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August 21, 2010
" The true mystery of the
world is the visible, not the invisible,"
-Oscar Wilde-
Roughly 35 summers ago,
I--and I alone--encountered a creature so hideous and horrifying that
the mere sight of it left me crying and unable to speak for an entire
day. Through the years, I've kept an eye out for anything that remotely
resembles it. Anything to possibly validate its existence and prove,
if only in my own mind, that I wasn't completely crazy. I was Ahab and
the "Bull Bee" was my whale.
I couldn't have been more
than 5 years old. I was minding my own business on our front porch
during a hot, muggy, early evening in central Kansas. Somehow I'd got
my hands on a set of watercolors and, for whatever reason, decided that
the white rims on my peddle-powered fire truck needed a touch up. As I
painted, I heard something moving on the other end of the porch. My
little legs wobbled me over to investigate. What I saw made me shudder,
even years later. A horrendous, vile, mutant creature, engaged in a
type of demonic "Death Dance", which I assume it always participates in
immediately prior to devouring young children. I remember three
distinct features: It had teeth, it made a God-awful noise, and it had
huge legs, upon which it performed the Dance of Death.
After staring at it for
what seemed like an hour, I sensed that it was time to take action. And
action is exactly what I took: I ran like Hell. I high tailed it
through the house and into the kitchen. Once there, I exclaimed, to
anyone who cared to listen, that there was a Bull Bee on the front
porch. My screams were met with the usual grown-up reactions: blank
stares, followed by a few blinks, followed by cocked eyebrows, followed
by the inevitable, "What's a Bull Bee?" Sure, we were about to be eaten
alive by this thing, and they expect me to take time out to answer
questions? Go figure.
After a thorough
investigation, my Pop concluded that no creatures lurked on or around
the porch, let alone a "bee" that warranted the name "bull". And with
that, the Bull Bee death-danced its way into family legend. Sadly,
unlike many "legends", nobody even had a grainy, unfocused, black &
white photo of it. Now, fast forward to present day.
In the early part of
August, Mom and Dad came out for a visit to celebrate Pop's birthday.
As we sat drinking coffee in the morning sun, Pop nonchalantly
commented, "Oh, by the way, I saw the Bull Bee,” I stared at him and
waited patiently for the punch line. "No, really," he said, "I saw the
Bull Bee,”
He went on to describe the
teeth and the noise it made. He added that it made quick, side-to-side
movements, which reminded me of the Death Dance. "But," he added, "it's
not a bee, son. It's a bat. There was one on the porch the other
night,"
What?! A bat?! At first,
it seemed that Pop was developing one helluva’ an imagination. But
then, the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Bats aren't
uncommon in that area, especially in the early evening. But at the time
of my sighting, I'd never seen a bat before. How was I supposed to know
what it was? All I saw were teeth and "huge legs"…which, as it turns
out, could have been flapping, half-spread wings. But, even armed with
this new, possible, explanation, the unknown remained just that.
So, was the Bull Bee a
young, wayward Bat? Or was it really a genetically mutated
”freak-bug”? An alien? Who knows. And, after all these years of
thinking about it, I like it that way. The world has become a
frustrating place for me. It seems that an insistence exists that I
must have it one-way or the other. No in-between. Either you’re on
“our” side, or you must certainly be on “theirs”. It’s all left
or right, this or that. No room for possible alternatives. No “what
ifs”, no questions. Just black or white. There is no gray.
There is
no absolute, unquestionable “truth” to the Bull Bee. It’s stuck
somewhere in the middle. Part myth, part reality. Part folklore, part
fact. I find the uncertainty comforting.
May 9,
2010
“I'm horrified by his behavior…something drastic should be done to
protect young people from paying for this sort of obscenity"
-British MP, David Blunkett, on Alice Cooper-
"Well,” I said to my wide-eyed, captive audience, “You either get it, or
you don’t.
 God knows your Grandma and Grandpa didn’t get it,” And so
began my explanation of Alice Cooper to my four and a half month old
son. Don’t worry, I skipped the part about “Dead Babies”. I mean, come
on, I don’t want the little guy growing up to be a weirdo.
Alice has always been a nice fit in my life. When my friends and I were
kids, they had George Brett “growth charts”. I had a Frankenstein one.
While they read Boys Life, I read Fangoria. Halloween was my favorite
day of the year, and instead of being freaked out by the Flying Monkeys
in the Wizard of Oz, I wanted one for a pet. Alice was the Rock Star
who was designed with me in mind.
