Bernice and I hit it off from there. She’d known all of Jerry’s friends well, well enough to focus on me, as somebody new to explore. Damned if I knew all we said. It was one bar after another, each getting louder than the last. Then some basement joint in the Back Bay, serving the “late night” crowd of Boston.
“They all close at one? What kind of Irish live here?”
“That’s a great tie.”
“I thought this was a late night joint – the ‘Last Stop.’”
“Last Drop.” Jerry shouted a correction. “The Last Drop.”
“I don’t see many guys match patterns. You know… stripes with crisscrosses.” A steady stream of drinks seemed to be working on Bernice. She was in her own conversation, which I was struggling to hear. If she hadn’t leaned in and fingered the fabric, I wouldn’t have been able to guess the words. Call it damage from wearing headphones, or listening to Sabbath, Zeppelin and AC/DC at 11 on the car stereo since high school, but any time I’m packed in a crowd, anywhere there’s background noise, I’ve a hellish time discerning conversation. I’ll hear a pin drop across an empty home; in a bar all but what’s shouted is mumbles. If not for reading lips, for translating body language and catching a clear word or two in those moments where things get quiet, I might as well be deaf in loud taverns.
“I don’t know. I got the tie as a Christmas present.”
“They always go with white shirts and patterns. Hermes.”
“A maze? I thought it was polka dots.”
“‘Hermes.’ You know, sailboats, elephants… little flowers.”
“Riiight. Of course.”
“You’ve got a pattern on a pattern.”
Neither, of course, was a pattern, but that wasn’t worth pointing out. And there was nothing to gain by explaining, You might be assuming style in what’s largely a utility selection. Nothing hides coffee stains and grease spots from morning egg sandwiches like stripes, patterns or dots. And I wasn’t the focus of her comment. Conscious of it or not, she was making a broader point. To work in a field banking, to travel in the circles Jerry did, you had to wear fraternity letters. And those letters have always been the same – conservative white shirt with a tiny inoffensively patterned tie of a thin European cut, to advertise its high grade print, and its $175 price. Black belt, black socks, black shoes – lace ups with minimal stitching. That was the only way to look, to announce you were in the club. A man who made money from money, far above the everyday shnook. Except exactly like a boxed lunch Joe, a uniform was the norm.
“Here. Finish this.” Jerry handed me a new drink.
“I already have one.”
“Now you have two.” As he downed the last of a greyhound with his right hand, he grabbed another from the bar with his left.
“Where are we going?”
“You done with that yet?”
“What is this? Lighter fluid?”
“Bourbon.”
“Fucking well bourbon. I wouldn’t clean tires with this.”
“Like it matters now. Down it and shut up.” Jerry was armed for bear, but I still didn’t know his plan.
“So where do we go next?” I choked back the rotgut, feeling that sour taste in the stomach that comes before a vomiting fit.
“You have any dope?”
“Any what?”
“Dope!”
“Dope like… pot?”
“Pot. Weed. Marijuana? Do. You. Have. Any. Dope?”
“Of course! I always carry dope on planes.”
“What?”
“I said, ‘Yes! I always carry weed on planes. At least an ounce, just to be sure!”
“You brought an ounce of weed?”
“You fucking moron.”
“Perhaps you two can get bullhorns.” Brynn grabbed Jerry’s collar. “Debate this atop the bar.”
“You still haven’t answered my question, Jerry. Where do we go now?”
“It’s the wrong question. The question is, ‘Brynn do you have any vodka?’”
“I…” She wavered for a second, then conceded. “Yes. I do.”
Enough with the frowns, Brynn. You knew this was part of the bargain. What’d you think? I’d bring out a hidden, quiet side of Jerry? That we were in a campus a capella quartet together back at school? That’s not what you really want, anyway. You’re like most of the women at your age. You want the life of the party, but you also want to control him. And you know as well as I do, it doesn’t work that way.
“Then we’ll be going to your place, sweetheart.”
“Because you really should have another.”
“I should stop smoking. I should stop eating steak. This is about will.”
“And you’re flush with that.”
“I will be having a vodka, and it will be from your liquor cabinet.”
