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He also signed is book for me, Getting America Back to Work.
So I started going through my Itunes tonight trying to find a couple dozen songs that will introduce him to Anglo-American popular music. It is an interesting project given that literally the entire history of American music is in play. The chances are anything I include--Arethra Franklin, CCR, Paul Simon, Madonna, the Beach Boys, you name it--is likely going to be new to him. It's kind of like that recurrent fantasy of mine of being able to go back in time and astound people back in, let's say, Elizabethan England, with my garbled knowledge about the basic facts of science and technology, except in this case there is little risk of me getting sent to the gallows for being a warlock.
It is a fun project for several reasons. Reason 1: All the catchy pop music that has become deadened to most people due to overplay is going to seem astonishing to CK. Who is this amazing guy who calls himself Prince? Does he come from royal stock? Reason 2: Coolness is beside the point, which is kind of refreshing. For instance: the odds are good that Captain and Tennile are going to be on it. Reason 3: I get to wallow in nostalgia by listening to these insiduous songs from my past. Oh, that Adam Ant and his high, rosy cheekbones.
What I am learning is that, when it comes to stuff I consider crowd-pleasing and accessible, it all seems to go back to early 80s pop. In retrospect, the songs that seem most appealing to a complete outsider tend to be associated with cheaply produced music videos.
Though what the hell: maybe I should throw "War Pigs" in there just to make things interesting.
What fascinates me with this video is the way it combines the fevered screwiness of 9/11 conspiracy theory with the goopy cheesiness of 80s power pop. It reminds me of something bad. GTR? Mid-80s Yes? Or something equally execrable:
For the record, though, I think this song does less damage that the out-of-control mythologizing of September 11. For those of us not directly affected by 9/11, the best thing I can say about the tenth anniversary is that it marks a convenient moment to move on. My sense watching the country's attempt to memorialize the day is that many Americans are more interested in remembering the ideas about 9/11 than the tragedy itself. It feels like, for many, it's become about capitalism or militarism of some disorted version of patriotism rather than being an attack by religious zealots on innocent office workers.
Last weekend I stopped in to a Starbucks and ordered a scone. As the the fresh-faced girl behind the counter was pulling the scone out of the case, she asked me if I wanted a bag for it. For some reason, the answer came out garbled. I think I meant to say "No, I'm going to carry it out." Or possibly I meant, "No, I'm going to eat it outside." But instead it came out as a twisted combination of the two: "No, I'm going to eat this out."
No, I'm going to eat this out. Even as the words were coming out of my mouth, I couldn't believe I was saying them. There was a long line of people behind me, including directly behind me this very sour looking, gray-haired woman.
I winced visibly and instantly made things worse by nervously adding, in the lamest approximation of a joke, "So to speak."
Then I grabbed my damn scone and skedaddled before the girl could dial 911. As Yoko pointed out when I told her this story, at least I didn't order a muffin.
On the subway this afternoon I noticed a shiny young blonde very intensely reading a short, glossy book. Being somewhat of a book perv, which might be the least bad thing you can say about my habits on the subway, I craned my neck to see what she was reading. She was scrunched up in the pose the Yoga masters call "Downward Facing Graduate Student" so I had no problem seeing the book undetected. It was called "Counterinsurgency Warfare: Practice and Theory." The book is available new for just $150 on Amazon.com.
I found it initially comforting that this book had been written and published and that apparently competent young people were studying as if it were holy writ. It suggested that the American academic-industrial-military complex was busily studying the apparently intractable problems of the world; that behind the ominous headlines of stories I am too lazy to read (but which nonetheless vaguely frighten me) there is an expert intelligence busily at work to justify my detachment and assuage my anxiety.