I didn’t get to see Alice in concert until 1987 when he was on “The
Nightmare Returns” tour. By then, my friends and I had been to some
shows and we figured we knew what to expect. Shows basically had a
blueprint: Get to the show, buy a t-shirt, cram onto “the floor”, cheer,
see a random girl lift her top, cheer a little louder, and go home with
your ears ringing. Indeed, all of that happened on that chilly March
evening. But, as it turns out, this night was going to be a little
different.
After the opening act, Tesla, the lights came on for the obligatory
intermission. People just kind of milling around, chatting. Some
headed for the restrooms while others searched in vain for the joints
they had dropped. My buddy Duck and I spotted a gap in the crowd and
decided to follow it. That gap eventually led us to the front row,
almost dead center.
We had heard the stories about being in the front row of an Alice show,
and none of them made it sound like it was a nice place to be.
Especially for a couple of 16 year old, McPherson County farm boys. But
by the time the lights went back down, it was too late. We were stuck.
There was no turning back. And for the next hour and a half, we were
mesmerized.
The only way I can describe it is, it was like a twisted magic show set
to very loud music. You couldn’t blink, or you’d miss something. And I
don’t think I blinked all night. It’s frustrating trying to write about
it, because you honestly have to experience it to understand it.
Though, unless you want to be covered in fake blood and confetti at the
end of the night, I wouldn’t recommend witnessing it from the front row
(a full week and seven showers later, I still had blood in my hair).
The show never slowed down, let alone stopped. There were no breaks
between songs. When one song ended, either the band launched right into
the next one, or the creepy first few bars of “Years Ago” provided a
musical interlude. There was no David Lee Rothesque, “Look at all the
people here toniiiiiiiight!!!” stage banter. In fact, Alice only
“spoke” to the audience once. He said two words before the last song:
“One more,”
I’ve seen Alice numerous times since then, but nothing “Alice-wise” will
ever compare to that night. Believe it or not, not even the night I sat
on his bus and talked with him. Don’t get me wrong, meeting him was an
incredible experience, but that was Alice the person. The proud father
of three who has been married to the same woman for 34 years. The
Christian philanthropist who co-founded and presides over the Sold Rock
foundation that raises millions of dollars to help at risk and/or
troubled kids. The Diet Coke sipping restaurateur who plays a round of
golf almost every day (a 4 handicap, last I heard). The antithesis of
what people think of when they hear the name Alice Cooper.
As I get ready for another Alice show Saturday night, I look at my son
and I wonder if this is how Dads are supposed to act…getting excited
about going to see a man with a woman’s name get his head chopped off.
I know my Dad never did that. The more I thought about it, the
more I started having second thoughts. Maybe I should skip it this
time. Maybe I’m getting a little old for this.
Just
as I was getting ready to call off my concert plans, I went to my desk
drawer and pulled out a small envelope. Inside was my ticket stub from
my first Alice show. Kansas Coliseum, Britt Brown Arena, Thursday,
March 12th, 1987, 7:30pm. I smiled as the memories came
rushing back. I smiled as I thought about being 16 again. And I smiled
as a little voice in the back of my head said, “One more,”
April 24,
2010
“…and with strange aeons even death may die,”
-H.P. Lovecraft, “Call of Cthulhu”-
I officially became a homeowner 12 years ago this month.
Before everything was finalized, in order to prevent any future
surprises, the then-owner invited me over and pointed a few things out.
He informed me of an occasional tree root problem and gave me a number
to call should I experience any sewer problems. He pointed out a
corner in the basement that has a tendency to let a little water in when
we get a real Frog Strangler of a rain, and he showed me a couple of
windows that could use replacing due to their draftiness. He covered
just about everything. There was just one tiny detail he left out: The
Ghost.
Living with “Laurel”, as he’s come to be called, is like
living with an invisible, prank-minded roommate. I’ve come home to
lights on when I distinctly remember them being off when I left. I’ve
gone to another room during commercial breaks only to discover the TV
turned off upon my return. One day, while in the basement, I suddenly
heard water running. When I went upstairs, I found the kitchen faucet
on. Another time, I had left town for a few days and had a friend
occasionally drop by the house to check on it. One day he called and
said he thought someone had been inside. Despite the doors and windows
being shut and locked, the bathroom light was on and the house smelled
like someone had been making popcorn. There was no trace of actual
popcorn to be found.
I’ve seen other things that I keep to myself, mainly
because nobody would believe me if I told ‘em. Things that, years back,
actually led me to call a paranormal investigator for advice. Roll your
eyes if you want, but I’ll bet my thumbs that you’d do the same. Or,
perhaps, you’d take the “normal person’s” way out and relocate, but I
didn’t have the resources to do that. And now, after all this time, I’m
not sure if I could adjust to living without him.