Brynn lived in a huge brownstone off some park a long walk across town. Cavernous barely described it, with twelve foot ceilings and grand entryways. Just when you thought you’d reached the end, a door appeared out of nowhere emptying into another room. It was a perfect place in which to get lost, for me to focus on Bernice in private. But Jerry’d have none of that.
“Here you go.” He handed me a glass of Dewar’s.
“This is sco–”
“It is, and that’s what she’s got.”
“Right… All brown’s the same.”
“You calling me a racist?”
“Awful.”
“What?”
“Tim Allen wouldn’t use that.”
“Who the fuck is Tim Allen?”
“And you’re redeemed…”
“Redeemed?”
“It’s all good… Brynn, where’s the music?”
“Front room.” Brynn pointed down the hall. Perfect. An alibi for leaving the room. Brynn had been staring knives at Jerry as he plundered her freezer, smashing ice cubes and spilling orange juice all over the counter. And knowing they weren’t a couple, but weren’t exactly separate either, I sensed a bit of strangeness coming. If I was going to hook up with Bernice, I had to get away from that, keep it from infecting the group.
“Seriously, who’s Tim Allen?”
“He’s in Friends…” I started down the hall to drive tunes.
“Fuck you.”
“The blond guy.” Bernice took the hint and followed.
“Hear the screams of center forty-two/Loud enough to bust your brains out.” The music from the Bose Wave bounced off the thick mortar walls. “The opposition’s tongue is cut in two/Keep off the street cause you’re in danger!”
“Isn’t that a little heavy?”
“Default choice.” In the days before Napster and Itunes, every human alive owned a copy of the Stones’ Rewind. It worked for any crowd.
“I thought it was ‘Rock the Casbah‘ at first.” She had a point. ‘Undercover of the Night‘ wasn’t late night fare. Not unless you had an eight ball on the coffee table and roomful of red-eyed coke monkeys.
“I was looking for ‘Tumbling Dice.’”
“No Stones.” That was a mark against her.
“Beatles fan?”
“Both.” That was a mark in her favor. Never pick a team in that debate. It’s a fool’s argument, a false choice in every regard. If someone asks, “Mick or Paul?” or “Keith or John?” the only right answer’s “all of them.”
I was sweating flipping through the discs. Your music says everything about you, and what I chose would speak volumes on me. Velvet Underground Live at Max’s Kansas City? Too obscure. Dave Matthews’ Crash? Too obviously romantic, and probably too cheesy. From the Mars Hotel? Stoner shit. Neil Diamond, Hot August Night? Points for campy sense of humor, but too ridiculous. Disreali Gears? No. Gin Blossoms? Fuck no. NRBQ? Who the fuck likes NRBQ?
And there it was, near the bottom of the rack of discs – Neil Young, Decade.
Fuck it. I threw on “Down to the Wire.”
“Oooh. Put on Mr. Soul.”
“You like Neil?”
“Who doesn’t?”
Score. This was ten marks in her favor. Not that she needed them, but let’s be honest. The chances of finding a silly hot twenty five year old chick with an affinity for the Buffalo Springfield tracks on Decade aren’t very high. Outside the ranks of crunchy chicks, it’s not much of a young woman’s thing. Particularly the kind of girl who hung out with finance guys. The musical repertoire there is whatever’s on the radio. Anything with a beat that keeps the movement fast, the action of the moment rolling. (“Leave it on! This song rocks! Where’s the fucking bottle service?”)
“I jus– Chicks don’t dig Neil.”
“That’s an awful stereotype.”
“An accurate stereotype.”
“You’re hanging out with the wrong chicks.”
“You wouldn’t be the first to say that.”
“I have brothers. I like Zeppelin. I like the Byrds, I like Dylan. I like the Dead, Marley, the Band, Eric Clapton. I know people who’ve had dinner with Neil Young. Spent weeks with him. I have Neil Young’s autograph. Do you have Neil Young’s autograph?”
