September 23, 2011: Sometimes I turn on the computer and just start writing a Blah-ugh! entry ... and sometimes I spend days, or even weeks, contemplating a particular complaint, controversy, consideration or critique ...
Sometimes I wipe with natural dye-free toilet paper that I pay a little bit extra for ... and sometimes I just use whatever's lying around at that time ...
Sometimes I remember myself in present-time awareness, connecting with my breath and the universal omnipresence as I understand and interpret it ... and sometimes I'm thinking about something stupid I said to someone eight or nine years ago, or how I'm going to handle some situation that I fear may come up eight or nine years in the future ...
Sometimes I watch old horror movies late at night, such as John Carpenter's "Prince of Darkness," or the original "Fright Night" with the great Roddy McDowall ... and sometimes I read a fine book at night, like "The Journey to the East," "The Sun Also Rises," or "Dracula" ...
Sometimes I say what's on my mind because I don't give a shit what people think if they might happen to foolishly disagree with me ... and sometimes I just keep my mouth shut because I remember that nothing's really that important after all, plus no one really cares what anyone else has to say anyway ...
Sometimes I think about how conscious changes in our society could result in tremendous postive whole-scale advancements for humanity ... and sometimes I think about how great certain women look naked ...
Sometimes I listen to beautiful songs over and over again while driving in the car, and sometimes I just shut the radio and listen to the jabbering voices in my head ...
Sometimes I like some people and sometimes I don't ...
Sometimes I love humanity and sometimes I think they're just a bunch of idiots ...
Sometimes I write for myself and sometimes I try to write for you ...
But I always, always, always feel a compulsion to use a napkin whenever I eat, thanks to the neurotic conditioning of my once-demented mother ...
Friday, September 23, 2011
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
The Paving of the Park
September 13, 2011: Well, I promised I'd post soon, but then I didn't get around to it ... But this evening I was so irritated by seeing this "thing" (as you'll see below), I motivated myself to write an op/ed piece on it, and so I end the evening with both self-worth and copy ... I'm forwarding it on to the papers, etc., but I never have faith that any of them print anything, and if they do there's a good chance they'll omit my commas ... For those of you with Westport, CT, connections, I hope you'll find it interesting and worthwhile, and for the rest, I hope you'll simply enjoy the opportunity to bask in my lovingly crafted work ...
The Paving of the Park
by JARRET LIOTTA
Doesn’t it strike anyone else as odd—-or disturbing—-how the park at the corner of Main Street and the Post Road has been quietly usurped by the businesses that lease the adjacent building?
For the past several months the latest land grabbers have loudly toiled on what was once a pleasant downtown park, with plants and shrubs and wooden benches that had back support. Now, the designers have basically clear-cut the place and left a spread of cement that looks more like a parking lot than anything resembling the open space its supposed to be.
Once upon a time, this was the library park, for the Westport Library occupied the adjacent brick building all the way back to the river. The park was tiny, if not elaborate. It felt set back from the busy road by some pleasantly untended plantings, and was slightly elevated behind a small rustic brick wall in the same style as that running along the library building. The back of the park was a bit of a mishmash of ivy and shrubs, but really it was kind of nice to see a small, uncontrolled speckle of wild open space left in the center of the commercial district—a romantic remnant of a time when we weren’t as afraid of dirt and chemical-free lawns as we seem to be now.
When the library moved in the mid-1980s, a restaurant—it was called Café Christina, if memory serves—took over the better part of the building. Through what was (in my opinion) an entirely despicable zoning variance, they were allowed to construct an enormous cement patio over half that park. Worse, Café Christina—and the clods in Westport’s government who okayed the work—sidestepped reasonable practice by putting up a small, rarely noticed plaque on the right side of the building, which gave notice that this patio was “dedicated open space” and that the public was (still) allowed its use. (I believe the plaque is still there, though it feels like you’d need a microscope to see it.)
Years later, a retail store followed, and the patio became an enormous ramp and staircase. By then they’d also taken away the comfortable wooden-backed benches, like the ones we luckily still have on the river, replacing them with those awful cold stone pews that discourage sitting.
Now, in its most recent and grossest incarnation, this poor “park” has literally become a cement-covered monstrosity, embarrassed by enough concrete to facilitate six new parking spaces. In fact, I’m absolutely surprised these greed-head builders left that magnificent sycamore tree still standing in the middle, for it can’t possibly be profitable to them to have it there. (Fortunately, it’s been rigidly confined within a very small square of dirt, so it doesn’t get any funny ideas!)
