squidbag

The Mall in Your Mind

"I'd like to be a mall."

"Really? And have people going in and out of you all day?"

This is the scintillating back and forth that can ensue when you're on your 6th day together, with very few breaks away, lots (for us) snow on the ground, no school, and minds wandering deprived across landscapes of disconnected weirdness. So, if you were a mall - what would you have in your Food Court?

I would have a Petro's. I can only say this now because I have spent a fucking half hour looking up various permutations of "Chili Cup Mall" and thinking that they were a defunct chain. They aren't, and I am happy. I was describing this to my kids, everything from the "you could carry this thing around the mall like a street taco" to the diagram you see at left, to the magical slurry of chili goodness and saturated corn chips that was left over at the bottom of the cup when you got close to done - man, that is a vivid childhood sense memory. I can only assume (based upon where they are located) that this was a field trip gastronomic adventure experience.

Next to Petro's, I would have an Orange Julius. Orange fucking Julius, man, with powdered egg whites, and they mixed that shit right in front of you, and there were little ice crystals on top of the drink that bumped up against the lid and crackled in the foam. And I hope that they put powdered egg whites in there, but I bet they don't, I bet it's EGG CHEATERS or something like that, just like they didn't used to advertise "GF" on the Petro's sign, and I don't think they used to have pasta/macaroni, either. Yankee tourists.

Near that would undoubtedly be a soft pretzel place, a Chinese restaurant with fucked up name owned by Chinese people, and a Noodles & Co., because we don't really have that where I live, either.

So, carbs. Carb up, motherfucker, and walk my goddamn mall. The mall in my mind plays the Commodores' on endless repeat in a dark hallway with a carpeted ceiling that runs between the Food Court and the fully-functional arcade, where nothing costs more than 50 cents to play, and there's Smash TV and Narc right out front, and lots of shooting and driving games and real pinball machines (mostly ones that have movie and rock band stuff on them) and an endless line (but really it's just a mirror with gold leaf in it) of Skee-Ball machines with plenty of shoulder room between each one. Also? Skill cranes and a couple of awesome driving games that didn't exist when I was a kid.

There's a kiosk where you can have your name inexpertly applied to anything, and an actual music store. Out front of the music store, there's a display with dinosaurs in a tarpit, and it says "EXTINCT TUNEAGE" and there's 8-tracks and minidiscs and cassingles and shit all in it. And a video display on repeat of the Parental Advisory logo going in flames on a loop. That's right - repeat AND on a loop. Shaddup. There's a bunch of technology stores, and the anchor stores? The big bastards that the mall is ostensibly for? They're just mock-ups. We occasionally drive our 4-wheelers through them and knock everything down. Then we go back out into the mall proper and play glow-in-the-dark mini golf and eat big cookies and buy Chucks from Journeys and books from everywhere and try not to get VD from Spenser's, where it feels like everything has VD on it. There are no nail places, no underwear emporiums, no blouseterias, and no FUCKING JEWELRY STORES, and you can extend a line of credit everywhere, because it's that kind of place.

There's a theatre, and they fucking spell it like that. It's called the Six-Shooter Theatre, and they have six screens and the kids who work it love film and talk like bartenders. Frozen coke comes with free refills, and there's always something playing that's decent and also always something you can walk out of if you don't want to make fun of it. A walk-out will have their money happily refunded if they can say why they walked out. In complete sentences. Don't fuck about - tell us what you didn't like.

It goes without saying that outside of the dark, carpeted, Commodores hallway, that the rest of mall plays 90s rock interspersed with 80s hip-hop and anything else I like, and that there's football and old movies broadcast on monitors around the interior, and roving bands of teenagers find themselves mute when they hit the SnarkMeter® limits. (SnarkMeters® are subcutaneously installed on every teen upon entering. Old people, too. Everybody.) Finally, there are game stores and comic stores fully functioning and raking in profit, an Irish pub at every junction, and cigar dispensaries throughout. The interior aisles are dotted with tables for sitting and smoking and drinking and talking and eating goddamn magical bowls of layered chili stuff that I thought had ceased to exist.

Demons

Reading a book about Kurt Cobain's legacy right now, and I have happened upon a part of it that deals with the recurrent fact that Aberdeen (where he's from) and surrounding small burgs have not wanted to erect statues or name anything after him because "won't somebody think of the children" and "what kind of message does that send about drugs?"

