Yesterday was the tenth anniversary of the Oklahoma City bombing. In 2001 I visited the National Memorial there, so naturally I was recalling it yesterday.
It was actually late September of 2001 that I was in Oklahoma City, only a couple of weeks after 9/11. I’d left the East Coast without going anywhere near Manhattan, let alone Ground Zero, because I couldn’t bear to see that gaping wound on the city’s face. But going to the Oklahoma City memorial helped me to grieve, both for the victims there and for those of 9/11, in a way I hadn’t yet been able to.
The memorial is really well done. From the blasted wall of the building across the street (now a museum), left just as it was that day, to the Survivor Tree alone on its little hill, to the quiet, shallow reflecting pool between the gates that mark the moment of the explosion, to the 168 chairs standing starkly on the gentle slope beyond, everything strikes just the right note of grief, remembrance, and hope. The chairs are probably the most affecting, because they allow you to reflect on each of the lives lost that day, every one of them attached, as if by silken spider thread, to a myriad of other lives, every one of them brimming with love and joy and sorrow and anger and hope and disappointment and dreams. The small ones, of course, hit you the hardest. I pretty much started crying the moment I stepped onto the grounds, but seeing those small chairs is when I really lost it. I really hope that the memorial to be built at the World Trade Center site works as well.
Although my whole experience at the Oklahoma City memorial is indelibly imprinted on my memory, one image stands out: a part of one of the outer walls of the building was left standing, and the twisted rebars emerging from the torn concrete are a visceral reminder of the destructive power of ignorance and hate. But as I stood there looking up at it, the morning sun crested the wall and shone through the broken metal in a way that lent it a strange kind of elegance. It struck me as a potent symbol of the transformative power of hope.
Also yesterday, the Roman Catholic Church got a new pope. Unfortunately I don’t see a lot of cause for hope there, nor do advocates for ecumenism, or women, or lesbians and gays. I’ve seen words like “disaster” and “catastrophe” thrown around. I’ll reserve judgement for now, but this is at best a step to the side, at worst a step--or more--backward.
April 20, 2005
April 18, 2005
My favorite poem of four lines
I almost said "of four lines or less", but then I remembered that there's haiku. This one was written five hundred years ago by that most prolific of authors, Anonymous.
Western wind, when wilt thou blow?
The small rain down can rain.
Christ, that my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again.
"The small rain down can rain." Yes. Yes it can. I don't think any poet has better captured, in a single image, how the daily trials of life can beset us.
Western wind, when wilt thou blow?
The small rain down can rain.
Christ, that my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again.
"The small rain down can rain." Yes. Yes it can. I don't think any poet has better captured, in a single image, how the daily trials of life can beset us.
April 15, 2005
Mon poeme préferé en anglais
I had planned to post a lot of poems this month, and here the month is half over and I’ve only done one. I’ll try to do more, I guess. Since poems in French don’t seem to go over, here is what I would call (only if pressed, of course) my favorite poem in English.
Spring and Fall: To a young child
by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
I must have read (or recited, mostly to myself) this poem hundreds of times, yet it never fails to affect me. I find it hard to talk about for that very reason, as I do favorites in other genres, say Joyce’s “The Dead” or Jules Bastien-Lepage’s painting of Joan of Arc, because analysis requires a certain emotional remove that I’m unwilling to grant. I do love many of the structural elements of the poem. Alliteration can be hard to pull off without seeming cheesy or overbearing, but when done well, as here, it is effective and affecting. I love the limpidity of the words Hopkins invents; where we need Lewis Carroll to tell us that “slithy”is a portmanteau meaning “lithe” and “slimy”, we know instantly what “unleaving” is and how it leaves the landscape “leafmeal”, even though we’ve never encountered these words before. Mostly what I love, though, is the mood the poem engenders, the mix of beauty and sadness. When I was a young child, fall was my favorite season, both because of its incandescent beauty and because of the nebulous sadness that I, like Margaret, felt. Now that I’m an adult and privy to the insight that Hopkins delicately yet shatteringly encapsulates in the final line, now that I am in the late summer and no longer the spring of my life, it’s still my favorite season. And even though the sadness is more concrete, even though I do “come to such sights colder”, there is still that nebulousness at the edges--which is really just our instinctive realization that sic transit gloria mundi--that invests the golden beauty of fall with greater poignancy.
Spring and Fall: To a young child
by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
I must have read (or recited, mostly to myself) this poem hundreds of times, yet it never fails to affect me. I find it hard to talk about for that very reason, as I do favorites in other genres, say Joyce’s “The Dead” or Jules Bastien-Lepage’s painting of Joan of Arc, because analysis requires a certain emotional remove that I’m unwilling to grant. I do love many of the structural elements of the poem. Alliteration can be hard to pull off without seeming cheesy or overbearing, but when done well, as here, it is effective and affecting. I love the limpidity of the words Hopkins invents; where we need Lewis Carroll to tell us that “slithy”is a portmanteau meaning “lithe” and “slimy”, we know instantly what “unleaving” is and how it leaves the landscape “leafmeal”, even though we’ve never encountered these words before. Mostly what I love, though, is the mood the poem engenders, the mix of beauty and sadness. When I was a young child, fall was my favorite season, both because of its incandescent beauty and because of the nebulous sadness that I, like Margaret, felt. Now that I’m an adult and privy to the insight that Hopkins delicately yet shatteringly encapsulates in the final line, now that I am in the late summer and no longer the spring of my life, it’s still my favorite season. And even though the sadness is more concrete, even though I do “come to such sights colder”, there is still that nebulousness at the edges--which is really just our instinctive realization that sic transit gloria mundi--that invests the golden beauty of fall with greater poignancy.
April 12, 2005
Popage
So the Pope died. You know, in case you weren’t aware. My mom actually called me after the news broke “to see if [I was] okay”. I’m pretty sure it was just an excuse to call (not that she needs one), but it was kind of weird. Because, me? And the pope? Not so much.
A lot’s been made of the fact that he assumed his office around the same time that Reagan became president (and Thatcher became British PM), and indeed, my view of them is much the same: men--former actors, actually--who used their skills and considerable charm to obscure their rabidly conservative and anti-populist agendas. It’s interesting to note that, although Reagan left the world stage long before John Paul II, their deaths also came close together, and now the pope is being lionized in the same way that the president was. (Also interesting that, where Reagan was posthumously given sole credit for the “defeat” of communism in Europe, he’s now forced to share it with the pope.) I must say, though, that I didn’t feel the same antipathy toward JP2 that I did toward Reagan--it was more like disappointment eventually followed by indifference underlain by bitterness.
