Headlights Reflecting on Gravestones

Driving home last night / I heard that tune / The one from the 70’s / About things being over

The singer is in denial / He “Keeps Forgetting” / Things have changed / You know the song

Everything ends / Jobs, friendships, relationships, life / Somehow we don’t expect that / Won’t except that

We hate that part / The ending / The Silence / Fini

We’re built to function in the moment / But the moment is ever changing / Always working towards finish

Electrons move to eventually settle / Yearning for finale

We keep forgetting / An inherent beauty exists / In conclusion

The sun slipping behind the horizon / The sculptor making a final tap / Resonance of strings culminating the concert

Ends allows us to pause / Take heed of our experience / And look to the next

Driving home last night / I passed that cemetery / The one close to the road / Where our grandparents are buried

Sometimes I forget / The pervasive artistry of endings

Until I see headlights / Reflecting on gravestones

~pp

< Listen to this rant, and more, on the podcast here or on iTunes TSF14: Hunger Never Ends >

I bought a watch this weekend.  Not the most provocative of things, I know, but I haven’t worn a wrist-based timepiece in years.  Why?  Because, who needs one?!  I decided, years ago, that my computer, my cell phone, my cable box, and my car have all the clocks that I need.  They keep me on time, or remind me when I’m late.

Let me stress the decision to abandon a watch was made years ago.  Recently, I had a revelation; I, again, need a watch.

Learn the way of the Watch

Years ago, I simply had a cell phone; now, I have a BlackBerry.  Years ago, I had a computer with email and a by-request internet connection; now, I have constant internet connectivity plus instant messenger.  We have evolved to that connect-me-to-everyone-right-now stuff and instead of living in the moment, we are living outside the moment.  I have become so busy responding to the immediate requests of others immediately, that I completely ignore the people I’m with and the actual conversation we’re having.  To put it bluntly, I’ve become an anxious, rude, half-listener with attention deficit tendencies.

How many of you can say the same?  Do you hang out with one group of people, but spend all of your time with them communicating with other people?  Catch up with friends at the bar, and you’re all standing around texting friends who aren’t with you?  Sitting in your living room with your family, but completely distracted from your kids conversation because you’re too busy updating your Facebook status?

Part of the problem is, when I go to check the time, I am sucked in to my email, my voicemails, my alerts, messages, tweets and the like.  And, damn the moment and what I may be doing, I must reply immediately. I’m guilty if I don’t respond and I’m guilty if I do.  Stress Recipe 101.

Hence, the watch and my new commitment to bringing myself back into the moment.  I’m hoping it tell me what time it is – literally and figuratively. Looking at my wrist will unplug me from the device-dependant ridiculousness that has been so overwhelmingly distracting.  Maybe you should consider conquering your time differently, too.

~pp

Before and since that night, I have enjoyed and analyzed comedy. (Admittedly, I analyze everything I enjoy.)  How psyched was I, then, when the May 2010 issue of WIRED magazine featured comedian and Web Soup host Chris Hardwick’s article Crafting a Joke: The Arc of an Act? Completely, and I was completely impressed. Many, many comedy professionals and feigned comedic personalities have attempted to describe their joke processes, but Hardwick, in sharing his approach and the perspective of others, boils it down to the essentials.

Want people to laugh with you instead of just at you?  Read Hardwick’s advice, start thinking funny, right it down, and go.

~pp

No offense or disrespect to The Rolling Stones, Steely Dan, The Who, Chicago, Kenny Rodgers, Joni Mitchell, Jimmy Buffet or Crosby, Still, Nash and whoever, but it is time.  You’ve had your heyday.  You’ve made your money.  Now, go away.

Still have the desire to perform?  That is why they invented Vegas.  Or Branson.

Otherwise, move out of the spotlight, and let someone else have a chance.

Oh, sure, I acknowledge that you have been contributors to the world of music.  As singers, and songwriters, and musicians, and rockers you brought your sound to the masses and influenced pop culture and ingrained our brains with your riffs and lyrics.  Your music will live in the hearts and minds of many generations.  Thank you and bye-bye.

Maybe you think I sound harsh, but think about it?  Imagine if the previous generation of musical talent kept trying to keep performing in a big way at major awards shows, sporting events, on tour, and on television.Oh yeah – they did.  Remember the late days of Elvis or Frank?  Sad, sad, ugly, and sad.  They worked past-their-prime, trying to hold on to their young musical glory, and it didn’t work.  Hello – It ain’t working for you anymore, either.

For that matter, go away “Play that Funky Music, White Boy”, “Celebration”, “We are Family”, “Mustang Sally”, “Freebird”, “Brick House” and “Sweet Home Alabama”.  It is time to stop you and all of your cover band and wedding reception over-played power.