You know, guys - he made music, too.

Why this is relevant right now? Why THIS, of all things (okay, there was also a copyright thing I had to deal with) pulled me out of a three-year break from blogging? Because I feel like there's an obvious parallel to our current series of escalating (or swirling) situations. Should Kurt Cobain's drug use and suicide and poor-decision-making skills fuck up our relationship with his music? I would land in the "decidedly not" camp, where I would prepare Pennyroyal Tea and for any other recent camp arrivals. But is it that easy?

People don't want to watch the Netflix House of Cards because Kevin Spacey's recently been outed as a career Uncle Touchy Rapist Dickhead. Granted, he's a sexual predator, and while his victims have every right and responsibility to speak out, shouldn't his other actions be able to stand on their own? Does this have more to do with what we imagine (him diddling unwilling guys off camera during the production of Se7en) than his actual performances? I think it does. I think he pissed in the pool of his own performances, and now we don't want to get in any more. I don't know if that's fair, and I don't really care if it is or not. Everyone's going to have to deal with this in their own way.

I do NOT think that it is an endorsement of someone's past behaviors to experience their art, though. Unless their behavior kind of fucks up the whole basis upon which you were evaluating them and their output, the two should be able to be separated. Not every act carries every other act with it. Know how I know? Hitler is worse than Jeff Dahmer. You can look it up. He is. Stalin, for some reason, is only worse than Hitler depending upon who you talk to, but at least there's a metric in place there. So, yes - for matters of egregious and inarguable evil, we have matters of degree. We just do. Otherwise, "worst shooting in American history" would be a meaningless fucking phrase. By that same token, it is not necessary to evaluate someone's whole life based on one event.

Let me clarify: Spacey and Weinstein and O'Reilly and the President are obviously sexual predators. They keep doing the same things, over and over again, forcing themselves on others as part of a sexual power dynamic - so, yeah, defining their entire output through gross-tinted glasses is certainly fair, and probably logical. Do that if you see fit. And if you're a victim? Well, you know better than anyone else, so no one's going to tell you what to do. Also - the zeitgeist of people coming forward (blogs say "zeitgeist," it's a thing) to force what one can only hope is a paradigm shift (also "paradigm shift") in the patriarchy (that one's not funny anymore) is ultimately a good thing, so whatever pushes that up the mountain, good on it.

However. One act does not define a person. If it did, Mother Teresa would be only a racist, while Dr. King would be only a philanderer. Gandhi would be only a misogynist, and most American soldiers would simply be hired murderers. By contrast, Charlie Manson would be a musician, Jim Jones a preacher, and Hitler a landscape painter. You could pick one single act of any other kind committed by any of those people and define them by that. "That Gandhi, what a cloth-maker," is simply not a thing that people say. People are all the sum total of all of the things that they do, and we all have to weigh that out. Context is hugely motherfucking important. People who meet me now think I'm both better & worse than people who have known me for a while, because they're working off of a limited data set.

I say all of that to say this: Don't let actors (or anyone else) fuck up your enjoyment of their output. They did a job, that job is done, and it's a separate act from all the other stuff they've done. Learn to ruefully shake your head and appreciate and/or judge things in a full context. This is a part of growing older. You can enjoy NFL football and hate criminality, concussions and morons. You can like Heinlein's writing and acknowledge that he was a fucking terrible human. Everyone's got a hard-on for Agatha Christie again right now, but WOW at the racism in her books. Her mysteries are awesome, but I can see how black people and Indians would categorically turned off by them. I don't let Tim Allen's cocaine-dealing and Republicanism fuck up the Toy Story movies for me, and you shouldn't either. If you can't get around something, fine. We can sympathize. But if someone else can, you probably ought not judge.

Brain Music

Some songs in the right circumstances are like keys to doors to the past, for me, to my personal, individual past - a trip backwards in time where the word "nostalgia" seems like a weak attempt to explain what's actually happening, which is this:

The music keys off a series of tumbling domino memories which come unbidden and avalanche down onto whatever I'm doing or thinking at the time, erasing the present and overwriting the new/old into currency. I step backward into a previous version of me that is so different and pure and incandescent with supercharged potential and anticipation and unlocked grit-your-back-teeth-and-GAH! that it/he feels utterly alien, but I remember being there, then, him. I remember how the smells of those people around me made me feel, seeing them in my mind's eye, through my perhaps unconsciously edited memories of that time. I hear them and the spaces around them, I feel the anxiety and rush of events past. Hormones, surely, but I'm in touch with them now, and the rush of the chemical wave is something tangible, tasteable - it has mass and I carry it. It carries me.