“Get out.” It wasn’t the first time I’d heard something like this. A family friend from home did a few “lost years” traveling out west and during one of them, he happened into a dive in New Mexico where, amazingly, Young was sitting at the end of the bar. It was the seventies, and the singer was just minding his own business, reading a magazine and having a drink. People pestered him now and again, hippies asking dumb questions and offering to bake him. He politely demurred and stuck to what he was reading. The fellow I know, a calm unassuming sort, sat down next to Young and struck up a conversation. “About what?” I remember asking. “Nothing, really. News, sports. Usual shit. Nice guy.” “Nothing about music?” “Seemed intrusive. Songs say what they say.”
My own experiences with Young were a little different. Geographically much less personal, but still a lot like that face to face. I saw him on the “Year of the Horse” Tour with a high school buddy, Charles. We ate a bag of mushrooms at the Tweeter Center in Camden, New Jersey and watched Young blast the crowd with two and half hours of blistering feedback and screeching, soaring solos as a storm lashed the arena. Through the sheets of rain, utterly impervious to the mud and muck and wind, we watched the giant television screens of Neil and Crazy Horse plowing though “Sedan Delivery,” “Hey Hey, My My,” “Fuckin’ Up” and what felt like an hour long “Like a Hurricane.”
And I say it was like talking to Young because he played as you’d meet him in a bar. More energy, of course, but the thing that always sparked through – what makes artists like Young, Johnny Cash, Metallica, the Clash, Dr. Dre, Willie Nelson, Bob Marley, U2, Hank Williams, Jerry Garcia, Public Enemy, Nirvana, Jimi Hendrix and the rest of their ilk unique… what renders them accidental icons, is wound up in a simple word: Credibility. You listen to any Young song and you know it isn’t radio product – Beyonce or Nickelback garbage no one’ll remember in a year. It’s not even the Stones or Dylan, the “quality commercial” brands. Young plays and writes what he wants to. And no one seems to control him. At one point in the mid to late eighties, he put out an electronic Devo-sounding record followed by a fifties greaser band album and a roots country disc, losing a slice of his fan base. And his record contract. There’s gravitas in moves like that, but it’s nothing complicated. No grand stand against the man, no angry artist’s rebellion. Just a pure musician, plying his trade as he wants to. The same way he might talk baseball in a dive bar just outside nowhere.
I remember staring at the flares on the sides of the road as we drove back from the show that night. Charles and I barely said a word. Part of that was simple fear. Crawling through teams of police, guiding concert traffic away from the killing fields of Camden, with a lingering mushroom buzz is a white knuckle experience. But we were also stung from the concert. I’ve eaten a lot of psychedelics, and as riveting as that can be, the event is rarely retained in what feels like digital clarity. I’ve seen a hundred concerts at least, all different sorts of bands, and few, if any, are kept as photographic memories. That show sticks with me still. I’ve seen better and I’ve seen worse. I’ve never seen one more honest.
But it isn’t honesty alone keeping the memory fresh. Seeing Young is impressive. There’s a power in performers like him. Bigger than power from wealth, or office, or social position. It’s an innate sort of thing – self created, self granted, self assumed. The power of doing as you please, of being off the grid and controlling it, far beyond its reach and yet able to bend it when you want, to your own force of gravity. You get sense watching Young in concert that he’s never given a shit about anything other than crafting songs. Managers come and go, conniving for all of their cuts. Producers and agents maneuver, building their tentative empires. Pop stars flash and disappear, victims of a fickle market. Neil just plays guitar. Fuck ‘em if the middlemen don’t like it. He’s bigger – much bigger – than the game. As his music makes eminently clear, he put himself above that from the start. And so he’s always been.
“How’d you get his autograph?”
“A close family friend did some sound engineering on his records in the ’70s.”
“Bullshit.”
“On the Beach, Zuma–”
“You can’t even buy On the Beach anymore.”
“I grew up with his music. We had them all.”
“What’s your favorite song?”
“Oh, wow. That’s–”
“Everybody loves ‘Cortez the Killer.’ Overrated.”
“Stoner’s choice.”
“Everybody Knows This is Nowhere is probably the best–”
“Album? No. Tonight’s the Night.”
“Really?” It shouldn’t have by then, but that response surprised me. If you’ve heard Tonight’s the Night you know why. It’s the rawest thing Young’s ever done, a slapdash collection of furiously penned, horribly produced songs about the death of friends from heroin that just happens to be absolutely, irrefutably brilliant. And utterly inaccessible to all but die hard fans. Originally, Young wasn’t even going to release the record, deeming it too personal, too dark. Thankfully, that posture shifted.