Part of being a Westport native involves the recurring digestion of head-slapping zoning decisions, the acceptance of grotesque, mammoth (and tacky) new constructions, and the sad, sometimes senseless destruction of places and properties that offer the most subtle of additions to our town—aesthetics, untended greenery, history, etc. It’s such a constant disappointment to see the pattern unfold again and again, and the sensible citizen merely goes numb and tries to keep their attention centered on the positives, like the Westport Pizzeria, the wooden-backed benches by the river, and the outstanding beauty of the old Y building.
But what a shame it is—-at least for me—-to see this lovely little spot, so centrally located, get stomped out of existence, or at best crushed into an awkward submission to bad taste, overkill, and zoning chicanery. I really, really wish Westport would think these things through.
— 30 —
The Paving of the Park
by JARRET LIOTTA
Doesn’t it strike anyone else as odd—-or disturbing—-how the park at the corner of Main Street and the Post Road has been quietly usurped by the businesses that lease the adjacent building?
For the past several months the latest land grabbers have loudly toiled on what was once a pleasant downtown park, with plants and shrubs and wooden benches that had back support. Now, the designers have basically clear-cut the place and left a spread of cement that looks more like a parking lot than anything resembling the open space its supposed to be.
Once upon a time, this was the library park, for the Westport Library occupied the adjacent brick building all the way back to the river. The park was tiny, if not elaborate. It felt set back from the busy road by some pleasantly untended plantings, and was slightly elevated behind a small rustic brick wall in the same style as that running along the library building. The back of the park was a bit of a mishmash of ivy and shrubs, but really it was kind of nice to see a small, uncontrolled speckle of wild open space left in the center of the commercial district—a romantic remnant of a time when we weren’t as afraid of dirt and chemical-free lawns as we seem to be now.
When the library moved in the mid-1980s, a restaurant—it was called Café Christina, if memory serves—took over the better part of the building. Through what was (in my opinion) an entirely despicable zoning variance, they were allowed to construct an enormous cement patio over half that park. Worse, Café Christina—and the clods in Westport’s government who okayed the work—sidestepped reasonable practice by putting up a small, rarely noticed plaque on the right side of the building, which gave notice that this patio was “dedicated open space” and that the public was (still) allowed its use. (I believe the plaque is still there, though it feels like you’d need a microscope to see it.)
Years later, a retail store followed, and the patio became an enormous ramp and staircase. By then they’d also taken away the comfortable wooden-backed benches, like the ones we luckily still have on the river, replacing them with those awful cold stone pews that discourage sitting.
Now, in its most recent and grossest incarnation, this poor “park” has literally become a cement-covered monstrosity, embarrassed by enough concrete to facilitate six new parking spaces. In fact, I’m absolutely surprised these greed-head builders left that magnificent sycamore tree still standing in the middle, for it can’t possibly be profitable to them to have it there. (Fortunately, it’s been rigidly confined within a very small square of dirt, so it doesn’t get any funny ideas!)
Part of being a Westport native involves the recurring digestion of head-slapping zoning decisions, the acceptance of grotesque, mammoth (and tacky) new constructions, and the sad, sometimes senseless destruction of places and properties that offer the most subtle of additions to our town—aesthetics, untended greenery, history, etc. It’s such a constant disappointment to see the pattern unfold again and again, and the sensible citizen merely goes numb and tries to keep their attention centered on the positives, like the Westport Pizzeria, the wooden-backed benches by the river, and the outstanding beauty of the old Y building.
But what a shame it is—-at least for me—-to see this lovely little spot, so centrally located, get stomped out of existence, or at best crushed into an awkward submission to bad taste, overkill, and zoning chicanery. I really, really wish Westport would think these things through.
— 30 —
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Promises, and More Promises
September 7, 2011: This is just a short note to let you know ... (No, not you. You!) ... that I do intend to get back to writing this awful thing at some point soon. I know many of you have been severely hurt by this lengthy hiatus, and many of you have come up to me on the street and in the alleys to express your sadness, contempt and impatience. (There was even one woman who chased me with bottle, but that may have something to do with my singing.)
The point is -- and isn't there ALWAYS a point, after all -- that I don't want you to think I've been shirking my duties, or ignoring them. At the same time, I don't want to imply I've even been THINKING about them, because I haven't. There are few tasks I despise as much as this eternal commitment (and see, I'm not even sure how to spell the word!) to comic stream-of-consciousness. For one thing I'm not conscious enough (as I'm sure my wife would attest), and also I've been very consumed with work, pornography, and Christopher Lee/Peter Cushing movies ...