I am transported - not through something so lame as the hackneyed and ham-handed "power of music" but along neural pathways I thought I burned out with injury and drugs and booze and sadness and happiness and new experiences long ago, but the brain abides. It pushes back against the present, be it mundane or thrilling or necessary or all three and says, "this is a thing that happened, this was a time you were in, these were people you knew, and all of it is still in here, locked behind a paper-thin Japanese sliding panel and it can be unlocked at any time by this song." Or not. It's not consistent. The subconscious must be in a mood to cooperate or you'll just get the song and "...yay."

And then, the tumblers in the lock click and slide and roll back the other way and I am left with a desperate need to preserve the experience by using what I know will be inadequate words, as best I am able, but with the hope of crystallizing what it was like, and maybe even sharing the ineffable with someone, anyone else.

Wake Up Track

I have always hated alarm clocks.

Like many of you, I know. I used to go through a couple of them a year in high school; I would just break them, which I blame on the deplorable state of the alarm clock industry at the time. Later, I just handed them off to my wife, like my CD alarm clock, which she still uses. For years, I used an old Nokia cellphone - three years past when it had any kind of service on it - until I lost it. Lately, I've been using my laptop, and programming various tracks into it by which to wake up.

I'm going to list here a few of these and then ask for suggestions - Rage Against the Machine's "Wake Up" is off the table because 1998 or so, Christie used it for almost a year. Anything else will be considered.

All Things Must Pass by "Harry Heck" (otherwise known as "the best thing to come out of the Punisher movie" and a terrible choice, because it doesn't work)

The Firefly Theme Song

Snickerdoodle (Original) - Vincent's Twinkies

Barbra Streisand (Original mix) - Duck Sauce

Come On, Let's Go - Girl in a Coma

Christianity Is Stupid - Negativland

Put the Gun Down - ZZ Ward

Wild Cats of Kilkenny - the Pogues (sounds good in theory, but waking up to a digital scream every morning takes a psychic toll)

Don't Stop Believing - Journey

Eddie Izzard's "Bunch Of Flowers" bit

Roar - Katy Perry

the old Iron Man TV cartoon Theme

Wasted - Pere Ubu (also a bad idea, but perhaps not for the reasons you'd think)

Black Betty - Ram Jam

Overt Enemy - Slayer

Kickface - Little Foot Long Foot

Desolation Row - My Chemical Romance

Professor Farnsworth saying "Good news, everyone!"

Tomorrow's going to be some De La Soul, but after that, I wait for your suggestions.

Miley Don't Matter

I feel that, in all of the hubbub and fooferaw surrounding this latest bit of acting out to create album sales by Miley Cyrus and Robin Thicke the general public - or at least, the vocally offended public - may have missed something crucial about this whole thing.

It doesn't matter. Fuck all. It's a less-than-zero occurrence. There is nothing in this that matters even a little. A fart is more urgent.

I know we as people want to react - it's exciting, aerobic, and it gives us something to do - but often, we ought not. Quiet, internalized reaction is undervalued. For me, at least, I'm not entirely certain what it is we're meant to be reacting to, and I think when the "news" channels have Thicke's mom on, they might be confused, too. I mean, let's break this down:

This happened on MTV. MTV hasn't been relevant in a dog's age, and so it schedules stuff like this to happen once a decade or so that you will remember that they exist. The Madonna/Britney thing? Same deal. Further, it happened on an awards show. Short of the jobs they provide for the people who work on them, awards shows could not be less important. They don't matter even a little. If your enjoyment of a thing is affected by whether or not it wins an award, then you are shrunken on the inside like a dessicated amphibian, and stink of the need for validation and approval. I piss on your shoes. It was terrible, from Miley's drunken, new-born foal stumble from the bowels of the Cyclops bear to the twerkish gyrations - I've seen better Super Bowl halftime shows, and I'm ALWAYS just waiting for those to be over.