It is my contention that the past stands in the way of the future.  It is too convenient to dance to the music you’ve been hearing forever and it is regressive to sing along at concerts of artists who had their heyday before you were born.

Sure, it is fine to reminisce once-in-a-while; even I sing along to The Beatles. And, maybe you qualify as  quirky-cool because your ringtone is an obscure Marvin Gaye B-side.  But, why spend hundreds of dollars to go to concerts performed by people who need to get themselves jacked up on anti-inflammatories just to take the stage?  And, why are those same people still making crazy money to sing songs about their sexy youth, when “sexy” and “youth” have been replaced with “wrinkled” and “old”?  If we fill our lives with only the songs we know, we are forced to look backwards and are missing the view ahead.

I know, I know – the past is comfortable.  It feels more real because you’ve already experienced it.  It is as grounding and familiar as those ratty sweatpants you refuse to throw away.  It is like making out with an old boyfriend or girlfriend again.  You know just what to do to make them feel good.  Play “American Pie” and everyone relaxes.

You are trampling the road more traveled, and it is making you soft.

What happened to established artists gracefully aging and mentoring the next generation’s creativity, instead of competing with it?  Why do we continue to demand the stuff we know, instead of striving to experience something new?  We should cry out for the future, instead of sentimentally weeping for the past.

It is time to put down your high-school facebook, I mean, yearbook and move forward. Rock stars prefer to burn out than fade away; it is time for the faded old burn-outs to go away.

Let’s advance things, shall we? Listen to a new song, a new band, or a new artist, today.  Dance to something you’ve never heard before, tonight.  Let’s change the demand for music, right now, and we’ll change the future of music, for the better.

~pp

< Be now in the now.  Listen to TSF9: We’re Next, We’re Now The Slacker Factor Podcast here, or on iTunes. >

This is more of an observation… I had an interesting conversation over the weekend with my step father.  It was his birthday and he was saying he has another 3yrs to go before he can retire.  Of course, I am much further away, but it sparked my curiosity and wondered  how old I would have to be.  The answer is 67.  That is 27 years from now.  27 years is longer than the amount of time from  when I began “officially” working at 16 and today!  I don’t know what to say other than… shit.

Create-Your-Own-Territory Syndrome – making a barrier around yourself by spreading your stuff all over the conference table.

Forgetting to mute on a conference call, and having others hear your dog barking, your kid banging blocks together, or the construction guy drilling in the background.

Asking “Do you want that leader to be photographed in a Tuxedo or a Clown Suit?” (Doesn’t get a laugh; I tried it.)

Admitting “I’m only here for the free snacks.”

Asking “What do all of these acronyms stand for, again?”

Napping.

Getting called on and doing the “Who?  Me? Can you repeat the question again, Alex?” bit.

Rubbing anything excessively – your arm, your thumb, whatever.

Drinking out of a disgusting, stained, 10-year-old coffee mug.

Asking a question, the answer to which was already explained earlier in the meeting.

Channeling Satan through the conference phone using BlackBerry voodoo.

When we were kids, it was all about the tape.  The shift of melody and voices from vinyl to magnetic-coated plastic took rhythm and word from inside to outside.

Tape gave us freedom.  No longer were we limited to music on record players in badly-paneled living rooms, plaid decorated bed rooms, or from the all-too-moist carpeted rec rooms that once were called basements.

Tape liberated us from just listening to the radio.  Now, we could pick music on the go. We brought our collective groove to the streets…
…Eight track tape put professionally recorded music into cars, and cassette tape let us mash together all of the stuff, including our own voices and music, for everyone to hear.

With tape, junior high boys who would never have the guts to write love notes could put together that perfect mix of songs – just enough lovey-dovey with just enough coolness – to entice that special someone to pay attention to them.  With tape, high school parties could happen anywhere, all you needed was a boombox, batteries, and beer.  With tape, would-be comedians could capture entertaining crank calls and launch a Jerky Boy empire.

Video tape moved it all up another notch. Instead of waiting a whole year for  “The Wizard of Oz” on ABC Disney family movie night, we had the power of tape. Empowered to watch munchkins while stoned and listening to “Dark Side of the Moon.”

Sure, tape was fragile and stretchy and heat sensitive. But it was also portable, shareable, giftable, tangible. We hung together with music, with movies, with tape. Scotch tape held all of it together when things got sliced or cracked, or when someone punched out that little plastic recording tab. 

In that fast forward way life moves, there are now tweets, status updates, the ability to share what is on your mind in an immediate, calculated way.  Packaged electronic social life that is allowing us to live with our friends without having to shower. To spend time with people without really paying attention. To filter out the stuff we deem lame. We edit our thoughts before we share them, and call people our friends, even if we haven’t seen them since junior high.

