watch your stupid movie

There is much to find unbelievable in this
wacky sci-fi, but that's its charm.

I am no cinephile or cinesnob. There are far too many low-budget, low-brow and generally low-low films in my collection.

First Men in the Moon was made in 1964 and there's kind of a made-for-Tv, Disney goofiness about it. This is not a white-knuckle "man meets alien" thriller, but there is coolness aplenty.
The movies of my childhood remain favorites. So shall they always be. There is some hidden feeble attempt in this to return to much more innocent and happier time or to obscure time's constant reminder that youth has long faded.

 I wasn't a child who needed constant entertainment from his parents (according to my mother), but was happy being immersed in a book, TV or imaginary playtime.

Watching Saturday afternoon features is a big part of my nostalgic rewriting of my childhood. All memory is fiction, isn't it? It's certainly not very reliable. One thing's for sure, once watched, I never forgot these movies.

Why is this movie cool?

1. Lionel Jeffries as Joseph Cavor. Jeffries was an actor with obvious chops who perfectly plays Cavor with as an absentminded-scientist-cum-loopy-dreamer. Kate and Bedford play the romantic interests and hapless tag-a-longs to Cavor's wacky plans to go to the moon.

2. Hell's bells, boys! They fly to the moon in a giant metal sphere!

I'm not one of these idiots (on Amazon, for instance) who sits and cynically dissects all the flaws of a film. Why do that? Of course, it's all ridiculous and impossible: this is the realm of imagination and storytelling. In short, it's fucking stupid to do that.

3. Cool monsters animated by Ray Harryhausen.

The giant caterpillar is very cool, but the animated Selenites steal the show. The "actors" in the Selenite costumes have not aged well and there's a few laughs to be had, but when Harryhausen's creatures are on screen, then the film lifts off to another level.

Cavel's encounter with the Selenite leader is a nice turn. Personally, it's a bit too short because we could have learned how these moon insects colonized and maybe a bit more of their darker purpose and plans for the invading humans.

4. This film uses Dynamation!
The CGI of its time.

Yes, I know I should be watching The Notebook and learning the joys of humankind through mediocre and cliche love stories, but ya know? That shit seems just as unbelievable.

As Ray Bradbury said, "I'll keep my dinosaurs." Hells to the yeah, Ray.

I'll keep my fantasy films.

What Dreams May Dumb

"I had a dream about you, baby
A dream about you, baby"

"Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak
Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break."

This may be one of those posts where people tell me, "I am looking into your soul." Please, I have no soul; at least none that I can detect.

Last night, I had a dream about an old college love. Succinct and sweet, but as with all romantic dreams, it bears no relationship to logic, but to matters of the heart.

The dream was this:
In a classroom, I saw her. We were both avoiding each other. She then approached me and while keeping her eyes averted and her face hidden, she handed me a very small porcelain disc. It was like a coffee saucer and it had some words painted on it. Evidently it was an award she had won. I said something like, "Congratulations. That's great," and then kissed her left cheek. Then I kissed her lips and then her right cheek.

That kiss reminded me why I had fallen so crazy for her many years ago.

 When I woke up, that old haunting feeling was back. No chastisement, I just accepted it. Dreams are wild things, unbidden absurdities and buried truths that we suppress in daylight hours. I had thought that these feelings were long shelved and condemned to history. Evidently not.

The delicate pangs of wanting someone when
they reciprocate not. Nice.

But does this represent a subconscious desire?

 Maybe. The beautiful daylight today reminded me of passions long ago, but it also serves to separate emotion from fact. This amourous episode was one of the hardest things I've ever had to deal with. Fucking hell. Of how the excitement built until our first kiss and then the painful and destructive havoc of separating a mere eight months later. Due to circumstance, ours was never going to be a healthy and real relationship. It got worse and worse as she slowly pulled away. She made it worse by denying it at first and then lying about her relationship with another man.

 Ah, love. People attribute sarcasm to my demeanor. No fucking wonder.

Dreams like these remind us of our childlike desire to have painful events into perspective; to peer into chaos and find pattern. Or to use a contemporary cliche, closure. Personally, I don't believe in the word closure. Accepted indifference by negligence? Sure. Time doesn't heal anything, it just gives us some distance between today and the pain of yesterdays. There is no closure. We bear up and we live with it.

When you break up with someone on campus, it's not like you're never going to see them again. After some time had passed (and my blinding anger subsided), I let sentiment rule my judgment and talked to her on a few occasions. It felt very awkward with her fake cheerfulness and her acting like we were beginning with a clean slate. Sincerity and honesty were not her strong suits. She was a master of evasion, obfuscation and I believe that she had some serious issues. I pity the poor bastards who followed me.

 

I wanted to go beneath her bullshit and find out many "whys?" This was not going to happen. In the end, as  painful as it was and as uncommunicative as she was, I had to let go of it all. It took a long time.

Evidently, not long enough.  

 

The Silence of Hannibal

It's nearly impossible to make a perfect movie,
but this one comes damn close.

CAVEAT: all my movie stuff has spoilers. Read at your own risk.

This is pretty much going to be on everyone's favorite list, but I must sing the praises of the two great Hannibal Lector movies (Hannibal Rising left me cold and Red Dragon has the wrong actor for Will Graham).

What is it about a well-educated, even polite, incredibly intelligent serial killer? After all, the man eats human flesh. What redeeming qualities could he have?

Plenty.

Dr. Lector's insight into people is remarkable. Instantly he finds Clarice's motives and insecurities and makes her squirm. A compulsion he savors like a fine vintage.

Hannibal is a metaphor for someone who acts upon what may cross our minds in a fit of fury: revenge/murder of those who have wronged us. But it isn't just Hannibal's horrific crimes that draw us to him, it is his unflinching honesty. (And who wouldn't want a mind with that much retention and capacity?)

Unlike us, Hannibal has no filters on his observations and thoughts. He says what we smother with an awkward smile.

If you asked people to quote anything from this movie, you're going to get the old "fave-beans-and-nice-Chianti" bit, but this movie reveals much, much more. When pressed for more information about Buffalo Bill, Dr. Lector reveals his brilliance:

"Look for severe childhood disturbances associated with violence. Our Billy wasn't born a criminal, Clarice. He was made one through years of systematic abuse. Billy hates his own identity, you see, and he thinks that makes him a transsexual. But his pathology is a thousand times more savage and more terrifying."

Boom: sum and substance in five sentences.

Some Lector fans never gave this movie a chance because Jodie Foster bitched out and did not reprise her Clarice. Her reasoning was that "my character wouldn't do that," referring to the book's ending of Clarice and Hannibal becoming romantically involved. As shocking as that was to read, I thought the author wrapped up the story quite convincingly and nicely. And since when does an actor own a character more than the writer who created it?

So what, Julianne Moore is great.