Laurel is, by most accounts, friendly. Frustrating at
times, but friendly. As I said, “prank-minded”. There’s only been one
occasion when I was actually scared, a story that is far too long to go
into here (I’ll just say it was enough to make both me and the dog run
out of the house…thinking back, we must have looked like Scooby-Doo and
Shaggy). Nothing like that has happened since. Plus, I figure, one
truly hair-raising incident every 12 or so years ain’t too bad.
Watching the family grow accustomed to the ghost is kinda’
fun, and he seems to especially enjoy picking on Better Half. It’s not
uncommon for her to report hearing footsteps or doors closing. She got
really freaked out when the microwave turned on for no apparent reason.
She had her first “Laurel experience” the first time she visited Perry
Manor. A few short minutes after telling her, “feel free to have a look
around,” I was in the kitchen when I heard a scream. I stepped into the
dining room as she came running out of the bathroom, stammering, “The
door, the door, the cabinet, the door…” I guess Laurel decided to open
and close the medicine cabinet door a couple of times in front of her.
For a long time, she wouldn’t go near the bathroom without having one of
my dogs with her (why the Hell a ghost would be afraid of a dog is
beyond me, but it made her feel better).
I’ve consulted with experienced, professional plumbers
and electricians who have checked everything over and assured me that
all of it is in perfect, working order. They’ve told me that there’s no
reason for televisions, faucets, lights, or microwaves to turn on or off
by themselves, while simultaneously failing to explain why they
have. For some reason, that gives me a twisted sense of
excitement. Leads me to believe that there is more to this world than
meets the eye.
So, Laurel,
happy anniversary, buddy. Long may you haunt.
April 4,
2010
“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,”
-Muhammad Ali-
I’ve
long believed that a sonogram is a picture of something God does not yet
want you to see, which is why I was less than comfortable going with
Better Half when she went in for her first one. However, I also think
Mark Twain was onto something when he said, “Twenty years from now
you’ll be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the
ones you did,” So, as is always the case when it’s my opinion pitted
against Mark’s wisdom, I sided with him.
Walking into the exam room was like walking onto the bridge of the
Starship Enterprise. There were all kinds of monitors, keypads, tubes,
random beeps and buzzes, and some very important looking lights. We
even had a humorless Vulcan for a nurse.
After the Vulcan explained the “what’s and why’s” of the procedure, she
pushed a button, the room lights dimmed, and a large monitor slowly
glowed to life. It was like being at the movies, which set off a sudden
craving for popcorn and Junior Mints (the Jr. Mints go in the
popcorn. Why does nobody around here understand that?).
The Vulcan then slathered Better Half’s belly with some sort of
(hopefully) non-toxic Lab Snot and placed what looked to be an Atari
2600 joystick on her stomach. After a few adjustments to the “Babytron”
monitor, there it was, on the screen. For the very first time, I saw,
in sharp detail…something that closely resembled an old, grainy Sonar
picture of the Loch Ness Monster. Fortunately, we had the Vulcan on
hand to arrogantly debunk my Loch Ness theory.
She pointed out what she claimed to be the arms and legs, then the head,
and then the all-important “can’t wait to make him uncomfortable by
telling this story in front of his friends someday” boy parts. Not
being able to identify any of these things even after they had been
pointed out to me, I was sure of one of two things: 1) the Vulcan was a
highly trained specialist who, for years, had studied tirelessly so as
to be able to expertly determine the various parts of a child while it
was still inside it’s Mother’s womb, or 2) the Vulcan was a
fantastic B.S. artist.
After a few more interpretations of the baby Rorschach test, some
buttons were pressed and pictures were produced from the images on the
Babytron. Much to my surprise, one was quite interesting. I could see
two tiny little hands that were clenched into tiny little fists and
pulled back towards his tiny little chest. “All right!” I excitedly
thought to myself, “He’s gonna’ be a boxer!”
Later that evening, I wondered about my prediction concerning my son’s
future profession. Why a boxer? Why didn’t I see the hands of a
skilled surgeon who will extend the lives of thousands? Why not the
hands of a painter, sculptor, or poet who will create great works that
will be admired for centuries? Why, instead, did I see the hands of a
human attack dog, capable of viciously and violently pummeling a fellow
human into submission, or worse, to death? “Because,” said a very
confident, masculine, Sean Connery sounding voice in my head, “You’re a
guy,”
As the days passed, my hopes for a prize-winning pugilist in the family
slowly faded as The Dude seemed more concerned with his legacy being
cemented in the “World Napping Hall of Fame” than a heavyweight title.