“Yeah, really.” She threw back her drink. “And late at night, when the people were gone he used to pick up my guitar…” Normally, I’d be embarrassed by a chick singing. Not Bernice. “And sing a song in a shaky voice that was real as the day was long…”
I have to fuck this girl.
That’s when I heard the shouting.
To be continued.
Thought this was a three-parter. Oh well, another couple of days of suspense. The third part of a four-parter always pisses me off more than anything, the first part is like “Yes! A new story”, the second is like “Excellent, keep it coming!”, but by the third I’m on edge: “GET TO THE END MOTHERFUCKER!”
It pisses me off that I haven’t heard most of this music. Feels like I’m missing out. Better fire up the ol’ pirate bay.
PL: I understand the desire to get to the end, but the end’s not the point. The point’s what happens along the way. Don’t worry. Jerry didn’t let you down.
And the Neil thing is an important comment, I think. I rather liked writing that. He’s an important motherfucker. As important as Dylan. And he’s inconsistent, which is an honestly all its own.
If i could find a woman my age who listens to half the shit i do, id marry her. eagerly awaiting the next installment.
PL: My wife loves Zeppelin and Janes Addiction. It’s a dealbreaker to have a significant other who only listens to pop shit.
Unless she’s absurdly hot.
Any chance of another “listen to this” essay? I’ve got a 40-60 minute (each way) commute every day, and I’ve decided to fill that time by listening to all the albums I should have already listened to. As complete albums, that is, rather than the just hitting the highlights. Thanks.
PL: Check out my Twitter account, “phila_lawyer.” There’s another ten record recommendations there, buried a few weeks back in my posts there. But yes, I will do another music post, along with a piece on Vodka.
Great story so far. The quality of the writing alone is among your absolute best. Cant wait for the rest. You created a great sense of impending doom from the begining and and its coming together nicely.
But U2 is credible and not comericial product? “Hello Hello Hola”. come on.
PL: U2 makes the list because of the Unforgettable Fire and Joshua Tree, the latter being one of the top fifty rock records of all time. Yes, they’re commercial, but in the pantheon of shit aimed at lowest common denominator listeners the music industry has been feeding us for the past decade, they’re important. One of the few bands that still does its own thing.
Great story so far. I really dig the Tweeter Center part. It was one of my favorite venues in high school, probably because of how absurd the whole experience is… people traveling by bus, train, car, and ferry from suburban Philly and Jersey to a little area by the river carved out of a war zone.
And the fields of tailgating in sprawling parking lots ankle-deep with spent cans. Sparse trails of people with balloons accompanied by a loud hissing noise originating from secluded areas between cars. Its nice to sit on a bench facing the Delaware with some friends, watching Center City grow fuzzy as voices begin to sound like the adults in Peanuts cartoons.
Although, I did recently discover the Merriweather Post Pavilion down in Maryland. Similar sort of outdoor venue but better executed… and without the anxieties of being in Camden.
PL: I saw the Allmans there as well years ago. Took the ferry over. Strange feeling to piss off the side of one of those things on a skullful of fungus. Also saw Jimmy Page and the Black Crowes there. That was a hell of a show. Sadly, the recollections of that are sketchy at best.
Never been to MP, but I heard it’s like the Mann.
Never go to Camden. For any reason. It’s like something out of Children of Men. I used to go there on business. It’s the edge of civilized society, a fulcrum where the weight’s tipping ever subtly toward complete and utter collapse.
Awesome. Kind of Fitzgerald-meets-H. Thompson, but still steering in a truly unexplored direction. Any chance of another book in the next couple years?
PL: Fitzgerald… Shit. Now I die of alcoholism?
Seriously, thanks. It’s been five years of writing and that’s the first F. Scott comparison. Rare air. He;s the top of the top of the pyramid.
Though a nod to Donleavy’s Ginger Man would be the ultimate compliment. Undeserved. That book right there? That’s the Holy Grail of prose.
Just….awesome. Part IV cannot come soon enough. You don’t grow up up north without a healthy dose of Neil Young, and no piece I ever read described his art as thoughfully as you did in this piece. Right on, thanks.