Hannibal is the most elegant of all the Lector movies. Here we are invited into the world of refined taste: delicately nuanced food, musical masterworks, literary treasures and even hand engineered skin lotion. Remember, "it rubs the lotion on its skin"? A nice reference back.

All the symbolism, the literary references, the symbols and metaphors of this magical movie were missed by movie-goers who were only impressed or grossed out by the brain dissection scene. Which proves that directors can lace their work with delightful layers upon layers of richness and Neanderthals will miss it every time.

(heavy sigh)

Again Lector's insight when talking to Clarice about her dismissal from the FBI:

"Would they have you back, you think? The FBI? Those people you despise almost as much as they despise you. Would they give you a medal, Clarice, do you think? Would you have it professionally framed and hang it on your wall to look at and remind you of your courage and incorruptibility? All you would need for that, Clarice, is a mirror."

Being Where?



Essential. Peter Sellers is a genius. Hands down, no argument.

 There are movies which can speak to the viewer in a way that might suggest, "Hey, you're not alone in the world. There's others just like you."

I put this movie in that category.

When you have an artistic bent or temperament, there can be a distinct disconnect between you and the world. Some might say that there's a disconnect until you "find yourself" or at least mature enough to understand more deeply who you are and your possible place in the world, but I contend that artists have to go further in understanding why they are the way they are and ultimately accept themselves as different.

When I saw this movie, I felt a kinship not only with the director ( Hal Ashby), but with Chancey Gardiner-the hapless, lost soul who is so out-of-step with the world that he is still a child inside a man's body. I do not know what Ashby's intent or point was of this movie, all I can say is that I have much more in common with Chance the gardener than I do with any other film character I've seen. I am that inadequate, lost and fumbling than many might believe.

But I digress.

Chance is a hopeless man-child who may be slightly mentally challenged, but people around him trust him because he is an authentic person-he has no running agenda, wears no social mask, has no hangups or baggage, He simply IS, which is why I see him as the embodiment of Zen.

It's a beautiful and very funny movie with a fantastic cast and a wonderful story.

If you don't "get this one,

I understand.

My Napalm Morning

From absolute chaos, Coppola created
the epic tale of one man's journey to confront
his soul. A soul blackened by the horrors
of war.

This film nearly cost Coppola everything: his home, bank roll, family and sanity. This was the subject of Heart of Darkness: A Filmmaker's Apocalypse. This documentary about the making-of  is essential for Apocalypse enthusiasts.

So much shit went wrong during the filming that it was almost as if the gods were trying their very best to stop Apocalypse Now from being made.

Then there was Brando-way overweight and being the trickster. He and Coppola had these long conversations about his character Kurtz until Coppola realized Brando was just stalling to get out of working. Meanwhile money is flying away.

But when Brando was on, he was really on. Improvising dialogue from a broken soul-lost in despair and no way to return to the world once known.

Outtakes (from the aforementioned doc) from Brando's improv's include a digression with a far-off monkey chatter ("He's my critic. My only critic.") and the famous, "I swallowed a bug."

When not hospitalized, Martin Sheen is marvelous as Cpt. Willard- a man who has stared into the darkness and has just a sliver of humanity left in him before he is fully enveloped. Willard is a fractured man with an angry darkness, but the emptiness has no tyet. fully overtaken him.

When he meets Kurtz, he is confronting a mirror of his soul. He then is imprisoned, deprived of food and water, and undergoes the psychological terror Kurtz unleashes. Willard dies, metaphorically, only to be nursed back to life by Kurtz for three reasons: in the hope that Kurtz might make him understand "what I've tried to be," to go back to the States and tell Kurtz's son all about his father and what he accomplished. The third, and maybe the most important, Willard is to kill Kurtz (the king slayer becomes the new king idea) and thus end his nightmarish existence.
This film is very powerful on a number of levels. You should not watch it too much. You think I jest? I gave my friend a copy of the VHS I owned. He gave it back to me after a week and told me that he felt like the movie was getting under his skin. He started to watch it obsessively.

Coppola captured something real in those frames. Call it depression, insanity or the dark soul-it's there.

I highly recommend The Complete Dossier which has the original, Redux and a shitload of extras.

Apocalypse Now – The Complete Dossier DVD (Paramount Home Entertainment) (2006) Disc 2 extras include:

The Post Production of Apocalypse Now: Documentary (four featurettes covering the editing, music and sound of the film through Coppola and his team)
"A Million Feet of Film: The Editing of Apocalypse Now" (18 minutes)
"The Music of Apocalypse Now" (15 minutes)
"Heard Any Good Movies Lately? The Sound Design of Apocalypse Now" (15 minutes)
"The Final Mix" (3 minutes)

Kubrick Kubrick Kubrick

What is it about Kubrick?

Is it his color schemes? Is it the extreme characters he brings us? His obsessive detail? The stories?

Little Alex: lad gone wrong or victim of society and
government?

A Clockwork Orange
2001: A Space Odyssey
Full Metal Jacket
Lolita

The moral dilemma of A Clockwork Orange was completely lost on me when I first saw the film. I was in love with the style of the clothes, the language, the outrageous characters and of course, the ultra-violence.

I admired Alex's courage and his defiance of all authority- even that of rival gangs. My peer group were pacifistic, nature-loving, leaning towards hippie, intellectuals with most of us not knowing how to defend ourselves against the assholes and bullies of the world. Alex and his droogies would mop them up. I envied his courage and power.

The central thesis:
"Choice! The boy has not a real choice, has he? Self-interest, the fear of physical pain drove him to that grotesque act of self-abasement. The insincerity was clear to be seen. He ceases to be a wrongdoer. He ceases also to be a creature capable of moral choice."


To this day, the great moral/ethical dilemma that Kubrick (and Burgess) proposed is still lost on me, but I've changed my view on the violence of the film. Or rather, time has made me much more empathetic to those who suffer physical pain. I've seen my fair share of suffering and when I see Alex and company pound the crap out of the homeless man, I winced a few times. The violence is demented and hard to watch, but it's done with such style.

  But every frame, every scene is a keeper without a false note throughout the film. It's damn near cinematic perfection as you can get. Is there a more stylistically unique film?

2001: A Space Odyssey

Imagine a young lad being dropped off at a movie theater, barely 11 years old, to see his first sci-fi film. I didn't know what the hell was happening on the screen sometimes, but the sheer escapism of movies was magical.   When I asked my brother about the psychedelic (not even a word in my wheelhouse yet) ending, he told me that the astronaut had become a "star child." Heady stuff for a young lad, but my brother did his best to explain the story to me because he had read the book.   The scenes with HAL 9000 are brilliant.

Full Metal Jacket

Clearly divided into two sections, we see Marine boot camp at its most brutal with an outstanding (and mostly improvising-a Kubrick no-no) performance by R. Lee Ermey.  The combat scenes are some of the most intense ever. When the squad encounters the sniper, the shit gets real. If this movie comes on cable, I am mesmerized and all things stop. The death of Cowboy still fucks me up.