Then, one afternoon, it happened. He was in his “Bouncy-Seat Thingy”
which has an arch-like rod that crosses above it. Hanging from the rod,
he has little toys that dangle down to keep him occupied. On the right
hand side hangs a toy turtle, which my little Smokin’ Joe Frazier was
using as a punching bag. My heart swelled with manliness.
Despite what Mommy says (something about developing motor skills, blah,
blah, blah…), I know the truth. We are safe. We have a Great Warrior
in the family. I now sleep soundly knowing that should a rogue plastic
turtle ever threaten our family, anytime, day or night, I know just the
guy to call.
March 20,
2010
“You know the really great thing about television? If something
important happens, anywhere in the world, night or day,
you can always change the channel,”
-“Reverend
Jim” Ignatowski, “Taxi”-
I
remember a world without cable television. My hometown could pick up
CBS, ABC, NBC, PBS, and, when the atmosphere was just right, a UHF
station out of Wichita. I remember watching the Test Pattern on early
Saturday mornings while waiting for the cartoons to come on. I remember
the Star Spangled Banner playing at “sign off” after the late night
Creature Feature, and I remember the little white dot that stayed on the
screen after you turned the TV off. Royals games played on channel 10
(ABC), Quincy and The Rockford Files were on channel 3 (NBC), and every
year The Wizard of Oz ran on channel 12 (CBS). All was well, if
somewhat predictable. Then something happened.
Our town got cable sometime during the early 80’s. I don’t remember the
exact year, let alone the exact date, but I remember the event. And
that’s exactly what it was, especially if you were a kid, an event.
For weeks it’s all we talked about, and with good reason: We could now
get a whopping twelve channels (nobody had a TV set that went
higher). Half the time we didn’t even know what we were watching. All
we knew was we had cable, which meant we were no longer living in
Hooterville. We had officially become part of civilization! All we
needed now was a McDonalds and we’d never have to leave town again! But
that was many years and many life-changing events ago.
It’s been a while since I had cable TV. I stopped subscribing a few
years back, mostly for budgetary reasons (remember to choose your future
ex-wives carefully, kids). I didn’t really miss it and the dogs never
complained. I had things to read and write, and I had plenty of music
around to listen to. For many snows I was a “Channel 7 Man” and didn’t
mind it at all. Same shows at the same times with an occasional
“Breaking News/Update” thrown in to spice things up. Yet again, all was
well, if somewhat predictable. And, yet again, something happened.
For some time after Better Half and Number One Step-Son relocated to
Perry Manor, I diligently (they say “stubbornly”) continued to abide by
the “no cable/internet” custom. They asked, begged, pleaded, and
implored me to subscribe. Being an understanding and thoughtful man, I
eventually compromised. In what will surely go down in history as a
masterstroke of negotiation, I agreed to sign up for cable/internet on
one condition: They agreed to quit whining about not having it.
Genius.
While the concept of Cable TV has remained the same over the years, a
few things have changed. For example, instead of just one 24-hour
sports related channel to ignore, I now have seven. Hell, I
can’t even name seven official sports! Don’t get me
wrong, I love baseball, but I love the game of baseball, not a
7-hour multi-program rehash of what happened. Just give me a quick
pregame, followed by the game itself, followed by a quick wrap up.
Anything more is time-filling triviality. Which, come to think about
it, sums up ESPN pretty well.
If I’m in the mood for “news” I have 6 poisons to pick from, not
counting traditional network news. As noted in a previous Rambling,
there’s simply not that much legitimate news to be reported, and much of
what is reported has a tendency to lack substance. A few weeks ago I
watched about 2 minutes of “Up to the Minute Chilean Earthquake
Coverage” on CNN before I wanted to claw my eyes out. I had no idea
someone could make a disasterous, catastrophic 8.8 earthquake seem so
unremarkable. Borderline
boring. They had a guy pointing to a map while saying, “As
you can see, Hawaii is quite far from Chile,” Riveting reporting.
In addition to sports and “news” we also get “Girly” channels, “Manly”
channels, movie channels, home-shopping channels, and a legion of
others. There’s a channel for pretty much everything. There’s even one
devoted to nothing but food. I was happy to discover that there
are two 24-hour cartoon channels, Boomerang and Cartoon Network (“The
Grim Adventures of Billy & Mandy” gets my vote for best “modern day”
cartoon. Funny stuff!). Yes, I have over 20 years experience at being
a legal adult and I still watch cartoons. They’re fun. Look, I’m not
sure why I’m on this earth, but I’m confident it’s not to become a mean,
old, backed-up fart. Besides, I’m too old to grow up now.