Maybe it's that you're scandalized by the age dynamic (which I'm not even going to cover), or maybe it's seeing Miley's ass. Nah, that can't be it. We've all seen Miley's ass. Miley's ass has been on parade since before it was legal, so that's old fucking news. Additionally, if you have gotten this far in life without seeing a 20-year-old woman's whole ass displayed like fresh fish, then you are not an American. Maybe you're icked out by Miley's parade of unusual simulated sexuality, like rimming & furries. True - the way she presented those things was icky, but get over yourself and read an article once in a while. It's apparent to me that somebody watched a bunch of porn and designed this sophomoric tribute to titillation - just be glad she didn't 2 Girls/1 Cup us with this.

Maybe it's Miley's tongue, but I think that we can safely assume that Miley has no sweat glands, and that this is how she cools off during a performance. This wouldn't be too much of a stretch - her dad is Billy Ray.

The second wave (I'm at least ninth wave, for those keeping score) of reaction seems to consist of those digging for deeper meaning - racism arguments, slut shaming arguments, double-standard discussions, sexuality on display, not copying her example, and so on. This wouldn't be a bad idea, except that it is. If you're still wondering if Miley's a backward-ass and probably mildly racist country fuck like her old man, then you missed the boat a while back. You can't even see the sail of the boat. It's not enough for you that this performance objectifies people, we have to talk about which ones specifically. Pretending to be shocked by this now demeans us all; just admit that you wrote the article in your diary or as part of a thesis last year and just waited for her (or really anyone) to fuck up so you could use it.

As far as the slut-shaming and double-standard stuff goes: Let me know if that works for you. Let me know what great change in those things you extract from this important goddamn MTV fake-ass moment, with MILEY CYRUS as your galvanic point. Your opportunism hurts my teeth; I understand the impulse to leap into any fray with such important ideas, but this is a severe miscalculation. Finally, if you're trying to get your daughters not to behave like this, showing them this, ALLOWING them to be aware of this, is a terrible idea - look how much apparent power Miley fucking Cyrus has right now. Terrible timing. Just awful.

We can talk about Robin, I guess, but if you think his song's anything but a frat-boy-level contribution to rape culture, then parts of your brain have gone AWOL, possibly due to MTV, bad songs, and ridiculous public discussions. The thing we're really avoiding here (although it doesn't much matter either) is how much this music sucks. It sucks. It's suck music, it's the musical equivalent of the filling in Oreos - cloyingly sugary, terrible for you, kind of unfulfilling on its own, and nothing to chew on. This music is not even interestingly bad - like, say, the Wesley Willis back catalog - it's just boring. It does not live up to the hype, or even rise to the status of ear worm. At best, it's an ear Wet Willy, surprise, it's in your ear, then you're pissed and looking to get it out. The Thicke song is so boring I didn't even finish the video with naked women in it. I suspect they're in there because Robin knows this will end up as strip club music.

If you people had let this go early on, it could have faded away. Now it's too late. It's among us like venereal disease, and the only way to keep it away is protection or abstention. I'm going to choose to abstain from Miley. And Robin. There's a new Goodie Mob album out, after all.

Russia Is Stupid

Um, before I actually get into the topic the title implies I'll be covering, I'd like to say that Pussy Riot, what they're trying to do, their music (which I have to go look up lyric translations for), what they're enduring right now, in terms of being separated from their families and freedom, and the whole DIY, illegal performances, "music as non-commodity" vibe that they put into their tunes, image, videos and everything they do is inspiring, and warms pieces of my heart that typically go unwarmed. Now watch the new video if you haven't already. It is decidedly unstupid.

A portion of the band is still in jail, you know - there was another parole denial today. She's already done something like a year and change for protesting for under a minute; if you were old enough to be missing the free speech suppression of the old "Evil Empire" red days of the Cold War era - Putin's here for you. His government is going to sock people in jail and just leave 'em there if the speak out publicly against religion, trade, patriarchy or you know, suppression. This, of course, is the first point of Russian stupidity being addressed: How many of you would even know about Pussy Riot if they'd never been arrested and tried? I'm not encouraging the old school method of simply disappearing folks from the planet, but ignoring them probably might have worked? This method has a huge flaw that I've noticed, anyway.