Lolita   James Mason and Peter Sellers are brilliant in this tale of taboo love. Dark, creepy, funny and tense. Who else but James Mason could shoot crazy Peter Sellers with such grace? Who else but Peter Sellers could play the devious, pushy stranger who follows, threatens and eventually kidnaps Lolita?

Post scriptus:

Played with such subtlety, bartender Lloyd brings a wintry
chill to the ballroom scenes. Bladerunner, anyone?

The Shining   I have to mention this film sort of as a post script because in it contains some of the most disturbing images of a paranormal nature that I've ever seen. Steven King did not like Nicholson's performance because it was way over-the-top and through the years, I've come to agree. Watching Uncle Jack go through his crazy faces used to be fun, but now I far prefer something dialed way, way back.

Still, Kubrick had a way of getting into the psyche and setting it ablaze with his twisted images.  Blood flooding from an elevator, the ghosts that inhabit the hotel, the hotel itself and the maze at the end: how can anyone get these images out of their mind?  

Film of the Doc

Grizzly Man

Eeeeeow!

Werner Herzog has made a perfect documentary. The trouble is that it is a compelling as it is disturbing.

(spoilers)

I'll wait for you to make your decision to read further.

Mostly taken from footage shot by Timothy Treadwell (nee Timothy Dexter), an amateur wildlife enthusiast and self-proclaimed protector of grizzly bears in the Alaskan wilderness, Herzog tells the story of this man who believed that he had found his calling living, unprotected mind you, among these deadly giants.

Sounds completely daft, yes?

Treadwell was a lost soul who tried acting (He auditioned to be on Cheers, but lost to Woody Harrelson), alcohol, drugs, changing his name, surfing, and a variety of odd jobs. In short, he didn't fit in anywhere except when he first observed wild bears in Alaska. From then on, his life's work and fate were sealed.

To watch Treadwell's passion for these animals is to see a man fully in love with the bears, but clearly denies their wild and savage nature. These are animals that kill their young for food after all. What would a man mean to a ten-foot, 400 pound behemoth?

At best, lunch.

As passionate as Treadwell is about his beloved bears, he often reveals deep fissures in his mental stability. Even if he is performing for the camera, there is a hysteria which cannot be faked.

There are tender moments and moments of sheer beauty. A fox hangs about like a household pet. Footage of bears running on a foggy morning is magnificent. Stranger, interloper, or weirdo, he lived in their world and captured his subjects with such intimacy.

A great, great documentary and once watched, never forgotten.

More Film Fun!

Such a simple image, but it has influenced many generations of filmmakers.

The Seventh Seal

Ingmar Bergman doesn't make films, he makes profound existential observations. Every frame is a perfect still, conveying the complex and mystifying contradictory nature of the human condition.

He reaches the desert places, the lonely isolated wastelands of the psyche. His films are not easy to watch. Sometimes they are almost unbearable.

His work has been copied by countless directors because the images are so strong, they leave an indelible impression. It's almost as if he has captured every imaginable archetype. And the faces. Glorious faces with a thousand stories told in a glance. How does he do it? I have no idea.

Bergman's The Seventh Seal is a masterwork that deals with the unanswered questions of existence: Who am I? What is my purpose? What is the purpose of life? And why does God seem so silent and absent from our lives?

From the opening scene where a knight (played by the glorious Max von Sydow) makes a deal with Death by engaging him in a game of chess to the iconic "danse macabre," final scene, this film shows the power of film in one of it's purest forms. No special effects, no annoying soundtrack, just dialogue and a thick, almost unbearable silence.

Bergman wrote about the silence of God and use of silence and space
in his films draws us into an almost breathless state of being.

Also:
Fanny and Alexander
Wild Strawberries
and I believe I saw Cries and Whispers. This might be the one that was brutal.

My Favorite Films

Ultimately film may be about money, but magical things can happen
and lives can be changed.

Pre-ramble

Before I got off (no pun intended) onto the subject of love, I had the intention of blogging about film.

Films are not just mere entertainment to me- I want to get lost into them, losing all sense of time and become deeply involved with the story and the characters. That being said, I also like a good, hokey ride with often outlandish special effects. In other words, you wanna go serious, I can watch some Italian surrealism for two and half hours with the best of them. You like creepy, stupid silly, I'm laughing along with you.

Around Christmas, we had some people over to the house. A person pulled out about 5 DVDs out of my collection and casually stated, "I'm going to borrow these."

While I was boiling inside, I did my best to be polite. You see, there are only a select few I would ever let borrow from my collection. Call it greedy, materialistic or selfish- your words fall on deaf ears. When it comes to my collection, I'm a prick. If I sense you are a person who is going to be meticulous and careful,, then you might get a pass.

One guy at work wanted to borrow my box set of "Band of Brothers." I did my best diplomatic "no." The thought of my collection laying around on someone's floor makes me ill.

"Some of those are not for loaning out, " was my best diplomatic answer. The movies she wanted to rent were given to me and I hadn't watched them anyways. She did borrow "Borat." I told her that she needs to keep it away from the kids and make sure it doesn't get damaged. I'm sure that didn't go down as well as I thought it did, but those discs are my babies and I keep them pristine.

I take films very seriously.

In no particular order, here's a partial list:

Amadeus

It reeks of cliche to state, "This film changed my life," but this three-hour masterpiece reached into me and changed things.

I was going to school at Peabody and my good friend, Bill (an excellent photographer), took  me to see what I presumed was going to another "art film." Art films are simply films that try too damn hard to have substance when it's pretty clear that the filmmaker is in love with one of the leads or in love with themselves.
(spoiler ahead)

Watching poor Salieri at the end absolving the inmates of the asylum because he was the "patron saint of mediocrities everywhere" was absolutely unnerving. Who, in the arts, has not tasted jealousy? Only the blindly arrogant.

I ran into some Peabody twit the next day and excitedly asked how he liked the film. His answer was one that matched the heartless, soulless pretentiousness that I encountered on a daily basis at school: "It didn't work," he stated triumphantly and then proceeded to point out historical errors. The idiot has missed the entire point of the film.

This visually sumptuous masterpiece is about how we ordinary people deal with our issues of blatant inadequacy when confronted with great talent, or in Mozart's case, blinding genius. We ask ourselves or God, "Why was so much ability given to this twit when I deserve it so much more?" I have met many a twit with so much natural ability that I had asked myself that question countless times.

Being humble becomes easier when you go to a big university or a small conservatory. It's one thing to be considered to be a good player by your high school peers, but another experience altogether when grouped with people from all over the world in a conservatory. The level you thought you were at (and all of its "specialness") dissipates like the morning fog when you see people doing things so effortlessly that cost you umpteen hours in a practice room just to come close to executing.