Then I looked at this young woman, bleach blond and 25 at most, and no doubt on the way back from Georgetown and cramming for summer term finals. She emanated an aura of intelligence, though it might be more accurate to call it "focused." She seemed stereotypically DC: young, ambitious, confident in the power of facts at her command. This assessment is no doubt a projection of my own misunderstanding of Washington, and perhaps my own insecurities. At the same time, it seemed silly to hope that having a bunch of bright and earnest college students read textbooks on things like terrorist insurgencies is a sufficient way of preparing ourselves for our most serious challenges. Then again, what is the alternative to handing over control to young and overachieving geeks?
When I read the descriptions of hikes, I tend to think that they're written for lazy fuck Americans who'd rather drive around the Wal-mart parking lot for 90 minutes rather than walk 100 yards. So when I read that the Shenandoah White Oak Canyon hike was "strenuous" and "should only be attempted if you are in good hiking condition" I casually applied the lazy fuck American factor. How tough can it be, I reasoned, if my Dorito-chomping, SUV driving fellow American do it every day?
I am pained to report that Americans are a hardier breed than I realized. It turns out that the White Oak Canyon Trail entails a 2500 foot drop over boulder-strewn paths over a distance of 4.2 miles followed by a 2.5 mile hike back up the moutain followed by a three mile flat hike along the Appalachian Trail. By the time we reached the bottom of the canyon, my leg muscles felt like they were 10% shorter than they were when I started and I had this nagging feeling like someone was taking a chisel to my spinal column.
Worst of all, the hiking trip was designed to allow Yoko and I more family time with the dog, who had been neglected by our various travels of late. The story of Buck is a tale that is both heartwarming and should have me reported to the ASPCA. By the time we reached the top of the hill, Buck was tired. I offered to walk the three miles back to the car and pick him and Yoko up. But as I walked away, Buck refused to stay put, running down the trail until he caught up with me. It was something out of Benji or Old Yeller. So I let him continue with me the rest of the way. When we got nearly to the parking lot, however, I heard a noise like a dropped sack of flour and saw that Buck had flopped over. Yes, I know it was terrible to over-exert our dog, but I swear I didn't think the hike would be that brutal.
Except for the lingering back spasms and the doggie guilt--Buck was given big chunks of chicken-fried steak that night--I have to say it was a beautiful and enjoyable weekend. The hike threaded along a mountain stream that sunk into a series of very pretty waterfalls and water holes were people swam and dove.
Some photos:
( Read more... )
Suddenly our living room was lit up like some circa 1969 Pink Floyd show (swirling flashes of red and blue) as I peeked out to watch about nine EMTs working methodically and a bit nonchalantly at the scene. Fifteen minutes later, they carried her down the stairs on some sort of chair with straps, her body slumped over the restraints and her arms dangling like a doll's. Robo-geezer came downstairs, worriedly tugging on his white beard, and paced in the hallway.
My neighbor asked what happened. I thought the question was intrusive and rude--but did an immediate about-face to catch the answer. He said that his girlfriend had "had a bad night" and "took too many pills." I can hardly say I was shocked: this couple loved nothing more than to get their smoke and drink on. And on.
Since then, I have heard her voice only once, let alone heard her banshee-like sex noises at all hours of the night. Maybe she's embarrassed and stays away. Or maybe she's in rehab. Or maybe he finally reached the point where the crazy outweighed the thunder-sex. The beautiful silence leaves me in an emotionally dubious place, glad that she and her mach 5 sex life are gone from my life, but hoping too that the consequences weren't so tragic. But let's be honest: my gratitude is much more authentic than my concern.
If there is a God, please note that I pay my taxes on time help move stranded turtles across the road from time to time.
I wish I could chalk up my faithless Livejournal habits to my frantic inside-the-Beltway lifestyle, but the truth is almost exactly the opposite: for much of this year I've had almost nothing on my mind. This isn't quite true either. There has been no shortage of sparks flying around the old noodle, but they've been those frenetic, circular thoughts that add up nothing more substantial than white noise. My mental life has been consumed by a succession of thoughts that roughly resembles this pattern:
1. My God is this work dreadful and boring. I really need to finding something less dreadful to do with my time than writing about IT bullshit...
