I Saw Him Standing There
Faster than a stolen base, more powerful than a grand slam, it's...
If there are supermen among us, one of them showed his strengths last night in the ordinary metropolis of Cincinnati. Paul McCartney, age 69, demonstrated extraordinary endurance while plowing through a setlist that mere mortals would sell their souls to have written. While there is no question that the old Beatle is a living legend, Sir Paul surely put to rest any speculation that his talents have waned. He is as captivating as ever, delivering nearly three hours of flawlessly performed classics with as little apparent effort as that which you and I expend sitting on our talentless bums.
So influential is McCartney's catalog that selections from it successfully comprised the entirety of the pre-show music. As concertgoers wandered the breezy concourse of Great American Ball Park and swarmed numerous swag stands, they were treated to a diverse array of cover tunes, from a Hammond organ instrumental of Eight Days A Week to a reggae version of Blackbird. For half an hour before the show began, a scrolling video collage of McCartney memorabilia was accompanied by an infectious remix mashup featuring Coming Up, Twist and Shout, Goodnight Tonight, With A Little Luck, Temporary Secretary, We Can Work It Out, Back in the USSR, and inevitably, The End. Then, with audience anticipation at its zenith and the video screens displaying a sparkling silhouette of the iconic Hofner violin bass, McCartney and his band opened with Hello Goodbye followed by Junior's Farm.
You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away
From the Hunt Museum: It was under this dresser, in 1981...
"What...is...this?!" my mother sputtered, and even though my back was turned toward her, I knew what she had found. The blood drained from my face as a nauseating wave of guilt, shame, and fear came crashing down upon my senses. It was the horrible feeling of knowing that one has just arrived at the very beginning of a long and unpleasant ordeal, brought upon by oneself. I was, as I recall, an obedient and honest child with few exceptions (perhaps my memory is selective), and this rare transgression was downright felonious in comparison to anything else I had done. I chastised myself for my stupidity. Emboldened by a successfully executed illicit scheme, I had flown too close to the sun with my wax wings, and now there was nothing to do but plummet helplessly to Earth.
As is the case with many a tale of innocence lost, the path that led to my downfall was a long and circuitous route. It began nearly a year earlier, and it was indirectly set in motion by my freshly developed preoccupation with the Beatles. I turned 12 in the summer of 1980, when Paul McCartney's Coming Up was getting frequent airplay. Having recently realized that a number of tunes that I liked were penned by the lad from Liverpool, I took the plunge and bought a copy of McCartney II. A month later while on vacation, I found discounted picture discs of Sgt. Pepper and Abbey Road. The music was a revelation to me, and as I gained an appreciation for the Fab Four, I began to particularly hold McCartney in high esteem.
On Baldness
Once upon a time, I had plenty of hair.
One of the biggest laughs I have ever provoked came from a group of men assembled for a weekend retreat. As a means to level the societal playing field and eliminate prejudices from interfering with honest conversation, we were forbidden to discuss our occupations. The idea was that we would be less likely to unconsciously ascribe wisdom to successful professionals and to casually dismiss the opinions of common laborers. At the end of the event, however, were were at last permitted to reveal what we did for a living. It was an entertaining and revelatory exercise that included more than a few surprises. One by one, we announced our positions within the marketplace, giving our mutual regard an entirely new dimension.
When it came around to me, I discerned that the group was listening to me intently. Due to my various responsibilities and actions throughout the weekend, I had become known to many of my new friends as something akin to a comic relief. I think they were utterly baffled as to what role I might play as a productive member of society. Sensing their attentiveness, I could not resist playing one more joke. I lowered my voice into a register of deep sincerity and scanned their eyes.
If It’s Tuesday, This Must Be Africa
There is something truly disconcerting about a one-ton beast staring down your vehicle from a mere yard away. He stands there, feet planted firmly upon the dirt road and head cocked to one side, his massive horns tilted like a pair of sharpened goalposts set askew after a rowdy collegiate victory, and you are forced to confront your own shallow materialism. Because rather than reacting rationally with a measure of concern for your personal safety, you are instead preoccupied with a silent plea: Please don't hurt my car.
The creature lumbers forward toward your window, which you have left down because you have already become addicted to the thrill of witnessing large animal heads poke into your car in search of grain pellets and carrots. Like a trained dog, that is all this immense quadruped is really after - a treat. Yet he cannot insert his gigantic head very far into your vehicle, as those enormous horns will not allow it. You hear them clatter and scrape against the roof, and as you reach for a carrot, you repeat your prayerful mantra: Please don't hurt my car.
Taking A Giant Step For Granted
In an age of scientific miracles and technological wonders, familiarity breeds indifference. Consider the diminished esteem of NASA and the U.S. space program. According to the 2010 Census, the median age of our population is 37.2 years, which means that a majority of our citizens have never known life before manned space exploration. It's an immense demographic wedge that has never pondered the impossibility of putting a man on the Moon, because the mission was already accomplished. For most Americans, the visage of astronauts hopping across the lunar surface is not a personal recollection but rather the stuff of history books and grainy documentaries. Given the poor performance of U.S. students in math and science, and acknowledging the lack of curricular emphasis on the history of space exploration, it's a safe assumption that most of our population does not fully appreciate the enormity of our accomplishments.
