Month: December 2008

Knocking at the door

Why do we never get an answer
When we’re knocking at the door
With a thousand million questions
About hate and death and war?
– The Moody Blues (written by Justin Hayward)
LINK.

So the old winter or summer solstice has arrived, depending on where you live. It’s once again time to Ask Roger Anything. Anything at all, and I’m honor-bound to answer it honestly. It has to be the truth. It does not have to be the WHOLE truth; to the surprise of some, I do have my limits.

One person I do not know asked:
“Surfing around looking for old copies of ‘keynotes’, the Capitol Record Club catalog, I came upon your references.
Any chance you have old issues with which you’d part?”
Why, no, I don’t. I was a member of the Capitol Record Club in 1965 for a couple years, which is where I originally got all my pre-Sgt. Pepper albums, save for Yesterday…and Today, which I bought from the Rexall for $2.99. I also got Daydream-Lovin’ Spoonful; the Best of Herman’s Hermits; and most notably, Pet Sounds-Beach Boys. Most of the albums I still have, except for the LPs that were stolen in the Great LP Theft of 1972. But anything like Capitol catalogs? Long gone.
(Hey, anyone out there have ‘keynotes’ you’re willing to part with, e-mail me and I’ll hook you up with the collector.)

I’ve had people ask about the Barack Obama/Rick Warren thing. Well, I wouldn’t have done it. A gay friend of mine felt “hurt” by it.
Still, this little piece from Steve Bissette’s blog gave me some perspective.
…while liberals are howling over President-Elect Obama’s decision to include homophobic pastor Richard D. “Rick” Warren (founder and senior pastor of the evangelical Saddleback Church in Lake Forest, California) in his upcoming inauguration ceremony [and conservatives are howling that Warren accepted],, the far more damning news that “alone among major Western nations, the United States has refused to sign a declaration presented Thursday at the United Nations calling for worldwide decriminalization of homosexuality” is being ignored..

So, questions, please.
***
“Inspired by Christ is an apparel company formed to convey the Good News of Jesus Christ while providing the world with an alternative in today’s popular fashions. Inspired by Christ’s goal is to propagate the Word of God via style and stimulated discussions brought about through our Christ inspired designs.” WWJW?
***
Artificial Virginity Hymen. WTF?

In the old days, it was not called the ‘Holiday Season’; the Christians called it ‘Christmas’ and went to church; the Jews called it ‘Hanukkah’ and went to synagogue; the atheists went to parties and drank. People passing each other on the street would say ‘Merry Christmas!’ or ‘Happy Hanukkah’ or (to the atheists) ‘Look out for the wall.’ – Dave Barry

ROG

ROG

Beyond the Sea

Back in my college days at New Paltz, I (VERY OCCASIONALLY) would be at a particular bar when it was closing time, which was 4 a.m. And to let people know it was about time to clear out, the bartender would put on a this song.

Here’s a JEOPARDY! clue: 1/18/60 (went to) #6 – intro by Benny Goodman in 1948, from the 1945 French song La Mer. If you read the title of this piece, you know the title of that song.
LINK.

I wasn’t a huge fan of Bobby Darin, but I do like that song, possibly more than his overplayed big hit, Mack the Knife; interesting how both songs were remakes of earlier 20th century European tunes. I do have Darin’s greatest hits album, which is just the LP version digitized, including some corny monologue. Never saw that Kevin Spacey film.

Anyway, Bobby Darin, who was born on 14 May 1936, died thirty-five years ago today. This means he’s been dead almost as long as he was alive.
ROG

ROG

The Kennedy Center Honors

“I’m a sucker for the Kennedy Center Honors. As I get older, I notice the honorees are, more often than not, quite familiar to me.” I wrote that a couple years ago< , and it's no less true today. The awards were given out on Sunday, December 7, 2008. The event will be broadcast on CBS Tuesday, December 30 at 9:00 p.m. (ET/PT). I'll be watching, as usual; well, OK, recording to watch at a future date.

