Who Asked Me?

How then, is it possible, to be abjectly miserable in a moment, yet still look back on that moment fondly and with longing some time later? Does time distort or lend perspective? And if time is an illusion, could neither be true? It’s all in line with my new commitment to commas and question marks. I’m tuned into some fairly smart people lately, many of whom are questioning reality to some degree. Turns out 98.6 is just the average. Truth is up for grabs. Institutions and those in charge of their upkeep are demonstrably untruthful. There is no losing argument so ubiquitous as “my guy is right.” It’s the guy in question that’s relevant. We’ve become comfortable with this reality in politicians, but when it extends to doctors, scientists, sports heroes, and brothers, the horizon can go askew. Cut to Julie Kavner telling Woody Allen “listen, kid, I think you’ve snapped your cap.” Time for a few weeks in Bermuda, indeed. If it were only safe to begin the boarding process.

Colin Hay, the Scottish musician who once fronted the annoying band ‘Men At Work’ yet turned out to be a bit of a genius, has this great song “I Just Don’t Think I’ll Ever Get Over You.” He plays it in an open, droning, drop-D guitar tuning, and it doesn’t have the kind of snappy, ca-chunk style rock n roll lyrics that I typically glom onto. But the airy, poignant, somewhat ambiguous way it carries on feels perfect for these times. Open tuning is a kind of drug for guitar players, a way of instantly changing musical perspective. Hay’s wife describes it well as “vague chords.” Keith Richards, who favors open-G, is perhaps the most famous practitioner, so it can ca-chunk just as effectively.  Anyway, it’s a beautiful tune. The “you” he can’t get over, like the tuning, feels open for interpretation: a woman, a dog, a place .. booze, chocolate, heroin. The song isn’t specific, though he does mention drinking “good coffee” every morning, and that grounds it (insert smiley emoticon.) There is no time marker so specific as when coffee bumps up to vice of choice. Perspective supplants vitality and jagged bits on the long road behind soften.

Blah blah blah, Ginger. As airy-fairy, hippie-dippy as the preceding may read, it’s actually less trippy than what I’ve really been pondering. I should emphasize ‘pondering’ as it’s more muse than prophet. And it’s the cereal of sci-fi, larping sorts, which has never been my breakfast of choice. Still, this idea of the ‘simulation,’ as it were, feels more plausible. “There, I said it” to quote the late, great Nancy Paweski. And, I’m using “as it were” even after ingesting strong coffee, so it’s all over. Still, has there ever been a time when ideas like free will and individual existence felt more tenuous? Or, put another way, is there a limit to how much absurdity can be ramped up? Look for both questions on the November ballot. As Governor William J Lepetomane says to Hedley Lamarr “haven’t you taken a giant leap away from your good senses?” But then they could never make that movie today. Maybe keep the open tuning, but switch over to G and some Keith Richards.

It was Prospect Park, Brooklyn, way back in the winter of ’03-’04. I lived in a tiny apartment in a converted mansion that was once the home of Thomas Adams, a chewing gum pioneer. Like most broken men trying to find themselves, I didn’t realize that I was already there. Alone, facing the future in a strange place, but right where I needed to be. Snow mounted outside but the steam heat worked and the sun would pour in the parapet window pure and strong. The black coffee was strong, too, and I’d sit and type away, occasionally hitting on a few good thoughts. Then I’d wrap myself up to the nines and go run around that park in the freezing air, pushing forty but in the best shape of my life, cheap earphones plugged into my tiny MP3 player loaded with a few choice tunes. The one that stuck out was Neil Young’s “Motion Pictures” from the album “On The Beach.” Not exactly the kind of fire-up music one typically associates with running in sub-zero temperatures but it fit perfectly. “All those headlines / they just bore me now / I’m deep inside myself, but I’ll get out somehow ..” And I suppose I did, eventually, and have been trying to get back inside ever since.

The small MP-3 player was a precursor to the iPhone that would soon follow. MySpace was about to be supplanted by Facebook and Google had yet to take over the world. I had a small platform on a website for New York “newcomers” and soon anybody who owned a phone would have a platform. Youtube was a year away; Twitter, Periscope and Tik-Tok were all on the distant horizon.

