I initially held off writing this post, thinking that too much of what I’ve been writing this year is more obit than essay. But then my daughter had an assignment in her CCD class to talk to her parents about Dia de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead, celebrated on All Saints and All Souls Days, in Mexico and among Mexican Americans. Because the Day of the Dead is based on the belief that the Dead remain with us and, on the Day of the Dead, literally walk among us, my daughter was required to talk to me about some of my deceased loved ones and their influence on me, about the ways in which they are still present to me.
This was a particularly timely assignment for me, because my Uncle Walter had died two weeks earlier. As I flew out to Massachusetts for the funeral, I brought Elaine Pagels’ and Karen King’s book “Reading Judas,” an analysis of the recently discovered Gospel of Judas, which critiques traditional Catholic notions of martyrdom and, therefore, salvation. At any rate, what I took away from the book was the notion that Jesus taught that we must believe in something beyond this life in order to find the courage and will to do the right thing during our time here on earth.
And so, when Alice interviewed me for her assignment, I was primed to tell her about two people who had done the right thing in their earthly lives, my friends Trino and Denise, whose pictures I keep posted on the door of my office. Both of them were advocates and activists for the disadvantaged – Trino for prisoners; Denise for children in poor public school districts. I can say that I’ve had a good day at work if I feel I’ve done something to honor their memory. During the days leading up to the election, as I powered through consecutive 15-hour days of preparation for and then actual poll and election monitoring, I thought of them often.
When the election was over, and Barack Obama had been projected the winner, I cried and thought about Trino and Denise, and how I wished they had lived to see this election day. As story after emotional story was reported in the election’s aftermath, this became a recurring theme across America. African-Americans spoke of their joy in casting a ballot not just for themselves but for so many who had gone before them. Civil Rights activists and their descendants invoked the memories of departed comrades and relatives who had longed for what occurred this week and took satisfaction in knowing, finally, that their work had not been in vain.
The Obama victory also provided me with a slightly different kind of closure. My mother, Walter’s sister, instilled in me the superstition that deaths come in threes – that when someone close to us dies, there are two other deaths of significance to us that occur at about the same time. In October 2008, my three deaths of significance were: Levi Stubbs, lead singer of the Four Tops; my uncle Walter; and the writer Studs Terkel – not exactly kindred spirits, but somehow all tied up in my emotions surrounding the election.
The idea that I would feel a connection to and among them, I submit, is not a totally crazy notion. I actually met Studs several years ago when he eulogized a colleague of mine who had died suddenly and tragically, and though I never met Stubbs, it was not surprising to hear him on WDET, my favorite public radio station, during one of their fundraising drives. Like a handful of former Motown stars, he still could be found regularly around Detroit. At any rate, while Barack Obama was winning the presidency earlier this month, I was having my own Day of the Dead experience as these three men seemed to walk the earth again with me.
***
My Uncle Walter was, in the parlance of Thomas Frank, a true backlash voter – someone who never quite got over the Vietnam War and the sixties. He had no patience for liberals, pacifists, and his nephews who dared to wear shoulder-length hair – my cousin Ed felt this particularly, since he wore long hair while the Vietnam War was still going on. I was much younger and didn’t start wearing long hair until the late 1980s. I am pretty confident that he would not have supported a politician named Barack Hussein Obama.
However, in the same way that Barack Obama spoke about his grandmother, who also passed away just before the election, I cannot say that who my Uncle Walter was, and where he came from, are not a part of me. He taught me how to shoot a bb gun and steer a pick up truck (my legs were too short to drive it), and I always had a great time whenever we visited him. He was an engineer and a good teacher. I find myself repeating things he said to tutor my brother in algebra when I help my daughter with her math homework.
He also was a local activist, serving on the town school board, the board of selectmen, and the conservation commission (proving that I come by my own crackpot activist spirit legitimately from both sides of my family). Though he often spoke as though he believed that the world had gone to hell in a hand-basket, it did not keep him from getting involved at a local level where he felt he could make a difference. Ironically enough, this same spirit of local political involvement was the lifeblood of Barack Obama’s bottom-up campaign.
***
To understand Levi Stubbs’ significance to me, you have to understand my love for the song “Reach Out I’ll Be There.” Outside of the work of Stevie Wonder and Marvin Gaye, “Reach Out I’ll Be There” is one of Motown’s greatest moments. There has never been a more perfect vocal than Stubbs’ in that song – growling, shouting, pleading; no one has ever sung the word “darling” with more passion.
The chattering percussion and rumbling bass that open the song set the tone, with the singer suffering serious emotional turmoil. While the words are reassuring -- "I’ll be there/With a love that will shelter you/ I’ll be there/With a love that will see you through" – the singer’s anguish and vulnerability convey something else. This is someone who needs to be needed; someone who has something to give and has been stymied. That’s why the song works so well as a sing-along. In the dark days after a break-up, I always could growl and shout along with Levi Stubbs – and try to sing, just once perhaps, “darling” as powerfully as he does -- to make it through.
In a similar vein, the socialist singer-songwriter Billy Bragg celebrated the power of Stubbs’ voice in his song “Levi Stubbs’ Tears”: “When the world falls apart some things stay in place/ Levi Stubbs’ tears run down his face.” Music can sustain and transform us. That’s one of the absolute truths of my life and undoubtedly of the lives of many others. When Nelson Mandela spoke at Tiger Stadium 17 years ago, he made a point of noting that the music of Motown had helped him survive his time in the Robben Island prison in South Africa. And so, when Levi Stubbs passed away just before America elected its first African-Americn President, I couldn’t help but think of him as a symbol of all of the musicians whose art helped to sustain all of those (living and dead) who rejoiced in Barack Obama’s electoral victory.
***
It has taken a lot of music like Levi Stubbs’ to sustain hope over the 43-year span of my life, particularly the last eight, but on November 4, all of the long nights seemed a small price to pay. Looking at my own music collection, it is stunning to see how many songs document hard times and misery, and cries for social justice. At times, hope has been hard to come by indeed. That is why Studs Terkel always struck me as such an extraordinary person, and that is why he is the perfect thread to tie together me, my Uncle Walter, Barack Obama, Levi Stubbs, Denise, and Trino.