I still remember when his predecessor, John Paul I, was elected in 1978, and the hope that liberal Catholics (which at that point was every Catholic I knew, even the priests and nuns at my school) felt in the promise that he would continue in the spirit of reform begun by his predecessors, John XXIII and Paul VI. And I remember how crushed everyone was when he died only a month later, to be replaced by a deeply conservative man who would, seemingly, do all that he could to crush that spirit short of actually repudiating the Vatican II reforms. John Paul II arrived on the scene at a crucial point in the history of the Church, when he had the opportunity to further its transformation into a true progressive force for good on this planet--which, lest we forget, was a big part of Jesus’ whole deal--and instead he squandered it, and chose a retreat into medievalism. He was anti-woman and anti-gay, considering both feminism and homosexuality to be part of a greater “ideology of evil” with which he saw the Church at war. And despite the acclaim he’s received as a “strong leader”, such skills were nowhere in evidence as the Church in North America was devastated by the scandal of pedophile priests, a matter on which he chose to remain largely silent. Even if I’d never had any affection for him, and even if I’m not big on authority figures in general, I still always felt some measure of respect for him as the leader of my faith, but after that it was extremely difficult to do so.
The one thing about his papacy that I did find encouraging was his commitment to ecumenism, in both its narrow and broad senses. That was at least one plank of the Vatican II platform that he didn’t try to rip out. He reached out to Jewish and Muslim leaders, becoming the first pope ever to set foot inside both a synagogue and a mosque, praying at the Western Wall and bestowing a kiss upon the Qur’an. I thought of his particular devotion to the Virgin Mary as I read, recently, a book entitled The Miracle Detective, which gives an exhaustive account of the purported Marian apparitions at Medjugorje in Bosnia-Hercegovina. Among the Virgin’s many pronouncements there was that religion is a human invention and that “All religions are similar before God”. I wonder what JP2 thought of that. I know the local priests were duly shocked. I found it surprising but validating, since it well coincides with my own philosophy, most succinctly summed up by the aphorism “One truth, many paths”.
JP2 also built bridges within Christianity, reaching out to the Orthodox Churches of the East, to the Anglican Communion, and to the Lutheran Church. I have to admit I admired him for that. (On the other hand, by strengthening conservative Catholicism in the US, he also had the ominous [if inadvertent] effect of allying Catholics with Protestant Evangelicals, and I don’t think I have to point out what that alliance has wrought.) I think most Christians find the deep divisions among members of their faith distressing, especially considering that such rifts stand in direct contradiction to Jesus’ express wishes. Of course, it started with the Apostles immediately after his death, and it’s quite unlikely he didn’t see it coming. It’s human nature, I suppose. Still, we should at least aspire to an ideal, even if our achieving it is improbable, shouldn’t we?
Hmm. Okay, that’s a bigger question than I care to get into right now. I’d like to wrap this entry up with a fervent prayer for the cardinals to enter their conclave next week and choose a true visionary to lead the Church, someone who can bring it into the 21st century and make it the light to the world that it ought to be. I’d like to, but it sort of seems pointless.
Sigh. I’ll do it anyway.
A lot’s been made of the fact that he assumed his office around the same time that Reagan became president (and Thatcher became British PM), and indeed, my view of them is much the same: men--former actors, actually--who used their skills and considerable charm to obscure their rabidly conservative and anti-populist agendas. It’s interesting to note that, although Reagan left the world stage long before John Paul II, their deaths also came close together, and now the pope is being lionized in the same way that the president was. (Also interesting that, where Reagan was posthumously given sole credit for the “defeat” of communism in Europe, he’s now forced to share it with the pope.) I must say, though, that I didn’t feel the same antipathy toward JP2 that I did toward Reagan--it was more like disappointment eventually followed by indifference underlain by bitterness.
I still remember when his predecessor, John Paul I, was elected in 1978, and the hope that liberal Catholics (which at that point was every Catholic I knew, even the priests and nuns at my school) felt in the promise that he would continue in the spirit of reform begun by his predecessors, John XXIII and Paul VI. And I remember how crushed everyone was when he died only a month later, to be replaced by a deeply conservative man who would, seemingly, do all that he could to crush that spirit short of actually repudiating the Vatican II reforms. John Paul II arrived on the scene at a crucial point in the history of the Church, when he had the opportunity to further its transformation into a true progressive force for good on this planet--which, lest we forget, was a big part of Jesus’ whole deal--and instead he squandered it, and chose a retreat into medievalism. He was anti-woman and anti-gay, considering both feminism and homosexuality to be part of a greater “ideology of evil” with which he saw the Church at war. And despite the acclaim he’s received as a “strong leader”, such skills were nowhere in evidence as the Church in North America was devastated by the scandal of pedophile priests, a matter on which he chose to remain largely silent. Even if I’d never had any affection for him, and even if I’m not big on authority figures in general, I still always felt some measure of respect for him as the leader of my faith, but after that it was extremely difficult to do so.
The one thing about his papacy that I did find encouraging was his commitment to ecumenism, in both its narrow and broad senses. That was at least one plank of the Vatican II platform that he didn’t try to rip out. He reached out to Jewish and Muslim leaders, becoming the first pope ever to set foot inside both a synagogue and a mosque, praying at the Western Wall and bestowing a kiss upon the Qur’an. I thought of his particular devotion to the Virgin Mary as I read, recently, a book entitled The Miracle Detective, which gives an exhaustive account of the purported Marian apparitions at Medjugorje in Bosnia-Hercegovina. Among the Virgin’s many pronouncements there was that religion is a human invention and that “All religions are similar before God”. I wonder what JP2 thought of that. I know the local priests were duly shocked. I found it surprising but validating, since it well coincides with my own philosophy, most succinctly summed up by the aphorism “One truth, many paths”.
JP2 also built bridges within Christianity, reaching out to the Orthodox Churches of the East, to the Anglican Communion, and to the Lutheran Church. I have to admit I admired him for that. (On the other hand, by strengthening conservative Catholicism in the US, he also had the ominous [if inadvertent] effect of allying Catholics with Protestant Evangelicals, and I don’t think I have to point out what that alliance has wrought.) I think most Christians find the deep divisions among members of their faith distressing, especially considering that such rifts stand in direct contradiction to Jesus’ express wishes. Of course, it started with the Apostles immediately after his death, and it’s quite unlikely he didn’t see it coming. It’s human nature, I suppose. Still, we should at least aspire to an ideal, even if our achieving it is improbable, shouldn’t we?