And so here we are and there’s no going back. No putting the proverbial genie back in the smartphone. If ever there was a good time to shut it all off and go for a run it’s now, but there is no shutting it off. This was always the cautionary tale that came with Artificial Intelligence — it can’t be unplugged or disabled. And it has run in perfect conjunction with the dumbing down of society. Mike Judge’s “Idiocracy” from 2006 seems wildly prophetic and a particular George Carlin quote keeps coming up and back: “Think of how stupid the average person is and realize half of them are stupider than that.” Idiocy is elevated and celebrated. Those pointing out the idiots are bigger idiots, still. It’s all reminiscent of the finale for that last, great bit of western art, “The Sopranos.” Agent Harris, hearing that Tony Soprano’s principal rival Phil Leotardo has been killed, exalts “Damn! We’re gonna win this thing!”  Of course, by then it’s all over and an abrupt cut to black is just around the corner.

So how close are we to that abrupt cut ourselves? I’d say it all hinges on our last chance to unplug and whether it’s already passed. Every source of news and information is infiltrated by complete bullshit at present. We’re looking into the other’s eyes to get a true sense of where we stand, faces covered with masks, and standing six feet apart. All advice seems bad, all leaders un-trustable. We’re all Agent Harris, hoping our personal dark horse might win the race.

The Neil Young song was and still is perfect. It made me think of my dad back then and how it might be a good anthem at his funeral. Motion Pictures. People still use the word — “film” — without a trace of irony. They “filmed” that guy in Minneapolis being killed; “filmed” some guy caught up in a riot, getting his head split open. Even its replacement, videotape, is obsolete now. Thus the double-irony of those thinking they’re using that one correctly. Everything is, appropriately enough, ones and zeros. Pick a number, pick a side.

Dad died a few years back and I didn’t play the tune at his funeral. But it went off well, none the less. Neil wrote the song for Carrie Snodgress, a young love. I suppose there’s always hope.

“He’s 54 and drinkin’ in a honky-tonk ..” – Ray Wylie Hubbard

Happy Mother’s Day. Mine was the best, which is something many might say but is empirically provable in my case. I used to bring friends home from college, some of whom were prone to brag about their own mothers and would have to pry their fingers loose from the front door frame when it was time to leave. They’d be in a funk for half of the long drive down Highway 5 back to Los Angeles until I promised to bring them back again at Spring Break. But nobody wants to hear a broken man cry about this sort of thing on a day of celebration. Of all my many and varied assumptions, the idea that everyone was as lucky as me in this department was perhaps the most naive. I say “was” because I’ve indeed learned differently over the years. Motherhood in itself does not instill these qualities. This point was driven home last night watching a confessional documentary on SNL veteran everyman Darryl Hammond, whose own mother did quite the number on him. Many mothers do quite the number, as it turns out. Even those mildly indifferent to the title can have a profound impact on their confused offspring. So take heed all you moms and future moms — it ain’t like getting a library card and then forgetting to return a book.

I’ve been living in my mother’s home during this lockdown (and make no mistake about it, this was her home. ) I’ve used the word “reset” several times to describe the experience, and I think it applies to multitudes. This deserves a strong caveat and for those most impacted, the word would be laughable and even insulting. Still, for many this has been a period of reflection, perspective, and taking stock. If your health and that of those you love has remained good, odds are you’ve shifted to next-level concerns. Relationships have solidified or been pushed to the brink, and this includes those with ourselves. If interaction with the outside world serves a specific purpose, it’s self-distraction. I discovered this when I first moved to New York City and was, perhaps, most alone. There is no place on the planet better suited for avoiding the internal. Distraction is still the order of the day in Gotham, but in most unwelcome ways for those struggling to breathe or focused suspiciously on their apartment’s ventilation system. That’s the trouble with this thing; it’s sneaky. Were it even worse it would have flamed-out by now, having run its course through the unfortunate. Instead, it progresses in the most insidious manner, devastating one locale at a time before moving to the next. Those prone to thoughts of conspiracy have little trouble seeing a human hand.