Thanks to the magic of Cable TV, you can learn how to drive a race car,
what stocks to invest in, how to draft the perfect Fantasy Football
team, how to cook the perfect pot roast, when and how to change your
oil, what vegetables to plant and when to plant them, what god to pray
to, how to train a dog, and what time of year is best to visit China.
You can learn all of that and more in the course of a single afternoon,
providing you switch to the right channels at the right times.
It’s all good stuff, which, arguably, could make us more well rounded,
“better” people if we could just put the remote down for a few days and
actually go do those things. Unfortunately, there’s not a channel that
tells us how to do that.
March 5,
2010
“If a father feels bewildered and even defeated, let him take comfort
from the fact that whatever he does in any fathering situation has a
fifty percent chance of being right,”
-Bill Cosby-
It
recently dawned on me why I get “The Look”. “The Look” occurs anywhere
between Midnight and 3:30am, approximately twenty minutes after The Dude
has been changed and/or fed. All will be well when, suddenly, the
little guy lets out a Banshee’s shriek, leading me to stumble out of
bed, turn on the light and wonder aloud, “Dear Lord, now what?”
At this point, Better Half opens one eye and proceeds to give me a mild
glare. I then resort to my wide-eyed, shrugged shoulders, arms out,
palms upward expression (patent pending), which leads to her giving me
“The Look”.
I can only assume ”The Look” originated in a cave, many generations ago,
and was directly responsible for mankind’s first charting of the
Heavens, since no man wanted to stay inside the cave with “The Look”.
“The Look” says, in a not so subtle way, “You, my love, are a moron. I
was just up with him twenty minutes ago. Figure out what’s wrong with
the kid now, or you’ll never have to worry about having
another kid. Do you understand, you son of a motherless goat?”
(loosely translated).
”The Look” chipped away at my self-esteem. Made me feel uncomfortable
and borderline useless. I started questioning my abilities. While
attending to The Dude’s late night needs, I would often wonder, “Am I
really that stupid? What makes her so smart? Am I a bad
father? How does she know everything? I wonder if we have any
waffles left…” Those were cruel, lonely moments, my friend.
Then, one
fateful afternoon, it clicked. I was having a beer with a fellow Cubs
fan, discussing the upcoming season, when, “POW!” it hit me. My
eyes suddenly grew wide and I blurted out, “The magazines! That’s it!
‘The Look’!
It
must be the magazines!” In hindsight, it makes perfect sense why the
answer came to me at that moment. After all, when a guy is talking
about the Cubs, his mind naturally turns to dejection, depression,
frustration, and futility, which, in turn, makes him think of “The
Look”.
Why our
family started receiving the magazines remains a mystery. Soon after we
found out that we were going to be parents, we started receiving
“parenting/baby magazines”, but nobody remembers subscribing to them and
we haven’t been billed. They just started appearing in the mailbox
every two weeks or so. I’d glance through ‘em, read a couple “advice
columns”, toss ‘em on the coffee table, and go about my day. I never
found anything useful in the magazines and, now that I’d had my
epiphany, I was curious why Better Half would spend so much time
flipping through them. I decided to investigate.
After carefully combing through them, it didn’t take long to understand
why I didn’t find anything useful in the magazines the first time
around. It’s because there isn’t anything useful. Not for me
anyway. Everything is about Mommy. Not the Dad. No, no, you
won’t find anything about that clueless jar of spit. It’s
Mommy. “Mommy’s Little Tax Break”, “Paging Dr. Mom”,
“What Other Moms are Saying”, “Mommy’s Lunchtime Dilemma”,
and “6 Things All Moms Should Know”. And the advertisements?
Not a Dad to be seen. As the ads clearly show, only Mommy knows
how to shampoo a baby’s hair, since the complex concept of turning a
faucet on and off while lathering a kid’s head is completely lost on ol’
knuckle dragging Dad. And the rinsing of the hair? Forget it. A far
too elaborate procedure. Might as well be asking the helpless, old
Doofus to launch the Space Shuttle. Nope, it’s Super-Mom’s
world, Dad just sits around, twiddling his clueless thumbs in it. At
least that’s what I’m supposed to think.
Truth is, these Mommy Propaganda tools, cleverly disguised as
“parenting/baby magazines”, lead Moms to merely believe they have
all the answers when, in fact, they’re really not learning anything at
all. Seriously, “Mommy’s Lunchtime Dilemma”?!?! It’s lunch. Eat it or
don’t. “Dilemma” solved.