Salieri was destroyed by his jealousy. Was I going to let myself be eaten up by the same?

I told Bill on the ride home that Amadeus changed my life. Slowly, painfully and with the grace of time, I learned not to internally wince when someone mentioned how many gigs they had, what show they were doing or how many students they were teaching. I had to let jealousy go. It truly took a lot of time to let go and just be.

Bummer

This very silly, but I'm bummed that the KC Blockbuster is closing.

Part of my joy is to run in the store, before the Kroger jaunt, and see if there's anything that might be worth renting.

Say goodbye to that convenience now. I had a pass that only cost me $15 a month. No due dates, no hassles, no pay for individual rentals- it was all cool.

I brought home many a really bad horror film, but never had to to feel the sting of the $5 or whatever rental fee hit me in the ass.

Blockbuster made some major fuckups along the way and eventually Dish TV bought them. Their selection changed somewhat as I noticed that the more out-of-the-way titles seemed to no longer be offered.

Where will we end up? Netflix? Amazon? Not sure.

I will not pay 7 or 8 bucks to rent a movie.

Maybe I can catch up on my reading.

Sigh.

I Watch Too Much TV

TV is a big part of what I do. TV has the best writing now and probably has had for some time.

1. Breaking Bad. This badass and truly sick (Thank you, Uncle Bill) series is a drama masterpiece. Consistently high quality episodes with several "WTF" moments. It burns with a light that blinds. If you've missed out, there's time to catch up before some blogger spoils it for you.

"The Swede" on Hell on Wheels.
Watch out. This is one crazy and plotting son-of-a-bitch.
Brilliant acting by Christopher Heyerdahl.

2. Hell on Wheels. The first season was good, but season two has found it's engine. There wasn't a single misstep this whole season and the finale was jaw-dropping (literally). Heyerdahl should win an Emmy, hands-down. Anything less is treason.
3. Dexter. There has not been a bad season of this series. That says a lot about this show because even The Sopranos had some lame seasons.
Gore and dark humor abound, but it's the characters and story lines that keep me coming back.

4. The Walking Dead. After season two's glacial pace, the noted exception being the last "barn burning" episode, this zombie series may finally become the horrifying, flesh-eating goodness that it should. Every episode of a great series has to have "wtf" moments. Fingers crossed that this season will surprise, delight and freak out. I have a feeling we won't be disappointed.

5. Inspector Lewis. Lewis may be a less educated man than his predecessor, but his relative simplicity is reflected in this "hold the pomp, bring on the murders" PBS favorite. Call it the thinking person's detective series.

"Slow the cray cray roll, Ms. Conspiracy Theory."

6. Homeland. Well done first season with plenty of twists. Hell, it's got Damian Lewis (Band of Brothers) in it and Claire Danes as every cray cray girlfriend you ever had, minus the Lithium. Both Lewis and Danes took the Emmy.

7. Boardwalk Empire. Total kickass show. Shut the hell up and start watching.

8. The Borgias. Jeremy Irons is a total hoot as a most unsaintly pope with a keen knowledge of how to win wars, keep kingdoms and bed hot women. Great supporting cast as well.

9. Falling Skies. This show seemed to be stuck looking at its own reflection with delusions of a gritty, dystopian tale of the last fighting survivors in a post alien takeover. What's there is weak and repetitive dialogue (Can someone please just shoot the captain so we can get out of the faux tough soldier shit?), predictable characters and metal robots that look like plastic toys. I don't even like the look of the show.
10. Game of Thrones. Me likey, but I sometimes wonder why the story seems to be a little more convoluted than it should be.

11. Nurse Jackie. Drug addicted nurse Jackie used to have her dirty little secret under control and now the havoc of her addiction has poisoned every aspect of her life. Good casting and colorful characters make this watchable.

12. Weeds. The season finale was done right, albeit with some ridiculous contrivances and story lines that went nowhere. Compared to last season, which was an epic fail, this funny, this sexy stoner series went off to DVD land with a decent ending.

The Wedding Not

My poor old guitar has seen the best and worst of me.
We are one in the same. We both are tired of weddings.

My first "real" gig was a wedding, but it was very unsatisfying.

More than slightly champagne buzzed, I hurled my electric guitar into the back of the car. Angry and disappointed that no one had listened, I wasn't happy. My keyboard playing friend had a good time. You see, he's free of any ego. He doesn't even see himself as a musician sometimes, so he's free of expectations. I wanted attention and compliments- at a wedding.

How foolish and naive.

To the "civilians" out there, the wedding gig is certainly one of the best paying gigs in the working musician's jobs. They come in two distinct categories: really easy and nightmarish.

Why such a dichotomy? Good question.

"What do you mean it's going to be cloudy?!"

1. Bridezillas and/or monster-in-laws make for very tense events.
The tone is set by the bride, the mother and/or the mother-in-law. Period.

The struggles of an ever-demanding bride and her struggle with her mother (or mother-in-law or both) can make the whole day TENSE for everyone. Though the bridesmaids are happy to be all dolled up and the groomsmen are setting their marks on the bridesmaids and the father is rendered perfunctory, it is the women who must muss, fuss and sputter over every mind-bending detail. All to make this day so special, so extraordinary, soooo unique and everyone miserable.

The groom is merely along for the ride. This is not his show, not matter his level of alpha male in his social group. He is essentially, for lack of a better metaphor, castrated until the big day is over.



2. Weather and other unforeseen, uncontrollable forces. God has his little moments. Oh yes indeed. Go ahead, make plans. God smirks at planners.

Here's an example: As the rain swirled around us, we nervously played under a tent. We and everyone else had just dashed from a golf course where hand-of-God lightning bolts were flashing all around. Loud thunder, wind, rain, but the guitar-flute duo played on. Good times. Wet, miserable and playing bossa novas. This is the life. The dream.

Another:  This place was remote, one of those "Where in the hell are we?" West Virginia residences. I remember driving on this dirt road and wondering when we would see a house, any house. There appeared, propped up on hill, was one of those fancy get-away-from-it-all-but-let's-have-it-all kind of homes.

The guests were seated outdoors to watch the sunset as the wedding ceremony was to unfold. Great concept, but rife with problems. Several nightmares: the evening sun was still in blinding and burning mode all the while legions of ladybugs and bees hovered and swarmed. On cue, we began the processional, but not a bridesmaid in sight. When the first bridesmaid appeared, she walked an absolute lethargic pace, taking a good ten minutes. The gap between the bridesmaids was another ten minutes and so forth.

Meanwhile the guitar-flute duo was in sheer agony as we played Pachelbel's Canon until my left hand went numb and her lip deadened. Watching the well-dressed people, already sweltering and sun blind, swatting at the massive insect cloud above them was surely not what the glorious "ah" moment the wedding planners had envisioned. It was Dali meets David Lynch on a codeine jag.

Why then thy glum face over the latest gig?