Hmm. Okay, that’s a bigger question than I care to get into right now. I’d like to wrap this entry up with a fervent prayer for the cardinals to enter their conclave next week and choose a true visionary to lead the Church, someone who can bring it into the 21st century and make it the light to the world that it ought to be. I’d like to, but it sort of seems pointless.
Sigh. I’ll do it anyway.
April 1, 2005
Poisson d'avril? Non, merci.
April Fool’s Day is my least favorite “holiday”, probably because as a kid I tended to be less the prankster and more the...prankstee? And since I got made fun of more than enough as it was (the perils of nerdhood), an entire day devoted to that activity was not exactly something I looked forward to.
In France today is Poisson d’avril, or April Fish. The thing to do is make paper cutouts of fish and stick them on your friends’ backs. It sounds stupid, but it’s actually kind of funny, in a silly and innocent (and somehow egalitarian) way.
More to my liking, today begins National Poetry Month. Since I’m already on about the French, here is what I would, if pressed, call my favorite poem:
Le Pont Mirabeau
par Guillaume Apollinaire
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine
Et nos amours
Faut-il qu'il m'en souvienne
La joie venait toujours après la peine
Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure
Les mains dans les mains restons face à face
Tandis que sous
Le pont de nos bras passe
Des éternels regards l'onde si lasse
Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure
L'amour s'en va comme cette eau courante
L'amour s'en va
Comme la vie est lente
Et comme l'Espérance est violente
Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure
Passent les jours et passent les semaines
Ni temps passé
Ni les amours reviennent
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine
Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure
The more astute among you may have noticed that it’s in French. I’ve seen numerous translations and unfortunately none of them comes close to the original, but here’s a decent one. This is actually a version that was recorded by the Pogues.
Le Pont Mirabeau
by Guillaume Apollinaire
Below the Pont Mirabeau
Slow flows the Seine
And all our loves together
Must I recall again
Joy would always follow
After pain
Let night fall, let the hours go by
The days pass on and here stand I
Hands holding hands
Let us stand face to face
While underneath the bridge
Of our arms entwined slow race
Eternal gazes flowing
At wave's pace
Let night fall, let the hours go by
The days pass on and here stand I
Love runs away
Like running water flows
Love flows away
But oh how slow life goes
How violent is hope
Love only knows
Let night fall, let the hours go by
The days pass on and here stand I
The days flow ever on
The weeks pass by in vain
Time never will return
Nor our loves burn again
Below the Pont Mirabeau
Slow flows the Seine
Let night fall, let the hours go by
The days pass on and here stand I
Like I said, it’s decent, but a lot of my favorite stuff gets left out. Translating the first line, Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine, as “Below the Pont Mirabeau/Slow flows the Seine” somehow loses the simplicity and solidity of the line. I like it translated as “Under Mirabeau Bridge flows the Seine”, which gives you that and keeps the original’s rhythm as well. I love how that line is repeated at the end of the last stanza before the final refrain; to me it’s like the anchors of the bridge on either side of the river. And I love how that final stanza sort of resolves out of three lines in the subjunctive to the final line in the indicative, like being shaken out of reverie. Where the simplicity and solidity of the line make it seem neutral at the beginning of the poem, here it becomes quietly devastating. You don’t really get that sense in the English. And twisting the line "comme l'Espérance est violente" (how Hope is violent) to make it "How violent is hope" takes a lot of the sting out...you need the noun before you get the adjective, because the adjective is so unexpected.
I’ll post more favorite poems during April, but I’ll try to stick to ones written in English, so I don't have to complain about translations.
In France today is Poisson d’avril, or April Fish. The thing to do is make paper cutouts of fish and stick them on your friends’ backs. It sounds stupid, but it’s actually kind of funny, in a silly and innocent (and somehow egalitarian) way.
More to my liking, today begins National Poetry Month. Since I’m already on about the French, here is what I would, if pressed, call my favorite poem:
Le Pont Mirabeau
par Guillaume Apollinaire
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine
Et nos amours
Faut-il qu'il m'en souvienne
La joie venait toujours après la peine
Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure
Les mains dans les mains restons face à face
Tandis que sous
Le pont de nos bras passe
Des éternels regards l'onde si lasse
Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure
L'amour s'en va comme cette eau courante
L'amour s'en va
Comme la vie est lente
Et comme l'Espérance est violente
Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure
Passent les jours et passent les semaines
Ni temps passé
Ni les amours reviennent
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine
Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure
The more astute among you may have noticed that it’s in French. I’ve seen numerous translations and unfortunately none of them comes close to the original, but here’s a decent one. This is actually a version that was recorded by the Pogues.
Le Pont Mirabeau
by Guillaume Apollinaire
Below the Pont Mirabeau
Slow flows the Seine
And all our loves together
Must I recall again
Joy would always follow
After pain
Let night fall, let the hours go by
The days pass on and here stand I
Hands holding hands
Let us stand face to face
While underneath the bridge
Of our arms entwined slow race
Eternal gazes flowing
At wave's pace
Let night fall, let the hours go by
The days pass on and here stand I
Love runs away
Like running water flows
Love flows away
But oh how slow life goes
How violent is hope
Love only knows
Let night fall, let the hours go by
The days pass on and here stand I
The days flow ever on
The weeks pass by in vain
Time never will return
Nor our loves burn again
Below the Pont Mirabeau
Slow flows the Seine
Let night fall, let the hours go by
The days pass on and here stand I
Like I said, it’s decent, but a lot of my favorite stuff gets left out. Translating the first line, Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine, as “Below the Pont Mirabeau/Slow flows the Seine” somehow loses the simplicity and solidity of the line. I like it translated as “Under Mirabeau Bridge flows the Seine”, which gives you that and keeps the original’s rhythm as well. I love how that line is repeated at the end of the last stanza before the final refrain; to me it’s like the anchors of the bridge on either side of the river. And I love how that final stanza sort of resolves out of three lines in the subjunctive to the final line in the indicative, like being shaken out of reverie. Where the simplicity and solidity of the line make it seem neutral at the beginning of the poem, here it becomes quietly devastating. You don’t really get that sense in the English. And twisting the line "comme l'Espérance est violente" (how Hope is violent) to make it "How violent is hope" takes a lot of the sting out...you need the noun before you get the adjective, because the adjective is so unexpected.
I’ll post more favorite poems during April, but I’ll try to stick to ones written in English, so I don't have to complain about translations.