In all of Studs’ obituaries, it was noted that he had said that he knew Barack Obama would win the election and that he passed away secure in that knowledge. Studs’ faith and hope in America and Americans never wavered. To him, people were too interesting and too unique to give up on. He believed that, in the end, our better nature always triumphed. Every person, from my Uncle Walter to Barack Obama and everyone in between, had something of value to say, in Studs’ view.
This wasn’t just talk, either. I saw Studs walk the walk when he came to my colleague Rose’s memorial, more than 25 years after he had written about her in his chronicle of Chicago, “Division Street.” He didn’t have to do that. Who would have known? But he came to the memorial without fanfare, and he spoke plainly and beautifully enough to convince most of us that we had not known our colleague nearly as well as her friend Studs had, and that he would miss her at least as much as we would.
And so, barely two weeks after The Election Night We Will Never Forget, I find myself beholding an utterly changed world: a world in which the values I have tried to teach my children –love, equality, and respect – again seem real and meaningful; a world in which I can believe that I can use all that I have learned from the departed in the aid of progress; a world in which I can hope again. Looks pretty good, doesn’t it?
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Of God and Governors
This already has been done by many others, and likely better, but I still feel compelled to write my own response to the hateful, cynical attacks leveled at community organizers at the Republican National Convention. You see, as a legal services lawyer, I’ve always admired community organizers because they are what I am (and what we legal services lawyers, generally, are) not. We spend all of our time sorting through theories trying to find the right argument to expand our clients’ economic opportunities and improve their lives, but all too often, the good arguments have precious little to do with what my clients really need and want. In contrast, community organizers always seem to have a much better focus, a much better sense of what clients want and need, and a much better sense of how legal services lawyers can be helpful to the process. Lawyers don’t make good organizers, although one of the best lawyers I know used to be an organizer. For one thing, organizers generally are not control freaks, and lawyers, well, you know . . .
Anyway, while I’m puttering around with my legal theories and worrying that not only am I not making a difference, but that I might actually be making people’s lives worse, a community organizer always will be moving full steam ahead on something, exuding an enviable certitude in the rightness and necessity of the cause. This isn’t simple-mindedness or a lack of subtlety; rather, it is the product of inner strength, conviction, and an unwillingness to compromise essential principles – admirable qualities unless, apparently, you’re a Republican.
And so, I wasn’t surprised to see someone make the point last week that Jesus was a community organizer, while Pontius Pilate, the governor, was the one with executive experience. Indeed, it got me to thinking about the church I attend every Sunday. We Catholics make a practice of honoring saints – those who we believe have led such exemplary lives that they must be in heaven, experiencing the grace of God first hand – by depicting them in paintings, tapestries, and statues in our churches. Because my church is only 10 years old, and because it is a university parish, the saints honored in its artwork are more diverse and contemporary than in your average Catholic church. The point is to remind students that saints look like any and all of us and that they walk among us now, just as those honored did not long ago.
This weekend, as I looked around at the artwork and thought about the lives of those saints, I noticed a theme: no generals, no politicians, no CEO’s, but quite a few community organizers: Archbishop Oscar Romero, Mother Theresa, Mother Elizabeth Seton, Martin Luther King, Jr., Dorothy Day, Mohandas Gandhi, and “worst of all” from the GOP perspective, Francis of Assisi, who was both a community organizer and an environmentalist. The truth seems pretty obvious: community organizers are special people who bring special blessings to the world.
Sometimes that grace is unmistakeable, even to a lawyer. What follows is a poem that I wrote six years ago, inspired by my affection for Selma Goode, one of Detroit’s great community organizers, who has worked for years for the Westside Mothers welfare rights organization. Selma had given a very moving presentation at a training I attended about how lawyers can work more productively with community groups.
Today, I Saw the Face of God
(for Selma Goode)
Today, I saw the face of God
Not surprisingly, the face of God was the face of an older woman
It was a face given easily to smiling
With an occasional twinkle in either eye,
In eyes that never lost sight of the prize
It was a face well-lined with the passage of years
And with struggle
As I looked, I thought of the years of union organizing
Of marching for civil rights and working for equality
Of standing shoulder to shoulder with poor women and their children
Of never focusing on all the things that divide us
Because, after all, there are so many more things that ought to unite us
It was, truth be told, a face marked by weariness
But not resignation
A face of someone who was right there
Every time we came this close . . . and missed
And a face of someone who would be there again
The next time we got close . . . and maybe we wouldn’t miss
Or maybe we would, being so frustratingly foolish and human, after all
It was, most of all, a face of love
And forgiveness
And immeasurable empathy,
Despite often registering disbelief,
Especially at the foolishness and humanness
Today, I saw the face of God
And, as I expect to do the next time I see the face of God,
I wept
Anyway, while I’m puttering around with my legal theories and worrying that not only am I not making a difference, but that I might actually be making people’s lives worse, a community organizer always will be moving full steam ahead on something, exuding an enviable certitude in the rightness and necessity of the cause. This isn’t simple-mindedness or a lack of subtlety; rather, it is the product of inner strength, conviction, and an unwillingness to compromise essential principles – admirable qualities unless, apparently, you’re a Republican.
And so, I wasn’t surprised to see someone make the point last week that Jesus was a community organizer, while Pontius Pilate, the governor, was the one with executive experience. Indeed, it got me to thinking about the church I attend every Sunday. We Catholics make a practice of honoring saints – those who we believe have led such exemplary lives that they must be in heaven, experiencing the grace of God first hand – by depicting them in paintings, tapestries, and statues in our churches. Because my church is only 10 years old, and because it is a university parish, the saints honored in its artwork are more diverse and contemporary than in your average Catholic church. The point is to remind students that saints look like any and all of us and that they walk among us now, just as those honored did not long ago.
This weekend, as I looked around at the artwork and thought about the lives of those saints, I noticed a theme: no generals, no politicians, no CEO’s, but quite a few community organizers: Archbishop Oscar Romero, Mother Theresa, Mother Elizabeth Seton, Martin Luther King, Jr., Dorothy Day, Mohandas Gandhi, and “worst of all” from the GOP perspective, Francis of Assisi, who was both a community organizer and an environmentalist. The truth seems pretty obvious: community organizers are special people who bring special blessings to the world.
