Wherefore Endorphins?
Creativity is an enticingly rewarding yet elusive pursuit. It seems to spring into existence like a strange and wondrous flowering plant, popping up in our gardens now and then regardless of whether or not we attempt to cultivate it. Those of us who appreciate the blooming presence of creative inspiration do all that we can to nurture it, to keep it alive and thriving for as long as possible. Despite our efforts, creativity withers, dies, and springs anew according to its own natural laws, an unfathomable set of principles that we sense yet cannot know. How is it that one can be all fired up to create something one day yet utterly unmotivated and bereft of ideas the next? The answer is as difficult to grasp as the creative muse itself.
While I cannot pin down the cause of creativity, I can vouch for its beneficial effect on my psyche: creating something (almost anything) simply makes me feel better. Conversely, enduring a period of creative stagnation makes me feel worse. As this correlation has gradually become apparent to me over the years, I have concluded that there is a physiological basis for it, hence the tagline for my blog: Stories. Commentary. Endorphins. Endorphins are naturally occurring substances that are released by the brain. They are known to deaden sensations of pain and are thought to produce feelings of well-being. Some people think endorphins foster creativity, but I suspect it also works in the opposite direction. I know that I need to be in a good frame of mind in order to write well, yet I also know that I always feel better after I write well than I did before I started. So, Stories. Commentary. Endorphins. The stories and commentary are for you, and the endorphins are for me.
Pulling The Plug
The news came while I was at work, courtesy of a text message from my wife. It was not unexpected. We had been discussing the issue for months, but it took a surprising amount of courage to see our decision through to its implementation. Staring at my phone, I sighed with the knowledge that what was done was done, and life would never be quite the same. "It's official," read the message. "Our land line is no more!"
Maintaining a phone line into our home was costing us $420 a year, an expense that was hard to justify now that everyone in our family of four carries a dedicated cell phone. There were few advantages to keeping things as they were. We did liked the peace of mind that came with communication redundancy, the smug assurance that should sun spots interfere with satellites and cell towers, we still had a sure-fire means of making and receiving calls. Also, it was easier to have someone just pick up an extension rather than engineering a three-way cell phone call. And it's nice to hear the phone ringing throughout the house and be able to answer it quickly without being tethered to a device. But $420 for such luxuries? We realized that never would we have taken on the expense as a new expenditure, and it became clear that we were keeping a land line mostly because we had always had one. Not much of a rationale for spending money that could be better used elsewhere.
One More Endless Summer
Ready to "Do It Again"? Beach Boys Wilson, Marks, Johnston, Jardine and Love
Christmas has apparently come early for music lovers in the form of last week's announcement that all of the surviving Beach Boys intend to reunite for a 50-city world tour next summer in recognition of the legendary band's 50th anniversary. That would be founding members Brian Wilson, Mike Love, and Al Jardine, along with Wilson's longtime road replacement Brian Johnston and early Beach Boy David Marks (the one who thought he stood a better chance at success by forming his own band, David and the Marksmen, surely one of the most tragic career missteps in the annals of popular music). The quartet are to be supported by Wilson's backing band, according to Love, who acknowledged that his cousin Brian has vacillated on his commitment to the tour. "He has his moods," said Love, "no doubt about it." All of which means that we can only buy our tickets and keep our fingers crossed.
There was a time when the prospect of a Beach Boys reunion would not have excited me at all. I grew up dismissing them with a dose of contempt, an arrogance born of ignorance along with the fact that I became musically conscious around the same time that the band was hitting its nadir. All that I could discern was a long list of vacuous hits about cars, surfing, and girls. To me, the Beach Boys were the vanilla ice cream in the Baskin-Robbins of pop music. They were a K-tel collection. What a shame that the people who made such a substantial contribution to American music should have seemed frivolous and inconsequential to a young person a mere decade after their prime. But there was a bearded Mike Love prancing about onstage in a stocking cap and bathrobe, and I could not conclude otherwise.
