Music monomaniac, retired English teacher, resident of Columbia, Missouri, former correspondent for ANOREXIC TEENAGE SEX GODS, READY TO SNAP, HITLIST, SUGARBUZZ, THE WAYBACK MACHINE, ROCK THERAPY, and THE FIRST CHURCH OF HOLY ROCK AND ROLL, co-lead singer of the non-legendary Wayne Coomers and the Original Sins of Fayetteville, Arkansas.
Well, it was nice to have two anxiety-free days. I have never seen a regime like this–gambling their dignity and credibility on kleptocratic success. This stuff just makes me wonder if there’s life on Mars.
Anyway. I had a nice morning at work editing. It’s so enjoyable when what you’re editing is interesting. A writer friend asked me to edit the syllabus and statement of philosophy for his course proposal, and I was very humbled to have been asked. Both documents made me want to take the class (on avant garde jazz), and they were so skillful I had to bear down to make any substantial suggestions (nothing’s perfect–the editor’s mantra). After I’d returned the documents, my friend informed me the school in question is Princeton! Holy sh*t!!!
Nicole and I grabbed a Shakespeare’s pizza curbside (green olives, red onions, fresh mushrooms, pepper cheese–the veggie Overeem Special), then spent the evening reading and relaxing to the musical inventions of Horace Silver, Ray Charles, Skip James, and The Southern Tones.
We awakened at 3 this morning to learn the Columbia Public School Board was wise, given our current COVID explosion: virtuality til January 19, 2021.
We celebrated the anniversary of Nicole’s arrival on this plane with a walk in magnificent November weather, Bloody Marys, a painfully short game of chess in which my bride did a great Beth Harmon imitation, some classic soul music (Ann Peebles, Joe Tex, and Otis Redding), a Zoom with our boon pals in Springfield and Seattle, and a variety of dips and stuff.
I guess we were plumb wore out, not only from the day but the previous week, as we retired at 8 p.m.
Streaming for Strivers:
A great lost rap concept album by a sharp old pro.
I’ll be honest with you: I despise louts. I’ve never liked them, period, and I’m suspicious of those who do. Also, I don’t take direction well, especially from loutish “authorities”: my negative model for that was Mr. Harrison, my high school biology teacher–arrogant, smirking, strutting, possessed of no empathy but ironically instantly aggrieved. He helped turned me into an anti-authoritarian, though when I met adepts like Howard South or Kay Lederer, I was all ears. As a professional, most of my “bosses” have been women, none of whom were loutish and all of whom were interested in honest feedback on their performance (props to Mike Jeffers, the one male boss I’ve had who didn’t have a fragile ego). All of this is to say that yesterday I was thrilled that (apparently) I no longer have to be embarrassed to live in country that has been “led” by a lout. Say what you will in contradiction, but, to do so, you will have to do excruciating mental gymnastics to deny it, and even that effort will fail to convince me. I know the difference between piss and rain.
We cranked music, quaffed alcoholic libations, embraced, danced, cranked the music up more, and felt our eyes water, whether from the lifting of strain, the acknowledgement of dissipated despair, or, hey, maybe simple happiness. I was reluctant to think it was the latter, because, again, this is a snatch-away regime, and I didn’t fall off the peach truck yesterday. But, by damn, we deserved some joyous release, and we indulged it.
Shireen, I hope in the future you will remember you spent the night of November 7, 2020 huddled with Nicole and me around our fire pit hashing out the meaning of the day.
Review: I’ve been writing these daily since March 17, hoping to just document how we’ve lived during an actual pandemic (222 new cases of COVID-19, for example, just yesterday in our town). My friend Ken inspired the project and, when I mildly balked and fretted, advised me just to write what happens. That I have done, plus each day exploited YouTube and my vast but ever-hazier music memory to offer a worthwhile full-album stream. Anxiety, joy, discipline, food and drink, art and pop culture, politics (everything’s political), exaltation and mourning–that and more have entered our days (frequently, like Kramer). The pre-pandemic days seem three years ago; the first pandemic day seems like yesterday. The elasticity of time! I hope our innards prove just as elastic. Anyway, I felt it was time, at least for my own purposes, to look back. I hope these thumbings have occasionally proved useful to a few readers.
About yesterday. Finished the audiobook of Octavia Butler’s Bloodchild and Other Stories with the scintillating “The Book of Martha,” in which God asks the title protagonist to make a single positive change to save humanity from itself and jolt it out of its adolescence. Not so easy. Due to the positive influence and generosity of our friends Stephen Fischer and Beth Hartman, we also watched Disney/Pixar’s Coco. I have to purt-near be wrassled into sitting still for animated films, but I must admit the visuals were stunning, while the story moistened my eyes and caused me to cogitate.