After the
Mommy Sham had been exposed, I realized that I was the true Torch Bearer
of the Perry Tribe. I realized that I am Ferdinand Magellan, Leif
Erickson, and that guy who came up with the Pocket Fisherman all rolled
into one. I am a pioneer! I make discoveries! Who discovered that
playing Jimmy Buffett songs calmed The Dude down? Me. Who
discovered that the baby swing works just as well as a horse
tranquilizer would? Me. Who discovered that, when diaper-less,
The Dude has the ability to release a breathtaking stream of urine that
arcs 4 feet in the air and can hit a chair 6 feet away? Yup, Me.
Obviously, it is I who pushes our family forward.
So, while
Mommy has her frivolous “You Go Girl” rags, I have something that can’t
be stuffed into a mailbox. I have a belligerent enthusiasm for life,
and I will share it with my Son. I will teach him! I will prepare him
for this world! I will demonstrate to him how to be a pioneer like his
Old Man! I will ensure that he, like his Wise Father, will be able to
eat lunch without having to reference a magazine article! I will
encourage him to seek out new life and new civilizations… to boldly
go where no Man has gone before! Providing, of course, Mom says
it’s Ok.
February 20, 2010
“Somebody asked me not too long ago, ‘Dave, do you think the music
business has turned corrupt?’
I said, ‘Absolutely not! It has always
been corrupt,”
-David Lee Roth-
Rags to riches to rags stories in the music business are as old as the
business itself. For
decades, record companies, labels, and their representatives have signed
acts into deliberately confusing contracts, leaving many acts to “reap”
pennies per unit (album/cd) sold. Not pennies per dollar, but pennies
per unit, period. The record company, for the most part, keeps the
rest. Not unlike the contract a young Robert Johnson allegedly signed
with the Devil in the mid 1930’s, the end result is whatever the
contract calls for.
These days, thanks to the “technology-out-the-wazzoo”, hyper-modern
world we live in, and what a business minded friend of mine calls, “An
outdated, failed business model,” units aren’t selling like they used to
and the labels claim to be hurting. So, to compensate, the labels
started signing their more successful acts to something called “360
agreements” which entitle the record company to a major cut of tour
revenues, merchandise sales (one t-shirt can run well over $60),
endorsement deals, and basically anything else the act is/was making
money on. In return, the act receives a guaranteed flat fee upfront
(say $30 million), a smaller cut of sales royalties and merchandising,
and a “promise” that the record company will “relentlessly” promote the
act. The record company then takes and keeps all money made after the
upfront fee and nominal revenue percentage initially promised. Sounds
like a sweet deal for the act, but consider this: Van Halen’s latest
tour grossed almost $95 million in north America alone, not counting
merchandising sales. Do the math. Also, if the act fails to meet or
exceed it’s upfront fee, they pay the record company back, usually with
interest. But, apparently, not even that was enough. Now the
recording industry wants KFIX, and every other radio station, to pay a
tax on every song we play (public radio would pay a smaller, token
fee). And there are currently two bills in congress that, if passed,
could make it happen.
As of now, nobody knows what the potential tax would be set at, so
nobody knows how much the stations would have to shell out. Whatever
the rate, this tax would be in addition to what radio stations
already pay for the rights to broadcast the music in the first
place. We pay a monthly licensing fee to various music licensing
entities (ASCAP, BMI, SESAC, etc) that allows us to play pretty much
whatever songs we (and you) want. The amount a station pays is based on
that particular station's annual advertising revenue. A station in the
Hays, Ks. market can pay well over $2,500 per month. I can’t
imagine what a station in Kansas City, let alone New York City, where ad
rates are substantially higher, pays.
The licensing entities take that money and distribute it, in the form of
royalties, to whoever is entitled to it. That said, there is a
misconception that the songwriter is the only one who is paid
royalties. Turns out, that’s not necessarily the case. After speaking
with my friend, a member of the national recording and touring act,
Audio Spaghetti, I learned that an act decides between themselves who
gets what, then reports their wishes to the licensing entity. If you’re
a quartet and want to divide the royalties evenly, four ways, you can do
that. If you’re a duo and decide that one of you gets two thirds, you
can do that too. As long as a fiscal compensation request is submitted
to the licensing organization, they’ll split it up however you want.
They don’t care. After all, that’s why you pay membership dues (you
didn’t really think you were going to get something for free in
this business did you?). But the recording industry doesn’t get any of
that money. And that’s why they're upset.