FYI: Our bride was laid-back, casual and sweet.

In a nutshell, this is what happened:

My partner, the flutist, days from hand surgery, had just taken off her cast. She was very nervous and had some worries about playing and the gig in general. She was right.

My amp had gone south about two weeks before, so we had to use her amp. Two instruments and one amp isn't ideal for clarity.
Despite my casual attire of no tie or jacket ( I hate suit jackets), sweat was pouring from my head.
Giant mosquitoes moved about, looking for victims.
Soon after we got the hardware in place, she discovered that the pickup had broken. I called for Super Glue and a Glue Stick was delivered.
I used it before realizing how ridiculous and fruitless it would be to glue metal to metal with a fucking Glue Stick.
Scotch tape was used in order to "reattach" the flute pickup to make the playing time of 5:30. This caused a terrible hum in the amp.
Of course, since we are the entertainment, most people take a glance at us (some choose to stare-they nothing better to do), but when the entertainment are obviously having problems, it feels a bit like being in a play when things are going terribly, terribly wrong.
All the while, I sense my partner is getting a little close to hitting the panic button. I was irritated, but panic was not going to come. I wouldn't allow it. This is a wedding-one of countless. No need for anxiety.

Experience tempers the temptation to panic. Plus, the musical duo is so much better doing a solo act because we serve as reality check and emotional support for each other. We have to have each other's backs.

Proof positive that guitarists do show up at weddings.

Sidebar: Musicians are invisible are these functions. Li-Li has to sidestep the constant threat of having her flute smashed into her mouth. Guitar playing also involves the ability to dodge the herds, to keep the neck from being stumbled into, and keep playing. I have actually been accused (via a threatening letter by a lawyer) of not showing up at a wedding. Yes, that's how much I matter at a wedding.

Tuning was a real issue as flutes go sharp in heat and strings tend to destabilize. Luckily, my tuner  helped to keep the guitar from sounding like a watery turd. But despite this, Li'Li's flute declined to be pulled out any further and so we couldn't agree on tuning. Nice.

To conclude:

After all that hassle, I suggested, "That was enough ass kicking for one day." Two ice-cold Blue Moons were slipped out in a purse and two sweaty, beaten musicians drank them with gratitude. Hooray for cold beer. The cheap panacea for badly beaten musicians.
What comment is it when a cold beer is the best part of the day?

I confessed to L that quitting weddings altogether had crossed my mind. They are handy for some gas money or a nice meal, but they have become so soulless that it is merely a professional, robotic act. Giving a damn left me a long time ago. I mean, I would never deliberately play poorly at a job, but that's what it is-a job and nothing more.

Will I simply say "no" and stop playing them altogether? Or will I be like Rumpole of the Bailey when Rumpole declares that he's quitting the bar, due to some financial windfall, but despite all of his noble sounding words, returns to chambers the next day looking for the dreary dog-ends of a case in magistrate court?

It isn't as dramatic as all that. I am at a very different stage in my "career" now. Play for the sake of playing-that's my credo. No slogging out the hits for the sweaty loud bar crowd. No late night jam sessions at open mike nights. I leave that to the young and hungry go-getters. God love them, they deserve a chance.

 Not quite at the point of dismissing all these soul-sucking gigs, I'd rather concentrate on writing music and gigs that reward the artistic, not the commerce side.

For now, I will grumble, but will not abandon the possibility. The fee should be set at a rate where, should all chaos break loose, we can walk away with a decent bit of change for our hassle.

Time to think about a new amp.

A History of Love, Part 9

"We'll get so high and get nowhere
We'll have to change our jaded ways
But I've loved these days"

Don't put her on a pedestal, buddy.

"Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know
What life is, you who hold it in your hands";
(Slowly twisting the lilac stalks)
"You let it flow from you, you let it flow,
And youth is cruel, and has no remorse
And smiles at situations which it cannot see."

It's completely dishonest to say that all love was betrayal and brutal to the emotions. Sometimes love comes and we do not give it the respect it deserves. Sometimes we just want a good lay. Sometimes a mediocre one will do.

Backdrop:

In the WLSC music department, friendships came easily. Music people bond just like any other department. The bonding was enhanced by the "us versus them" mentality of the times, the roaming frat herds and the dictum held by all non-music majors on campus: music and theater majors were gay. Therefore, gays should be killed. At the very least, they should be beaten or verbally harassed. This was a universally held belief.  Hard to believe? Such were the good old days (I might add that, in some places, very little has changed.).

Certainly in the 70's, the WLSC student body seemed to be dominated by sports frat boys who looked upon the fine arts department as some type of nesting place for all homosexuals. When the "normal" students would pass our hallowed halls to attend music appreciation, they would look at us as if we were living in a leper colony. Looks of curiosity (Is this where the faggots bugger one another?) and looks of hostility (Don't try that shit on me motherfucker, I'll smash your face.) - that's what we got.

I remember one flute major girl, who had a "civilian"boyfriend, who tried to explain to him why someone would stand with a flute and watch themselves in a mirror. The look of absolute bewilderment and disgust was priceless.
When we stood outside the music department for smoke breaks, we would hear the cordial and friendly cries of TKEs who called us all manner of names. TKEs began to symbolize the hostility and ignorance of the masses. When the new TKE pledges were going through the cruelty of pledge week, I never had sympathy for them. If you were going to join an organization that was filled with so much prejudice and ignorance and be humiliated while doing it, you were outright stupid. Word was, they were abused in many unsavory ways and there was an old house somewhere where this abuse took place. More on this later.
But I digress.

Amidst this obsession by the mob mindset, the music major was isolated. The art students were just thought of as weird, so they were allies. In short, you had to look close "to home," so to speak, for a "friend."

The V Conundrum

Ok kids, this is the part of the story where things get sticky. What happens when someone nice, reasonable, cute and compatible comes along?

You fuck it up like everything else in your life. "I am a nice guy," you tell yourself this lie. "I am different than those neanderthal, football bearing fratholes." Perhaps in truth, I was separated only by a thin line of curiosity about artistic and philosophical matters and a better command of the English language. Human nature abides in all, even the social outcast dope smoking musos. I was no genius, no prodigy and my wings never flew above the fray and the squalor. I just resorted to the same mind and soul numbing agents as the frat boys did. I just did it with more class. At least that's what I told myself.

But I digress.

Youth has a special brand of callousness (And youth is cruel, and has no remorse).Why? Is it the rational acknowledgment of the superior powers of life within the body? Is it the sheer arrogance of inexperience? I don't have the words to define it. I just know that the only value to outgrowing your youth is that some small mercy of understanding comes with age. With old man's eyes, I would never behave the way I did back in those chaotic college years.

V was a very sweet natured local girl who was a voice major. Voice majors generally tend to have a rather high opinion of themselves and generally being a very fussy lot, but V was different. She was earthy without a hint of diva. A sweet smile, she was cute and so easy to make conversation with her.