Morgan Freeman: Since I first saw him as Easy Reader on the Electric Company, a gig that literally drove him to drink, I’ve seen him in a number of performances, including God in Bruce Almighty (2003) God and the President in Deep Impact (1998), plus Amistad (1997); The Shawshank Redemption (1994), one of my favorite movies; Unforgiven (1992), one of my favorite Westerns; Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (1991); Glory (1989); Driving Miss Daisy (1989); Lean on Me (1989); Clean and Sober (1988); Street Smart (1987); probably TV performances before I knew he was MORGAN FREEMAN, such as Resting Place (1986); The Atlanta Child Murders (1985); and The Marva Collins Story (1981). Plus his distinctive voice has been used to narrate March of the Penguins, the TV adaptation of A Raisin in the Sun, and that American Masters segment featuring previous Kennedy Center inductee Clint Eastwood.

George Jones: I’ll admit I own no GJ save for a cut on the album “50 Stars, 50 Hits” “on two great country albums” that my grandfather brought me as a kid. But I was certainly aware of George from my period listening to WWVA in Wheeling, WV, a clear channel radio station I used to listen to at night in the 1960s. A Girl I Used to Know, Ain’t it Funny What Love Will Do, Your Heart Turned Left (And I Was on the Right), and especially She Thinks I Still Care. Of course, he was also noted for his marriage and d-i-v-o-r-c-e from Tammy Wynette.


Barbra Streisand: who is this person with the big nose and the bigger voice, I wondered when I saw this singer on any number of shows in the 1960s hosted by Dinah Shore or Mike Douglas or Ed Sullivan. Then she got a couple specials in her own name. She continues to show up on things like a Tony Bennett special I saw a couple years back. Barbra the singer I’ve been aware of for a long time, though in fact I own only one double-disc CD of her music. On film, I’ve also managed to see her a fair amount: The Prince of Tides (1991); Yentl (1983); Funny Lady (1975); The Way We Were (1973) – filmed partly in Schenectady, NY – I’m just saying; Up the Sandbox (1972); Hello, Dolly! (1969) and of course, her breakout role in Funny Girl (1968).


I came to Twyla Tharp via the Talking Heads’ David Byrne, when they collaborated on The Catherine Wheel. I’ve managed to see that piece and some of her other works including her legendary Sue’s Leg either on TV or when I was dragged up to the Saratoga Performing arts Center. I’ve also seen her work in films such as Hair (1978), Amadeus (1984), and White Nights (1985). This year, I saw at Proctor’s Theatre in Schenectady Tharp’s take on the songs of Billy Joel in Movin’ Out, which I wrote about here.

One of my real musical regrets is that, maybe a dozen years ago, I did not go see The Who at the Knickerbocker/Pepsi/Times Union Arena in Albany, three blocks from where I was working at the time. I’m sure it was a matter of money, but still. The surviving members of the group are being honored. Roger Daltrey is a March Piscean named Roger; what’s not to like? My collection of Who albums is very long, from The Who Sell Out (1967) to Endless Wire (2006), of course including Tommy and Who’s Next. But I always had a particular affection for an early Who compilation, Meaty Beaty Big and Bouncy when Daltrey’s vocals were particularly fresh.

In addition to his work with the Who, I own a number of solo Pete Townsend albums. Among them: the pivotal Empty Glass (1980), All the Best Cowboys Have Chinese Eyes (1982), Scoop (1983), White City (1985), Deep End Live! (1986), Another Scoop (1987), The Iron Man (1989), and the 1996 compilation COOLWALKINGSMOOTHTALKINGSTRAIGHTSMOKINGFIRESTOKING.
Pic of Pete &Roger from http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Pete_Townshend_%26_Roger_Daltrey_1.JPG; Twyla’s pic from her website; other pics from govt sites.

ROG

ROG

It’s a Story Virus

Until I was recently infected, I was blissfully ignorant of the story virus. To wit:

Here’s what I would like to do. I want to create a story that branches out in a variety of different, unexpected ways. I don’t know how realistic it is, but that’s what I’m aiming for. Hopefully, at least one thread of the story can make a decent number of hops before it dies out.

If you are one of the carriers of this story virus (i.e. you have been tagged and choose to contribute to it), you will have one responsibility, in addition to contributing your own piece of the story: you will have to tag at least one person that continues your story thread. So, say you tag five people. If four people decide to not participate, it’s okay, as long as the fifth one does. And if all five participate, well that’s five interesting threads the story spins off into.