March 31, 2005
Yeah, I don't know.
So this blogging thing takes a lot more time and effort than I figured. And seeing as I can count the number of people who actually read it without taking off my shoes, I wonder if it's worth it. Since I intended this as basically an online journal, i.e. something for my own benefit and not necessarily anyone else's, I guess it shouldn't really matter. Yet somehow it does.
Anyway, here's something I wrote last week.
The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony was on VH1 this past weekend. I always watch it, even though I get annoyed at the fact that this purported celebration of rock music takes place in a banquet room at the Waldorf Astoria, with everyone in tuxes and gowns sitting around tables and rather staidly nodding and clapping. Come on, man! It’s ROCK AND FUCKING ROLL. This year’s show was opened by the O’Jays. How do you not dance to “Love Train”? I’m dancing around my living room and making crazy gestures, inviting people all over the world to join hands and start a love train, and everybody who’s in the actual goddamned room with them is just SITTING THERE. Worse than that, in honor of the 20th anniversary of the Hall this year they had Jerry Lee Lewis and Bo Diddley close things out, and STILL nobody got out of their chairs. Jerry Lee turns 70 this year, but believe me, he can still play the shit out of “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On”. Ladies and gentlemen, THAT IS THE KILLER UP THERE. HE’S ALMOST A SEPTUAGENARIAN AND HE IS ROCKING FOR YOU. GET THE FUCK OUT OF YOUR CHAIRS.
I watch because even though the performances can be spotty, there’s always a gem or two that makes it worth it, and because even though the induction speeches can be lackluster, there’s always a moment or two that moves me (and if Bruce Springsteen is inducting someone, as he did U2 this year, and as he seems to most years, I know I’m in for 10 minutes of stellar oratory).
This year, as I mentioned, U2 was inducted, as were the Pretenders. (There were others as well, but those two groups were the most significant to me.) Although I stopped being interested in U2 twenty years ago (I think I knew it was over when I went to see them in ’85 and was more into opening act Lone Justice than I was them), during the first half of the ‘80s, man, I loved them. I remember when I was 15, 16 years old, I used to take the train up to Westchester to visit my cousin on long weekends. We were so into music and it was all we talked about. We were both learning to play guitar, and we’d always show each other new stuff we’d figured out. We wanted to be in a band more than anything. I remember these endless drives through dark woods, on our way to some party in a field in the middle of nowhere, blasting U2’s Boy on the stereo. That and the Police’s Outlandos d’Amour. Those were a couple of great records, and at that time they sounded so new and so different than anything I’d listened to before. I didn’t even want to get to the party, I just wanted to be in that car, hurtling through the darkness on a country road with the music playing. When I started writing songs a couple of years later, U2, along with the Police, the Clash, and REM, was one of my biggest influences. In fact, the first demo that my band ever recorded (the band that I eventually formed with the aforementioned cousin) included a song called “Remembrance Day” that was, shall we say, heavily indebted to U2. They lost me when they got to the plodding basslines and numbing sameness of The Joshua Tree, but those early records were something, and War in particular stands as one of the greatest albums of the ‘80s.
The Pretenders had an even bigger effect on me: Chrissie Hynde was one of the reasons I even picked up a guitar. The first song I ever heard by them was their cover of the Kinks’ “Stop Your Sobbing”, and it was one of those “Who the fuck is that?” moments. I’ve always thought that Chrissie has one of the most original and arresting voices in pop music. It was her look that really got me, though: with her skinny, leather-clad body and black bangs hanging in her heavily-lined eyes, she looked like the lost Ramone sister. She was tough, but not in the pouty, posturing way that, say, Pat Benatar was (or tried to be). She was cool, but not in the aloof, movie-star-beautiful way that, say, Debbie Harry was. She was as tough and as cool as any man yet sacrificed none of her femininity (whatever that might mean), which couldn’t be said of, say, the deliberately androgynous Patti Smith. (No disrespect intended toward Benatar, Harry, or Smith, all of whom I like.) And she played guitar. I wanted to be just like her.
Of course, the Pretenders were more than just Chrissie Hynde. That is to say, they were more than just a singer-songwriter and her backing crew, they were a band. Unfortunately that became all too clear with the deaths of Pete Farndon and James Honeyman Scott, from which the band never recovered. They kept recording, obviously, but as Chrissie herself has pointed out, they were basically a Pretenders tribute band.
When I think of the Pretenders, I think of my freshman year in high school. High school was not a pleasant time for me, and getting up in the mornings always sucked. But in 1980, “Brass in Pocket” was all over rock radio, and I have this memory of golden sunlight streaming in through my bedroom window, and those shimmering chords, and Chrissie’s half-swaggering, half-vulnerable vocal insisting “I’m special, so special” that somehow made everything okay.
Top 5 U2 Songs
5) “New Year’s Day”
4) “An Cat Dubh”
3) “The Unforgettable Fire”
2) “Bad”
1) “Sunday Bloody Sunday”
Top 5 Pretenders Songs
5) “Show Me”
4) “Talk of the Town”
3) “Message of Love”
2) “Brass in Pocket”
1) “Kid”
On a tangential note, “Kid” is definitely my favorite Pretenders song and I adore their version of it, but close behind is Tracey Thorn’s heart-stoppingly gorgeous rendition on Everything But The Girl’s Love Not Money.
Anyway, here's something I wrote last week.
The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony was on VH1 this past weekend. I always watch it, even though I get annoyed at the fact that this purported celebration of rock music takes place in a banquet room at the Waldorf Astoria, with everyone in tuxes and gowns sitting around tables and rather staidly nodding and clapping. Come on, man! It’s ROCK AND FUCKING ROLL. This year’s show was opened by the O’Jays. How do you not dance to “Love Train”? I’m dancing around my living room and making crazy gestures, inviting people all over the world to join hands and start a love train, and everybody who’s in the actual goddamned room with them is just SITTING THERE. Worse than that, in honor of the 20th anniversary of the Hall this year they had Jerry Lee Lewis and Bo Diddley close things out, and STILL nobody got out of their chairs. Jerry Lee turns 70 this year, but believe me, he can still play the shit out of “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On”. Ladies and gentlemen, THAT IS THE KILLER UP THERE. HE’S ALMOST A SEPTUAGENARIAN AND HE IS ROCKING FOR YOU. GET THE FUCK OUT OF YOUR CHAIRS.