What was the problem then?

Perhaps her attraction to me was felt too easily. Maybe I was part of my own frat that included my music  major friends and I wanted to show off for them. Certainly, I was not willing to show an emotional vulnerability. Call it bad timing or immaturity, I'll agree to them all.

After a party, she and I found ourselves alone, listening to the soft folkie music of Michael Johnson. This was nice-no desperation of trying to impress her, just easy conversation. She was definitely a "what you see is what you get" personality. No head games.

V and I had some tender moments together (including a special one involving an unlikely discussion of the Bible), but I never pursued her as a steady girlfriend. All was undefined. I was afraid of commitment for sure. Typical young male stuff.

While I was under the impression that she wanted to be more than a causal hookup, perhaps she realized that I was not good boyfriend material. Perhaps, all the while, was she held the reins.

I did my usual: strutted, puffed out my chest and dicked around until the bridge was burned.

There's More?

Kim was a freshman percussion major. She was someone who appeared during my senior year.

Again, cute, nice disposition, not demanding. Why didn't I pursue seriously? Hell, she played marimba like a whiz. I loved (still do) marimba. Maybe that's what started us talking.

She even chose me as a person to interview for one of her classes. Out into some field we went and she listened as I prated on and on about half-baked ideas of ecology, the meaning of life and how great music is compared to blah blah blah. The conversation certainly would have a major cringe factor now. If she has a cassette tape of that, it's be a great laugh.
The teacher didn't think that I was so interesting either as Kim told me that she didn't get a very good grade. That should have been the first clue that I was clueless. While I honor the intention, clearly there was nothing but nonsense and contradiction coming out of my 9 volt mind.

The Kimster had more morals than myself and we soon were at odds about how far the physical aspect of our friend-relation-whatever should go. You can guess what my vote was.

Sad to say this, but I have no recollection of how things ended. It probably just died of attrition.

The Reality of Part-timers (Re:the Dreams of Academics)

Folks,


We are cancelling part-time faculty orientation due to low participation. Of 34 PT faculty, only 7 have indicated they will attend.
(They list those who confirmed attendance and one "maybe." Is this a list of the honorable part-timers? Does this imply a list of shame for those not on the list? Perhaps.)
We appreciate the enthusiasm demonstrated by those who responded.

Part-time Faculty Manuals will be left at the Mailroom.

    ****

You make me feel like a beggar then want me to feel
guilt as well?

When you disregard the basic wish of a teacher to want to make a living by teaching by holding them as a part-timer ad infinitum, wiping out the very department that they work in, and pay zero benefits with no mention of a pay raise since the 1980's, what enthusiasm do you expect from them?

The Dreams of Academics

9:00 a.m. – Coffee – Frankenberger


(If needed, use this time to get an ID card – Student Solutions Center, Riggleman Hall)

9:30 a.m.

• Welcome—President Welch and Dr. Zook, Provost and Dean of the Faculty

• Practical information – Donna Lewis, Assistant Dean for Assessment

• Feedback from PT Faculty: “What joys and challenges, if any, have you faced as a part time faculty at UC?”

• Liberal Learning Outcomes and You – Dr. Barbara Wright, Dean of the School of Arts & Sciences and Associate Dean for Curriculum

• Assessment / Using rubrics

10:30 Technology Training / Updates – Library Classroom

12:00 p.m. – Lunch and conversation: Frankenberger Art Gallery

Dark Eyes - Bob Dylan

Oh, the gentlemen are talking and the midnight moon is on the riverside


They’re drinking up and walking and it is time for me to slide

I live in another world where life and death are memorized

Where the earth is strung with lovers’ pearls and all I see are dark eyes



A cock is crowing far away and another soldier’s deep in prayer

Some mother’s child has gone astray, she can’t find him anywhere

But I can hear another drum beating for the dead that rise

Whom nature’s beast fears as they come and all I see are dark eyes



They tell me to be discreet for all intended purposes,

They tell me revenge is sweet and from where they stand, I’m sure it is.

But I feel nothing for their game where beauty goes unrecognized,

All I feel is heat and flame and all I see are dark eyes.



Oh, the French girl, she’s in paradise and a drunken man is at the wheel

Hunger pays a heavy price to the falling gods of speed and steel

Oh, time is short and the days are sweet and passion rules the arrow that flies

A million faces at my feet but all I see are dark eyes



Copyright © 1985 by Special Rider Music

A History of Love, Part 8

The life lessons that love provides are the only ones probably worth telling because they are so real. They make us real. They transform our lives.

Remember the end of The Name of the Rose?

"And yet, now that I am an old, old man, I must confess that of all the faces that appear to me out of the past, the one I see most clearly is that of the girl of whom I've never ceased to dream these many long years."

Those not guilty, please move along.
I thought so.

We are the guilty, after all

I do not want to give readers the impression that I was a sincere, honest, loving, fully mature guy who just had problems picking the right girl. I don't think I knew what I wanted or maybe what I did was pure fantasy. Like most men, the physical attraction is the prime directive. Based on this, you're looking at trouble, buddy, but I stumbled along, making huge mistakes.

One of the big ones I made was to tango with my friend's girlfriend. Yikes!

Everything about Miss T was attractive to me. She was wild, crazy funny and liked crazy humor (my speciality). She was a free, Irish spirit and my friend had discovered her first. Of course, I coveted her.

My friend, the king of ambiguity in all matters, seemed to dating her, but then again it's not like she was his Yoko Ono shadow either. In my greed, I justified my asking her out.

I thought we were great together and certainly we had a great time, but the axe had to drop sometime. And one evening at my friend's house, standing around in the kitchen, he came right out with it.

The topic suddenly took the sharp bend: "...kinda like sleeping with someone's girlfriend?" Direct stare. He was pissed.

I plead nolo contendre. I can't remember, but there was a period of chilling off between us for a while. Eventually, time and tide made us friends again.

There went my chance for a future stained glass window portrait.

Must there be betrayal?

Yes, there must.

I betray, she betrays, we all betray.

St. Jean, patron saint of the gut wrenching
effects of love. 

There is one last lesson that I learned during the college years and Jean taught me a truly real lesson.

I suppose men and women go through stages where, if they have the options, they seek companionship as needed. Away at college? Get a boy toy.

 Jean was truly beautiful. A natural blond, she had the blue eyes set on stun, a flawless complexion and all the luxury amenities you could ask for.

Why did she pick me after one very drunken music major party?

Because I was there.

Even thought I sensed a distance to her, we seemed like we were dating or least I thought we were headed that way. She bought me some Black Velvet (fitting, yes?) for my 21st birthday.

Then, like an idiot, I fucked up. I wrote her a letter telling her about how I felt about her. She sat on my lap, reading it because I did not have to courage to say those words to her. The "l" word was used and that was the beginning of the end.