But the Russian government won't do that because it's stupid - next case: "Gay." Russia has an abysmal GLBT rights record; failing to take any kind of cue from the parts of Europe that are becoming more institutionally accepting, they've chosen over the last several years to go the other way entirely - wishing that they didn't have gay people in Russia anymore and refusing to let people talk about the ones that they do have. If you're a gay Russian, you can't have a pride parade (in Moscow) for 100 years, you can't serve in the military or give blood, and finally, you can't say what you are. No saying "gay." Also, they'll mask up and beat the shit out of you if you protest. Or, as in the above example, toss your ass in jail. You know, for spreading your gay propaganda.

(I was going to post links to more articles from Pravda about some of this stuff, but their website is troublesome, and also a great example of this "propaganda" stuff you hear so much about from gay people. Have a look. Actually, the more I looked, the more I became totally confused. *slaps forehead* I shoulda had Izvestia!)

Finally, the main reason Russia's stupid (we've been alluding to him all along) is President Forever Vlad Putin, Jr. Junior's the man who had the moment with Dubya Monkeyface where they looked into one another's eyes and made a connection, which is so not gay. Other stuff that Putin does that proves he's a big masculine Russian bear includes finding unburied treasure, shirtlessly camping and fishing for camera crews, flying jets and drugging wildlife, riding motorbikes, racecars and submarines and having comic books about him. None of this, of course, is remotely staged or in aid of his image, and there are people on hand to assure anyone who wonders about this that all of his acts "are completely normal thing(s) to do."

Sure, Junior. Go ahead and have your fun. Stupid bastard.

Twelve Days

Dear "True Love,"

It's over. We're breaking up.

I know this must come as a shock to you, especially in light of your recent over-the-top gifting to me over the past Christmas holidays, and while that was an orgiastic feat of generous outpouring in terms of financial commitment and sheer logistics, I don't know if there was some clerical error involved, or if you and I have different ideas about boundaries, or really, what the fresh hell was going on with all that crap you had delivered to what used to be my home.

On December 13th, just as I was beginning to think about nog and lights, I received at my door one day a delivery of a nice fruit tree with a bird. Interesting and cute, and I let you know so, via a quick text. "Perhaps she is unaware of my personal distaste for birds," I thought to myself as I fetched a shovel and planted what turned out to be a lovely pear tree in my backyard. I let the bird, I don't know, like a pheasant or something, I thought, do what it wished, and it jumped down into the yard. This was just fine, and a somewhat pleasant start to the gift-giving season. Your thoughtfulness in the tree selection was evident, inasmuch as it would "keep on giving," and I figured the bird would simply fly off for friendlier skies after a short while.

The following day, I was awakened by a another knock at my door - same deliveryman, looking bemused as he handed me another sapling-plus-bird combo. As I signed for this, checking to see if it was really identical to the previous day's delivery, he handed me a crate with two more birds in it. This was becoming extremely odd, as I have mentioned that I don't particularly care for birds and now had a total of four, which is four more than I have ever wanted. I planted the tree and turned the birds loose in the backyard, settling down with a copy of Audubon's.

Over the next two days, you sent me 16 more fucking birds. Partridges - which don't like being in trees, I might add, as they nested all over my yard and deck; doves, & blackbirds - kind of creepy, hon. Finally, to top this all off, you sent me hens. I have more eggs now than I can ever use, and have been pawning them off on neighbors, friends I used to have, and the deliverymen who frequent my poor house. My yard is a giant birdhouse, and seed covers the grass. But of course, there was to be more.

On the fifth day of this madness, an armored vehicle pulls up in the driveway, and nice man called Simon gets out with a briefcase chained to his wrist. He delivers five golden rings to me, and makes it clear that his firm is obligated under contract to arrive each successive day for the next week, to deliver five gold rings everyday. I ask, "Why not drop them all off right now?" He explains that this is not the arrangement to which he's been contractually obligated, makes a funny face, and then leaves. I don't think Simon likes birds much either. Of course, after Simon left, another tree and ten more goddamn birds were delivered. I'll be honest with you - by the fifth day, I wasn't even trying to plant the stupid trees anymore, and they are leaning against the fence in the back, root balls still in burlap, dropping rotten fruit on the ground and mouldering in birdshit and seeds. It's a nightmare.