Boo-hoo, you had me and you lost me (to quote Darryl Hammond’s SNL predecessor Phil Hartman as Chairman of the Board on ‘Sinatra Group.’) Not sure about Phil’s mother, but his wife did quite the number on him. The longer you live, the more dead people you know. I made this observation at a funeral in my twenties. Not exactly suitable for the Profundity Hall of Fame but accurate none the less. As with most things, there are two directions to go with it: you can dwell on the impermanence or appreciate the fact that you’re still around to dwell on it. (Religion offers a potential third rail, but I’m saving that blog for my Howard Hughes exit years.) For now, I’m experiencing both of the basic options in spades, appreciating her home as she would and did while unavoidably noting that she isn’t here in mortal form. But best not to dwell on this lest they send the masked guys in white by to retrieve me. And why are they always dressed in white? Something else to ponder on this pandemic Mother’s Day, 2020. A good one with perfect vision to you and yours.

My mother had this monkey, George. He was among her few prized possessions, purchased in the early ’70s from a shop in Larkspur. She discovered him while browsing with her friend Inna, fell in love, but decided the price was too dear. Inna, knowing something about my parents’ marriage and my father’s complete ineptitude in choosing gifts, told him to get down there and buy the ceramic monkey for their anniversary. My father wasn’t a man who shopped easily and hardware stores defined the extent of his limited range. Antiques and proprietors of such weren’t exactly his thing. And this task required two visits upon discovering that the proprietor in question didn’t accept credit cards. Pre-ATM days necessitated back-tracking across the Golden Gate Bridge and raiding the petty cash drawer at work. There was probably another phone call to Inna involved, and repeated instruction to “get down there and buy that damn monkey,” but the point is, it got done. The name ‘George’ didn’t come from the curious, children’s book primate, but rather an uncle on my dad’s side. Uncle George was my grandmother’s brother and resident of an old-folks home in Terra Linda. My mom visited him frequently because that’s who she was. It’s who all of us should be, but most aren’t. I digress. George reminded her of my uncle and thus a  monkey’s name was born.

George’s pièce de résistance was his straw hat, perched jauntily atop his head. ‘Straw’ isn’t sufficiently descriptive. The hat was constructed of a thicker, twig-like material, and what’s left of it still is. It’s come apart over time and I’ve found myself re-positioning it atop his head to better hide the flaws. There were two goals in the last years of my parents’ lives: keep them in their home and keep that home as my mother would have wanted it. They’ve been gone over a year now and its upkeep still falls to my charge. I’ve been scouring Amazon for an appropriate monkey hat, but efforts thus far have been inadequate. Of the three I’ve tried, the one that best fits (pictured above) makes George look like a peasant; like some kind of gardener working for Pablo Escobar who is occasionally granted use of his Jacuzzi. The original hat lent a royal yet subdued presence. Hat aside, he sits in a beautiful spot with sweeping views of the water, mountains, birds and Highway 101. Some years back, a Scottish visitor taking in the same view opined “just imagine — Neil Diamond could be in one of those cars!” But I never slept well in the place after my teenage years. Something about the weight of history, and the intensity of most recent experiences, sat too heavily. I’ll come by to cook a meal, fix the gutters or take in the mail, but sleep has eluded me. That is, up until this week. Turns out a single-family home is an ideal spot for a single guy during a pandemic. The same restlessness persisted the first few nights as I moved from room to room, bed to bed. The last resort — my mother’s room — turned out to be my best choice. It was counter-intuitive at first but of course makes perfect sense. I have no plans to move back into the place permanently but this period of reconnecting with the home, and most particularly with what she loved about it, seems almost predestined.

This brings me to the persistence of incremental change. It’s an idea with which one need only live long enough to be familiar. You can side-step change assiduously or run headlong into the fray but neither approach halts its inevitable arrival. Sometimes things change slowly enough to be eminently observable yet still move at lightning speed. I had some life-altering experience with this a few years back, and now it’s playing out on a global level. We have a clearly defined, yet invisible, existential threat. Each of us knows that it’s out there, spreading person to person and that the best we can do in the immediate is to avoid and isolate. This is subject to change, of course; even viruses aren’t immune to the passage of time and human innovation can surprise. But for this moment we have no guarantees. This virus spreads with great facility and kills with notable efficiency, stopping just short of wiping itself out. That last observation is worth pondering, but I have no time for conspiracy theories at present as I’m too busy isolating, denying and pricing monkey hats. And sleeping a bit better, turning on the heat in the morning, making myself a cup of coffee and appreciating my surroundings. And missing her, which is one of the few things I suspect won’t change for the remainder of my days.