Oh yes: and, like you, we continued, patiently, to wait.
Streaming for Strivers:
A forgotten classic of ’80s madness and insight, remixed for better punch. May the cosmos smile on Peter Stampfel!
I did not read a page or listen to a note of non-soundtrack music, yet yesterday was a success. I track three minimum daily goals every day: five minutes of exercise or meditation (73% all-time rate), 50 pages read (94% all-time rate), one recording listened to actively (97% all-time rate). Nicole and I went on a nice park walk on a glorious morning in nature and meditated by a duck pond, so one out of three was just fine.
Later in the morning, I helped Mom with some technology issues and located a missing key, we avoided a tension convention by mostly keeping the news turned off, then we enjoyed a movie marathon: the 2020 adaptation of Emma (our second time–holds up nicely), Brittany Runs a Marathon (just what we needed), and two episodes of The Queen’s Gambit (Nicole and I have already seen it–in fact, I’m reading the book from which it was adapted–but Mom is loving it, and we’re all amazed by Anya Taylor-Joy’s performances).
We are just trying to hold steady; we live under a snatch-away regime, at least for the time being.
We deliberately chose to indulge in activities to distract us from election coverage. I can’t speak perfectly for Nicole, but I think she agrees: we both had enough tension, dread, and other varieties of stress crackling down to our nerve endings without channeling in more noise and numbers.
The most effective of those activities was listening to a chunk of the audiobook of Octavia Butler’s Bloodchild and Other Stories. We’d started it on a recent road trip, then I loved it so much I secretly finished it on my Kindle. Nicole forgave me that, and we were quite literally transfixed (a major improvement on mere distraction) by “Speech Sounds,” “Crossover,” and the dazzling, haunting, dryly (and wickedly) humorous “Amnesty.” As soon as we finished the latter of those–they were all three even better the second time ’round–Nicole turned to me, shaking her head in amazement, and said, “That was incredible.” I proferred (I hadn’t previously realized it), “She’s one of the very best writers of the last 50 years, easily.” Funny: I learn about great writers by reading great writers and reading about great writing, and I obsessively seek them out after I get a clue–but it’s only been in the last 7-8 years that I’ve seen Butler’s name come over my transom. I have a few of my Stephens colleagues and students to thank for that. I encourage you to get familiar with her yourself.
We made it until 10 before we felt obliged to check the election’s progress. I saw no surprises other than in a few local races, which I considered with very, very measured hope. That was smart, because their directions completely changed. Fortunately, when I woke up in the middle of the night, I didn’t reach for my phone.
Streaming for Strivers:
I am less disciplined, at present, in containing my sarcasm.
Had hit the hay, despite having an extra hour to expend while awake, at 8 p.m. the night before, only to be awakened for about 90 minutes by “cat scrambles” (inevitable when you have a kitten going on two and three adults), then two other times by a nervous stomach and heart palpitations. The election? I don’t think so–I had an appointment with a new old physician, the one I’d bolted from in 2015. You know the old saying: you don’t know what you got til it’s gone. Suffice it to say that the physician I bolted to treated me like Bob Seger: I felt like a number, for most of five years. On top of that, I was concerned that in her nonchalance she might have missed something re: my health. So…I was nervous to the point of sheepishness returning as the prodigal patient, and just plain existentially nervous that something malicious might be hiding. I take my mortality seriously.
I needn’t have been worried about the first point: I was received with warmth, good humor, and thorough attention. They even threw in a prostate exam–hadn’t had one of those, well, since the last time I saw them! As for the second point, turns out those heart palpitations were likely neither nerves nor palpitations. Something known as 2:1 afibs, I discovered, after my pulse registered 115 (that was before the prostate exam) and I got an EKG reading. I apparently will learn more in the coming weeks.
After learning that local Mexican restaurant La Terraza had come to the rescue of local art film emporium Ragtag in its time of power failure, we ate there and left a nice tip Saturday night–and again last night (same exact order). They are great folks, their food is great, their service is excellent–and we’d already eaten there about 10 times since the pandemic kicked it. Try it yourself!
Enjoy watching those election returns! We are escaping, as soon as Nicole’s off work.
Yesterday was a fairly quiet day: bringing in and storing Halloween decorations, watching CBS Sunday Morning and reading the New York Times, setting back the clocks–I do love receiving an extra hour (I know it’s an illusion, really), because I know what to do with one–Zooming with family and friends, searching for and listening to some new music, enjoying some fresh chick pea masala, seeing if SNL could deliver. But all the while, Nicole and I both–I didn’t ask her, but I’m sure–felt a creeping, rising force. You know what I’m talking about.