I watch because even though the performances can be spotty, there’s always a gem or two that makes it worth it, and because even though the induction speeches can be lackluster, there’s always a moment or two that moves me (and if Bruce Springsteen is inducting someone, as he did U2 this year, and as he seems to most years, I know I’m in for 10 minutes of stellar oratory).
This year, as I mentioned, U2 was inducted, as were the Pretenders. (There were others as well, but those two groups were the most significant to me.) Although I stopped being interested in U2 twenty years ago (I think I knew it was over when I went to see them in ’85 and was more into opening act Lone Justice than I was them), during the first half of the ‘80s, man, I loved them. I remember when I was 15, 16 years old, I used to take the train up to Westchester to visit my cousin on long weekends. We were so into music and it was all we talked about. We were both learning to play guitar, and we’d always show each other new stuff we’d figured out. We wanted to be in a band more than anything. I remember these endless drives through dark woods, on our way to some party in a field in the middle of nowhere, blasting U2’s Boy on the stereo. That and the Police’s Outlandos d’Amour. Those were a couple of great records, and at that time they sounded so new and so different than anything I’d listened to before. I didn’t even want to get to the party, I just wanted to be in that car, hurtling through the darkness on a country road with the music playing. When I started writing songs a couple of years later, U2, along with the Police, the Clash, and REM, was one of my biggest influences. In fact, the first demo that my band ever recorded (the band that I eventually formed with the aforementioned cousin) included a song called “Remembrance Day” that was, shall we say, heavily indebted to U2. They lost me when they got to the plodding basslines and numbing sameness of The Joshua Tree, but those early records were something, and War in particular stands as one of the greatest albums of the ‘80s.
The Pretenders had an even bigger effect on me: Chrissie Hynde was one of the reasons I even picked up a guitar. The first song I ever heard by them was their cover of the Kinks’ “Stop Your Sobbing”, and it was one of those “Who the fuck is that?” moments. I’ve always thought that Chrissie has one of the most original and arresting voices in pop music. It was her look that really got me, though: with her skinny, leather-clad body and black bangs hanging in her heavily-lined eyes, she looked like the lost Ramone sister. She was tough, but not in the pouty, posturing way that, say, Pat Benatar was (or tried to be). She was cool, but not in the aloof, movie-star-beautiful way that, say, Debbie Harry was. She was as tough and as cool as any man yet sacrificed none of her femininity (whatever that might mean), which couldn’t be said of, say, the deliberately androgynous Patti Smith. (No disrespect intended toward Benatar, Harry, or Smith, all of whom I like.) And she played guitar. I wanted to be just like her.
Of course, the Pretenders were more than just Chrissie Hynde. That is to say, they were more than just a singer-songwriter and her backing crew, they were a band. Unfortunately that became all too clear with the deaths of Pete Farndon and James Honeyman Scott, from which the band never recovered. They kept recording, obviously, but as Chrissie herself has pointed out, they were basically a Pretenders tribute band.
When I think of the Pretenders, I think of my freshman year in high school. High school was not a pleasant time for me, and getting up in the mornings always sucked. But in 1980, “Brass in Pocket” was all over rock radio, and I have this memory of golden sunlight streaming in through my bedroom window, and those shimmering chords, and Chrissie’s half-swaggering, half-vulnerable vocal insisting “I’m special, so special” that somehow made everything okay.
Top 5 U2 Songs
5) “New Year’s Day”
4) “An Cat Dubh”
3) “The Unforgettable Fire”
2) “Bad”
1) “Sunday Bloody Sunday”
Top 5 Pretenders Songs
5) “Show Me”
4) “Talk of the Town”
3) “Message of Love”
2) “Brass in Pocket”
1) “Kid”
On a tangential note, “Kid” is definitely my favorite Pretenders song and I adore their version of it, but close behind is Tracey Thorn’s heart-stoppingly gorgeous rendition on Everything But The Girl’s Love Not Money.
February 23, 2005
Un piccolo miracolo
Place-based partisanship is annoying. When people extol endlessly the vast virtue of their own little corner of the world, and smugly denigrate everyone else’s, they reveal nothing but their own parochialism. Thomas Pynchon, in Vineland, had a great line about this, which of course I can’t remember, but it had to do with a couple of Manhattan girls whose sole perception of California was through “the many ways that it failed to be New York.” I’ve known similar people. I can’t claim that I’ve never been guilty of this myself, but as I’ve matured I’ve come to realize that different places are just that--not superior or inferior, just different. Every place has something unique to offer, and in failing to seek it out, we only diminish ourselves.
Unless you’re talking about Buffalo, ‘cause that place is just a dump. But seriously, folks….
Of course, it’s natural to feel a certain affinity with the place where you grew up, and its peculiar language, customs, and traditions. Not to mention its food--we’re all familiar with the phrase “comfort food”, and indeed, when we’re out in the far-flung reaches of the globe, and feeling upset or unsure, the foods particular to our home places can be a great source of comfort. When I was growing up in New Jersey, my favorite food was pizza. And as I’m fond of saying, in Jersey you can’t spit without hitting a pizza joint.
True, you can get pizza just about anywhere. But as I’ve discovered in my travels throughout this land, it’s just not the same. When I first moved to California and walked into a pizza place asking for a slice, they looked at me like I had five heads. It seems that the slice as a concept does not exist in California--nor does “real” pizza. California has its own take on pizza, and its quite enjoyable, but in terms of the pizza of my youth it just can’t compare.
It’s hard to say just what makes New York-New Jersey pizza what it is. It’s gotta be made by Italians, that much I know. If you don’t see a guido (or guidette) behind the counter, and at least one small white-haired old man with an Italian accent in the general vicinity, clear out immediately. I think it also has to do with the simplicity of the recipe--just bread, sauce, and mozzarella cheese (toppings allowed within reason, of course, but there’s a lot to be said for the classic cheese pie), and the fact that it’s cooked in a regular oven, not a deep dish or some schmancy wood-burning brick deal. It’s just simple Southern Italian peasant food, and when it’s done right, it’s really, really good.
Unfortunately no one seems to be able to do it at all west of the Mississippi, and no one seems to be able to do it right west of the Delaware. People here in the West will say, oh, you have to try such-and-such a place, they have real East Coast-style pizza. And then you go there, and...no. Just...no. I’ve tried many places, and none come close. So when someone told me that the Pizza Castle here in Albuquerque had the real thing, I was more than a bit skeptical. But the other night, as I was freaking out (just a little) over my recent birthday, I felt like I needed some Jersey comfort food, so I decided to check it out.
