I was lying on my bed in the early evening darkness that December night, listening closely to The Beatles’ White Album, when my mother pushed open the bedroom door.
“Some asshole just shot John Lennon,” she announced, a tone of uncharacteristic sympathy in her voice, seasoned with a bit of disgust.
I stared up at her backlit face for a moment, wondering what possible punch line would be following that perverse set up. None came. She just shook her head. “They just announced it,” she gestured past her shoulder to the living room, where she had been sewing and listening to Monday Night Football. Like many in America, my mother first heard about John Lennon’s murder from Howard Cosell.
I hurried down the hall to the TV, but the game play-by-play had resumed. I waited for a few minutes but no updates were forthcoming, so I headed back to my bedroom and switched my receiver over to one of the main FM Rock stations just in time to hear the DJ confirm that John Lennon was dead. Then the station returned to its regular broadcast: an installment of a career retrospective...
I am tired of the sound of sirens. I’m tired of the sound of helicopters overhead. I’m tired of the sound of leaf blowers. I’m tired of the sound of neighbors.
I am tired of people telling me that I might like Rap/Hip Hop/Electronica/Trance Music(sic) if I gave it a chance. This presumes that I have not already done so before forming an opinion. I have listened to those forms of sound, and to me they sound like… sirens, helicopters, leaf blowers. In short, they sound like too many people living in too small an area. Miles Davis once said that it was the space between the notes that gave music its meaning. Real music has always been created by humans rather than machines. That’s what differentiates the sound a trumpet makes from the sound an exhaust pipe makes, even though they are both tubes made from metal. Rap/Hip Hop/etc…may very well be the sound of the Street, but it is the sound of the Street chewing you up right before it spits you out like so much protoplasmic cud.
It can reasonably be argued that the aforementioned idioms of sound, in their incessant...
I found out many years ago that I am a magnet for assholes. Friends and acquaintances would try to dismiss this revelation, telling me that I’m just too sensitive. That is until they spent time out in public in my company and, if they were observant at all, would begin to notice an increase in the frequency of negative human interactions they experienced. “Don’t worry – it’s just me,” I would tell them. After collecting enough empirical data for themselves, they are left with no choice but to subscribe to my theory. Whenever I go out in public, human rectums that have been given small reptilian brains and the power of speech (and apparently driver’s licenses) flock to me much in the same manner Amy Winehouse flocks to crack houses. It is not only a daily occurrence, it is a frequent one any time I leave the protection of home and hearth. No wonder I’ve become such a fan of mail-order everything. The latest example:
A Good Walk Spoiled
Mark Twain is quoted as saying, “Golf is a good walk spoiled.” I have never actually played a round of golf, but I do know the value...