Soon after that, a distinct chill was between us. Finally, I cornered her as we were leaving the cafeteria. She told me that she hadn't been honest with me and that she had a boyfriend at home. For her, seeing the word "love" scared her and she couldn't deal with that.

If that wasn't enough of a blow, I saw her out very soon after that helping some guy wash his Corvette. That was my first experience with the horrors of rejection that I felt physically. My gut felt like I had swallowed heavy lead and then been punched.

I didn't know what to do, so I sought out my roommate Dan and told him what had happened. His solution was to go to the Short Creek Social Club ( truly a redneck hell hole by anyone's standard) and start drinking as soon as possible. The alcohol helped, but the feeling didn't go away for quite a while.

That which comes, goes.

Years later, I told that story to a good friend. He said, "He said you're lucky she didn't continue a relationship with you."

"Why not?"

"Just think of how many guys she fooled around on since then."

The mind boggles.

A few months after she graduated, I called her. She was friendly, but even Mr. Dim Witted Hope-Against-Hope could sense a brushoff. I was hoping one last hope. "Hope is unreasonable," as Mr. Fripp says.

The feeling of letdown afterwards made me pick up a guitar begin to immediately try to musically medicate myself. It worked and out came, "call me tonight," an instrumental that I have quite a bit of affection for some thirty years later.

Much more than I do for the inspiration.

a place of my own

Every musician dreams of "making their own album." Hell, I'm no different.

Now that I'm older and very realistic about what I can accomplish, I finally feel ready to commit to a serious recording. Not a seriou$ recording, but something that won't make me cringe when I put it on for friends.

I have mountains of live recordings and home demos, probably 99% of which I would severe fault with and would not release publicly.

You see, even though I have been playing for about 41 years, began making "tape pieces" even before that, and began composing during my college years, I have had a most debilitating attitude towards my playing and my work. Funny, isn't it? It's kind of cruelly ironic. It reminds me of Sting's song:

I must love what I destroy

And destroy the thing I love.

Ultimately, we must climb out of the cocoon
of solitary writing and let the music comes to
life with the help of other musicians.

While I have no issues playing live, my own music or other, it is the dreaded recording that haunts me. No matter how the gig felt, the recording reveals the truth. That solo goes off course, that vocal needs pitch help and wouldn't be nice if everyone agreed on the form of the piece?

The question becomes: why do people like me, who dream, think, breath, study strenuously, focus upon, have oodles of discipline-thought-approaches, tend to hide our work? What is the malfunction?

Two demons sit and whisper:

You can do better.

It just isn't good enough.

I have ended this invisible battle with myself and have taken a bit more kinder and gentler approach with the blades of criticism. It's about damn time.

The source of my inspiration is a bit too personal to discuss, but let's just say that I wasn't aware why until way after the fact. One of those "points of seeing," I suppose. The penny dropped and I saw where all this was coming from.

The piece that began this project was an old sketch called "Night in St. Cloud," a Edvard Munch painting inspired piece that I started years ago. Unlike then, I have the unflinching determination to finish any piece now. I am not constantly distracted by new and exciting array of fresh ideas, but am now willing to take an idea, lower my head and plow forward until something is completed.

I still like the Munch painting, but don't feel such a strong emotional connection to it. What matters is that the piece works on every level, especially structural, thematic and rhythmic levels. And if we are lucky, maybe we can be exciting as well.

Here's the floor plan:

Night in St. Cloud - guitar duet

Note: there is some material from the sketches that even suggests another piece could be written just around those ideas. Odd how that works.

distant bells - voice and electronics. The very Enoesque piece was inspired by the Bloom app. So far, the only vocal piece.

no one is watching - guitar duet or ensemble. Not quite sure about this one. It might benefit by making the A section a little simpler. Sometimes the ego and the mind conspire to make everything complicated.

dance of the sun king - just finished the form and melody of this one. An ensemble run-through last Staurday was really positive. It sounded even better than I thought. The group seemed to like it as well.

forgiveness - this might have to be a guitar duet or just me overdubbing. The mood is very delicate and one false move or attempt to add too much will kill it. I hear classical and steel string guitars on this. A viola or a cello might be the magic later.

Possible add-ons:

Aguinaldo Jibaro - this is a Puerto Rican Christmas song that I arranged (and had help arranging) for the ensemble. It gets the King Crimson treatment, but retains the Latin flavor. A friend of mine said it sounded South American. I'll go with that.

don't need a jacket - This is very new and hasn't been field tested yet. You have to run these pieces a few times live to even know what the piece really needs. It's an ensemble piece.

call me tonight - I wrote this instrumental some thirty years ago. A friend of mine reminded me of it with a comment on FaceBook. It was a jolt to the memory cells. Wrote this about the end of love affair. It's swirling guitar heaven and most likely an ensemble piece.

I am very partial to woodcuts, particularly medieval ones.
The artwork will be simple.

That's 8 tracks, just shy of the requisite 10 track album I see popular today.

None of this is going to make me rich, famous or younger, but I hope I can feel a sense of accomplishment when it's over.

I may not even produce a physical copy, but rather leave it all to PayPal and the "internets." I have heard about people spending lots of money and having a thousand copies of their CD sitting around in boxes.

 No, thanks.




 

A History of Love, Part 7

The year and a half at Staunton Military School has been written about extensively in this blog and needless to say, it was major dude world and another sore reminder that women were from another planet. One that had its own language, code and ways that were a complete mystery to me.

My brother had his girlfriends, "Kim" and his "Maggie." But what I saw about how men and women fought (especially them) did very little to further any understanding. Again, mystery.

But sometimes the universe is tapping us on the shoulder and we aren't paying attention.

Then there was Karen.

This delightful creature came to my attention in my senior high school year. With Karen, was the ever-present, blond blossoming Afro-ed Frank. Karen and Frank, Frank and Karen. They were glued to each other.

Frank was a "head," meaning he used recreational drugs, but I think his natural state was closer to a redneck than a hippie. Seeing them together, as in many couples, I couldn't figure out what the hell she saw in Frank. He was abrasive at times. I tolerated him because that meant Karen could get into the conversation as well. Men will smile and act buddy-buddy to the boyfriend to get even the smallest of openings to the objects of their desires.

And so Karen and I began a conversation that ended in a classic:

St. Karen: patron saint of the rebound guy.

The Rebound Guy

One of the great graces of getting older is that I see the patterns universal. The Rebound Guy (or girl) is a universal. Everybody knows the pitfalls being this hapless character, right? Not until it bites your ass do you really know it.

Somewhere between the end of high school and freshman year, the Frank-Karen union dissolved. I cannot recall how Karen and I began to go out on a few dates, but fortune sometimes smiles.
She was graceful, beautiful and sweet as Tupelo honey. A few drinks at a bar, a hiking trip and endless conversations on the phone, but it was a weekend invitation to WVU that sealed the deal.

