Archive for March, 2015
When I close my eyes I can still smell the morning air filled with the scent of lilacs. I can hear the train passing on the tracks behind the house, just as the morning sun kissed the top of the mountains outside my window.
The sounds of pots and pans working together,then the smell of bacon and coffee starts to overpower the sweet smell of the lilacs. I can hear the muffled voices of my Grandmother, aunts, and uncles. I stretch my arms out widely across my pillows covered by my grandmother’s patched quilt.
I am happy to be surrounded by everything that reminds me of her. I don’t have to look into the kitchen to see her, I already know she’s wearing one of her many vested aprons aligned with pockets across the front. When I stumble out of bed into her busy kitchen, she will look at me with her shiny dark eyes.
She doesn’t have to utter a single word. Her look tells me I am her world, and she understands that she is mine. I will climb up into my chair at the breakfast table surrounded by my family sharing stories of days gone by. A room filled with warmth and laughter.
After breakfast she, and I will walk down to her garden. We will pull weeds and turn the dark soil. I will pick the bright red tomatoes, and cucumbers from their vines. I will fill our baskets with carrots, onions, and peppers for our supper later on.
She watches me work, pleased that I have learned her way with the garden. I stare back at her with pride. Then I look up to the mountains I am surrounded by colors, and the sweet songs of the birds chirping from the apple trees. The sun shinning warmly on my face.
My Grandma lived in the mountains. When I close my eyes she is still there, and I am with her. Our moments passed by like the trains that crossed over the tracks. Cherished memories of sweet smells, and warm conversations that live on in my mind.
I stand by your bed side, and every single day I hope that you will be your old self again. Only hope could bring me to a place where each day holds an unimaginable level of misery to the depths of my soul.
For three years, and five months I have watched your essence slip gradually away. Just like the visitors who use to come. They say that they can’t continue to come, and to see you wither away. I have the opposite fear. Every single day I fear the day will come when I will not see you again.
Your will to live frightens them. They see a weakened old man. I see a great warrior who refuses to be beaten. You are so much stronger than we will ever be. I will stay by your side for as long as you fight. I will be your eyes, your ears, and your voice every single day.
My misery is not caused by your existence. It comes from my inability to bring you back to the place I know you long to go every single day…
Ok, so I was browsing through Twitter because I obviously like shitting all over my day and I keep seeing this recurring theme of younger fans who seem to be completely oblivious to the world of music outside of their one fanboy/girl obsession. My perusing leads me to articles like the one linked to the image below.
Sir Paul McCartney deigned to grace Kanye (isn’t he the twat who now twice got up during someone else’s acceptance speech to tell the audience someone else deserved it?) with his presence for a collaborative piece and apparently the twat’s fans have never heard of the great Sir. Some of the tweets were much like:
“I don’t know who Paul McCartney is, but Kanye is going to give this man a career w/ this new song!!”
Really? A man whose success is like trying to catch another universe for someone at the level of twat-K and has spanned for generations and you dare to compare the two as though someone this asinine could surpass him?
I don’t even give a crap whether this group of people LIKES The Beatles, but they should at least fucking know who they are.
Then, at another period of time I saw a truckload of Lana del Rey’s fanquad attacking Kim’s Gordon’s twitter feed with heinous shit of what she could go do to herself, over a quote in Gordon’s book that said about del Rey:
“Today we have someone like Lana Del Rey, who doesn’t even know what feminism is, who believes women can do whatever they want, which, in her world, tilts toward self-destruction, whether it’s sleeping with gross old men or getting gang raped by bikers. Equal pay and equal rights would be nice. Naturally, it’s just a persona. If she really truly believes it’s beautiful when young musicians go out on a hot flame of drugs and depression, why doesn’t she just off herself?”
Personally, so the fuck what? Last I checked Freedom of Speech is a thing and you can disagree all you want, but if the disagreement turns into harassment and terror because you seriously cannot handle someone who thinks differently than you do, you need to grow the fuck up.
I enjoy the work of both musicians. Kim is a living legend and again, even if you don’t like anything every produced by Sonic Youth, you should at least know who the fuck they are. They are our history. The fans frothed at the mouth about treating “poor Lana” so harshly, but this is just one blurb in many that Lana has given interviewers, either via ignorance, immaturity or stupidity:
Interviewer: Is early death glamorous?
“I don’t know. Ummm, yeah.”
Interviewer: Don’t say that
“I do! I don’t want to have to keep doing this. But I am.
Interviewer: Do what? Make Music?