Comedians, like viruses and tides, tend to peak and recede. It’s a natural law and even the late, great George Carlin wasn’t immune. He likely peaked prior to a bit he did on ‘saving the planet’ some years back, which was reflective of both his genius and a macabre tone he adopted in later years. It begins with him talking about human arrogance and the idea that ‘we’ can ‘save the planet.’ “The planet isn’t going anywhere .. we are. Pack your shit, folks — we’re going away.” It’s an observation based on common sense and science. The planet has been here billions of years next to our two-hundred or so thousand. “Way over ninety percent of all the species that have ever lived on this planet are gone,” Carlin explains. “We didn’t kill them all; they just disappeared. This is what nature does.” He maintains the uncomfortable hilarity until the end of the routine when he speaks about environmentalists’ illogical obsession with plastic:

The earth doesn’t share our prejudice toward plastic. Plastic came out of the earth. The earth probably sees plastic as just another one of its children. Could be the only reason the earth allowed us to be spawned from it. It wanted plastic for itself .. didn’t know how to make it. Could be the answer to our age-old philosophical question ‘why are we here?’ (Adopting godly tone) “Plastic … assholes!”

It’s in finishing that Carlin gives nod to what would be his late undoing as a comic. He concludes that having invented plastic, “our job is done” and muses about what will do us in as a species. Viruses, he prophetically concludes, would be a fine guess. At that time it was AIDS, which had the added benefit of discouraging procreation. He jumps the shark with a single line — “I can dream, can’t I ?” — which shifts the tone from empathy to one of removed superiority. This was George’s prerogative as he claimed to ‘cherish individuals’ as he met them but ‘abhor’ the groups that they formed. By the end he was a mess, celebrating death and doing long routines on apocalyptic visions. People love laughing at the insinuation that we’re all doomed but when you put too fine a point on it you run the risk of overstaying your welcome. He probably knew his time was up, anyway, having suffered multiple heart attacks before the one that did him in at seventy-one.

Perspective, like Elton John’s persona, is a bitch. We’re all aware that time seems to move faster as we age but the real point is that it doesn’t hit hard until we get there. What took place prior to our birth, whether ten years or a hundred, seems inconceivably removed. No matter how significant or trivial the life, those who live long enough often include the word “folly” when reflecting. You invent the cure for all deadly viruses just as they’re blowing up the world or get the Russians to back out of Cuba just as a new bug appears. I think back a lot to when I was twenty-four and living in Italy. There was a young guy and a fellow student who I dubbed “The Big Turk.” BT chain-smoked unfiltered cigarettes and seemed above the general, shirking, university town vibe that permeated Corso Vannuci and the central plaza. “Hey Reeeeek,” he’d say, momentarily pulling the Camel from his lips, “I saw your girlfriend yesterday. She was wearing a Tom Petty teeee-shirrrt.” One time he described the mandatory military service in Turkey that kicked in for all young men at seventeen. “Eeet’s all bull-sheet,” he assured, “they make you sleep on a sheep for six months then send you home.” I’ve thought about him over the years and now wonder, if he survived the chain-smoking, whether he’s been able to get hold of some decent hand-sanitizer.

The flip-side to these disparaging observations about humanity is all that stuff that seems cliche and that many ignore as church-group babble. Turns out that doing for others is, in fact, its own reward. This may seem hard to wrap one’s head around as we try to avoid getting too close to the guy we’re duking it out with over a pallet of two-ply toilet paper at our local Costco. Turns out we’re far more interconnected than most are willing to acknowledge. My dad’s pontificating on the superiority of our (read: ‘his’) clan’s genetic line was, as I suspected, irrelevant. We’re all subject to being dragged down or elevated by virtue of strangers. So, how to best meld this with Carlin’s observation on the value of treasuring the individual over the group? Interact with more individuals in a pleasant, positive or helpful way. Do it from a safe distance if current times mandate, but do it anyway. Then let this spread, like a virus, to the larger group. Sure, you can’t all be pollyannas like me, but even the coldest winter has its spring.