Sometimes that grace is unmistakeable, even to a lawyer. What follows is a poem that I wrote six years ago, inspired by my affection for Selma Goode, one of Detroit’s great community organizers, who has worked for years for the Westside Mothers welfare rights organization. Selma had given a very moving presentation at a training I attended about how lawyers can work more productively with community groups.
Today, I Saw the Face of God
(for Selma Goode)
Today, I saw the face of God
Not surprisingly, the face of God was the face of an older woman
It was a face given easily to smiling
With an occasional twinkle in either eye,
In eyes that never lost sight of the prize
It was a face well-lined with the passage of years
And with struggle
As I looked, I thought of the years of union organizing
Of marching for civil rights and working for equality
Of standing shoulder to shoulder with poor women and their children
Of never focusing on all the things that divide us
Because, after all, there are so many more things that ought to unite us
It was, truth be told, a face marked by weariness
But not resignation
A face of someone who was right there
Every time we came this close . . . and missed
And a face of someone who would be there again
The next time we got close . . . and maybe we wouldn’t miss
Or maybe we would, being so frustratingly foolish and human, after all
It was, most of all, a face of love
And forgiveness
And immeasurable empathy,
Despite often registering disbelief,
Especially at the foolishness and humanness
Today, I saw the face of God
And, as I expect to do the next time I see the face of God,
I wept
Monday, June 30, 2008
Bye, Bye George
I’ve been trying to find a way to come to terms with George Carlin’s death for almost a week now -- not because I’m emotionally devastated, but well, just because I need a little closure. I need a way to describe where he “fits” in my pantheon of comedy and pop culture in order to say goodbye and move on. The problem is that no description and no analysis seem adequate. When you consider that during the past week, I have heard tributes to Carlin from all sorts of folks, ranging from the guys on ESPN’s “Mike and Mike in the Morning” to Tom and Ray, the Car Guys on NPR’s “Car Talk,” you start to understand the scope of the problem. Jerry Seinfeld wrote a nice piece in the New York Times, but again, it didn’t seem like enough.
During the week, Alice had been away at a summer theatre camp outside Chicago. On Friday, we drove to Downer’s Grove to see her in the 15-minute production that would be the culmination of her week. Naturally, she was great. But the best part was that in her play, set in medieval times, she had to play the role of a jester, among other things. Yep, George Carlin dies, and my daughter does her first stand-up gig, all in the same week. What are the odds?
Anyway, back at the hotel that night, I told her how much I enjoyed her performance, and that I thought her timing was pretty good. Then, I had to tell her about Carlin. Of course, she had no idea who he was, but she listened patiently as I did my best to recount one of my favorite Carlin bits about “Limbo” and where things go when they get lost. She chuckled, to humor me (something she has learned to do quite well), if nothing else.
The next day, we decided to hit the Museum of Science and Industry before heading home. After a few exhibits, we stopped at the Brain Food Court to eat lunch. By the time I had sorted through all of the choices, everyone else was seated, and Zoe had finished most of her lunch, except for her Jell-o dessert. We spent a few minutes comparing notes on our lunch choices. I had found a decent salad to eat. Rebecca seemed a tad jealous. Zoe piped up: “I’m just excited about my Jell-o, because it’s blue.” We all agreed that blue food was hard to find and worth being excited about. Indeed, Rebecca and I noted, when we were kids, blue food was pretty much non-existent. Alice added that blueberries looked blue, but they were really purple when you ate them.
After we drove home and everyone went to bed, I channel-surfed by Saturday Night Live and noticed that, as a tribute to Carlin, they were re-running the first episode, which Carlin had hosted in 1975. Though it was late, I had to watch. And there he was: long flowing hair and beard intact, without a hint of grey, at the height of his prowess. He launched into a bit: “Where is the blue food? And why can’t we have it?” I nearly dropped my glass of scotch as I sat up straighter. Carlin went on through a litany of non-blue foods, spitting out the words as his mock disgust grew, culminating with blueberries: “Blue on the vine; purple on the plate!” I was stunned and oddly proud -- somehow my kids were channeling George Carlin!
As I thought about the coincidence, I realized that Jerry Seinfeld had gotten it partly right when he wrote: “His performing voice . . . always sounded as if he were trying to amuse a child. It was like the naughtiest, most fun grown-up you ever met was reading you a bedtime story.” I think it was even more than that. I think that the reason why Carlin was great was that he never lost the child’s ability to see the world as something endlessly new that could be molded and shaped into anything you wanted. Why couldn’t food be blue, after all?
His genius was combining that ability with the very adult ability to ask why we accept things as they are; why we tell ourselves little lies to get through the day; and why, if we really are independent-thinking adults, do we need or accept someone else telling us what and how to think? In his refusal to accept and submit to any kind of authority, he retained the spirit of the two-year old who simply stamps his foot and says “no.” He sounded like a grown-up reading a bedtime story because, I think, he wanted to draw us back into childhood, to a time of questioning and possibility that really would lead us to re-make the world into a place far less rife with violence and stupidity. A pretty ambitious project; no wonder every description comes up a little short.
Goodbye, George, and, thanks. From now on, Zoe and I are ordering the blue Jell-o. . . and the jumbo shrimp.
During the week, Alice had been away at a summer theatre camp outside Chicago. On Friday, we drove to Downer’s Grove to see her in the 15-minute production that would be the culmination of her week. Naturally, she was great. But the best part was that in her play, set in medieval times, she had to play the role of a jester, among other things. Yep, George Carlin dies, and my daughter does her first stand-up gig, all in the same week. What are the odds?
Anyway, back at the hotel that night, I told her how much I enjoyed her performance, and that I thought her timing was pretty good. Then, I had to tell her about Carlin. Of course, she had no idea who he was, but she listened patiently as I did my best to recount one of my favorite Carlin bits about “Limbo” and where things go when they get lost. She chuckled, to humor me (something she has learned to do quite well), if nothing else.
The next day, we decided to hit the Museum of Science and Industry before heading home. After a few exhibits, we stopped at the Brain Food Court to eat lunch. By the time I had sorted through all of the choices, everyone else was seated, and Zoe had finished most of her lunch, except for her Jell-o dessert. We spent a few minutes comparing notes on our lunch choices. I had found a decent salad to eat. Rebecca seemed a tad jealous. Zoe piped up: “I’m just excited about my Jell-o, because it’s blue.” We all agreed that blue food was hard to find and worth being excited about. Indeed, Rebecca and I noted, when we were kids, blue food was pretty much non-existent. Alice added that blueberries looked blue, but they were really purple when you ate them.