“Everything. That’s just how I feel. If it wasn’t that way, then I wouldn’t say it. I would be scared if I knew [death] was coming, but …”
There really isn’t a whole lot of interpretation to any of this, but I read multiples posts about how “but Lana meant…” and they all make it their own poetic interpretation of what she said, some about living for the moment, or to the fullest. But they all failed to realize one thing.
You don’t know them. Musicians you fangasm about aren’t dolls on which to project your own perception of who they are, and they will never live up to it. They aren’t your friends, they don’t owe you anything, they have no obligation to be who you want them to be and if they were told they could make a fortune by tossing your ass off a cliff, they might actually do it.
Hell, considering some of these fans in particular, I might do it… for free.
I would be pissed too if I heard an interview like that. I grew up in the grunge era and saw a lot of excellent musicians die. There is nothing glamorous about it. The generation before me and before them and so on also saw the loss of supremely excellent musicians who died too young, ones we still honor today for the legend they left behind and the music we still have to remember them. It does not mean its something to romanticize.
Of course from my generation, the one that sticks out probably most prominently is Kurt Cobain. He had a really bleak point and was successful in taking his own life, leaving behind his very young daughter. There is nothing cool or romantic about that, a sentiment shared by Kurt’s daughter, who also was very vocal about del Rey’s stupid ass remarks. Which she nailed well with:
“I’ll never know my father because he died young & it becomes a desirable feat because ppl like u think it’s ‘cool'”
but of course in the midst of all of this, they don’t know Kurt Cobain or at least are not smart enough to realize that a person named Frances Bean and shares the same last name might actually have enough relevance to say whatever the hell she wants to about the situation, a damn sight more than LDR.
And all too many of the LDR fans? So, so terribly many had no clue who this “unknown” person was by the name of Kim Gordon… and you just wonder… are you really so deluded you think this one person you listen to invented the whole concept of music?
Maybe I’m touchy about the subject. I always feel bad about bands or musicians whose music I know, but not necessarily their name. But I’m also not dumbass enough to believe that my generation was all that revolutionary. The punk revolution was before me and in many ways, they pushed the envelope. Rock ‘n’ Roll pushed it before them, knocking big band out of the way, opening the path for the hippy revolution a generation later.
I’ll see your Lady GaGa and raise you Missing Persons.
Or hey, almost any of these (NSFW)
The point I’m trying to make I guess is that if some of the current generation of musicians and their fandoms want to portray themselves as the sole revolutionary figure in whatever they are doing, that makes them fucking stupid if they really believe it. Generations upon generations before them laid the groundwork for them to able to do their thing today and not be condemned for it and even if you hate everything they produced, you should at least know of them and give a nod for the progress they did make since the latter generations get to reap the rewards.
Oh and any music outfit who has never written their own songs, lip syncs at concerts and/or has a team of people who actually decides who they are… you don’t deserve shit and you are merely a gutted Inflate-a-Date, take ownership of your own life now because you will be thrown to the side the second the cash cow dries up.
So respect your elders, dammit! and get off mah lawn, you whippersnappers!
On that note, I leave you a stupidly wonderful song from the 80’s… basque in the majesty.
The Baby is “Little Man’s” three year-old brother otherwise known as “The King” due to his extraordinary command of his household. He is small in stature and large in personality, and he rules his kingdom with an iron will. When you first see “The Baby” you find yourself admiring his soft features. You can easily be fooled into dropping all your defenses as you are lulled in by his intense blue eyes. A smile so sweet it renders you completely ill-equipped to fathom the iron will that resides inside of him. He is very easy on the eyes, and just like “Little Man” he oozes charm.
I started out as “Little Man’s” superhero activity assistant. His superpower is Autism. I am proud to say that he has mastered all of his therapies, and is currently thriving in a mainstream private school. The Baby who is equally as intelligent as his brother, has experienced some developmental difficulties, and is particularly delayed with his speech. So it is my job to take him to speech therapy.
“The King,” and I have a great relationship, he finds my ability to understand him very useful. I seem to easily understand his desires with much less prompting than most. This ability saves the short-tempered king a great deal of time, and frustration when he wants to convey his desires. He is quite proficient at making his point, and extremely intolerant of those who don’t comply with his royal commands.
“The King” hates speech therapy! His therapist did not initially bond with his need to rule the kingdom. She seemed to find his personality much less than charismatic, often saying to me that he reminded her of her baby sister. It was quite apparent to me that she was not a fan of being a royal subject. “The King” was equally displeased with her disdain for his royal rule. I’m pleased that both have grown in their appreciation for one another over the last few months, but there are still those occasional moments when the clash of their equally strong wills arise!