PL: Thanks, and you’re welcome. It was a bitch to distill what’s so eclectic and uneven to its essence. I wanted to write on Young for a long time, but it never came out right before.
I’m tempted to believe that you have veered from minor embellishment to outright fabrication in this one, but I’ve never thought that about your writing before, so I see no reason to start. Finding an attractive woman who’s a true Neil Young fan is like having to wait for the herd of unicorns to finish crossing the road while on your way to turn in the jackpot-winning lotto ticket. It’s a story so big and amazing it has to be true.
PL: I actually had to tune down the Neil angle a bit. This story remains in my head for exactly the reason you note – it was a shock. You’ll find chicks who know “Harvest” or “Harvest Moon,” but “Tonight’s the Night”? That was strange as hell.
I’ve been reading this blog for months, and i’ve never left a comment.
What the hell is that ear deafness?! I have the exact same thing! Im just nodding through conversations at any given club. Good thing i got good at reading lips years ago.
I’ve heard that its the whole hearing threshold going up as a self-defense mechanism, so you don’t literary blow an eardrum. Like turning down the gain on your human microphone. Then again i heard this at a very loud club coming from a very drunk sound engineer, so he might have been singing “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” for all i know.
Terrific writing by the way, nothing makes my day like getting a fresh philalawyer entry in my google reader. Makes all the shit one goes through through the day seem less relevant, and makes the idiots pushing it on you look like clowns. Manageable ones too.
PL: I wish I knew. Doctor friends have told me its getting old, and damage from headphones. But like I said, I can hear perfectly in a quiet space. Bass tones, however, in crowded spaces, all seem to blend together.
Thanks on the compliment. Get used to the idiots pushing you like clowns if you live in the US. This talk of us emerging from a recession? Crap. We’re going to get a “dead cat bounce” rebound for two quarters followed by a slide led by unemployment and impeded liquidity resulting from a collapse in commercial real estate.
Unemployment is not a lagging indicator. It’s also a future brake on any recovery, particularly given the unique instabilities of this correction.
What was the last line of that Bret Easton Ellis book? “This is not an exit”? Apply that to the economic situation. Talk of a sustained rebound is semantic gamesmanship.
You continue to tell great stories with snappy dialogue. Pity on the well bourbon round, though.
In 2000, we had some employees who were late to work in a startup in San Francisco. Their excuse ? Neil Young was passed out in his car and was blocking the single entrance to the parking lot. Who even cares if that was true (though I suspect it was) – great excuse, and perfectly plausible !
PL: That would be the best Neil story I’ve heard yet. Likely untrue, though, considering the man’s never been a raging boozer or drug monkey of any sort. (Which is to his credit. Success at his level in the vortex of an industry that chewed up so many addictive personalities is all the more laudable.)
My guess is all the workers got together and made up the same excuse because they went out late the night before. It sounds a bit like a famous story about Jerry Garcia getting nailed for doing a speedball, or chasing the dragon, depending on who recalls the event, in his BMW somewhere outside a stadium or theatre in San Francisco in the late 80s.
Sorry if this is a stupid question, but about your title. This is how it translates on balbelfish.
L’ spirit of l’ staircase
Stairway to heaven? I know I’m clueless here, but could someone fill me in.
PL: That’s right. “The wisdom of the staircase.” The brilliance that hits you as you’re walking away.
Sensorineural Hearing Loss
Sensorineural hearing loss occurs when there is damage to the inner ear (cochlea) or to the nerve pathways from the inner ear (retrocochlear) to the brain. Sensorineural hearing loss cannot be medically or surgically corrected. It is a permanent loss.
Sensorineural hearing loss not only involves a reduction in sound level, or ability to hear faint sounds, but also affects speech understanding, or ability to hear clearly.
Sensorineural hearing loss can be caused by diseases, birth injury, drugs that are toxic to the auditory system, and genetic syndromes. Sensorineural hearing loss may also occur as a result of noise exposure, viruses, head trauma, aging, and tumors.
Get used to it, fuck-o! PIZZA! PIZZA!
PL: On the positive side, the ringing in my ears is “Embryonic Journey.” Quite pleasant.