Not a requirement, but something your readers would appreciate: to help people trace your own particular thread of the narrative, it will be helpful if you include links to the chapters preceding yours.

The bus was more crowded than usual. It was bitterly cold outside, and I hadn’t prepared for it. I noticed that a fair number of the riders were dressed curiously. As I glanced around, I stretched my feet and kicked up against a large, heavy cardboard box laying under the seat in front of me. (Splotchy)

Its owner, a fat shifty-looking hillbilly, slouched uncomfortably under the weight of his Bulgarian army surplus wool coat and cap. I could tell he wasn’t cut out for this weather. He jerked around, almost spastic, when he felt the box tap against his feet. He gulped and stared at me bug-eyed, one obscene rivulet of sweat running down his temple, down along his jaw, finally disappearing somewhere between his second chin and the fake fur collar of his coat.

Right away, and for no good reason, he pissed me off. Bubs)

He would not stop staring at me. I could hear his wheezing breath. I could smell every stinking minute of his sputtering life. My muscles tensed.

We were a little isolated from the rest of the riders. I looked around. Apart from a couple greasy-looking hippies stealing glances in my direction, everyone was in their own dazed world. Another rivulet of sweat began the long journey down the hillbilly’s fat face. He licked his lips.

Enough was enough. I shot my arm up and popped him right between the eyes, snapping his head back. He slumped forward. I felt my anger slowly recede. I reached over him, took the cap off his head and placed it on my own. It smelled like a slaughterhouse, but it would keep me warm.

In the corner of my eye, I noticed the hippies making their way over to me. The man, wearing a dirty poncho and sporting a handlebar mustache, sat down in my seat. I reflexively scooted over to not have him in my lap. The girl, a smallish brunette wearing heavy black eyeliner and a shapeless green coat, sat behind me.

“You see, Snow?” the man said. “I knew he was the one. Did you see that jab?”

“Whatever,” Snow said.

“That was great, man. Snow thought the guy in front of you was the one.”

He must have spotted confusion in my eyes. “We saw the box, but we didn’t know if it was yours.” The man smiled broadly. “I’m Rain. You’re Leaf, right?”

I looked at him more closely. He was wearing a shoulder holster under his poncho. He had deep green eyes that were sharp and serious. The smile left his face as abruptly as it had appeared. “You better get the box ready.” ( Splotchy)

I looked him deep in the eyes. There was something familiar there. Something from…

It hit me.

“Dad?” SamuraiFrog.

“What you talkin’ about, punk?”

“You’re…my Dad. I’ve seen the pictures.”

“The pictures. WHAT pictures?”

“the pictures of you and my Mom, Sally Swinton.”

“Sally! I remember Sally. She was a good one, she was. Whatever happened with her?”

Now, here’s where I’m supposed to make other people’s lives miserable by tagging them. I’ll take no offense if you opt out, but I’m thinking:
Kelly who did one of those November novels
Uthaclena who likes to write
Splotchy who essentially got me into this mess
Jacquandor who’s written a lot of stuff
If anyone else feels like it, PLEASE do it.

V is for Vitiligo

Since the last time I wrote about having vitiligo, I’ve gotten perhaps marginally less bothered by it. This is probably a good, even necessary thing, because, earlier this year, this woman I met at some library function said to me, “Oh, you have vitiligo, don’t you?” very matter-of-factly. Six months earlier, I probably would have cringed, but I tried to respond in the spirit in which the question was asked.

Still, it bothers me somewhat. There was a picture taken of an event during Black History Month that I was leading. It was a black and white photo that ended up in my church’s April 2008 newsletter. I recognized everyone in the picture except one person. That of course, was me.

It’s still also damn inconvenient. Those of you in the colder climes will appreciate wanting to be out in the sun after several gray, morose days. Inevitably, though, I get burned, on any exposed skin, especially the top of my head and the back of my neck. I’ve become, quite literally, a redneck. Ironically, it’s easier to protect myself in summer because the cues (the heat, the bright sun) triggers the use of the sunscreen, hat, and other accouterments.

One of the people who talked to me after the first time I wrote about my vitiligo said that she’d love me anyway, regardless of how I looked. But recently, she saw me and asked if my skin were getting gray. No, I replied patiently, it’s the vitiligo. OH, she said.


ROG

ROG
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