Don't believe the hype?

Talking with a friend last week, I had occasion to remember an incident from my college days that continues to amuse me.

Excepting my 20th century literature classes, my favorite courses in college were art history, for three reasons:

1. My exposure to classical and modern art had been limited (I lived in Maine, mind you, where most art included some form of raw-bark tree limb in its composition) so I delighted in learning about Albrecht Durer (cool) and Edvard Munch (enthralling) and Jan Vermeer (gorgeous).
2. While examining the pictures was wonderful, the examinations involved mostly rote memorization of facts (who did it, when, what style, back story, etc.) so I got regular A's, which helped to boost my GPA.
3. As a rule, the classes were populated by artsy, creative, gorgeous women and a few males who had discovered this interesting demographic trend. Because I got A's, I regularly found artsy, creative, gorgeous study partners.

One such woman is the star of this story. Sadly, I don't recall her name, though I think it was Susan. She looked like an extra in a movie scene that featured stylish women mingling at an Soho art gallery, the credits listing Susan as "Gallery attendee with improbably appealing derriere." Consequently, when she and her grade-challenged pal asked me and my friend Mike Sargent (who was also breezing through the course) to have a weekly study session, we readily agreed.

Back story: Mike and I both played guitar and were thoroughly immersed in the Beatles. I can understand a person not liking the Beatles, but it was then and remains to this day a display of utter stupidity to not acknowledge that the Beatles have few peers in terms of creativity, talent and influence. Every album maintained consummate quality while exploring new artistic terrain, and there isn't a throwaway album in the lot. If you say you don't like them, I honor your opinion; if you say they aren't good, you are an ignorant fool.

Cut to a study session with our voluptuous and semi-vacant classmates, where across the library table the following conversation occurred:

Susan: "So what music do you listen to?"
Bill: "Lots, though these days I'm mostly listening to the Beatles."
Susan: "Huh. I don't like the Beatles. They're all hype."
Bill (with incredulous expression): "All hype? Wow. What do you listen to?"
Susan: "Dance Music. Paula Abdul."

I was well aware that beauty was only skin deep, but it had never seemed so shallow as it had that day.

As you can imagine, Mike and I had quite a laugh in the car afterward as John, Paul, George and Ringo serenaded us on the drive home. Sure, they're no Paula Abdul, but they're my favorites none the less.

The cruelty of...Facebook?

I joined Facebook. I'm certainly not one to exercise the "social" in "social networking", but there's a Facebook group for the families of my daughter's school, and just as I once did with beer, weed, and listening to Motley Crue, I succumbed to the peer pressure. (Only because the member I met was charming and interesting.)

So I start searching for folks I know, and looked to see if my friend Frank D'Andrea was a member. (Is that what they're called, members? Participants? Lemmings?) I found a variety of people who matched that name, but many of the profile summaries were too vague to determine if it was him, so I clicked on "view friends", thinking I could confirm the real Frank by recognizing those friends. This is what I saw:


Isn't there a more delicate way to say that Frank hasn't taken advantage of the friends feature than "Frank has no friends", period? It sounds like something an elementary student would say about the classroom nerd. (Or would have in the era that I went to grade school, before the dawn of political correctness, back when exclusion was a practiced art.) You can almost hear what comes next: "Because nobody likes Frank. Frank is a loser."

Couldn't it say, "Frank has not yet populated this page", or perhaps, "Frank is a lone wolf", or even, "Frank seems to find online friendships to be as tenuous and shallow as they sometimes really are"? Social networking sites put such a premium on having "friends" that it feels like high school all over, where the "most popular" superlative can be earned by cultivating acquaintances rather than deepening your friendships. Perhaps Frank likes to actually talk to his friends rather than communicate with them in 150-character text bytes---should the man be judged for that?

Poor Frank, a virtual-reality misfit. We should all be ashamed of ourselves.

Kvetch: F-this and F-that

I was riding a crowded bus with my daughter and a friend when a shirtless, late-teen young man got on with a couple of friends. Because of the crowd, they took seats away from each other, the shirtless teen opting to stand just behind the seat where my daughter sat in my lap.

“Hey, we should go see f***in' Tony”, he said loudly across the distance to his pal. “I'm sure that f***er knows something about it.” This cuss-peppered communication continued for a few more sentences, so I looked up and asked if he could watch his language, what with the child sitting right there.

“Welcome to public, man. It's a free f***in' country. First amendment, I can say whatever the f*** I want.” He continued this for a moment before I could interject, “I'm not trying to impose on your rights, guy, I was asking a favor. Don't worry about it.” Despite his odd combination of righteousness, hostility for my request and indication of refusal, he did oblige through the rest of the tense ride, eventually moving away when a seat became available. Props to the ruffian for that.