I think this is the first time I’ve ever read a story and groaned out loud when I saw the horrifying “To be continued” at the end.
I love the way your writing shifts in time and place, it feels like reminiscing with an old friend three drinks into the evening. Thanks for sharing your stories.
PL: Thank you. That’s a great compliment. It’s written to flow exactly like that. In fact, the Author’s Note to my book says something almost exactly like that.
one night when i was in college, this emo kid started nonsense about “punk bands.” Some pretty hot girl playing beer pong, probably not even 20, just blurts out: “the clash. End of convesration.”
PL: They were the only band that mattered. But as to the greatest punk record of all time, that’s “Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols.” It’s an article of faith among prep school punk fans to loath the Pistols and worship the Clash. But the Clash couldn’t play in the same stadium with Steve Jones. And few bands have laid out a ruthless set of tracks as infectious as those on NMTB.
I lived in Camden for three years with a view of the Tweeter center from my window. There is a small “corridor of safety” extending from the parking garage at the top of Cooper St. down to the waterfront, and there wasn’t one time that I feared for my life in that small area. Once you leave it, however, you really do enter “Children of Men” territory. Did a ridearound with some Camden police, they don’t even bother with a lot of the small shit… We’d ride up to a corner and see 4 or 5 people exchanging drugs (car was unmarked), the cops would flash the lights and the guys would walk…walk…away from the corner. They didn’t run. Shithole of a city.
Did, however, see the most surprising show of my life at the Tweeter. Def Leppard. Shredded the amphitheater to pieces.
Tried a real greyhound yet? (Gin/Grapefruit)
PL: Def Leppard? I’ve a soft spot for Pyromania (Mutt Lange also produced AC/Dc and the sound on the disc is great), but everything after Allen lost his arm is just sackless.
I think a mayor of Camden is doing ten years for drug trafficking. But I guess that’s par for the course in NJ these days. Seems every politician’s been indicted.
Haven’t tried a real greyhound yet.
Great piece. Some people don’t understand the kind of power they hold when they run the stereo at a party. One poor choice can send the entire party into a downward spiral. That being said, if you play Neil, and receive a complaint; you’ve made a terrible decision in company. You’re absolutely right about how personal it feels listening to Neil. The first time I ever got baked We must have to “The needle and the damage done” 15 times.
PL: Try out the Massey Hall live disc if you don’t already have it. That’s Neil’s acoustic side at it’s very finest.
As you were writing about sorting through the CD stacks, I had a weird feeling that you were going to find a Neil disc. Call it foreshadowing, but it was fucking eerie.
Anyway, Neil is by far my favorite artist. I’m only 21, and my roommates like some Neil songs, but they don’t really love it the same way I do. I think you completely nailed the personal side of his music though. That’s what gets me every time I put on Like a Hurricane or Fuckin’ Up. Any thoughts on the Mirrorball album he did with Pearl Jam?
PL: Neil would be the artist I’d pick in a “trapped on a deserted island for life with one artist’s work” hypothetical. So many different styles in one catalog.
I like Mirror Ball. It’s a great record, particularly that tune where Vedder comes in and sings a bit in the middle. I don’t think PJ are as good with Neil as Crazy Horse, but then, who is?
“It shouldn’t have by then, but that response surprised me.”
I liked how you didn’t switch the order of the two halves of this line (i.e. “response surprised me” wasn’t first).
“Never go to Camden. For any reason. It’s like something out of Children of Men. I used to go there on business. It’s the edge of civilized society, a fulcrum where the weight’s tipping ever subtly toward complete and utter collapse.”
I always thought it was like something out of Freejack. Camden looks really nice in the rearview mirror…
http://ezinearticles.com/?Crime-in-Camden,-Americas-Most-Dangerous-City&id=2001242
“Doctor friends have told me its getting old, and damage from headphones. But like I said, I can hear perfectly in a quiet space. Bass tones, however, in crowded spaces, all seem to blend together.”
It’s absolutely from headphones and hours of condensed sound inside of the car blasting the volume… at least it is for me. The complete disinterest in most people’s banality and the brain damage suffered where I can’t do things like add blackjack hands when I used to be able to count cards – that’s alcohol.