I Wanted My MTV
When was the last time you could honestly describe a 600-page nonfiction book as a thoroughly absorbing page-turner? Such length is usually the province of academic works requiring an investment of patience and concentration from the reader. Craig Marks and Rob Tannenbaum's I Want My MTV: The Uncensored Story of the Music Video Revolution (Dutton, 2011) makes no such demands, at least not if you are of the generation that witnessed the rise and fall of Music Television. You will recognize the names of the artists, videos, and VJs, and you may find yourself as riveted to this sizable oral history as you once were captivated by untold hours of MTV.
Like its subject - the first decade of MTV - Marks and Tannenbaum's weighty tome unfolds as a series of easily digestible segments. The authors eschew editorializing in favor of letting people speak for themselves. Each of its 53 chapters begins with a brief introduction followed by artfully intercut interview transcriptions. The effect echoes the pace of vintage MTV, when the fledgling network actually aired music videos and the mesmerizing imagery turned over with the regularity of a kaleidoscope.
It’s Been Sounding For Weeks A Lot Like Christmas
December has barely begun, yet it already feels as though we have been subjected to Christmas music for an entire holiday season. Familiar tunes have permeated retail environments for weeks now, and commercial television has been hijacked by the relentless yuletide promotions of jewelers and department stores. The frenzied songfest will only intensify as the Last Shopping Day approaches.
For those with an insatiable appetite for perennial holiday favorites, it's a golden time. Personally, I find a few Christmas songs in the week leading up to December 25 to be sufficient, but I've usually had more than my fill by then. When it comes to Christmas music, I prefer be selective, which means embracing the recordings I appreciate while avoiding the ones I hate. The latter effort, however, can be quite difficult.
Of the traditional carols and hymns, the one song that I truly loathe is The Little Drummer Boy. What don't I like about it? Everything. Its worst offense is what may be the dullest refrain ever penned: pa rum pum pum pum. This is a fatal flaw, as the annoying phrase is repeated incessantly. All that remains is a monotonous melody with a lyrical narrative that drives me up the wall. All my life, even when I was a child myself, I've wanted to grab that kid by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. "Listen, drummer boy," I'd snarl menacingly, "the newborn king doesn't give two figs whether or not you have a gift for him, and he sure as heck isn't going to be pleased by some ankle-biter beating away on a snare drum!" I don't care if it's meant to be taken metaphorically. It's a stupid analogy.
Everybody Clap Your Hands
There is a celebrity educator renowned among teachers for his bestselling books and the extraordinary commitment he has made to fostering the success of disadvantaged students. His achievements and advice are laudable, as is his practice of funding his school with the honorariums he earns as a popular speaker. Anyone would be thrilled to have him looking after the learning of their child. And yet, despite my admiration for all that he has done for children and teachers alike, there is one quirky aspect of his personality that makes me cringe. He is known for spontaneously mounting desks and tables and proceeding to dance.
Now, I have nothing against people dancing. For all I care, the whole of my community can shimmy about as a choreographed flash mob the next time I'm out and about town. I will smile charitably and perhaps even enjoy the display. Just don't ask me to boogie along. Primal as the urge to dance supposedly is, I have never felt the compulsion to bust a move. Just the opposite, in fact. Never am I happier to remain seated than when a group of revelers is dancing. My reluctance to dance is little different than, say, your dismissal of foods you do not like. It's just not for me. I simply do not enjoy it.
But the dancing celebrity educator sees it differently. Not only does he literally put himself on a pedestal and shake his groove thing, he expects everyone else to follow his lead. Whether he is addressing his student body or a convention hall full of teachers, he expects every last soul to clap along.
Of Course We’re Going To Riot
Penn State students making their point by destroying property.
You can fire the university president, and you can fire the head football coach. You can fully cooperate with authorities and enact whatever painful, pragmatic measures are necessary to restore respectability to a tarnished institution. But what, Penn State officials must be asking themselves, can be done to reeducate the misguided students who rioted after the announcement of Joe Paterno's termination? While the allegations against former assistant coach Jerry Sandusky apparently reveal a systemic failure to properly notify police and child welfare agencies of reported abuses, the destructive behavior of students on Wednesday night is indicative of another ingrained dysfunction.