It’s in a crummy strip mall, which was a good sign (the best pizza joints always are). I must decry the fact that there was nothing castle-like about it, however. I mean, New Jersey had, once upon a time, the famous Tower of Pizza, which you entered through a miniature replica of the Leaning Tower of Pisa (incredibly exciting when I was a kid), so I expect truth in naming. But it did have threadbare carpeting, rickety booths from whose faded cushions yellow foam protruded, a menu board with slots that you stick those little plastic letters into, and--oh yes--a pinball machine. Now you’re talking genuine pizza place ambiance, my friend. It could’ve used a jukebox, though. When I was little, our family pizza place was Luisa Pizza in South Plainfield, which was owned by a friend of my dad’s ( = free pizza). Every time we went there, I would play “Run To Me” by the Bee Gees on the jukebox. I loved that song sooooooo much. Eventually I bought a 45 of it and played it over and over, but somehow it was never quite the same as hearing it on the jukebox at Luisa while eating pizza.
Anyway, as soon as I walked into the Pizza Castle, I knew that what I’d heard was true. Smell that? Real pizza. I ordered a couple of slices to go (small disappointment: the box did not feature a mustachioed man in a chef’s hat making the Italian gesture for “Yummy!” and saying, “You’ve tried all the rest--now try the best!” But you can’t have everything) and took them home. The crust was the perfect thickness and not at all soggy, the sauce was tasty, the cheese was fresh and there was just the right amount. And the slices were so generous that I could only eat one--the other one is wrapped in foil in my freezer, waiting for the next time I need a little homestyle comfort.
Thanks, Pizza Castle. You’re a small miracle in the desert.
Unless you’re talking about Buffalo, ‘cause that place is just a dump. But seriously, folks….
Of course, it’s natural to feel a certain affinity with the place where you grew up, and its peculiar language, customs, and traditions. Not to mention its food--we’re all familiar with the phrase “comfort food”, and indeed, when we’re out in the far-flung reaches of the globe, and feeling upset or unsure, the foods particular to our home places can be a great source of comfort. When I was growing up in New Jersey, my favorite food was pizza. And as I’m fond of saying, in Jersey you can’t spit without hitting a pizza joint.
True, you can get pizza just about anywhere. But as I’ve discovered in my travels throughout this land, it’s just not the same. When I first moved to California and walked into a pizza place asking for a slice, they looked at me like I had five heads. It seems that the slice as a concept does not exist in California--nor does “real” pizza. California has its own take on pizza, and its quite enjoyable, but in terms of the pizza of my youth it just can’t compare.
It’s hard to say just what makes New York-New Jersey pizza what it is. It’s gotta be made by Italians, that much I know. If you don’t see a guido (or guidette) behind the counter, and at least one small white-haired old man with an Italian accent in the general vicinity, clear out immediately. I think it also has to do with the simplicity of the recipe--just bread, sauce, and mozzarella cheese (toppings allowed within reason, of course, but there’s a lot to be said for the classic cheese pie), and the fact that it’s cooked in a regular oven, not a deep dish or some schmancy wood-burning brick deal. It’s just simple Southern Italian peasant food, and when it’s done right, it’s really, really good.
Unfortunately no one seems to be able to do it at all west of the Mississippi, and no one seems to be able to do it right west of the Delaware. People here in the West will say, oh, you have to try such-and-such a place, they have real East Coast-style pizza. And then you go there, and...no. Just...no. I’ve tried many places, and none come close. So when someone told me that the Pizza Castle here in Albuquerque had the real thing, I was more than a bit skeptical. But the other night, as I was freaking out (just a little) over my recent birthday, I felt like I needed some Jersey comfort food, so I decided to check it out.
It’s in a crummy strip mall, which was a good sign (the best pizza joints always are). I must decry the fact that there was nothing castle-like about it, however. I mean, New Jersey had, once upon a time, the famous Tower of Pizza, which you entered through a miniature replica of the Leaning Tower of Pisa (incredibly exciting when I was a kid), so I expect truth in naming. But it did have threadbare carpeting, rickety booths from whose faded cushions yellow foam protruded, a menu board with slots that you stick those little plastic letters into, and--oh yes--a pinball machine. Now you’re talking genuine pizza place ambiance, my friend. It could’ve used a jukebox, though. When I was little, our family pizza place was Luisa Pizza in South Plainfield, which was owned by a friend of my dad’s ( = free pizza). Every time we went there, I would play “Run To Me” by the Bee Gees on the jukebox. I loved that song sooooooo much. Eventually I bought a 45 of it and played it over and over, but somehow it was never quite the same as hearing it on the jukebox at Luisa while eating pizza.
Anyway, as soon as I walked into the Pizza Castle, I knew that what I’d heard was true. Smell that? Real pizza. I ordered a couple of slices to go (small disappointment: the box did not feature a mustachioed man in a chef’s hat making the Italian gesture for “Yummy!” and saying, “You’ve tried all the rest--now try the best!” But you can’t have everything) and took them home. The crust was the perfect thickness and not at all soggy, the sauce was tasty, the cheese was fresh and there was just the right amount. And the slices were so generous that I could only eat one--the other one is wrapped in foil in my freezer, waiting for the next time I need a little homestyle comfort.
Thanks, Pizza Castle. You’re a small miracle in the desert.
February 18, 2005
Perhaps Jefferson should have specified the height and thickness of the wall
My feelings about the separation of church and state can be summed up thusly: I want my government to keep its nose out of my church, and my church to keep its nose out of my government. Simple as that. I'm getting sick to death of right-wing "Christians" prattling on about the United States of America being "a Christian nation", claiming that our legal system is based on the Ten Commandments, misrepresenting what the founders of this country thought and said, and so on and so on and so on.
The following quotes are excerpted from a letter to the editor of a local weekly paper called Crosswinds. The letter was written by Robert-Francis Johnson of Santa Fe. I was not familiar with any of these quotes, and I haven't checked their authenticity, but since they were published I'm going to assume that the editor of the paper has (maybe not the wisest assumption, but I'm going with it).