It is nearly inexplicable that our nation should invest in, develop, and implement the technology necessary for manned lunar exploration only to abandon its application a mere three years after the first moonwalk. Today's children, upon learning of the heroic feats of Armstrong, Aldrin, and Collins, are understandably puzzled by this intuitively backwards progression. They are aware that modern technology far surpasses that of the past, which leads one to wonder why we are not doing bigger and better things on the Moon. Of course, there is an explanation, and it is primarily the issue of money and the degree to which our representative government is willing to allocate funds toward further exploration of the Moon.
Great Albums: A Parodic Quartet
I love music, and I have a special affection for cleverly written, expertly performed, lovingly produced tunes that not only deliver the musical goods but also take a satirical jab at convention with a dry sense of humor. Fitting that bill perfectly are the songs on four very different albums that never fail to amuse me.
The Rutles was released in 1978 as the soundtrack album for Eric Idle's All You Need Is Cash, a television mockumentary that parodies the rise and fall of The Beatles. The show itself is uneven, but its incredible attention to detail is mirrored in 14 songs written and produced by Neil Innes, a founding member of the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band and Monty Python collaborator. Innes and a group of session musicians manage to emulate the Beatles as faithfully as any tribute band while slyly stretching a variety of Fab Four styles into the absurd without so much as a wink or a nod.
Altar Boys Gone Wild
There was that moment of silence just before Mass began, when the altar boys stood with lit candles behind the priest in a narrow hallway to one side of the altar, concealed from the congregation by a brick partition. I always felt a twinge of nervousness akin to waiting backstage before making a theatrical appearance, for in seconds we were to walk in procession along a side aisle to the back of the church, take a right past the baptismal font, and solemnly traverse the center aisle. After ascending some steps and placing our candles on either side of the altar, we would simultaneously bow beneath the crucifix and then take our seats on either side of throne-like chair that accommodated the priest.
As self-conscious adolescents, we were well aware of the potential for public embarrassment that was offered by participating in the ritual. All eyes were upon us, and were we to trip over our cassocks or drop a wine cruet, it would not go unnoticed. So there was always a bit of tension as we waited in the wings, just the sort of mildly anxious anticipation that inspires one to create a healthy distraction. That is the only explanation I have for why I smiled at Alberto, yanked out a hair from the top of my head, and placed it in the flame of my candle.
Art For Hoi Polloi: M.C. Escher
From 1963: Why settle for ants on a log when you can have ants on a Mobius strip?
As an aging member of Generation X, I can attest to the existence of certain rites of pop culture passage that have shaped our perception of the world. Eating Pop Rocks, for example. Acknowledging the profundity of Dark Side of the Moon. Attempting to reconcile a Rubik's Cube. Discovering the Three Stooges. And surely somewhere in there, as our brains expanded to fathom the limitless wonder of human history and the unknowable infinity of our universe, we were all exposed to prints by the Dutch graphic artist M.C. Escher.
You know the work, if not the name. The famous pair of hands emerging from a flat sheet of paper to draw each other. The self-portrait of the artist as seen in the reflection of a hand-held sphere. Tessellations of birds, fish, and other creatures. Impossible architecture in which columns defy logic, stairs descend endlessly within a closed loop, and strange beings walk upon every surface of a convoluted interior. All were the creation of Maurits Cornelis Escher, who was born in the Netherlands on this day in 1898.
Future Shock
My ten-year-old self would have died at the revelation that this was coming one day.
Dear Bob:
If this letter reaches you sometime around the summer of 1979, then you have already wondered what it would be like to receive a letter from your future self. Well, wonder no further, because this is it. That's right, Bob - I am you in 2011, thirty-two years in the future. As I recall, your summer days consist of reading a lot of MAD Magazine, listening to Alice Cooper, and watching as many Brady Bunch episodes as you can find on TV. They say the child is the father of the man, and in our case it's true. You'll still be enjoying those same interests in 2011. But you won't believe how things have changed.
Some of what I say may be hard for you to understand, because the technology you use is going to change so fast that whatever dazzles you in ten years will be obsolete a decade or two after that. For example, take your record collection. By the time you're in high school, most people will listen to their records less and less, preferring instead to take their music with them on portable cassette players. In college, you'll see your first compact disc, a little silver record smaller than a 45 that is read by a laser instead of a needle. The sound will be incredible, and you won't need to flip a disc over to hear the whole album anymore. What could be better than that, right? But that's nothing. In 2011, I hardly use compact discs anymore. I have an mp3 player, a little box about the size of a wallet, and it has far more music on it than you currently have in your entire collection.
Remember The Alamo? How About The Titanic?
You must take off your hat inside the Alamo, but next door you can buy Alamo Crackers.
As the tenth anniversary of 9/11 approaches, there is a lot of talk about the proper way to commemorate the tragedy. Foremost among many concerns is the desire to maintain a spirit of solemn reverence, and rightfully so. The thousands who innocently perished there would be grossly dishonored by any attempt to use the occasion for political or commercial gain. This is inherently obvious to us, as we are only a decade removed from one of our nation's darkest days, and the scope of loss has been enormous. It is difficult to imagine that the notorious incident will ever be regarded with any less gravity.
Yet our popular culture does have a history of repackaging tragedy as entertainment, and it is a phenomenon that goes well beyond the production of exploitative disaster movies. I am thinking of the sort of endeavors that would have been unthinkable to undertake within ten years of any catastrophe yet somehow became commercially viable later, the kind of projects that could never have overcome the offended sensibility of the collective public if they had been attempted too soon. It's a train of thought that leads me, inevitably, to San Antonio, home of the legendary Alamo chapel.