But seriously folks, consider this my pledge to get back to the Blah-ugh! tasks at some point soon. There are certainly many of you -- are four "many"? I like to think so! -- who get something out of reading my vitriolic vitriol, and for you (or them, depending on which direction I'm facing ... and it actually happens to be northeast this moment) I will try to start churning these psychic updates out more frequently ...
Alright, I have to go now. There's a Ron Jeremy movie starting ...
The point is -- and isn't there ALWAYS a point, after all -- that I don't want you to think I've been shirking my duties, or ignoring them. At the same time, I don't want to imply I've even been THINKING about them, because I haven't. There are few tasks I despise as much as this eternal commitment (and see, I'm not even sure how to spell the word!) to comic stream-of-consciousness. For one thing I'm not conscious enough (as I'm sure my wife would attest), and also I've been very consumed with work, pornography, and Christopher Lee/Peter Cushing movies ...
But seriously folks, consider this my pledge to get back to the Blah-ugh! tasks at some point soon. There are certainly many of you -- are four "many"? I like to think so! -- who get something out of reading my vitriolic vitriol, and for you (or them, depending on which direction I'm facing ... and it actually happens to be northeast this moment) I will try to start churning these psychic updates out more frequently ...
Alright, I have to go now. There's a Ron Jeremy movie starting ...
Monday, July 18, 2011
Who's Running The Store?!
July 18, 2011: I should be working, but I'm thinking of you instead ... Well, some of you. The rest of you I'm trying to block out, like the heat, which is turning my little attic roost into a steambath. And if that's not enough, there's a whopping thunderstorm sounding down upon my roof like god playing really loud records, and it's making me sure that the next lightning bolt could permanently fuse my fragile fingers to this god-awful keyboard for good ...
Something I've been meaning to mention for a long time -- and I don't think I've mentioned it, but who knows, because I don't have the stomach to go back and read these ridiculous entries -- involves organic food. It just occurred to me, (that is, about 10 months ago), that I have no way of knowing whether or not food is organic. Has that ever occurred to you, you who perhaps even care? And if so, why didn't YOU write about it instead of making ME do it?! (I'm talking to you, Liz!)
(For you regular Blah-ugh! readers -- meaning the five of you -- does this sound familiar? I hope I'm not regurgitating a past entry, because we both know I'm better than that. At the same time, don't all artists basically remake the same story or song or painting over and over again? You see my point, right? And if you don't, don't worry, because I'll just be regurgitating it soon enough anyway ...)
But my point (meaning my OTHER point) is that I (meaning ME) don't know what the hell is going on on any organic farm in Tallahassee or noble Northwest corridor (or anywhere, for that matter). Just because Stop & Shop or Trader Joe's puts some stupid label on it that says it's organic (or anything else -- not made on peanut-fueled equipment, or whatever), how the hell do I ever really know it's true?!
Of course, we all like to think that there are government agencies overseeing this sort of thing, and consumer-advocate groups, etc. Unfortunately, I've reached that cold age where I have absolutely no faith in any of this, and so I've started wondering just what we're faced with here (and not just in our apples -- I'm talking about broccoli, pears -- everything). I mean, let's be honest, do any of us really have the time to do anything but watch television in our spare hours, let alone monitor the organic standards of apple companies in Mexico, or the graft passing between wheat executives in Kearney, Nebraska, or whether or not some corn picker in Duluth is rubbing each ear on his private parts before shipping it south?
And why should I trust Trader Joe's, of all things? They just discontinued my precious rice noodles without giving me any notice, and I have a sneaking suspicion that I won't be able to find my microwavable mashed potatoes in the freezer section anymore, following my securing of the last bag this evening. (O, what a morbid post-apocalyptic short story that could make -- "The Last Mashed Potato Bag" ...)
And Stop & Shop I certainly don't trust, nor any of their "Nature's Promise" labels. And I don't trust our government, even starting locally. And I'm pretty disappointed in my police department as well these days, not to mention some of the weirdos at the dump. Hell, I'm not even sure which neighbors I can count on not to leave their dog excrement in my yard. My god, is there no going back to safer, more trustworthy times?!
Well, in the end we're so breathtakingly powerless that all we can do is eat the f***ing apples and hope we don't come down with anything that can't be cured without good insurance. I'm sure you all agree that this is a wonderful time we live in, with all its communication advances and flavors of herbal tea and different kinds of White-Out.
I'm just not sure, then, why everyone's so depressed and allergic and autistic and cancer-prone and ADHD and taking so many supplements but still on the verge of gluten death ...
Someone should write about this stuff and tell the people. Me, I'm getting back to my last-night John Carpenter DVD fest ...