But the best was yet to come. Over the next two days after that, you branched out, including swans (which need water - did you know that? I have a freaking kiddie pool back there now, also covered in bird feces) and geese, the loudest bird imaginable. They never shut up. Constant goose noise comes from my place now, and goose crap is the slickest thing you'll ever step in. Thirty-nine, sweetheart. Thirty-nine more squawking avian invaders crapping all over my place and molting like feathers are butter and the whole world is their toast. At this point, I hadn't slept in a week - what with the constant bird sounds around my house, the neighbors siccing the neighborhood association on me, and the Health Department stapling things to my front door. I did get ten more gold rings during this period, but I had to pawn them all down at Savino's on the corner just to feed the birds and clean up after them. I broke my shovel moving the trees and trying to shovel shit, and at this point was living on nothing but eggs and water. The geese started looking tasty. Dead birds are quiet birds.

Just when I thought the barnyard theme couldn't go any further, a truck backs up on day eight of this crap and disgorges eight stinking bovine monsters onto my property. As I'm contending that this must be some kind of mistake - because no one is this fucking crazy, right? - eight women showed up with buckets and started milking the fuckers right in the middle of the daily tree and birds deliveries. At least one of them made off with some of the rings that day, I think. And my blender. Of course, they would be back. It was on this day I began to aggressively kill some of the birds (and one of the trees) with my shotgun.

On successive days, more cows and milkmaids would arrive, along with Lords. I had to look this up. Apparently, you found and paid British people to come jump around at my house. Everyday. For three days. You are deranged. Did you know that lords expect to be fed? So do maids. Likewise, pipe and drum corps guys. I mean, they sound great, but this is a residential neighborhood, and on top of armored trucks and loud-ass live music, I got cows and eventually, 184 (more or less with the deaths) scratching, pecking, egg-laying feathered fucks roaming around the place. Shitting. Shitting like they never goddamn stop. Did I mention that? Did I mention that they shit over everything in my entire life? That my life is now encrusted in a hardened white shell of birdshit? This is in addition to the giant hordes of people who wander in and out, looking for food when I all I have is eggs and milk and rotten pears and trees every fucking place. And speaking of hoarding, do you know how it looks when you have trees and buckets of milk piled every place? Like you're a maniac. A bathrobed maniac with a shotgun. At this point, I was wandering to and fro, fending off attorneys and policemen, angry farmers and neighbors, just throwing eggs and shooting at whoever had the misfortune to stumble into the insane Christmas explosion you made out of my house.

A party's not a party any more when it goes on for five days and you don't know anybody! Leaping and dancing and music is fine - I like fun like anybody - but when it's happening in an insane birdyard with cows milling about, it's like Bollywood gone wrong! And there's no booze - just milk and eggs and dead birds, people. 40 rings doesn't even begin to cover the expense I incurred, and Savino won't talk to me anymore anyway. 

In short, I now associate you and our relationship with one of the most traumatic experiences of my life, and will need years of therapy even to be able to hear birdcalls without collapsing into a fetal ball of floorbound fear and rage, slinking off to a corner and peeing on myself. We can no longer see each other, and I have filed a restraining order in addition to a standing "DO NOT DELIVER" order with the postal service and most major shipping companies.

Your reply is not required.

Percussionist

I'm going to brag a little bit now.

My son's a percussionist. He went for his "band fitting" yesterday, and after a year of steel drumming last year and two weeks this year of sweating it, losing sleep and thinking he'd made disastrous mistakes in testing and was already thinking about his back-ups (trumpet and clarinet) he walks in yesterday only to find that his teacher had placed him at the top of her list - literally #1, she showed me - and wasn't going to make him drill or test anymore at all. He's in. He was caught so flat-footed by this because of his expectation that she was going to make him test anyway - that he tested anyway. Turns out, the thing he can't do and was worried about is an end of the year type skill, some kind of snare roll.

When he tested, I turned my back so he wouldn't have to see me looking, worked my out of his line of sight and listened. I heard this:

RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT; TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TATT! RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT; TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TATT!

Then I turned so I could watch him copy it only to find that he just had. His copy of her drill was indistinguishable from the example given. It was awesome. So yeah, I filled out forms and we laid out a bunch of money for sticks and mallets and rentals and he's in the band as one of eight percussionists from his grade.

I am bursting with pride, and told him so. 