After we drove home and everyone went to bed, I channel-surfed by Saturday Night Live and noticed that, as a tribute to Carlin, they were re-running the first episode, which Carlin had hosted in 1975. Though it was late, I had to watch. And there he was: long flowing hair and beard intact, without a hint of grey, at the height of his prowess. He launched into a bit: “Where is the blue food? And why can’t we have it?” I nearly dropped my glass of scotch as I sat up straighter. Carlin went on through a litany of non-blue foods, spitting out the words as his mock disgust grew, culminating with blueberries: “Blue on the vine; purple on the plate!” I was stunned and oddly proud -- somehow my kids were channeling George Carlin!
As I thought about the coincidence, I realized that Jerry Seinfeld had gotten it partly right when he wrote: “His performing voice . . . always sounded as if he were trying to amuse a child. It was like the naughtiest, most fun grown-up you ever met was reading you a bedtime story.” I think it was even more than that. I think that the reason why Carlin was great was that he never lost the child’s ability to see the world as something endlessly new that could be molded and shaped into anything you wanted. Why couldn’t food be blue, after all?
His genius was combining that ability with the very adult ability to ask why we accept things as they are; why we tell ourselves little lies to get through the day; and why, if we really are independent-thinking adults, do we need or accept someone else telling us what and how to think? In his refusal to accept and submit to any kind of authority, he retained the spirit of the two-year old who simply stamps his foot and says “no.” He sounded like a grown-up reading a bedtime story because, I think, he wanted to draw us back into childhood, to a time of questioning and possibility that really would lead us to re-make the world into a place far less rife with violence and stupidity. A pretty ambitious project; no wonder every description comes up a little short.
Goodbye, George, and, thanks. From now on, Zoe and I are ordering the blue Jell-o. . . and the jumbo shrimp.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Live From St. Paul – The Bastards of Young
God, what a mess, on the ladder of success
Where you take one step and miss the whole first rung
Dreams unfulfilled, graduate unskilled
It beats pickin' cotton and waitin' to be forgotten
We are the sons of no one, bastards of young
We are the sons of no one, bastards of young
The daughters and the sons
Clean your baby room, trash that baby boom
Elvis in the ground, no way no beer tonight
Income tax deduction, one hell of a function
It beats pickin' cotton and waitin' to be forgotten
We are the sons of no one, bastards of young
We are the sons of no one, bastards of young
The daughters and the sons
Unwillingness to claim us, ya got no war to name us
The ones who love us best are the ones we'll lay to rest
And visit their graves on holidays at best
The ones who love us least are the ones we'll die to please
If it's any consolation, I don't begin to understand them
We are the sons of no one, bastards of young
We are the sons of no one, bastards of young
The daughters and the sons
--The Replacements
Long before I learned that Barack Obama would be speaking from St. Paul tonight, I was thinking of the Twin Cities, and of this Replacements’ anthem for my generation. Tonight’s final clinching of the nomination by Obama heralds a new era in politics -- our era. I’m calling it the era of the Bastards of Young: we’re the first American generation with a chance to do worse for ourselves than our parents did for themselves.
We’ve been mostly ignored since we began – by our parents, by the self-obsessed baby boomers, by the government that charged us usurious interest rates on our student loans, by marketers who’ve moved on to generations y and z. We’re not monolithic. Mostly we just stand against stupidity and, recognizing how prevalent it is in the world, spend our time trying to avoid it.
This is our ethos. Treating people badly because of the color of their skin? Stupid. Paying someone less money for doing the same job just because she’s a woman? Stupid. “Protecting” the institution of marriage from gay couples when our parents got divorced in droves? Stupid. Destroying the planet our kids will inherit? Stupid. Nuclear power? Stupid. Squander our nation’s wealth on an ill-conceived adventure in Iraq? Stupid. 8-track tapes? Stoooopid!!
In 2004, John Kerry tried to wear the mantle and appeal to us but failed miserably. He was and is forever defined by what he did in Vietnam. You see, they got no wars to name us. Blasting U2 at Kerry rallies somehow never felt right. In contrast, Barack Obama taking the stage to “Beautiful Day” makes all the sense in the world. U2 are OUR Beatles. Hell, Obama might even own a U2 album.
We missed out on the summer of love but learned to never mind the bollocks. We missed out on cheap drugs and free love, getting higher drinking ages and lectures on safe sex instead. The Boomers gave us better coffee, better beer, and of course, fine balsamic vinegar, but the planet’s a mess; the economy’s a shambles; our cities are dying; and why aren’t there any good public schools left for our kids?
It’s our time alright. It’s time for my generation to elect one of us. Time for the Bastards of Young.
--June 3, 2008
Where you take one step and miss the whole first rung
Dreams unfulfilled, graduate unskilled
It beats pickin' cotton and waitin' to be forgotten
We are the sons of no one, bastards of young
We are the sons of no one, bastards of young
The daughters and the sons
Clean your baby room, trash that baby boom
Elvis in the ground, no way no beer tonight
Income tax deduction, one hell of a function
It beats pickin' cotton and waitin' to be forgotten
We are the sons of no one, bastards of young
We are the sons of no one, bastards of young
The daughters and the sons
Unwillingness to claim us, ya got no war to name us
The ones who love us best are the ones we'll lay to rest
And visit their graves on holidays at best
The ones who love us least are the ones we'll die to please
If it's any consolation, I don't begin to understand them
We are the sons of no one, bastards of young
We are the sons of no one, bastards of young
The daughters and the sons
--The Replacements
Long before I learned that Barack Obama would be speaking from St. Paul tonight, I was thinking of the Twin Cities, and of this Replacements’ anthem for my generation. Tonight’s final clinching of the nomination by Obama heralds a new era in politics -- our era. I’m calling it the era of the Bastards of Young: we’re the first American generation with a chance to do worse for ourselves than our parents did for themselves.