Yesterday was one of those dreaded days. The Baby was definitely not himself when I picked him up from preschool. He seemed distracted not his usual engaging self. When we arrived at therapy his therapist was eager to share her newest Easter Rabbit game. This consisted of a cut-out rabbit with a very large opening where the mouth is, so each time a word on a flashcard is pronounced correctly a small colorful plastic carrot can be fed to the rabbit as a reward.
I should tell you that the baby has a fascination with colorful plastic toy foods. If he likes something in particular he will hold on to the desired object without ever putting it down. So his therapist knew he would like the carrots. She was in a much more playful mood than “The King,” and was trying very hard to make this new game fun for him. She also enjoys teasing his iron will a bit, and she tried to coax him into relinquishing one of the carrots from his hand to feed to the rabbit. “The King” is iron in his will not to give the carrot to the rabbit, and his therapist was highly amused by his responses.
“The King” however was not amused by her attempts, and was not at all happy with her enjoyment of his unrelenting iron will. I could see his face growing more and more agitated, something his therapist seemed to ignore as she continued to exercise her iron will. Then she decided to make the large open-mouthed rabbit hop towards him to feign that it was going to eat the highly coveted carrot he held tightly in his hand. Yep that was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
“The Baby” who is tired of this taunting, in a flash raises his other iron fist, and slams it down on top of the rabbit’s head! He demolishes the rabbit in one swipe! I watched the therapist’s face transform from smiling amusement to complete surprise. Her brand new rabbit was flattened. I then look at “The Baby’s” face. He was staring at her with a look of well are you happy now? Then in a royal like fashion he hands her the coveted carrot, climbs down from his chair, and walks towards the door. He looks over at me very nonchalantly, points to the door, and then turns around looks at his therapist and says bye.
I stood up fully understanding his royal decree, looked at his still silent therapist, and said good-bye. Sometimes a little king just has to remind his royal subjects just who really is running the royal kingdom. 😉
Social experiment straight from the creative mind of g2. Baffledbaboon asked us about awkward, or funny moments so this is one of mine. For the other bloggers out there who have not had the pleasure of reading baffledbaboon’s blog, you are absolutely missing out on an epic blog.
My son was a very particular toddler. He had an intense dislike for anything dirty, or gross. For example another child in his preschool class carried around a large white rag which he used to blow his nose with, it was like a large white cloth “snot rag”. In all fairness it was pretty gross by all standards. My son avoided that “giant snot rag” like it was the plague!
My kids attended a religious preschool so every Wednesday morning was chapel day. On one particular morning the young man who carried the “giant snot rag” happened to be seated next to my son. We were asked to stand up for morning prayer. So many of us would place our hands along the backside of the pew in front of us. On this morning the young man’s “giant snot rag” touched my son’s hand!
So out loud in his most disgusted little 3-year-old voice he screams out “Jesus Christ get that thing off of me!” That’s right, out loud in the middle of prayer, while the entire school sat in chapel. Every student and teacher turned to look at the mother of the blasphemous toddler! Let me also mention that I worked as an aide in this preschool! 😉
Thank you baffledbaboon for participating in our little social experiment!
She is intelligent, beautiful, kind, and all of her wonderful qualities are negated by the fact that she has not learned to love herself. Somewhere along her journey she told herself that she wasn’t enough, and she has spent every single day since then embracing that lie. She doesn’t know that it’s possible to be complete on her own. She has developed a pattern of self-destruction that she is unable to see. It’s a pattern that is easily seen by every “Player” personality on the planet.
She starts every conquest in the exact same way. Sex is her lure, she feels empowered by its ability to draw someone in, never seeing that it’s a strong signal that implies she feels that her sexuality is the only way she can attract another person. The “Player” will take the sex she is offering fully understanding that once this occurs she will falsely believe that she has entered into a new relationship. She will falsely convince herself that she is controlling the encounter, never realizing she has just given the “Player” complete control over all future encounters.
She will continue to secure her false sense of power with one erotic sexual encounter after another. The “Player” will gladly use her sexual bravado as a tool that will eventually be used to help her degrade herself. A sort of insurance policy to secure having a spare around until they find someone else of more interest, or they get tired of pretending that the encounters will lead to an actual relationship. It’s an ideal situation for the “Player” satisfying their sexual needs without any commitments. They always have the argument that they didn’t manipulate her for the sex, she freely offered it from the beginning.