Something I've been meaning to mention for a long time -- and I don't think I've mentioned it, but who knows, because I don't have the stomach to go back and read these ridiculous entries -- involves organic food. It just occurred to me, (that is, about 10 months ago), that I have no way of knowing whether or not food is organic. Has that ever occurred to you, you who perhaps even care? And if so, why didn't YOU write about it instead of making ME do it?! (I'm talking to you, Liz!)
(For you regular Blah-ugh! readers -- meaning the five of you -- does this sound familiar? I hope I'm not regurgitating a past entry, because we both know I'm better than that. At the same time, don't all artists basically remake the same story or song or painting over and over again? You see my point, right? And if you don't, don't worry, because I'll just be regurgitating it soon enough anyway ...)
But my point (meaning my OTHER point) is that I (meaning ME) don't know what the hell is going on on any organic farm in Tallahassee or noble Northwest corridor (or anywhere, for that matter). Just because Stop & Shop or Trader Joe's puts some stupid label on it that says it's organic (or anything else -- not made on peanut-fueled equipment, or whatever), how the hell do I ever really know it's true?!
Of course, we all like to think that there are government agencies overseeing this sort of thing, and consumer-advocate groups, etc. Unfortunately, I've reached that cold age where I have absolutely no faith in any of this, and so I've started wondering just what we're faced with here (and not just in our apples -- I'm talking about broccoli, pears -- everything). I mean, let's be honest, do any of us really have the time to do anything but watch television in our spare hours, let alone monitor the organic standards of apple companies in Mexico, or the graft passing between wheat executives in Kearney, Nebraska, or whether or not some corn picker in Duluth is rubbing each ear on his private parts before shipping it south?
And why should I trust Trader Joe's, of all things? They just discontinued my precious rice noodles without giving me any notice, and I have a sneaking suspicion that I won't be able to find my microwavable mashed potatoes in the freezer section anymore, following my securing of the last bag this evening. (O, what a morbid post-apocalyptic short story that could make -- "The Last Mashed Potato Bag" ...)
And Stop & Shop I certainly don't trust, nor any of their "Nature's Promise" labels. And I don't trust our government, even starting locally. And I'm pretty disappointed in my police department as well these days, not to mention some of the weirdos at the dump. Hell, I'm not even sure which neighbors I can count on not to leave their dog excrement in my yard. My god, is there no going back to safer, more trustworthy times?!
Well, in the end we're so breathtakingly powerless that all we can do is eat the f***ing apples and hope we don't come down with anything that can't be cured without good insurance. I'm sure you all agree that this is a wonderful time we live in, with all its communication advances and flavors of herbal tea and different kinds of White-Out.
I'm just not sure, then, why everyone's so depressed and allergic and autistic and cancer-prone and ADHD and taking so many supplements but still on the verge of gluten death ...
Someone should write about this stuff and tell the people. Me, I'm getting back to my last-night John Carpenter DVD fest ...
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
The Name Game
July 12, 2011: I see now that my heartfelt Blah-ugh! entries don't generate half the interest that my scathing rants do, so I'll revert (or evolve, depending on your point of view) back to addressing only those issues and topics that I feel can generate the most angst and venom, or humor -- whichever comes first ...
That said, I've pretty thoroughly criticized everyone based on looks, their ethnicity, their stupid religions, and even the way they walk (I'm talking to you, you duck walkers!), but I don't think I've ever taken the time to really gnaw on the silliness of people's names.
Names are interesting and intriguing, and can even tell a lot about an individual based on their epistomology (I think that's the word, or it might be "wordography," but I think you get my meaning.) Everyone knows MY name translates to "one with mighty spear," which of course says all that needs to be said about me. But what about the rest of you?
I turned to my daughter's name book to explore a few definitions, consider a few inconsistencies, and generally squeeze for material with which to make fun of others, which is, after all, at the heart of what I do.
Before I go any farther, can you believe that this version (called "100,000+ Baby Names") actually condones the name "Anfernee," calling it a version of Anthony. I've long known this was a name only an illiterate could generate, and despite the popularity of its' sole recipient (of basketball fame, of course), it's always been a weird reminder to me of how an eternally guilt-festered society will let some people get away with anything. That said, WHY NOT Anfernee, for where do new names come from anyway, if not illiterates? (Who the hell thought to turn "Ann" into "Anne" after all?) Why not Infernee? or Assfurry? It's a debate I want no part of, but I just want you to consider all the facts before you jump to conclusions ... E.J.!