We’ve been mostly ignored since we began – by our parents, by the self-obsessed baby boomers, by the government that charged us usurious interest rates on our student loans, by marketers who’ve moved on to generations y and z. We’re not monolithic. Mostly we just stand against stupidity and, recognizing how prevalent it is in the world, spend our time trying to avoid it.
This is our ethos. Treating people badly because of the color of their skin? Stupid. Paying someone less money for doing the same job just because she’s a woman? Stupid. “Protecting” the institution of marriage from gay couples when our parents got divorced in droves? Stupid. Destroying the planet our kids will inherit? Stupid. Nuclear power? Stupid. Squander our nation’s wealth on an ill-conceived adventure in Iraq? Stupid. 8-track tapes? Stoooopid!!
In 2004, John Kerry tried to wear the mantle and appeal to us but failed miserably. He was and is forever defined by what he did in Vietnam. You see, they got no wars to name us. Blasting U2 at Kerry rallies somehow never felt right. In contrast, Barack Obama taking the stage to “Beautiful Day” makes all the sense in the world. U2 are OUR Beatles. Hell, Obama might even own a U2 album.
We missed out on the summer of love but learned to never mind the bollocks. We missed out on cheap drugs and free love, getting higher drinking ages and lectures on safe sex instead. The Boomers gave us better coffee, better beer, and of course, fine balsamic vinegar, but the planet’s a mess; the economy’s a shambles; our cities are dying; and why aren’t there any good public schools left for our kids?
It’s our time alright. It’s time for my generation to elect one of us. Time for the Bastards of Young.
--June 3, 2008
Monday, February 11, 2008
Grammys Diary 2008
(SOMEONE HAD TO DO IT, RIGHT?)
[Had to put the girls to bed, and so I missed the Time Reunion with Rihanna, and Prince as a presenter. But hey, three hours of Grammy magic is more than enough.]
2/10/2008 8:31:51 PM
Turned on in the middle of the Cirque du Soleil Beatles piece, “Love.” For a minute I thought they had hoisted Fergie to the rafters and were spinning her around. Wow, maybe Fergie will puke. Oh, it’s not Fergie? Damn!
2/10/2008 8:48:27 PM
Wow! Catch Kanye West, performing like someone who will be pissed again if he doesn’t win some awards. Go, Kanye! Cool outfits, too. Do Daftpunk know Kanye’s on to them?
2/10/2008 8:51:01 PM
Kanye moves into a slower tune and a tribute to his Mom. Standing between two pits in the stage filled by incredibly pasty and flabby mostly white kids (can more than 5 of them actually own his album?), reaching after him like zombies from a George Romero movie. Aah, that Grammy magic.
2/10/2008 8:57:45 PM
Ooh, time for an award. Are they giving out awards at this thing, too? I thought it was just lots of mediocre entertainment for the suits. Here’s Fergie to present, guess she wasn’t puking after all. Hmm, best performance of 40 year-old music accompanied by one wacko circus performance. And the winner is . . .The Beatles! A shocker. Ringo appears, but no Paul. Have we really reached the stage when Paul is the one who knows better? Oy!
2/10/2008 9:04:39 PM
And now, Cher, to introduce Beyoncé. Incredible. Can I go to Cher’s plastic surgeon, please? It’s as though she just goes in and gets re-conditioned every so often. Incredible.
2/10/2008 9:06:32 PM
And now Beyoncé introduces, Tina Turner. Holy plastic surgeons, Batman! Forget Cher, I want Tina’s. What’s lipo got to do with it? Indeed.
2/10/2008 9:09:39 PM
And now, the obligatory duet. Proud Mary. What if Tina falls over and crushes Beyoncé? Check out the anorexic back-up singer who looks like Avril Lavigne. How did they do that? Is cloning legal in Canada?
2/10/2008 9:13:33 PM
Another award. Nelly Furtado, someone I’ve never heard of, and Andy Williams. Bet those pasty kids trapped in the middle of the stage are glad to have a close-up of this. . .
Hey, an award for Burt Bachrach, cool. And now the song of the year . . .
Amy Winehouse: “Rehab.” Apparently there’s no live acceptance speech, go figure.
2/10/2008 9:21:52 PM
Woo! This year’s Grammy Moment. Woo!! Now there’s a contest that you want to enter. 15 minutes of fame and the loss of any chance at ever being cool again. Gotta get the details on that one. Playing violin with John Paul Jones and the Foo Fighters. Woo! And a song intro that sounds just a tad like “Stairway to Heaven,” coincidence? Ah, now the Foos’ trademark faux-indie sludge, will we hear a single note that the poor woman is trying to play?
2/10/2008 9:26:29 PM
Here we go, the big orchestral instrumental break, which fits not at all with the rest of the song. . . Anyone else out there wishing they’d just play “Carouselambra” or something and be done with it? Woo!! It’s over. Woo!
2/10/2008 9:33:24 PM
And now, George Lopez. As if the Grammys needed to go for intentional comedy. Introducing Brad Paisley, ‘cause Latinos like soulless corporate country songs just as much as everyone else. Nice look for Brad, though. Didn’t know Jake Gyllenhaal’s “Brokeback Mountain” wardrobe was out on eBay, but hey, it’s workin’ for you, Brad!
2/10/2008 9:38:41 PM
Hey, they got three Black folks up to present an award. Must be best rap album. Let’s hope Kanye doesn’t kill someone . . . Kanye WINS! Phew, no one will have to die. He’s still wearing the Daftpunk clothes, how cool is that? Uh oh, they’re playing the music while Kanye’s trying to talk, are they trying to get him to kill someone? Undaunted by THE MAN, Kanye keeps talking (giving props to Amy Winehouse, no less), and . . . the music stops. No one is cooler. NO ONE.
2/10/2008 9:43:51 PM
Next up. Bebe Winans and Aretha, who looks as though she ate the Avril Lavigne look-alike singer. No one who looks that much like Jabba the Hut should wear a practically sleeveless gown. OK, Aretha, props to you, you’re no Tina or Cher, and thank goodness.
2/10/2008 9:46:58 PM
And now, some New Orleans-style trombone. The pasties in the pits are loving it!!! Watch out, they’re trying to clap in time. Someone help them, quick!