She lives with unconscious thoughts of unworthiness. She has never taken the time to get to know who she really is, she is frightened by the unanswered question. Ironically it’s an answer that is completely within her control, but first she has to see that she hasn’t learned to love herself. 😉
To get up to pace with my Social Experiment:
BAFFLEDBABOON SAYS: Well, I think It would be really fun to hear about one of the funniest or most awkward moments of your life.
Let me tell you first that I was quite eager to see what verbal diarrhea you guys would launch my way and I was sincerely hoping my dream of writing a composition utilizing the phrase “deprivation suit” might finally be in my grasp. *sigh* And now that I’ve told you that, if anyone suggests it now, it will seem forced and inorganic and I will have lost interest.
Now, here’s a nugget of information about me: it is very, very difficult to embarrass me. As I’m typing this I’m still trying to figure out if there is a real embarrassing memory I have to access. Traumatic, sure. Funny, got a shit ton of those, so that may end up being my fallback, but embarrassing… I’m having an impossible time spelling it even though the spelling makes me think of “bare ass”, let alone feeling it. Right now, I just spelled it three different ways, every fucking one of them wrong and if it weren’t for spell check, you would have seen that. That would have been emba…. awful.
Even though I say we had gone out drinking beforehand in those prior times of deviancy, I was dead sober when I was singing at the top of my lungs at that Denny’s with the waiter and my cohorts. As far as I know, I cannot sing. I’ve had a compliment here and there, but my own kid would make me stop when I tried to sing them to sleep.
Speaking of bare ass, I lost a game of strip poker and had to rub my ass with vaseline and imprint it on a mirror that one of the players hung in their den. Last I heard, my ass was still immortalized there. Peeling my pants off later was interesting too. There is just no way to completely remove vaseline… from…. crevices.
On a typical day when mom would drag my ass out shopping (hate shopping), I decided I was going to have a raging tantrum because she refused to buy me some dinosaur band-aids. She finally relented.
I also discovered an entire end cap of electronic versions of the mole from Caddyshack that danced and played Kenny Loggins when you hit the button. I proceeded to hit all the buttons and dance along to “I’m all right”. When my mom discovered me, she passed by as though she had no clue who I was and was equally disturbed by this strange person.
I was twenty-six years old.
I think I still have a couple of those band-aids.
When I was selling off my mom’s stuff and trying to pack up to move, I had a friend who was co-running the final yard sale with me at my house. Basically, I did the manual labor, he utilized his charisma to sell. I hate shopping, therefore I hate selling too. The piano was one of the last big items she had and I wanted to make sure it went to the right family. The newlywed and mom who made an offer were offering lower than I wanted to settle for, so my charmer was working his magic and they had been playing and singing to it for over an hour.
The music suddenly stopped and both the girl and her mom came out purple, choking, trying to laugh while covering the lower half of their faces. Then my stupid buddy comes out slowly, leaving the front door wide open with a shit-eating grin on his face and he just says “um…. sorry.”
Apparently, over the three days we had been selling, he had had copious amount of fast food and alcohol and landed an SBD that likely melted some of the paint off the inside of the house… or cauterized it on. I couldn’t enter the house for an hour. I think I refused to feed him anything but salad until he left.
I suppose I had about 90% annoyance and 10% embarrassment when right after I divorced, my roommate had gone shopping for me so I had some decent managerial-like clothing to wear for my recent promotion.
Don’t get me wrong, I was well aware I looked like a homeless reject, but as a married person, I really did nothing for myself, ever. Now that I was separated, I needed to revive a lot of that self-awareness long lost. I had given my roommate the money to shop for me since they offered and I knew they had good sense on that kind of stuff.
Most of my clothing was way too big because “ala Hefty” was much easier to select quickly and I’d rather rip out my own eyeballs before I will try anything on.
We had a corporate visit the next day, another friend wanted to get their hands on my head and I was rather freaked out by what met me in the mirror afterwards.
I managed to forget about it after a bit that next morning, especially since I’m the type who usually ignores mirrors… until I walked out on the main floor.
and got a standing ovation…
and some cat calls…
remarks about looking like proper folk, etc.
I stopped in my tracks, then slowly did a 180 and went back the way I came.
I tried to spend the rest of the day in a back office working on paperwork, but was quickly run out by my asshole boss who found all of this entirely too entertaining to let pass. I told him I hoped his girlfriend called him horny and he got hit by a dump truck before he ever got to her.
BB, I hope I didn’t disappoint! And by the way, where the hell have you been all my life, your site is epic!