Thumbing through this thorough volume, I'm delighted and repelled by the quaint variety and dashingly stupid selection. "Curipan" is a Mapuche name for a boy, meaning "stinging nettle." Now who the hell would name their child Curipan, or even Pan for that matter. (Ironically, Pan doesn't even show up in this book -- probably the only name in the known universe that doesn't, because they have "Panini," believe it or not, which doesn't actually mean "sandwich"!) Further, what or where is Mapuche, and should we recognize anything that comes out of what must certainly be a devilishly weird region, and probably a dangerous one!? ...
Turning to the girls, there are a wide variety of "Sha" names, which are all American in origin, if you can believe such a thing. "Shalisa" is (and I quote) "a combination of the prefix Sha + Lisa," while "Shalita" is "a combination of the prefix Sha + Lita. If we're going to use prefixes, perhaps we can get more creative -- or more traditional. Why not use "Pre" as a prefix, for, say, "Prelisa" ... or "Prementrual." Could we not call a girl "Antibellum" or Antilita," meaning someone who is against being Lita ... or Lacklita ... or Lackluster ... (Did I mention MY name means "one with an enormous and dangerously sharp spear"?)
Other names bring strange meanings directly to life, like "Brieanne" (sorry Brianne & Brianna!) which literally combines "a type of cheese" with "gracious," or to simplify it -- "gracious cheese!" "Ottah" means "thin baby," while "Oya" means "speaking of the jacksnipe," (and we all know how often we speak of jacksnipes, especially in the privacy of our homes).
Some names make perfect sense. For instance "Akbar" means "great," and we all know what a great comic Akbar & Jeff is. "Alacrino" means "alive & outgoing," and who's ever been to a party where the center of life didn't flow from all the Alacrinos there ...
And did I mention MY name, which means "ye with enormous and crafty spear"? ...
That said, I've pretty thoroughly criticized everyone based on looks, their ethnicity, their stupid religions, and even the way they walk (I'm talking to you, you duck walkers!), but I don't think I've ever taken the time to really gnaw on the silliness of people's names.
Names are interesting and intriguing, and can even tell a lot about an individual based on their epistomology (I think that's the word, or it might be "wordography," but I think you get my meaning.) Everyone knows MY name translates to "one with mighty spear," which of course says all that needs to be said about me. But what about the rest of you?
I turned to my daughter's name book to explore a few definitions, consider a few inconsistencies, and generally squeeze for material with which to make fun of others, which is, after all, at the heart of what I do.
Before I go any farther, can you believe that this version (called "100,000+ Baby Names") actually condones the name "Anfernee," calling it a version of Anthony. I've long known this was a name only an illiterate could generate, and despite the popularity of its' sole recipient (of basketball fame, of course), it's always been a weird reminder to me of how an eternally guilt-festered society will let some people get away with anything. That said, WHY NOT Anfernee, for where do new names come from anyway, if not illiterates? (Who the hell thought to turn "Ann" into "Anne" after all?) Why not Infernee? or Assfurry? It's a debate I want no part of, but I just want you to consider all the facts before you jump to conclusions ... E.J.!
Thumbing through this thorough volume, I'm delighted and repelled by the quaint variety and dashingly stupid selection. "Curipan" is a Mapuche name for a boy, meaning "stinging nettle." Now who the hell would name their child Curipan, or even Pan for that matter. (Ironically, Pan doesn't even show up in this book -- probably the only name in the known universe that doesn't, because they have "Panini," believe it or not, which doesn't actually mean "sandwich"!) Further, what or where is Mapuche, and should we recognize anything that comes out of what must certainly be a devilishly weird region, and probably a dangerous one!? ...
Turning to the girls, there are a wide variety of "Sha" names, which are all American in origin, if you can believe such a thing. "Shalisa" is (and I quote) "a combination of the prefix Sha + Lisa," while "Shalita" is "a combination of the prefix Sha + Lita. If we're going to use prefixes, perhaps we can get more creative -- or more traditional. Why not use "Pre" as a prefix, for, say, "Prelisa" ... or "Prementrual." Could we not call a girl "Antibellum" or Antilita," meaning someone who is against being Lita ... or Lacklita ... or Lackluster ... (Did I mention MY name means "one with an enormous and dangerously sharp spear"?)
Other names bring strange meanings directly to life, like "Brieanne" (sorry Brianne & Brianna!) which literally combines "a type of cheese" with "gracious," or to simplify it -- "gracious cheese!" "Ottah" means "thin baby," while "Oya" means "speaking of the jacksnipe," (and we all know how often we speak of jacksnipes, especially in the privacy of our homes).
Some names make perfect sense. For instance "Akbar" means "great," and we all know what a great comic Akbar & Jeff is. "Alacrino" means "alive & outgoing," and who's ever been to a party where the center of life didn't flow from all the Alacrinos there ...