2/10/2008 9:49:17 PM
Oh hell, this is one of those lame-o Grammy medleys. Wait, another gospel group is up, fronted by . . .Vito from the Sopranos? I had no idea. Oh, thank God (getting into the spirit, aren’t I?), Aretha’s back on. I think she sang for a total of 90 seconds. That’s one second per square yard of cloth used in her dress. More Grammy magic . . .
2/10/2008 9:58:30 PM
Carole King and Dierks Bentley introduce Feist, singing that mildly amusing song from the iPod commercial. A big spot for a folkie in a nice dress. But let’s face it, Amy Winehouse would kick her ass. Too bad the horn section is walking all over her, too. Is that a bearskin rug she’s performing on? Can we get Amy to perform on one? Please.
2/10/2008 10:01:54 PM
That was over quick. And now Kid Rock singing with a much older Canadian woman, Keely Smith. Rebecca says Kid Rock is too skinny. I tell her that’s what hanging out with all those porn stars will do for you. “That Old Black Magic.” Cute. On to the nominees for best rock album. . . What the hell is Daughtry anyway?
2/10/2008 10:04:07 PM
If there’s any justice, Wilco . . . oh forget it, the Grammys aren’t about recognizing good music. The Foo Fighters win for making the fourth or fifth version of their first album. Woo! Dave Grohl’s acceptance speech, first names only (thanks Clive, was that your pasty granddaughter I saw in the pit?). Let’s see if he tries to talk over the music like Kanye. Hell, no!
2/10/2008 10:12:01 PM
Ladies and Gentlemen (could it be Stevie Wonder?) . . . Yes! I thought I recognized that tent-like shape. Stevie honoring Berry Gordy. Pasties in the pit unsure whether to applaud (who is Berry Gordy, anyway?). Fittingly, Stevie introduces Alicia Keys, a keyboard player with pipes to rival his. “No one, No one, No one” believes that she really enjoys doing this drivel. Writ large, the curse of being too good-looking for the record company to let you sit at the piano.
2/10/2008 10:16:34 PM
And now, John Mayer appears. The pasties recognize him. Thanks for the 10-second guitar fill, John. Now, stop standing in front of Alicia!
2/10/2008 10:18:09 PM
Woo! Ringo’s back, professing his love for country music. Best country album. Sure to inspire a few yawns. Vince Gill wins. Apparently, the album features a song almost entirely devoid of rhythm, because they keep playing it as Vince walks up. And now Vince makes the mistake of calling out Kanye. I’m taking bets on what pieces of Vince will be found where tomorrow. Easy, Kanye.
2/10/2008 10:25:53 PM
Next up . . . Joe Mantegna? Honoring Itzhak Perlman and Max Roach . . .And so we’ll celebrate by playing . . . “Rhapsody in Blue”? Huh? Huh? and Huh? Wouldn’t be the Grammys without that cognitive dissonance. Are they playing the United Airlines theme music because someone has to catch a plane? Or wishes they did? I know I do. ZZZZ.
2/10/2008 10:33:37 PM
Can’t wait for the promised mash up of John Fogerty, Little Richard, and Jerry Lee Lewis. Can one of them take the title for “Most Embarrasing Grammy Appearance” from Sly Stone?
2/10/2008 10:33:59 PM
Juanes and Taylor Smith to present the next award. Juanes clearing thinking, “Yow, this chick is so mine, now that she’s 18!” And the award for Best rap/sung collaboration goes to: Rihanna with Jay-Z. They take turns giving thank yous, which makes it sound like Jay-Z is “interpreting” for Rihanna (she is from the Caribbean, after all) during the acceptance speech. Just shut up, and act like you been there before, Rihanna.
2/10/2008 10:41:44 PM
Cuba Gooding introducing Amy Winehouse, let the fun begin. “I’m No Good.” No “Rehab”? Amy looks as skinny as Kid Rock. What time is it over in London anyway? About 4 AM? What happened to the mole on her face? Removed or covered with make-up? Looks like she’s been practicing her Mick Jagger pout. Shadoobie! Whoa, a little wobbly on those heels. Ah, here’s “Rehab.” Double whoa, Amy tries to dance and nearly topples again. At the end of the performance –solid enough-- she looks chastened and penitent. Strange.
2/10/2008 10:48:35 PM
Back to LA. Tony Bennett and Natalie Cole. Honoring Doris Day. Doris Day!!??? Could the contrast between Doris and Amy be any more stark? Was this planned? Is anyone noticing this besides me?
2/10/2008 10:50:06 PM
Record of the Year. Rihanna, Foo Fighters, Justin Timberlake, Amy, etc. Amy wins!! Amy wins!! Take that, Doris! 30 years from now I’ll be showing up wasted to accept my lifetime achievement award. And now for the acceptance speech: Amy stunned. Almost speechless. Then she revs up. So much for chastened and penitent. Here come the thank you’s, including “For my Blake. My Blake incarcerated.” Nice.
2/10/2008 10:58:51 PM
And now, a commercial for those loveable folks in the Music Industry. You know, the parents of the pasty kids in the pit. The MusicCares foundation. Coming soon, the opening of the Grammy Museum. Woo! This evening’s show to be preserved forever! Save the Music! All those nice things we do, just pass our legislation so we can sue people who download music. And presenting, Eldar. Thanks for the 30 seconds of Oscar Peterson, Eldar. 50 years of honoring the mediocre. Woo!
2/10/2008 11:04:33 PM
The honor roll of the deceased for the past year. Josh Groban paying tribute. Playing piano, singing in Italian. Does anyone else wish this were part of a Will Ferrell movie? Isn’t it already?
2/10/2008 11:13:28 PM
Bonnie Raitt. Introducing John Fogerty, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Little Richard. Three old guys, each weirder than Amy Winehouse. Here we go!!! Fogerty, not looking a day over 60. Jerry Lee looking like he’s recovering from a stroke, yet still singing well and playing competently. Not an embarrassment, but a little sad. More Fogerty. Now Little Richard. “Good Golly Miss Molly.” Does Richard go to Tina’s plastic surgeon? Not too shabby. Uh-oh, Jerry Lee now looks totally lost. Phew! It ends in time for Jerry Lee to stay comfortably outside Sly Stone territory.
2/10/2008 11:25:31 PM
Will. I. Am. Singing “Mack the Knife.” Yes he can. He can rhyme Grammys and jammies. You got nothing on Will.I. Am, George Lopez.