What I wanted to say to him, but didn't because he didn't seem like a big fan of logic, is that the First Amendment is essentially wasted if the parameters of its coverage are limited to the right to say F-this and F-that.The actual text reads:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

As far as I know (and I admit, I'm no constitutional scholar), the First Amendment isn't a protection of words, it's a protection of ideas. It was written to ensure that criticizing the government or expressing unpopular ideas (for instance, racism) can not be punished or prosecuted. I”m all for the First Amendment, but I find it ridiculous when used to defend a phrase such as, “f***in' good ice cream.”

At its root, this incident annoyed me for the same reason that I ever get annoyed with the general public: Too many people are fond of exercising their rights while abdicating their responsibilities to participate in society. I'll use a simple example: A person has the right to walk as slowly through the crosswalk as they want. Absolutely, I will never deny them that right. But the world also exists outside that crosswalk, and there are cars trying to get through the intersection who are waiting for the walker, and sometimes, there are very few opportunities for those car to get into traffic. Thus, a person has a right to walk as slowly as they want, but the general flow of society will likely be improved if that person were to walk quickly through that crosswalk. That's not forfeiting your rights as an individual, it's working together to reduce the overall friction of daily life; it's noticing other people's circumstances and, without undue (or any) burden yourself, helping where you can help.

Of course, it's not just crosswalks. Four-way stop signs (a simple concept, yet it seems to perplex so many drivers and infuriate those whose turn isn't respected); holding the door for someone who is wrestling a large package (or even if they're not); watching your language when there's a five-year old child in direct line of your voice. In fact, I think there's already a word for what I'm trying to describe: courtesy.

I'm no cynic---there are a lot of courteous people, and I try to say thank you every chance I get, offering both positive reinforcement and simple gratitude. It's a shame the constitution doesn't guarantee the right to be courteous, as I like to imagine the encounter above if it were: "Don't tell me I can say anything I gosh darn please---I'll edit my vocabulary as much as I choose when I'm around a child, and there's not a darn thing you can do about it!"

Singing in my sleep (again)

I awoke this morning with Poison’s "Something to believe in" in my head.

Perhaps needless to say, this makes me uncomfortable. Sure, I went to high school in the 1980’s, so my brain is littered with fragments of hair-band anthems and images of red-zebra-striped spandex, so I can’t be surprised that one of those soundtrack-to-wine-coolers-chugged-in-Bernie’s-Chevy-Malibu would float up to consciousness again---but there are a lot of songs from that era that I would like to hear again, if only on the radio in my mind: “Never Use Love” by Ratt, which I can’t recall the melody of but I remember enjoying, or even “Way Cool Jr.” from the third album. (I fear that having typed that line, you’re now thinking, “Way lame, junior.”) I hated the first Cinderella album, but the second, Long Cold Winter, had some genuinely good songs---that’s right, I said it, “Bad Seamstress Blues/Falling Apart at the Seams” is a ringer.) There are even a few Motley Crue songs that I’d be willing to hum for a day or two without getting too annoyed. But Poison? They’re an uninvited guest, and had I not been asleep, I never would have let them through the door.

I tried to isolate the hole in my mental firewall where Brett and C.C. could have snuck through, as Poison doesn’t appear on my radar very often. Perhaps a couple of weeks back, when there was a house party in my neighborhood that featured a live garage band performing a baritone version of “Every Rose has its Thorn” to the delight of the Pabst-marinated crowd. (My daughter and I went on a pilgrimage to see/hear the band, but found the police breaking up the party right after that song. I like to think it had less to do with the volume as the song selection, that neighbors might have tolerated a robust rendition of Judas Priest’s “Devil’s Child”, but couldn’t stand that flimsy ballad for fear it would be followed up by something by Warrant.)(Who were just as bad as Poison in my book, though their “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” was good enough to avoid a gong.)

But that can’t be the source, because it was the wrong song, and “Every Rose” wouldn’t bring to mind the faux-blue-collar ballad of “Something to Believe in”, it would make me think of “Unskinny Bop” (which I can’t say without continuing in my head, “bop-bop-bop-bop”.) I don’t listen to 80’s radio, I’m too broke to shop so I know I can’t blame Muzak, so I wondered---who planted this demon audio seed?

Then I remembered that I watched some of the Republican convention last week---wouldn’t it be just like them to play that song as a lead in or a follow-up to one of their speakers, demonstrating their connection to my generation of voters? I may be falsely accusing the GOP, but the pieces fit with surprising ease. Funny, had they opted for Ratt, they might have gotten my attention---but Poison? No vote for you!