And did I mention MY name, which means "ye with enormous and crafty spear"? ...
Saturday, July 2, 2011
The Real Boys of Summer
July 2, 2011: I've got some pretty good Blah-ugh! ideas bouncing around my brain right now, but they've all been summarily trumped by my Beach Boys. I'm sitting here listening to their quintessential "Best of" LP -- "Endless Summer" -- and I'm more flabbergasted than ever by their genius ... Brian Wilson's genius ... (and the others, who lent their parts, as well) ... Wow!
I pity the fool who off-handedly dismisses them as churlish "surf" music. (Jimi Hendrix embarrassed himself on several occasions by doing so, including his sophomoric statement on stage at Monterey Pop.) The quality of so many of their songs, even the early ones, is really kind of startling. And if you understand anything about music, about arrangements, harmonies and such, you really come away slightly agog at what young Wilson -- deaf in one ear and self-taught on piano with no musical training -- accomplished in only the first few years of his twenties. (He not only arranged all the music and produced the albums, but he wrote almost everything and would, literally, sing or play each other Beach Boy their vocal part.)
But what makes music good? (Well, MY opinion, for one thing!) But it's also about the spirit that inhabits -- literally -- the creation, like with any piece of artwork. When the spirit is there -- when it's authentically embedded during the process of creation, and especially when it's done with a pure heart and soul -- it permeates that work and gives it (sometimes, in the best cases) immeasurable depth. And as our consciousness shifts, the work reveals hidden depths and layers. As we grow, so too will brilliant artwork taking on new meaning and magic.
How often have I outgrown one work of creation or another? (I mean, I like M.C. Hammer's "Can't Touch This," but is it art?!) But you don't outgrow the Beatles, or a brilliant movie like "It's a Wonderful Life," or an outstanding novel like "The Great Gatsby." The Beach Boys' music -- certainly a great deal of it -- is like that.
Where do I begin? You can hardly put the magic of music into words. For me the magic goes deep. In fact, from around age nine, I wanted few things as badly as to move to California and become a surfer. One of my great regrets was that I wasn't named Carl, or Troy, and that I couldn't live the life created for me in all those magical songs of summer. (For instance, why couldn't I have a school to be true to, instead of one I merely tolerated? When would I be able to shut someone down in a drag race, or have fun, fun, fun with the girl of my choice?)
Through some of those songs I formed my ideals of love, friendship, passion and more. Some of those ballads are forever twisted ivy around my heart's growing pains, accentuated by Brian's other-worldly soprano, and those mesmerizing harmonies ... and such thoughts shared -- "In My Room" ... "Don't Worry Baby" ... "The Warmth of the Sun" ... "Girl Don't Tell Me" ... "Let Him Run Wild" ...
Then one day, years later, after I'd outgrown them, I somehow stumbled on the song "Heroes & Villains," and was completely blown away -- for the first conscious time -- by what these people had accomplished musically. A close look at "Pet Sounds" eventually followed -- the historic LP on which the Beatles modeled so many ideas for "Sgt. Pepper." Hell, on the strength of "God Only Knows" alone, we could devote an entire series of Blah-ugh! episodes. Carl Wilson's lead vocal (as in "Good Vibrations") is just stupendous. And how do we ever survive the grinding, tweaking, lovely gut-wrenching pain of the round at the end, featuring the french horn ...
By the way, a reminder to anyone who might be there, I want "I Just Wasn't Made for These Times" played at my funeral, (which I hope is particularly elaborate, well-attended and gets some significant press, after all my trouble).
So, if you haven't taken the time, I insist that you get yourself a Beach Boys album or two (although the catalogue starts to thin out after the Smile era, and is sketchy for the first couple of albums) and open yourself up to a whole world of brilliant art. (I'm talking to you, E.J.! Put down that avocado and get cracking! And the rest of you, whose lovely FB comments I'm always too lazy to respond to!)
You shan't regret it!
I pity the fool who off-handedly dismisses them as churlish "surf" music. (Jimi Hendrix embarrassed himself on several occasions by doing so, including his sophomoric statement on stage at Monterey Pop.) The quality of so many of their songs, even the early ones, is really kind of startling. And if you understand anything about music, about arrangements, harmonies and such, you really come away slightly agog at what young Wilson -- deaf in one ear and self-taught on piano with no musical training -- accomplished in only the first few years of his twenties. (He not only arranged all the music and produced the albums, but he wrote almost everything and would, literally, sing or play each other Beach Boy their vocal part.)