Our music, pictures, videos, and words are all carefully selected and manipulated to perpetuate our collective coolness.  No longer are we in the streets, instead we are in our headphones. Even when we actually do get together, we’re not really in the moment.  We’re anxious to connect with others, frantically checking our metal berries and ego phones for messages from someone more important than the someone’s we’re with. We’re using our thumbs to pull us away, more concerned with what is next than what is now. Our music is sharable only by permission or by wifi. Our gatherings now missing the raw innocence and fragility of the past.  It is all instant, now, immediate, distracting.  No tape required.

Is progress important? Certainly. Is progress regressive? Probably. In the struggle to move forward, we have to make sure we’re not leaving too much behind.

~pp

<Were you napping and missed TSF2: Well, At Least We Arent Napping?  Listen now at the link, above, or look for it on iTunes, Monsieur or Madam Laziness.>

When she has to repeat the salad dressing choices for the fourth time, because you didn’t listen to her when she said them the first time for the person sitting on your right, the second time for the person sitting across from you, and the third time for the person who is sitting immediately to your left.

When you’re the last party in the restaurant, they’ve been cleaning up for an hour around you, and you have the nerve to order a cappuccino.

When you’re Michael Bolton and you don’t like anything on the menu and you want pasta with none of the sauces the restaurant offers – oh, and it is a SEAFOOD restaurant, by the way, Bolton…… – and you treat her like she should call a special pow-wow with the chefs to magically invent something yummy for you and your group, because, you know, you’re Michael Bolton.

When you’ve doused yourself with that stinky, cloyingly strong perfume. (Everybody hates that about you, actually.)

When restaurant is packed and you ask specifically for olive oil, or pink pepper, or white vinegar, or tarragon, or some other hard-to-obtain-from-the-kitchen condiment to adorn your $4 side salad.

When you won’t stop talking long enough to taste the small wine test pour, so he can actually pour big glasses wine for the rest of your obviously-board dinner companions who are eager to get sauced so they can better tolerate you.

When you ask for 100 refills on your water.

When you’re with a big group and everyone says “No.” when the waitperson says “Does anyone else need a straw or want anything else from the kitchen?” and when he brings back the straw suddenly someone wants something else and, again, the waitperson has to go back and get it, and it keeps happening until he winds up running back-and-fourth-and-back-and-forth more than Curly Neal.

When you spill something of such great liquid volume that it far exceeds the absorbability of your napkin.

When he reads out all of the 12 different kinds of soda they serve, and you ask “Don’t you have Diet Black Cherry Shasta?”

When she’s run around all evening to meet your every dining pleasure and you grab both copies of your credit card receipt when you leave the restaurant, so she gets stiffed on the tip.

So, did you ever have one of those days where you wake up and you don’t know what to do with yourself so you just lay in bed and stare up and think about how dust gets trapped on the ceiling, of all places, and how it is probably falling on you while you sleep and maybe that is why your hair is so dry and you flip on your computer-radio-TV and witness the same old blather-blather about pop star addictions, and lying politicians……and dying teenagers trapped in a desert half-way around the world and your mind starts to spin about how you wish you could make a difference and how most people are annoyingly indifferent and they’d rather unplug by watching the unreal world of reality TV than face the real realities of the living and all of the intensity of your disappointment makes you aggravated and stressed and you start to focus on your personal issues like unfinished projects and debt and weight and you think, just for a minute, about getting up paying your bills and working out, and then you remember your ratty sweatpants and your worn-out concert t-shirts and your hyper-extended credit cards and you’re unsure if you have any clean socks anyway so instead you visualize yourself working out confidently and you wonder why you’re not sculpting your beautiful body just though your ability to positively imagine yourself that way because that is what all the new age wonderfulness teaches – to imagine yourself in the reality you desire and create your own destiny, but you don’t have that kind of patience, and you feel angry that your mind-power has not made you and your world perfect and then more angry when your realize that the drool spot on your pillow is taking forever to evaporate and you don’t have the motivation or the energy to shift your body to relieve your shoulder tension, so you just watch that damn ceiling dust cascade into your hair.

~pp

The result of a creative exercise with some friends, this piece morphed into a spoken-word performance thing, and then into the opening slack piece.  The definition of myself reflects the definition of all of us.

<Listen to TSF0: The Episode before the Episode here>

Stale Candy, stale Bread-products served to us in a restaurant, and stale Personalities.

That weird, sour smell that pervades your laundry, when you forget to put it in the dryer.

Sequined clothing on anyone over 25, including those in the professions of dance, theatre, dance theatre, or Cirque du Soleil.

Cirque du Soleil.

The fusion of entertainment and enlightenment, as brought to you by Glenn Beck.

The expression “Vegas Rules,” as in “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

Mullets – the haircuts and the fish.

Eyelash-extending Prescriptive Medicinal Therapies.

Quince.

Smokers who use the world as their ashtray, and just leave their butts as a gift to nature.

People who point out the obvious, obviously.

~pp