Many of the young adults quoted in a New York Times account of the incident were disturbingly cavalier and defiant about the violent student reaction to news that their beloved coach had been suddenly and unceremoniously axed. "It's not fair," claimed one of them. "The board is an embarrassment and a disservice to the student population." Note the adolescent egocentrism in that remark. The young man is upset because firing Paterno for failing to fulfill a moral obligation to actively prevent further instances of child abuse impinges on his needs as a student. It's like a bratty kid kicking the fireman because his Halloween candy melted.
The Immortal, Medicinal Marx Brothers
For the uninitiated: Zeppo, Groucho, Chico and Harpo
One hectic spring somewhere in my thirties, I realized that I was coming perilously close to taking myself and everyday life too seriously. Dwelling on chronic annoyances and my inability to remedy them was simply compounding my problems. I was at risk of developing a permanently sour expression. Then I stumbled upon a most unexpected antidote to gloomy self-absorption. While browsing at the library, I found a DVD box set of the first five Marx Brothers movies.
The Marx Brothers were a cultural phenomenon that I had somehow ignored. I knew who Groucho Marx was, of course, and I was aware of Harpo's pantomime shtick, but beyond a rudimentary knowledge of titles and famous routines, I knew almost nothing of their celebrated movies. What was it that made them so appealing to their fans? The box set was an opportunity to eradicate my gnawing ignorance. Anal retentive that I am, I resolved to watch all of the movies in the order by which they were released. It was a course of action that, in hindsight, I would prescribe to anyone who feels weighed down by their burdens.
Solo Artist
Education Director Jason Hanley interviews Carl Palmer at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
"There's lots of things you play when you've got an instrument - whether it be a guitar or piano, or whatever - that you kind of play for yourself; you don't really think of playing it in concert because it's not that type of piece of music," explained Carl Palmer at Cleveland's Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum last Saturday afternoon. "Usually drum solos need to be exciting, very direct. In a festival environment, you know, in a concert environment, you can't be too arty about it, you've got to get to the point. And I like to entertain people as well, and I like to make sure if there's any drummers in the room, they know I can play."
Explosive laughter resounded throughout the intimate Foster Theater at that last remark. Fewer than 200 lucky fans had just enjoyed the U.S. premiere of The Solo, a 35-minute art film featuring the legendary drummer doing what he does best. If his accomplished career with Emerson, Lake and Palmer and Asia were not sufficient evidence of his extraordinary talent, The Solo showcases Carl Palmer's abilities as never before.
Between The Lines
If the mixture of articles selected for inclusion in this weekend's USA Today meaningfully reflects a diverse population's collective interests, then ours is a nation of strange priorities. The current issue runs an unusually hefty 54 pages, thanks to a special section highlighting Super Bowl XLVI. The 14-page supplement, longer than any one of the self-billed Nation's Newspaper's customary News, Money, Sports, and Life sections, includes detailed analyses of the upcoming game, in-depth profiles of players, and even a cutaway diagram of host venue Lucas Oil Stadium. As hyped as the Super Bowl is, it's an understandable - and I imagine rather profitable - editorial concession.
But the spotlight on Super Bowl Sunday is not contained within its designated section. A quarter of the Sports section provides further insights, including Madonna's tantalizing comments on the nature of her highly anticipated halftime performance. A lead article on the relationship of New England Patriots coach Bill Belichick and quarterback Tom Brady dominates the front of the News section and continues over the whole of page two. The Money Section boasts a cover story about Super Bowl advertising, accompanied by a look at related smart-phone promotions and some insights on the rising popularity of chicken wings as a game day staple. Even the Life section is not exempt, lest a lightweight patron of the arts somehow miss the news that there is a very important football game this Sunday. There in the Travel subsection is a list of Larry Bird's favorite haunts in Indianapolis, which, by the way, just happens to be hosting the Super Bowl this weekend.