2/10/2008 11:27:30 PM
Usher and Quincy Jones. Quincy looking surprisingly old and feeble. Album of the year up next. Foo Fighters, Vince Gill, Herbie Hancock (?), Kanye, Amy. They’re still worried about Kanye; Usher joking nervously, thinking about how to exit the building without coming across Kanye.
And the winner is: Herbie Hancock. Herbie Hancock? What? That sound backstage was Kanye’s head exploding. Guess Vince Gill is safe.
Herbie drops his speech, looking more feeble than Quincy, who picks up the speech and hands it to him. Herbie goes political. Yes we can, he says. You betcha, just ask Will. I. Am. They’re playing the music. It’s over. The Next 50 Years start here!
Woo!!
[Had to put the girls to bed, and so I missed the Time Reunion with Rihanna, and Prince as a presenter. But hey, three hours of Grammy magic is more than enough.]
2/10/2008 8:31:51 PM
Turned on in the middle of the Cirque du Soleil Beatles piece, “Love.” For a minute I thought they had hoisted Fergie to the rafters and were spinning her around. Wow, maybe Fergie will puke. Oh, it’s not Fergie? Damn!
2/10/2008 8:48:27 PM
Wow! Catch Kanye West, performing like someone who will be pissed again if he doesn’t win some awards. Go, Kanye! Cool outfits, too. Do Daftpunk know Kanye’s on to them?
2/10/2008 8:51:01 PM
Kanye moves into a slower tune and a tribute to his Mom. Standing between two pits in the stage filled by incredibly pasty and flabby mostly white kids (can more than 5 of them actually own his album?), reaching after him like zombies from a George Romero movie. Aah, that Grammy magic.
2/10/2008 8:57:45 PM
Ooh, time for an award. Are they giving out awards at this thing, too? I thought it was just lots of mediocre entertainment for the suits. Here’s Fergie to present, guess she wasn’t puking after all. Hmm, best performance of 40 year-old music accompanied by one wacko circus performance. And the winner is . . .The Beatles! A shocker. Ringo appears, but no Paul. Have we really reached the stage when Paul is the one who knows better? Oy!
2/10/2008 9:04:39 PM
And now, Cher, to introduce Beyoncé. Incredible. Can I go to Cher’s plastic surgeon, please? It’s as though she just goes in and gets re-conditioned every so often. Incredible.
2/10/2008 9:06:32 PM
And now Beyoncé introduces, Tina Turner. Holy plastic surgeons, Batman! Forget Cher, I want Tina’s. What’s lipo got to do with it? Indeed.
2/10/2008 9:09:39 PM
And now, the obligatory duet. Proud Mary. What if Tina falls over and crushes Beyoncé? Check out the anorexic back-up singer who looks like Avril Lavigne. How did they do that? Is cloning legal in Canada?
2/10/2008 9:13:33 PM
Another award. Nelly Furtado, someone I’ve never heard of, and Andy Williams. Bet those pasty kids trapped in the middle of the stage are glad to have a close-up of this. . .
Hey, an award for Burt Bachrach, cool. And now the song of the year . . .
Amy Winehouse: “Rehab.” Apparently there’s no live acceptance speech, go figure.
2/10/2008 9:21:52 PM
Woo! This year’s Grammy Moment. Woo!! Now there’s a contest that you want to enter. 15 minutes of fame and the loss of any chance at ever being cool again. Gotta get the details on that one. Playing violin with John Paul Jones and the Foo Fighters. Woo! And a song intro that sounds just a tad like “Stairway to Heaven,” coincidence? Ah, now the Foos’ trademark faux-indie sludge, will we hear a single note that the poor woman is trying to play?
2/10/2008 9:26:29 PM
Here we go, the big orchestral instrumental break, which fits not at all with the rest of the song. . . Anyone else out there wishing they’d just play “Carouselambra” or something and be done with it? Woo!! It’s over. Woo!
2/10/2008 9:33:24 PM
And now, George Lopez. As if the Grammys needed to go for intentional comedy. Introducing Brad Paisley, ‘cause Latinos like soulless corporate country songs just as much as everyone else. Nice look for Brad, though. Didn’t know Jake Gyllenhaal’s “Brokeback Mountain” wardrobe was out on eBay, but hey, it’s workin’ for you, Brad!
2/10/2008 9:38:41 PM
Hey, they got three Black folks up to present an award. Must be best rap album. Let’s hope Kanye doesn’t kill someone . . . Kanye WINS! Phew, no one will have to die. He’s still wearing the Daftpunk clothes, how cool is that? Uh oh, they’re playing the music while Kanye’s trying to talk, are they trying to get him to kill someone? Undaunted by THE MAN, Kanye keeps talking (giving props to Amy Winehouse, no less), and . . . the music stops. No one is cooler. NO ONE.
2/10/2008 9:43:51 PM
Next up. Bebe Winans and Aretha, who looks as though she ate the Avril Lavigne look-alike singer. No one who looks that much like Jabba the Hut should wear a practically sleeveless gown. OK, Aretha, props to you, you’re no Tina or Cher, and thank goodness.
2/10/2008 9:46:58 PM
And now, some New Orleans-style trombone. The pasties in the pits are loving it!!! Watch out, they’re trying to clap in time. Someone help them, quick!
2/10/2008 9:49:17 PM
Oh hell, this is one of those lame-o Grammy medleys. Wait, another gospel group is up, fronted by . . .Vito from the Sopranos? I had no idea. Oh, thank God (getting into the spirit, aren’t I?), Aretha’s back on. I think she sang for a total of 90 seconds. That’s one second per square yard of cloth used in her dress. More Grammy magic . . .
2/10/2008 9:58:30 PM
Carole King and Dierks Bentley introduce Feist, singing that mildly amusing song from the iPod commercial. A big spot for a folkie in a nice dress. But let’s face it, Amy Winehouse would kick her ass. Too bad the horn section is walking all over her, too. Is that a bearskin rug she’s performing on? Can we get Amy to perform on one? Please.