"Going to get you some, huh?" was the query from my Wesleyan friend, Tim. Men are not subtle. I mumbled something about "Just goin' up to see her." This was the truth. I had that little confidence in myself.

I arrived too early at the girl's dorm and her squirrelly roommate had to entertain me while Karen was still in class. Considering the condition I was in, she looked like a cartoon moving in and out of the room while constantly talking nonsense to me. I felt like the only still thing in the universe and she was constantly walking by me and saying, "Karen's going to be here soon, ok?" I didn't babysitting, but sometimes when you have an innocent sort of face, people interpret it as need assistance. Go figure.
Finally, the graceful Miss K arrived and all was bliss.

Instead of concentrating soley on her, I thought of contacting some friends. In my endless ignorance, I called up two buddies-one from SMA and one from my hometown, the latter of which agreed to meet us out on the plaza to drink some beers. Why did I delay? Again, I didn't think the lovely Miss Karen was going to endow me with her graces. I wasn't thinking in those terms.

Finally, after some bliss in her dorm room, she told me that her sister had an apartment and that it was vacant for the weekend and that we should go.

This could be it.

And so it was. At one moment, it dawned on me that I was going to break free of the virgin stigmata and pass into manhood. Elation. But none of that mattered because of Karen. She was a Godsend, pure and simple.

Must there be pain?
Yes, there must.

Beautiful Karen, sweet Karen. Our time continued that fall until around Christmas time when I made a deadly mistake: I wanted to give her a gift. I even went shopping by myself and got her a scarf and hat.

The phone call was the last: "But I told you I didn't want that!" I remember that feeling, sitting at the top of the stairs with the phone cord stretched as far as it would go (no wireless then), feeling like a two-ton weight had just been placed on my heart. She didn't want a "boyfriend," she wanted the all-purpose rebound guy. The guy that helps her through a breakup.

(Sidebar: Men are often vilified with the stigma of duplicity and philandering. Sure enough, we deserve it, but a woman isn't duplicitous as much as much as she is prone to changing her mind without warning. A woman doesn't cheat, she falls in love with another. Truth be told: we are all guilty, all liars, all hypocrites. That's human nature, like it or not.)

The rules are simple: Yes, you may enjoy all the pleasures and privileges of a boyfriend with none of the security or long-term commitment. No spring vacations together, walking hand-in-hand across a desolate beach. No intimate smiles, passionate kisses, or showing off one's girl to the guys. A steady girl meant mean some showing off or cockiness: "Hey fellas. How you doin'? I'm out of Club Dude, eh? Take care now." The rebound guy gets none of this.

That was a tough one to deal with, kids. With great love and elation comes great grief and deflation. This young man was learning all about love for sure.

I'm not sure whatever happened to her. I wish her well. Call me a romantic, but I see these experiences not in a bitter light as I did back then, but rather as beautiful, burning and necessary life lessons. In retrospect, she gave me much more than she ever took.

The Big Wrap-up

Almost everything is pale by comparison to your first love, but passions fade. I never thought that they would, but people come and go in our lives. Some say it all part of a grand purpose. I can't say that I find that to be true. I just know that it is and that's that.

"I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong."


More to come.

A History of Love, Part 6

"I should have been a vampire squid
scuttling across floors of silent seas..."

After the Helen fiasco, life continued on. Young people do not do well with embarrassment and it is quickly forgotten.

I had my friends- all guys who were into music, getting back to nature via hiking-camping, some of them even played guitar. Friends are an anchor, a fortress that tells the world, "See? We're all into this. If that makes us  weird, then weird we shall be."
But one major problem: it's dude city and that fact was a burning reminder of a perceived failure for some in the group, me included. Virgins are losers.
There is no doubt we placed way too much importance on having a girlfriend, being in love and lust, but this was paramount. We were just dumb kids and small matters were vastly important.

The Follies of the Ego

A date with Jackie followed. Not bad, until the questions came: "Why did you pick me?" I had no answers or rather I had no smooth lines to convince her to bestow her graces upon me. When the temperature rose, she asked me point-blank: "Is you were to get a girl pregnant, would you take care of her?"

I was shocked. My interests were selfish. Your welfare? Huh? Besides, the boiler room was in charge at that point. Pregnant? Baby? Take care of...what? The mood was killed and there were no more dates after that.
It is at this point that I might say the obvious, (which is what I'm good at doing,dammit!) If time travel were an option, I might go back and do some serious talking to that young man and state: "You've got plenty of chances for a girlie. What's wrong with her? Or her? You're the one who's holding out for something you cannot have: the ones you really want are beyond your reach." Human nature in action time and again.

St. Catherine, patron saint of the disappointed.

Which leads us to the enigma known as Catherine.

Catherine was the total enigma. She was out of my league. I knew it and so did she. Yet, she let me flirt with her and we even went out on some smoking dates, but always the same message: you may be good for my ego, but I've already got a boyfriend. You are always going to be an option, not a priority.

We were not so different in a socio-economically, it just came down to looks. Her "looks" bracket was much higher than mine.

She was my enigma for most of high school. I sat next to her in typing class and squeezed by with little or no knowledge of typing. She melted me, confused me, burned my circuits and perplexed every rational thought or battle plan I had about how to win her heart. She was in control the entire time: she knew it. I was too stupid to really know it and lacked the experience to do anything about it anyway. I was her monkey, St. Catherine of the cross.

She certainly wasn't dating anyone at the high school. I always imagined that she had some college guy as a boy friend.

Oddly and cruelly, she went to the same college as me. It was both delight and a downer the day we ran into each other and exchanged a vigorous hug. One part of me got that sinking feeling: Can't I escape this torture even at college? I mean, fucking hell!  College with her there was no different: no bounce, no play.

One of my music major colleagues dated her and one day, he rubbed it in my face. I had told him about our past, shabby as it was. Can't say why Mr. Bearded Granola, normally a reasonable guy, drew such a sharp dagger for me, but I write this off as the insanity of jealousy that men display when a threat is perceived. Piss and daggers, piss and daggers.

I believe there was one date we had during this time. She must have been between fabulous bo-friends because Mr. Second Rate got the call. The date was wonderful, but like all the others, but there was no dating me. Some musician said, "You do shitty things until you stop doing shitty things." That pretty much summarizes that experience.

She got married and moved and I went to Baltimore to study music.

The problem though with living in a small town is that even when lots of time passes, houses where people live do not. They can jump out as unexpected reminders- a sudden jolt to the memory. Perhaps because I hate to lose, I will circle by her mom's house around Christmas time to see if I can catch a glimpse of what surely must be a very grey Catherine. How many kids does she have? Does she look like shit? This is not love, but perhaps gloating. To convince myself that I won? I don't know. Maybe I'm just a jerk who masquerades as a nice guy.
Next: Hey dummy, this girl is talking to you.