So, like a spider asking for food to feed the flies, the recording
industry is asking congress for more money under the guise of
"compensating performers". If this is a truly altruistic move on the
recording industry's part, then why would they keep half (bare
minimum)? In the end, the flies may well get a tiny bit fatter, but
they'll be eaten by the spider nonetheless.
Here's a link to the nuts and bolts of the issue:
www.noperformancetax.org which includes links to the bills
themselves and contact information for congressional representatives
(looks like Kansas is well represented against the proposed tax).
All told, the recording industry's smugness reminds me of an episode of
The Simpson's in which Montgomery Burns is told by Homer, "Ya' know, Mr.
Burns, you're the richest guy I know!" Burns replies, "Yes. And I'd
trade it all for just a little more."
February 7, 2010
" Did
he really lose his mind? No, he was just a poet who lived before his
time,”
-Jimmy Buffett, “Death of an Unpopular Poet”-
Somewhere along the line, someone told me, “Everybody seems normal until
you get to know ‘em,” I think that might hold true in many cases, but I
doubt it applied when it came to Hunter S. Thompson. Admittedly, I’ve
never been able to put my finger on exactly what “normal” is, but
I’m pretty sure that Hunter didn’t fit anyone’s definition…save
for maybe his own.
When I bring Hunter up in conversation, a solid plurality of the people
seem to know him as “that guy who wrote that Vegas book” or “that guy in
the Johnny Depp movie”, which is a lot like someone calling the Rolling
Stones “those guys with the ‘Satisfaction’ song”. Sure, they’re being
accurate, but so is the tour guide who informs the group, “This is the
Statue of Liberty. Somebody built it a long time ago. It is very
tall,” There’s simply more to the story.
Hunter’s story came to an end (in this realm, anyway) five years ago on
February 20th. Alleged suicide. Apparently he had been
suffering a great deal with pain in his back, hips, and legs. I’ve
heard it was the kind of pain that could bring Superman to his knees.
Add that to the fact that Hunter was just a little south of sanity to
begin with, and suicide doesn’t sound too far fetched*. But it also, in
it’s own way, sounds like something a perfectly “normal” person would do
under the circumstances, ”Goodbye, cruel world”…BANG! Problem(s)
solved. And that doesn’t seem to fit The Good Doctor’s profile. Hunter
seemed to always take “the long way” around. Besides, this is the guy
who once warned the Almighty, “Lord, you better take care of me.
Because if you don’t, you’ll have me on your hands,”
If you do a quick search, you’ll find some interesting conspiracy
theories…some of which I find not only possible, but probable. Hunter
had his share of enemies. Many of them pretty high-ranking and high
rolling dudes. Plus, Thompson had contacts that most journalists will
only dream of having, so who knows what he knew? Did he really gain
access to “confidential” information concerning 9/11? Did his seemingly
endless challenging (and defeating) of crooked cops, prosecutors, and
judges finally push someone over the edge? Was he really Deep Throat,
as some have speculated? I don’t know. Thing is, no matter how you
slice it, he’s gone. But he won’t be forgotten.
If my
conversations with most people are any indication, the general public
won’t remember Hunter for much more than the drugs and the booze. They
might be vaguely familiar with the term “Gonzo Journalism”, but that’s
about it. You might consider that sad, but I don’t. For one, I admire
those who don’t hide who they are, and I don’t think Thompson hid
anything. He did what he did and made no apologies. Secondly,
there are those who can’t read Hunter’s works, because not everyone can
digest Hunter’s writing style. A style that was, according to Chris
Buckley of the NY Times, “Like using gasoline for aftershave—bracing,”
Lastly, Hunter was of a very different breed. A breed that I don’t
think I can accurately define. “Iconoclast” certainly fits, yet
simultaneously falls short. ArchIconoclast? UberIconoclast? Whatever
he was, he asked a whole bunch of “uncomfortable” questions and exposed
an awful lot of lies and fraudulence in society. And a lot of people
don’t like that. Instead, they like to believe that what they were
initially told is true. And for those people, Hunter was blasphemous on
all levels. They’ll remember him for the drugs and the booze, because
that’s as far as they allowed themselves to look. Any deeper and it
would hurt their brains. Besides, It’s easier to label someone a drug
crazed alcoholic rather than a Truth seeker. It’s easier, because
anyone can become a drug crazed alcoholic. A Truth seeker? Not so
much. Seeking Truth is hard, and oftentimes thankless, work.