2/10/2008 10:01:54 PM
That was over quick. And now Kid Rock singing with a much older Canadian woman, Keely Smith. Rebecca says Kid Rock is too skinny. I tell her that’s what hanging out with all those porn stars will do for you. “That Old Black Magic.” Cute. On to the nominees for best rock album. . . What the hell is Daughtry anyway?
2/10/2008 10:04:07 PM
If there’s any justice, Wilco . . . oh forget it, the Grammys aren’t about recognizing good music. The Foo Fighters win for making the fourth or fifth version of their first album. Woo! Dave Grohl’s acceptance speech, first names only (thanks Clive, was that your pasty granddaughter I saw in the pit?). Let’s see if he tries to talk over the music like Kanye. Hell, no!
2/10/2008 10:12:01 PM
Ladies and Gentlemen (could it be Stevie Wonder?) . . . Yes! I thought I recognized that tent-like shape. Stevie honoring Berry Gordy. Pasties in the pit unsure whether to applaud (who is Berry Gordy, anyway?). Fittingly, Stevie introduces Alicia Keys, a keyboard player with pipes to rival his. “No one, No one, No one” believes that she really enjoys doing this drivel. Writ large, the curse of being too good-looking for the record company to let you sit at the piano.
2/10/2008 10:16:34 PM
And now, John Mayer appears. The pasties recognize him. Thanks for the 10-second guitar fill, John. Now, stop standing in front of Alicia!
2/10/2008 10:18:09 PM
Woo! Ringo’s back, professing his love for country music. Best country album. Sure to inspire a few yawns. Vince Gill wins. Apparently, the album features a song almost entirely devoid of rhythm, because they keep playing it as Vince walks up. And now Vince makes the mistake of calling out Kanye. I’m taking bets on what pieces of Vince will be found where tomorrow. Easy, Kanye.
2/10/2008 10:25:53 PM
Next up . . . Joe Mantegna? Honoring Itzhak Perlman and Max Roach . . .And so we’ll celebrate by playing . . . “Rhapsody in Blue”? Huh? Huh? and Huh? Wouldn’t be the Grammys without that cognitive dissonance. Are they playing the United Airlines theme music because someone has to catch a plane? Or wishes they did? I know I do. ZZZZ.
2/10/2008 10:33:37 PM
Can’t wait for the promised mash up of John Fogerty, Little Richard, and Jerry Lee Lewis. Can one of them take the title for “Most Embarrasing Grammy Appearance” from Sly Stone?
2/10/2008 10:33:59 PM
Juanes and Taylor Smith to present the next award. Juanes clearing thinking, “Yow, this chick is so mine, now that she’s 18!” And the award for Best rap/sung collaboration goes to: Rihanna with Jay-Z. They take turns giving thank yous, which makes it sound like Jay-Z is “interpreting” for Rihanna (she is from the Caribbean, after all) during the acceptance speech. Just shut up, and act like you been there before, Rihanna.
2/10/2008 10:41:44 PM
Cuba Gooding introducing Amy Winehouse, let the fun begin. “I’m No Good.” No “Rehab”? Amy looks as skinny as Kid Rock. What time is it over in London anyway? About 4 AM? What happened to the mole on her face? Removed or covered with make-up? Looks like she’s been practicing her Mick Jagger pout. Shadoobie! Whoa, a little wobbly on those heels. Ah, here’s “Rehab.” Double whoa, Amy tries to dance and nearly topples again. At the end of the performance –solid enough-- she looks chastened and penitent. Strange.
2/10/2008 10:48:35 PM
Back to LA. Tony Bennett and Natalie Cole. Honoring Doris Day. Doris Day!!??? Could the contrast between Doris and Amy be any more stark? Was this planned? Is anyone noticing this besides me?
2/10/2008 10:50:06 PM
Record of the Year. Rihanna, Foo Fighters, Justin Timberlake, Amy, etc. Amy wins!! Amy wins!! Take that, Doris! 30 years from now I’ll be showing up wasted to accept my lifetime achievement award. And now for the acceptance speech: Amy stunned. Almost speechless. Then she revs up. So much for chastened and penitent. Here come the thank you’s, including “For my Blake. My Blake incarcerated.” Nice.
2/10/2008 10:58:51 PM
And now, a commercial for those loveable folks in the Music Industry. You know, the parents of the pasty kids in the pit. The MusicCares foundation. Coming soon, the opening of the Grammy Museum. Woo! This evening’s show to be preserved forever! Save the Music! All those nice things we do, just pass our legislation so we can sue people who download music. And presenting, Eldar. Thanks for the 30 seconds of Oscar Peterson, Eldar. 50 years of honoring the mediocre. Woo!
2/10/2008 11:04:33 PM
The honor roll of the deceased for the past year. Josh Groban paying tribute. Playing piano, singing in Italian. Does anyone else wish this were part of a Will Ferrell movie? Isn’t it already?
2/10/2008 11:13:28 PM
Bonnie Raitt. Introducing John Fogerty, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Little Richard. Three old guys, each weirder than Amy Winehouse. Here we go!!! Fogerty, not looking a day over 60. Jerry Lee looking like he’s recovering from a stroke, yet still singing well and playing competently. Not an embarrassment, but a little sad. More Fogerty. Now Little Richard. “Good Golly Miss Molly.” Does Richard go to Tina’s plastic surgeon? Not too shabby. Uh-oh, Jerry Lee now looks totally lost. Phew! It ends in time for Jerry Lee to stay comfortably outside Sly Stone territory.
2/10/2008 11:25:31 PM
Will. I. Am. Singing “Mack the Knife.” Yes he can. He can rhyme Grammys and jammies. You got nothing on Will.I. Am, George Lopez.
2/10/2008 11:27:30 PM
Usher and Quincy Jones. Quincy looking surprisingly old and feeble. Album of the year up next. Foo Fighters, Vince Gill, Herbie Hancock (?), Kanye, Amy. They’re still worried about Kanye; Usher joking nervously, thinking about how to exit the building without coming across Kanye.
And the winner is: Herbie Hancock. Herbie Hancock? What? That sound backstage was Kanye’s head exploding. Guess Vince Gill is safe.
Herbie drops his speech, looking more feeble than Quincy, who picks up the speech and hands it to him. Herbie goes political. Yes we can, he says. You betcha, just ask Will. I. Am. They’re playing the music. It’s over. The Next 50 Years start here!
Woo!!
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