"The United States is in no sense founded upon the Christian doctrine."--George Washington
"As the government of the United States of America is not in any sense founded on the Christian Religion..."--from the Treaty of Tripoli, signed by John Adams, June 10, 1797
"Who does not see that the same authority which can establish Christianity, in exclusion of all other Religions, may establish with the same ease any particular sect of Christians, in exclusion of all other Sects?"--James Madison, in "Memorial and Remonstrance," 1785
"Neither a state nor the Federal Government can, openly or secretly, participate in the affairs of any religious organizations or groups and vice versa. In the words of Jefferson, the clause against establishment of religion by law was intended to erect 'a wall of separation between Church and State.'"--The U.S. Supreme Court, 1947
And, lest we forget:
"They have kept us in submission because they have talked about separation of church and state. There is no such thing in the Constitution. It’s a lie of the left, and we’re not going to take it anymore."--Pat Robertson, addressing the ACLJ (American Center for Law and Justice), 1993
And on the other hand:
"The national government will maintain and defend the foundations on which the power of our nation rests. It will offer strong protection to Christianity as the very basis of our collective morality. Today Christians stand at the head of our country. We want to fill our culture again with the Christian spirit. We want to burn out all the recent immoral developments in literature, in the theater, and in the press--in short, we want to burn out the poison of immorality which has entered into our whole life and culture as a result of liberal excess during the past years."--Adolph Hitler
No further comment needed, I believe.
The following quotes are excerpted from a letter to the editor of a local weekly paper called Crosswinds. The letter was written by Robert-Francis Johnson of Santa Fe. I was not familiar with any of these quotes, and I haven't checked their authenticity, but since they were published I'm going to assume that the editor of the paper has (maybe not the wisest assumption, but I'm going with it).
"The United States is in no sense founded upon the Christian doctrine."--George Washington
"As the government of the United States of America is not in any sense founded on the Christian Religion..."--from the Treaty of Tripoli, signed by John Adams, June 10, 1797
"Who does not see that the same authority which can establish Christianity, in exclusion of all other Religions, may establish with the same ease any particular sect of Christians, in exclusion of all other Sects?"--James Madison, in "Memorial and Remonstrance," 1785
"Neither a state nor the Federal Government can, openly or secretly, participate in the affairs of any religious organizations or groups and vice versa. In the words of Jefferson, the clause against establishment of religion by law was intended to erect 'a wall of separation between Church and State.'"--The U.S. Supreme Court, 1947
And, lest we forget:
"They have kept us in submission because they have talked about separation of church and state. There is no such thing in the Constitution. It’s a lie of the left, and we’re not going to take it anymore."--Pat Robertson, addressing the ACLJ (American Center for Law and Justice), 1993
And on the other hand:
"The national government will maintain and defend the foundations on which the power of our nation rests. It will offer strong protection to Christianity as the very basis of our collective morality. Today Christians stand at the head of our country. We want to fill our culture again with the Christian spirit. We want to burn out all the recent immoral developments in literature, in the theater, and in the press--in short, we want to burn out the poison of immorality which has entered into our whole life and culture as a result of liberal excess during the past years."--Adolph Hitler
No further comment needed, I believe.
February 11, 2005
Another little piece of my soul just died. Thanks a lot, Vin Diesel.
As I'm sure everyone knows, the early part of the year is when movie studios, having shot their Oscar wad back in December, release all of their really crappy movies. I never see any of them--I try very hard not to watch really crappy movies--but I'm still subjected to watching commercials for them, and a little piece of my soul dies every time I see one.
There's one I've started seeing a lot, for what looks to be some sort of family comedy starring Vin Diesel. Yes, that's right, Vin Diesel in a family comedy. Obviously he's following the patented Arnold Schwarzenegger Method for Being a Big Movie Star. I guess if you're going to ape someone's career moves, Arnold would be a good one to pick.
Anyway, the first time I saw the commercial I was sort of chuckling to myself and shaking my head in a Not if you were the last movie on earth kind of way, when I realized that Lauren Graham is also in the film. Well, that stopped my chuckling. Because I know that, like an insect helplessly drawn to its fiery death in one of those bug zappers, I am eventually going to cause myself grievous spiritual harm by watching this movie. Mind you, I don't think I'll actually spend any money on it, but sooner or later it's going to show up on TBS or FX, and that fateful day will find my ass on a couch. Such is the power of my crush on Lauren Graham.
Herewith a Top Five list of the worst movies I've ever sat through because I was all crushed out on somebody who was in it:
Top Five Worst Movies I've Ever Sat Through Because I Was All Crushed Out On Somebody Who Was In It
The rankings in this list are based less on the quality of the movie (since they all suck) and more on the depth of my ardor.
5) Daredevil (Jennifer Garner) I suspect that Elektra might be worse, but I haven't seen it. Prolly rent the DVD though. Sigh.
4) Mary Shelley's Frankenstein (Helena Bonham Carter) What a mess. Branagh should stick to Shakespeare.
3) Taboo (Amber Benson) The less said about this, the better.
2) Paradise (Phoebe Cates) Co-stars Willie Aames and a chimpanzee.
And the number one worst movie I've ever sat through because I was all crushed out on somebody who was in it...
1) I Love You, I Love You Not (Claire Danes) Did you know that Nazis are bad? Because they are. Man, I could've done an entire Top Five just with Claire Danes movies: The Mod Squad, Brokedown Palace...the list goes on, and I've seen them all. Yeah, my thing with Claire got a little too close to obsession, but in fairness to me, it was an extraordinarily difficult time in my life (the mid- to late '90s, that is) and I should have been medicated and I wasn't.
And now, in fairness to the actors above, here's a Top Five list of good movies that they were in:
Top Five Good Movies Starring the Actors From the Previous Top Five List
5) Jennifer Garner: Washington Square. Okay, "starring" might be a stretch, but she was in it.
4) Helena Bonham Carter: A Room with a View. Gorgeous film; still one of my faves.
3) Amber Benson: King of the Hill. Not a great movie, but a good one, and my favorite film role for Amber (small as it is).
2) Phoebe Cates: Fast Times at Ridgemont High. But of course.
1) Claire Danes: Little Women. Classic adaptation of a classic book.
More on the celebrity crush tip: the other night on Lost, Matthew Fox's character revealed some lovely ink on his left shoulder. Aitch-oh-double-tee HOTT. I do believe I dropped back a notch on the Kinsey scale just from seeing that.
There's one I've started seeing a lot, for what looks to be some sort of family comedy starring Vin Diesel. Yes, that's right, Vin Diesel in a family comedy. Obviously he's following the patented Arnold Schwarzenegger Method for Being a Big Movie Star. I guess if you're going to ape someone's career moves, Arnold would be a good one to pick.
Anyway, the first time I saw the commercial I was sort of chuckling to myself and shaking my head in a Not if you were the last movie on earth kind of way, when I realized that Lauren Graham is also in the film. Well, that stopped my chuckling. Because I know that, like an insect helplessly drawn to its fiery death in one of those bug zappers, I am eventually going to cause myself grievous spiritual harm by watching this movie. Mind you, I don't think I'll actually spend any money on it, but sooner or later it's going to show up on TBS or FX, and that fateful day will find my ass on a couch. Such is the power of my crush on Lauren Graham.