If not, well, this might help. I have a rule of thumb regarding commenting on music that I follow 98% of the time: I do not want to waste my time denigrating something–life’s too short, and it’s better spent exalting powerful works. I violated that rule yesterday on Facebook when, after listening to it twice and being unmoved, I labeled the new Karen O / Willie Nelson cover of Queen and David Bowie’s “Under Pressure” as having a “lay-down-and-die” energy level, which I still believe, though a) it was a great idea, and b) I am a very, very enthusiastic Wille Nelson fan of many years’ duration. A few folks I respect greatly chimed in to the effect that I might be a bit off in my assessment, which is OK with me, though considering that we all come to art with different experiences and values that cause our responses to vary, it’s a bit futile to say about a song, “No, I’m right and you’re wrong.” Which, unsurprisingly, is the main reason I imposed upon myself the above rule in the first place! BUT…one of those friends (jokingly, I’m sure, at least partially) suggested that no one ever listened to the lyrics of the original in the first place, whereas (I am assuming) the less strangulated (?) and bombastic singing applied to the cover version draws those lyrics to the fore. Perhaps; Rodney, it’s a very good point. BUT…I did listen to those lyrics as a 19-year-old in 1981, and I distinctly remembering they absolutely sold the song for me. Bowie, Queen, and the arrangement were all terrific, but I felt those words. I did have to listen to it multiple times (that was no problem, as I lifeguarded that year and had no choice) to, um, untangle and extract a few syllables), but throughout that process it hit me harder and harder. In case you need a refresher, and to loop back to my original intent in hunting and pecking this out, here those lyrics are:
“Pressure, pushing down on me, Pressing down on you, no man asks for. Under pressure that burns a building down, Splits a family in two, puts people on streets. It’s the terror of knowing what this world is about. Watching some good friends screaming, “let me out”. Tomorrow gets me higher.
Pressure on people, people on streets. Chippin’ around, kick my brains around the floor. These are the days, it never rains but it pours. People on streets. People on streets.
It’s the terror of knowing what this world is about. Watching some good friends screaming, ‘Let me out!’ Tomorrow takes me higher, higher, high! Pressure on people, people on streets.
Turned away from it all like a blind man. Sat on a fence, but it don’t work. Keep comin’ up with love, but it’s so slashed and torn. Why, why, why? Love (love, love, love, love).
Insanity laughs, under pressure we’re cracking. Can’t we give ourselves one more chance? Why can’t we give love that one more chance? Why can’t we give love, give love, give love, give love, Give love, give love, give love, give love, give love. ‘Cause love’s such an old fashioned word, And love dares you to care for the people on the Edge of the night, and love dares you to Change our way of caring about ourselves. This is our last dance. This is ourselves. This is ourselves.
Under pressure. Under pressure. Pressure.”
I don’t think it’s our last dance, but neither do you or I need to be so damned literal in applying these foolish things. Have a careful next couple of days.
Our Halloween 2020: not scary–a respite from fear.
We opened our day with a rescheduled meeting with one of our financial advisors at a wonderful setting for a sit-down, Love Coffee. We are not farting through silk, but we’ve been taking time lately to get on top of everything important, as we’ve learned leaving such matters in disarray can be cruel to others. This particular gentleman is astute, thorough, clever, witty, and patient–as well as trustworthy and dedicated. Though we left the meeting, as usual, reminded of our not particularly “exceeds standards”-level investment literacy, also as usual we left smarter.
The afternoon was spent prepping for trick-or-treaters. We always try to create something. warm and inviting, even though this year we figured the turnout would be minimal. This year, we prepackaged little bags of treats and positioned them on a table at the end of the driveway, and manned it with our two skeleton surrogates, then set up ourselves about ten feet behind that with margaritas in hand and appropriate music (The Cramps, Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, Love, The Monks, The Nomads) quietly blasting from a Bluetooth speaker. We had around 25 kids–and a couple a-bit-too-old-for-candy-bags individuals–and dispensed with most of our candy. I hope they like Mexican candy, as each bag had a couple pieces.
Our COVID surrogates.
We closed up shop around nine, then snuggled up on the couch with a nightcap a piece and faded out to some spacey, obscure, poignant, and acoustic rock and roll which our dear friend The Wild Yankee Rover once hipped us to (see below). I love getting an extra hour in a day.
Streaming for Strivers:
The street-punk, New Yawk version of Rust Never Sleeps, sans band-crunch and “finished” toons.
The Overeem Farewell Tour: Dispatches from the Public School Trenches 