2. Hey, I like that woman's dress!
3. I really really need to find something more constructive in which to spend a third of my time on.
4. And she has really nice legs!
5. Maybe I should become a park ranger/peace corps volunteer/special education teacher, etc.
6. I wonder what dinner is going to be? (back to 1)
All of this existential dread has become tiring and has effectively sucked out all of the energy that could be used for actually solving my little fake mid-life crisis. (I've been listening to burnt out early 70s Neil Young--what music could be more cheerful and invigorating?--and smiled at this line: "Though my problems may be meaningless / That don't make them go away." So true, Neil, you bleary depressive.)
A lot of my moodiness, I think, has been because of the indeterminancy of our living situation. Yoko applied for that job in New Jersey and it took months for them to make an (unfortunate) decision. For the past four months, we've had one foot in DC and one foot in Jersey. After she received an answer, there was a dreary moment when I realized that we were going to have to make the best of our current situation rather than float indulge this fantasy life I had constructed for myself in Jersey. Could I have constructed a more fallacious fantasy? Who builds a fantasy life around a move to New Jersey? Maybe beauty pageant contestants and mobsters.
What matters now is that we live as if DC is our home. We are going to have to find a living space that is more appropriate for a couple in our station in life (i.e. not the aging stoners or brain damaged students who dwell in our apartment building.) We may look at buying, but it's unlikely that we'll be able to afford anything in DC above a corrugated tin lean-to down by the river. The city has so much to offer, and so the project for this summer and fall will be to enjoy the beautiful things about DC rather than being oppressed by DC's less endearing traits.
Hi there Mr Slack , are you by any chance related to a Robert Slack old Bus conducter/ later got killed on board a ship? from Bolton lancashire, I will explain in more detail if you email me! thankyou p GregsonI replied to her that any relation I might have to this Robert Slack would be distant, as our family had been in the United States for a couple of centuries. I thought that would be the end of it, but a few minutes later I got a reply.
hi there Robert I have a picture of this Robert Slack he lived in 16 Lomax street Halliwell Bolton Lancashire this is the pic I want to reunite with the family! Pam
She included this photograph:
To my shame, I never responded to this email. I didn't really know what to say. The whole thing made me a little sad. How many years has it been she see knew her Robert Slack? The whole thing struck me as ineffably lonely, though now I have to admit I am more than a little curious about what happened between her and my namesame.
Yesterday I read a column in Newsweek written by everyone's favorite robo-libertarian, George Will, attacking high speed trains. The mania for trains, according to Mr. Will, is the "defining trait" of a disorder that "illuminates the progressive mind."
This is clearly a gigantic dog whistle for "trains will only make it easier for gay people to go from city center to city center blowing Ketamine up each other's asses."
Near the end of the article, Mr. Will offers a critique that says everything you need to know about this Libertarian mumbo-jumbo that folks like Will peddle: "So why is America's 'win the future' administration so fixated on railroads[?]...Because progressivism's aim is the modification of (other people's) behavior."
There's another phrase for attempts to "modify behavior." That phrase is called "public policy." By this standard, legislation against speeding, requiring the licensing of physicians, allowing businesses to deduct spending on research, and making it illegal to set up a heroin shop next to a high school are all attempts to modify (other people's) behavior.
The gist of the Will's argument is that people like having cars and liberals (commies) are forcing us into having a choice between driving and taking the train. No mention of the massive subsidies that encourage driving; the continual construction of new highways is somehow not an attempt to influence behavior. People love driving their cars! You want to know how you can tell? Because so many people drive!
Whereas Will's piece is meant to reveal an obsession of the left--trains are a symbol of the liberal's jackbooted ways!--it unwittingly reveals something else: that one of the nation's two major political parties has entirely abandoned the practice and principle of governance.