Herewith a Top Five list of the worst movies I've ever sat through because I was all crushed out on somebody who was in it:
Top Five Worst Movies I've Ever Sat Through Because I Was All Crushed Out On Somebody Who Was In It
The rankings in this list are based less on the quality of the movie (since they all suck) and more on the depth of my ardor.
5) Daredevil (Jennifer Garner) I suspect that Elektra might be worse, but I haven't seen it. Prolly rent the DVD though. Sigh.
4) Mary Shelley's Frankenstein (Helena Bonham Carter) What a mess. Branagh should stick to Shakespeare.
3) Taboo (Amber Benson) The less said about this, the better.
2) Paradise (Phoebe Cates) Co-stars Willie Aames and a chimpanzee.
And the number one worst movie I've ever sat through because I was all crushed out on somebody who was in it...
1) I Love You, I Love You Not (Claire Danes) Did you know that Nazis are bad? Because they are. Man, I could've done an entire Top Five just with Claire Danes movies: The Mod Squad, Brokedown Palace...the list goes on, and I've seen them all. Yeah, my thing with Claire got a little too close to obsession, but in fairness to me, it was an extraordinarily difficult time in my life (the mid- to late '90s, that is) and I should have been medicated and I wasn't.
And now, in fairness to the actors above, here's a Top Five list of good movies that they were in:
Top Five Good Movies Starring the Actors From the Previous Top Five List
5) Jennifer Garner: Washington Square. Okay, "starring" might be a stretch, but she was in it.
4) Helena Bonham Carter: A Room with a View. Gorgeous film; still one of my faves.
3) Amber Benson: King of the Hill. Not a great movie, but a good one, and my favorite film role for Amber (small as it is).
2) Phoebe Cates: Fast Times at Ridgemont High. But of course.
1) Claire Danes: Little Women. Classic adaptation of a classic book.
More on the celebrity crush tip: the other night on Lost, Matthew Fox's character revealed some lovely ink on his left shoulder. Aitch-oh-double-tee HOTT. I do believe I dropped back a notch on the Kinsey scale just from seeing that.
February 7, 2005
The post-Super Bowl outcry you'll never hear
So, yesterday was the Super Bowl. Normally I stay as far away as possible from overhyped sporting events, but I was shopping in Target and they had every TV in their electronics department tuned to The Big Game (and turned up excruciatingly loud), so I couldn’t completely avoid it. Although I wasn’t really paying attention to what was going on, I did hear one of the announcers say that Paul McCartney would be playing during the halftime show. As a Beatles fan from way back (albeit one who, were she to make a Top Five list of her favorite Beatles, would place Paul at number five, right behind Stu Sutcliffe) I thought I’d check it out, if only for nostalgia’s sake.
I got home and turned on the TV just in time to see Sir Paul begin his set. It was kinda weird…everything was so note-perfect that I felt like I was watching a performance of Beatlemania, except it was so perfunctory that it wasn’t even as good as Beatlemania.
What it was, of course, was safe. The hoi polloi love Paul for the same reasons that I dislike him: he’s inoffensive and bland. And we all know that he was chosen for just those qualities, because we all know what happened at last year’s halftime show: blah blah Janet blah blah wardrobe malfunction blah blah the world is going to end because little Billy saw a boob and because female sexuality is EVIL EVIL EVIL.
That’s already a more thorough analysis of Hootergate than I ever wanted to engage in, so let me get to my point. Just after the halftime show, and before I could get away from the dinner I was making to change the channel, there was some sort of football montage that was set to U2’s “Sunday Bloody Sunday”. Okay, I get it: they play football on Sunday and it’s a violent contact sport. Cute. And completely, utterly appalling. For anyone who’s unaware, “Sunday Bloody Sunday” commemorates the murder of 14 unarmed Irish protesters by British soldiers in 1972. More than that, it’s a clarion call for an end to sectarian bloodshed in Ireland, and by extension anywhere that enmity breeds violence. In so many ways it was so very inappropriate to use that song that way, especially given the continued US military presence in Iraq and the fact that we’ll probably never know the number of innocent Iraqi civilians killed by US soldiers. I was, as I said, appalled, appalled and offended, as an Irish-American, as an American, as just a person with any kind of awareness and sensitivity.
If the people who were in an uproar over seeing a female breast on TV for half a second had any true sense of righteousness, as well as even a modicum of political and historical awareness, the phrase “wardrobe malfunction” would never have entered the lexicon, and the hue and cry over this would be deafening.
You’ll note that it’s not.
I got home and turned on the TV just in time to see Sir Paul begin his set. It was kinda weird…everything was so note-perfect that I felt like I was watching a performance of Beatlemania, except it was so perfunctory that it wasn’t even as good as Beatlemania.
What it was, of course, was safe. The hoi polloi love Paul for the same reasons that I dislike him: he’s inoffensive and bland. And we all know that he was chosen for just those qualities, because we all know what happened at last year’s halftime show: blah blah Janet blah blah wardrobe malfunction blah blah the world is going to end because little Billy saw a boob and because female sexuality is EVIL EVIL EVIL.
That’s already a more thorough analysis of Hootergate than I ever wanted to engage in, so let me get to my point. Just after the halftime show, and before I could get away from the dinner I was making to change the channel, there was some sort of football montage that was set to U2’s “Sunday Bloody Sunday”. Okay, I get it: they play football on Sunday and it’s a violent contact sport. Cute. And completely, utterly appalling. For anyone who’s unaware, “Sunday Bloody Sunday” commemorates the murder of 14 unarmed Irish protesters by British soldiers in 1972. More than that, it’s a clarion call for an end to sectarian bloodshed in Ireland, and by extension anywhere that enmity breeds violence. In so many ways it was so very inappropriate to use that song that way, especially given the continued US military presence in Iraq and the fact that we’ll probably never know the number of innocent Iraqi civilians killed by US soldiers. I was, as I said, appalled, appalled and offended, as an Irish-American, as an American, as just a person with any kind of awareness and sensitivity.
If the people who were in an uproar over seeing a female breast on TV for half a second had any true sense of righteousness, as well as even a modicum of political and historical awareness, the phrase “wardrobe malfunction” would never have entered the lexicon, and the hue and cry over this would be deafening.
You’ll note that it’s not.
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