But what makes music good? (Well, MY opinion, for one thing!) But it's also about the spirit that inhabits -- literally -- the creation, like with any piece of artwork. When the spirit is there -- when it's authentically embedded during the process of creation, and especially when it's done with a pure heart and soul -- it permeates that work and gives it (sometimes, in the best cases) immeasurable depth. And as our consciousness shifts, the work reveals hidden depths and layers. As we grow, so too will brilliant artwork taking on new meaning and magic.
How often have I outgrown one work of creation or another? (I mean, I like M.C. Hammer's "Can't Touch This," but is it art?!) But you don't outgrow the Beatles, or a brilliant movie like "It's a Wonderful Life," or an outstanding novel like "The Great Gatsby." The Beach Boys' music -- certainly a great deal of it -- is like that.
Where do I begin? You can hardly put the magic of music into words. For me the magic goes deep. In fact, from around age nine, I wanted few things as badly as to move to California and become a surfer. One of my great regrets was that I wasn't named Carl, or Troy, and that I couldn't live the life created for me in all those magical songs of summer. (For instance, why couldn't I have a school to be true to, instead of one I merely tolerated? When would I be able to shut someone down in a drag race, or have fun, fun, fun with the girl of my choice?)
Through some of those songs I formed my ideals of love, friendship, passion and more. Some of those ballads are forever twisted ivy around my heart's growing pains, accentuated by Brian's other-worldly soprano, and those mesmerizing harmonies ... and such thoughts shared -- "In My Room" ... "Don't Worry Baby" ... "The Warmth of the Sun" ... "Girl Don't Tell Me" ... "Let Him Run Wild" ...
Then one day, years later, after I'd outgrown them, I somehow stumbled on the song "Heroes & Villains," and was completely blown away -- for the first conscious time -- by what these people had accomplished musically. A close look at "Pet Sounds" eventually followed -- the historic LP on which the Beatles modeled so many ideas for "Sgt. Pepper." Hell, on the strength of "God Only Knows" alone, we could devote an entire series of Blah-ugh! episodes. Carl Wilson's lead vocal (as in "Good Vibrations") is just stupendous. And how do we ever survive the grinding, tweaking, lovely gut-wrenching pain of the round at the end, featuring the french horn ...
By the way, a reminder to anyone who might be there, I want "I Just Wasn't Made for These Times" played at my funeral, (which I hope is particularly elaborate, well-attended and gets some significant press, after all my trouble).
So, if you haven't taken the time, I insist that you get yourself a Beach Boys album or two (although the catalogue starts to thin out after the Smile era, and is sketchy for the first couple of albums) and open yourself up to a whole world of brilliant art. (I'm talking to you, E.J.! Put down that avocado and get cracking! And the rest of you, whose lovely FB comments I'm always too lazy to respond to!)
You shan't regret it!
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Visions of Desi
June 15, 2011: I've often tried to gauge how successful a recording artist Desi Arnaz (a.k.a. Ricky Ricardo) was in his heyday. Given the wealth of material he presented on "I Love Lucy" alone, I have to guess and hope he was a tremendous musical force throughout the first half of the 1950s.
To begin with, no one could question the magic of "Babaloo," which was presented in several versions and, of course, recurred as Ricky's theme song. (In the last season, the Tropicana even became "Club Babaloo" after all.) But what are some of the other, lesser-known-but-no-less-magical songs Arnaz brought to life, as least in the guise of Ricardo?
My first favorite would have to be "The Lady in Red," which actually appeared in three separate episodes, including the famous second season show in which Lucy finally gives birth. (I think it's that one ... It may be the one where she tells Ricky she's "enciente," (whatever that means) but now I'm getting confused ... I should check, but we both know I won't!) My favorite version ends with Ricky's playful, "You'd better write her number down, you fool," but each version has its unique offerings (including the one with that sexy dancer). (Also note, the "We're Having a Baby" number is splendid, made all the more joyous by Lucille Ball's authentic hormonal tears throughout the scene.)
Another favorite of mine -- what Ricky himself calls "De mos' beautiful In'ian number ever wri'en," is "The Waters of the Minnetonga," (or something close to that). It's the one where the beautiful Indian girl -- (she may be a Native American girl, but I can't be sure one way or another, although I actually think she's just non-ethnic altogether) -- stands in front of the moon, and it's got that great flute line -- the song I mean, not the moon. That one's pretty hard to beat. Interestingly, it's got a similar timbre and flow to Ricky famous "Sie Mi Low," which we all love, but with much more heart, more emotion.
