The six Republican-appointed justices felt this was an infringement on those who chose to pack heat in one of the most crowded streets in the country. This law was not one that had been rushed through the Empire State's legislature in the wake of recent gun violence. The Sullivan Act was passed back in 1911 as a response to the a particularly brazen murder-suicide committed below Fourteenth Street. For more than one hundred years, citizens of New York were required to have a license to carry a concealed weapon, with a special focus on those living in the city so nice they named it twice. 

Not anymore. The Supreme Court ruled in favor of the New York State Rifle & Pistol Association. The Court, or most of it anyway, ruled that the Sullivan Act violates the Second and Fourteenth amendments, which “protect an individual’s right to carry a handgun for self-defense outside the home.” I assume that self-defense inside the home will come under a separate ruling. 

As a thinking human being, it came to me like a bolt out of the blue: The Supreme Court is quite comfortable setting "constitutional precedents" based on a world that existed two hundred fifty years ago. When the Constitution was first drafted, of course, there was no such thing as a "concealed weapon." A flintlock pistol wouldn't exactly fit in anyone's pants, especially the knickers favored by most of the men of that time. And speaking of men, it makes even more sense that this court feels comfortable rolling back the decisions surrounding a woman's right to choose since everyone knows that there were no women back in 1787. Women didn't appear for another one hundred thirty-two years later after somebody noticed that more than half the population were girls. And they should be given the right to vote. That came fifty years after African-Americans were allowed this same freedom. 

If it seems as though some of the same folks who are completely comfortable picking and choosing which verses of the Bible to take literally are the same ones who are consistently working to walk back the progress made on the part of those who would like the Constitution to reflect the world in which we actually live, that's no coincidence. Accent on the "dense." 

If you're still wondering why this "right to vote" thing is so very important, take a long hard look at the frightened, white, entitled individuals who are making these choices for us. We can't vote for the Supreme Court, but we most definitely choose those who make those appointments and confirm them. Get ready. 

Needs Assessment

 I got a Super Ball for my sixtieth birthday. In keeping with the tradition of getting a toy for my birthday. Forever. My mother asked me somewhere along about the time I turned eighteen when she could stop "having to" give me a toy for my birthday. The answer was plain.

Never.

The best thing about having a kid, or at least one of the best things to which I will loudly attest, is the opportunity to extend the easy access to toys. Plastic toys that light up. Or make noise. Or fold out into interesting shapes. Our bounce. One of the chief arguments I had with the chain called "Toys R Us" was that I figured I was already toys, so how could that be? Maybe it was "us" by inclusion. No matter, because the important thing is that I have been afforded by those closest to me an opportunity to continue this fixation in a mostly healthy way for six decades. 

It is only now that it occurs to me that this may be the reason why I didn't manage to fall into a midlife crisis. One that would have found me buying a flashy sports car or off-road vehicle. Or take up some sport or activity that would have required ridiculous amounts of equipment and maintenance. I'm thinking sea kayaking, for example. Not that there is something intrinsically wrong with sea kayaking. Or sports cars for that matter. If you are able to have that experience without sublimating some angst or ennui, then put your paddle down, walk away from the sports car, and push that off-road symbol of lost youth off a cliff. 

Or instead, you could politely ask those in your inner circle to make a point of providing you with one plaything of modest and amusing scale to keep that portion of your inner child alert and ready for whatever life may bring you next. Like tax forms. Or a cubicle. Or separating the recycling. I truly believe that it was the introduction of power tools that made more men turn to Corvettes and teenaged girls to stave off the feeling of impending death. Power tools, while toy-adjacent, suggest that there is always work to be done. Again, I have nothing against power tools per se. I am very fond of the battery powered assortment of drills and saws that I have been gifted lo these many adult years.

But I really want a super ball. Thank you very much. 

Tune Out, Drop In

 Okay. I get it. Donald Trump knew that he lost the election and went about trying to keep himself in the seat of power regardless of the outcome. 

I got that back on or before January 5, 2021. What has happened since then has been an exercise in just how far from reality money can keep one from the aforementioned reality. Witnesses, Videotape. More witnesses. Videotape of witnesses. Still more witnesses. People who saw the former "president" and game show host cling desperately to the notion that anything is possible if you wish hard enough. And threaten your underlings. 

You've got to have underlings in this kind of endeavor. The trouble with underlings is that eventually they tire of bearing the weight of the ridiculous expectations presented by the moron in charge. And the really creepy part is just how much abuse these underlings are willing to take in order to cling to their own sliver of the power pie. 

Then there are the crowds. Not just the ones that stormed the Capitol a year and a half ago, but the ones that continue to flock to auditoriums and barns across this great land of ours to hear the bloated sack of protoplasm yammer on about how unfairly he has been treated by the system he tried to subvert. These are the tiny brains that refused to peek at the news back when it was news. These are the pointy heads that would not even sniff around the edges of the evidence presented by the January 6 Committee. Which, I suppose, makes sense. Once the loosely knit threads of fabrication start to unravel, not only will their emperor be standing there in all his naked orange glory, but they will be forced to reckon with the fact that they have been lied to ever since he came gliding down that escalator way back in 2015. Like waking up from a seven year bender and finding that you really did trade everything you owned for a red baseball cap and some magic beans. 

The tough thing to reconcile here is the way that our system has delivered this gigantic tangerine from any actual consequence time and time again. Twice impeached, he was never removed from office. Days before the inauguration of the properly elected and certified successor, he rallied all those dark forces in a failed attempt to make it all go away. It's all there, but there are those who continue to ignore it. These people are loud and full of fear. Afraid that the way of life that they were sold by this charlatan has no basis in (wait for it) reality. 

Stay tuned.