I've been giving him Sun Ra and the Marsalis boys, Dizzy and Louis and Miles, Coltrane and Cannonball, Son House and Lightning Hopkins and Screaming Jay Hawkins and Elvin Jones since he was little, and his uncle Brian's music has always been around. More recently, Vini & the Demons and lots of ska (thanks, Josh) and 90s grunge and metal and his uncle Eric's music. Motorhead, Flaming Lips and Nirvana are on his radar now. He likes Mos Def and MC Chris, DJ Revolution, Rahzel and Chuck D and 80s hip-hop, though he dissed early Fresh Prince as "silly." He's recently developed an affinity for R.E.M., They Might Be Giants, Atomic Blonde and Sublime and lots of female singers - Kate Bush, Liz Phair, Natalie Merchant and Tori Amos have all been requested recently.

I knew he liked music - he was in steel drums and chorus last year and listens to all this stuff - but I didn't know he could do this quite this well, and the revelation and pride and love and excitement are almost more than I can stand.

Whistler

Some people find the sound to be blisteringly annoying, while others find it pleasant. It has been argued that it's a pointless, inane and stupid activity, but I would have to disagree. Otis Redding, Carter Burwell, Billy Joel, Axl Rose and Andy Griffith would all back me up on this.

Whistling.  I'm a whistler. I whistle whilst I'm working, when I'm in the shower, and anytime the mood strikes me. I've often been whistling for a while before I notice I'm doing it - the tune in my head self-actualizes. If I'm going to sing (and stand the fuck back) I often whistle pitch before I start. When singing, I might whistle instrumental accompaniment. I definitely whistle better than I sing, and it's more brain-engaging than my iPod. I've also had my lips longer than my iPod, so there's a continuity factor, too.

Aside from the aforementioned tracks (all of which are definitely in my limited repertoire), I have a number of other tunes I can annoy people with and that seem to crop up in my internal whistle jukebox on a fairly regular rotation. There's the obligatory Cole Porter (this linked version, with Harry Connick Jr. is the lullaby I sing to my kids because it's something I know all the words to) and Sinatra, but there there's also some slightly more common things - things I just can't get off of:

The Witches of Eastwick Main Titles: John Williams. Kind of a cheat, since everything by John Williams is imminently whistleable - the Indiana Jones theme is always a favorite, too.

White Rabbit - Jefferson Airplane;

Sweet Home Chicago - Robert Johnson;

The Ballad of Ira Hayes - Johnny Cash (just the chorus, really)

The Gravity Falls theme song;

Crazy Train - Ozzy;

Han Solo - MC Chris;

Behind Blue Eyes - The Who (though often in my head, this becomes the Bill Hicks "Dustbin in Shaftesbury.")

The Lazy Song - Bruno Mars;

Smoke Two Joints & Santeria - both by Sublime, the former of which can be a problem if I'm bored in a public / parental setting and someone recognizes it;

The Doctor Who Theme music (relatively modern era) - because I am an obsessed person;

Vivaldi's La Primavera; and I do always think of Nigel Kennedy playing it, hence the link.

There's plenty of other music that runs through my head, but I can't whistle it all, and I've subjected you to enough links now, I think. Are you a whistler or a hummer? A public singer? Have you music in your heart and wish to confess it in an ill-noticed public forum?

Cycles

I don't want to open up a big bag of cheese or anything, but sometimes you can't help but notice stuff.

On the 24th, on Tuesday, my wife's chorus, NiH (which I do extremely occasional backstage work for) lost one of its members, Marky Pace, after her long fight against a brain tumor. Marky was a completely open and receptive person, someone who feels like you've known her forever even when, in my case, you've probably only ever had about five substantial conversations. Well, and once I spent a Saturday lugging dirt and stuff around her garden. Marky had a great smile and a kind demeanor, but also eyes that said she'd seen her share of the shit, pal.  That when there needed to be, there was steel behind that smile. That she'd managed to experience life like that without being darkened by it is a quality of which I'm profoundly envious. Marky was a bright presence in the world and will be missed sorely by those she leaves behind.

The next day (because you see where I'm going with this), on the 25th, one of the other members of NiH had her baby. Kate Pritchard and Mark Doyle welcomed Rose Elizabeth Doyle to the party here with the rest of us, and since many of my blog readers do not know Kate and Mark, let me explain something to you.  Yes, yes - Rose is a gorgeous baby small person - her little nose alone in the pictures'll just kill you - but the important thing here is that Kate and Mark are awesome open-minded good smart people, and I have every confidence that they will be shaping Rose into one of those people we need more of here on Earth.  So congrats to the Pritchard/Doyles!

Now: go have your Friday.