Others worth noting include "Acapulco," which offers that jaunty tropical happiness you might find with the Andrew Sisters singing tropical songs in a 1940's Abbott & Costello movie -- unforgettably awesome, comfortingly kitsch and innocent ... And of course I have to mention the saucy "Breakin' My Back Putting Up a Front for You," which is a delight ... And how could I ever leave out "Cuban Pete," which may be the consummate Lucy/Desi number, and served as the test balloon for the whole show.
I could expound for many sentences about the band as well (or "orchestra," as they liked to be known, led by the invisible Wilbur Hatch when Desi was out in the spotlight). Two great instrumentals we're treated to on the show are the fabulous "Stompin' at the Savoy" and, of course, "Twelfth Street Rag." Doubling as extras, the members were also always fine in their performances, excepting of course Marco, the piano player, who never stopped grinning and blew the one line he had in the entire run of the show, delivering to Ricky like a fool as they part ways, "Okay Dez." But how can you hold it against that grinning monkey?! He was, after all, "Marco."
Of course, there are some weak numbers in Ricky's repertoire, including a muddled version of "Guadelahara," and an annoying "Big Straw Hat," which is mostly annoying because of that old cleaning woman who does the dancing with him. But you forgive a bountiful songmaker such things, the way we forgive Ringo for "Octopus's Garden."
As is my curse, I'm sure I'm omitting much worth mentioning, but my back is killing me and I can only type lying on the floor for so long, as I do. At the end of the day, it's all perhaps best summarized in the lyrics to the theme itself -- "I love Lucy and she loves me ..." And we, of course, love Desi, despite his philandering and sometimes domineering means as an executive. And long will we love the lovable music of Ricky Ricardo.
To begin with, no one could question the magic of "Babaloo," which was presented in several versions and, of course, recurred as Ricky's theme song. (In the last season, the Tropicana even became "Club Babaloo" after all.) But what are some of the other, lesser-known-but-no-less-magical songs Arnaz brought to life, as least in the guise of Ricardo?
My first favorite would have to be "The Lady in Red," which actually appeared in three separate episodes, including the famous second season show in which Lucy finally gives birth. (I think it's that one ... It may be the one where she tells Ricky she's "enciente," (whatever that means) but now I'm getting confused ... I should check, but we both know I won't!) My favorite version ends with Ricky's playful, "You'd better write her number down, you fool," but each version has its unique offerings (including the one with that sexy dancer). (Also note, the "We're Having a Baby" number is splendid, made all the more joyous by Lucille Ball's authentic hormonal tears throughout the scene.)
Another favorite of mine -- what Ricky himself calls "De mos' beautiful In'ian number ever wri'en," is "The Waters of the Minnetonga," (or something close to that). It's the one where the beautiful Indian girl -- (she may be a Native American girl, but I can't be sure one way or another, although I actually think she's just non-ethnic altogether) -- stands in front of the moon, and it's got that great flute line -- the song I mean, not the moon. That one's pretty hard to beat. Interestingly, it's got a similar timbre and flow to Ricky famous "Sie Mi Low," which we all love, but with much more heart, more emotion.
Others worth noting include "Acapulco," which offers that jaunty tropical happiness you might find with the Andrew Sisters singing tropical songs in a 1940's Abbott & Costello movie -- unforgettably awesome, comfortingly kitsch and innocent ... And of course I have to mention the saucy "Breakin' My Back Putting Up a Front for You," which is a delight ... And how could I ever leave out "Cuban Pete," which may be the consummate Lucy/Desi number, and served as the test balloon for the whole show.
I could expound for many sentences about the band as well (or "orchestra," as they liked to be known, led by the invisible Wilbur Hatch when Desi was out in the spotlight). Two great instrumentals we're treated to on the show are the fabulous "Stompin' at the Savoy" and, of course, "Twelfth Street Rag." Doubling as extras, the members were also always fine in their performances, excepting of course Marco, the piano player, who never stopped grinning and blew the one line he had in the entire run of the show, delivering to Ricky like a fool as they part ways, "Okay Dez." But how can you hold it against that grinning monkey?! He was, after all, "Marco."
Of course, there are some weak numbers in Ricky's repertoire, including a muddled version of "Guadelahara," and an annoying "Big Straw Hat," which is mostly annoying because of that old cleaning woman who does the dancing with him. But you forgive a bountiful songmaker such things, the way we forgive Ringo for "Octopus's Garden."
As is my curse, I'm sure I'm omitting much worth mentioning, but my back is killing me and I can only type lying on the floor for so long, as I do. At the end of the day, it's all perhaps best summarized in the lyrics to the theme itself -- "I love Lucy and she loves me ..." And we, of course, love Desi, despite his philandering and sometimes domineering means as an executive. And long will we love the lovable music of Ricky Ricardo.
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