Despite
physical death, Hunter Lives. He lives not only in the libraries
and bookstores, but also in the hearts and Spirits of those who seek to
preserve basic, fundamental Rights. The ones who still believe that a
person--despite ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, etc.--is Innocent
until proven guilty. The ones who have learned, sometimes
firsthand, that the United States Criminal “Just-US” system ain’t the
one they taught you about in high school. The ones who understand
Voltaire’s words, “It is better to risk sparing a guilty man than to
condemn an innocent one,” The ones with which, for whatever reason, I
seem to get along with pretty darn well.
I would like to think that, one day, Hunter will receive the same
recognition as Twain or, at the least, Vonnegut. But that would mean
incorporating him into a structured curriculum, and I don’t think
Hunter’s Ghost would stand for it. Besides, do they even teach Twain or
Vonnegut anymore? The more I think about it, I’d bet only the home
schooled kids have access to wisdom such as theirs. (No Child Left
Behind! Except for when it comes to thinking, creativity, knowledge,
self-expression, learning, individuality…)
Hunter,
on behalf of a lot of people, Thank You. Thank You.
Oh,
before I forget…Uh, Lord? About that “having Hunter on your hands”,
thing? Good luck…
*The
words used were for descriptive, creative purposes only. I don’t claim
to know beans about the nature of life and death, and I don’t know if
sanity has anything to do with suicide or not. I’ve had two good
friends “let themselves out”. Good people. Cruel realm. If you’re
lookin’ for answers, you’ve come to the wrong guy.
January 10, 2010
“When the
going gets Weird, the Weird turn pro,”
-Hunter S. Thompson-
Son-
Leading up to your birth, I leaned
heavily on the above words. Weird is the best way I can describe
impending parenthood. Entire rooms of our home were repainted,
redecorated, refloored, and slowly packed with cribs, strollers, swings,
bouncy-this’s, and bouncy that’s. We even ended up with something
called a “changing table”. I figured we have a dining room table, a
kitchen table, a coffee table, a counter in both the bathroom and the kitchen, a couple of card tables,
beds, dresser tops, and, if all else fails, a sturdy floor in every
room. Why on God’s green earth would we have a changing table? Turns out it’s, “Because,” and I’m
quoting Mom here, “we neeeeeeed it!”
We
apparently “needed” a lot of things, including, but in no way limited
to, enough baby clothes to open our own store, more bottles than there
are days in the month, no less than three “diaper bags”—the largest of
which I’m assuming will be pre-packed for use during last minute,
unforeseen, overseas travel—a “clean air” machine (which must be
incredibly important to your health, since it says so right there on the
box), and an assortment of strange contraptions, most of which I'm still
assembling even though I don’t have a clue as to what their purpose’s
are. In short, our home is one, big garage sale waiting to happen.
Then there was the advice. I thought I got a lot of advice years ago
when I went off to college. Ho, HO! That was just bush league,
Bubba! I heard so much “good advice” leading up to your birth, I could
sub for Dr. Phil for a year and still have thirty shows left over.
Son, if I combine the (always unsolicited) oral advice with the wisdom I
gleaned from the endless stream of “parenting magazines”, I should have
you not only walking, talking, and potty trained, but bringing Peace to
the Middle East and curing cancer by the time you’re two.
Your birth
was a whole different level of Weird. I mean it was past the penthouse
and onto the roof Weird. Trust me, it ain’t like what you see in the
movies. You were penciled in for New Years Eve, but born on New Years
Day. I think that’s pretty cool, but some people insist on noting that
since you weren’t born last year, your Mom and I will have to
wait until next year to claim some sort of tax-break thingy.
Don’t worry about it, Son. Seriously. Only the westernized human
animal could equate a Miracle like you with a tax break.
Thank
you for being patient while I learn your language. You, Mom, your
Brother, the cats, and the dogs all communicate differently. You each
have your own lingo and sometimes slipping out of one language and into
another can get a little tricky. Especially tricky
when everyone has something to say at once (I think you guys get
together and plan that stuff when I’m not home).
Son, I am not holy and I am not
wise. I don’t really know much, and when you have questions, I won’t
always have the answers. I’m going to make some mistakes and, as hard
as it is to believe at this moment, you will too. That’s Ok. I think
that’s part of the reason we’re here…wherever here is.
Doctor
Thompson was right…the going does indeed get Weird. That’s good to
remember. But there’s something else I want you to always remember. If
the going ever gets too weird, call your Dad. He’s a pro.
I love you, Son. Here’s to one Helluva’ ride. Hold on tight and don’t
look down.
Love & Be Lucky,
Dad
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