“I love the way your writing shifts in time and place, it feels like reminiscing with an old friend three drinks into the evening.”
The commentary that follows and PL’s thought for each one adds greatly to the feel that we’re all in a bar interjecting our thoughts on the stories leading the conversation. For any of PL’s stories you can read Part I then comments, Part II then comments, etc. and it would be very similar to a transcript of a bar conversation. The storyteller is a bit more polished because he’s told the story a few times before and the people commenting are off-the-cuff along with PL’s rebuttals.
PL: Camden’s a view of the future Philly ought to examine closely.
Thanks on the writing. I don’t know why I did that. It kind of just flows that way. I wish I could say some formal training brought me to it, but it just happens.
You might like this:
http://www.salon.com/comics/tomo/2009/09/15/tomo/index.html
PL: Accurate. Except it needs one thing – a nation of peasants who’s only response to an evil insurer is the ballot box. If only the peasants and doctors had gotten together long ago it could have been different. But why use the market to fight back when you can instead fight through government, demonizing the market? Giving yourself a solution with more bureaucrats involved in the process…
How’s a peasant stop being a peasant? He learns. But we don’t want to do that here. Why fight when you can petition govt to fight for you, and then give you a “reform” which is nothing more than a gift to insurers, at greater cost.
You cannot beat business interests via regulation or legislative fiat. You can only beat them with market forces. It can be done, but not here. The incentives are all warped, and the will, intelligence and determination’s not there.
Another great story. You are on a roll. Can’t wait to read Part IV. I’ve turned on several friends to your site through your recent political essays. Any chance we’ll see more political/social commentary from you in the near future? You’ve definitely tapped into something there.
Thanks for putting me on a Neil Young kick over the last week. It’s been a while since I’ve listened to him, and I had forgot how many great songs he’s given us. I found this clip online, and given this stupid Mtv Kanye West/Taylor Swift “controversy,” I thought I’d share it with you. I don’t think Neil and PJ ever sounded better together, and if there has been a cooler, more relevant moment on Mtv since this, I missed it. From the 1993 music awards:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PTTsyk-pyd8
PL: Try this one: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_wCvUynhYRY Not as good, but definitely something you don’t see every day.
I’ll do more commentary. I mix it up.
A piece on vodka? As a vodka fan, I’m looking forward to that one. I’m in the process of writing a piece on absinthe myself.
PL: I have half of that written, but it’s in the backlog cue, with about four other things. Sorry on the delay. I never let anything out until I like the way it reads and it makes the points I want it to. That can hold shit up sometimes.
I like the central action of the story, it’s quite intriguing, but the main character is annoying. He rambles too much, is judgmental to the point of cynicism, and places inappropriate significance on sex. I found myself wishing he would hurry up and tell the story, instead of stopping every few sentences to give us his disparaging and unsympathetic judgement of the materialistic world that he is a part of (I mean, if you hate your work and everyone in it that much, do something about it, don’t just complain about it). The past memories concerning Neil Young were sweet, but boring. I skimmed through that bit (in the same way I would skim through a page of Tolkein describing the entire history of some river. Obviously the writer is passionate, but that alone is not enough to make me care). But all in all, it’s an entertaining read. It feels like there is a soul beneath all the dense loathing.
PL: The story’s not the thrust. Never was. You do get that, right? And you also realize that one can never, under any circumstances, overemphasize sex. It’s the elephant in the corner in 90% of the decisions we make in this world.
As to the rest, thank you. But keep this in mind with criticism. Never use this line: “…enough to make me care.” It’s akin to saying, “I teach creative writing to ninth graders.” It also brands you a narcissist, ripping the legs out from under the rest of your comments. The better way to make that criticism is to say, “It bored me.” That’s a universally understandable reaction. As to “caring,” no one knows what causes any anonymous commenter to care or not care about something. Using that phrase, personalizing the critique in that regard, suggests a less than admirable level of self-importance.
Always keep in mind when offering views on art to the public, the audience’s eye matters, not yours. When considering whether to go with a general or personal observation, always take the former.
I agree with Jack. Too meandering. The part about the hearing loss should be one sentence, and the problem with yapping about Young for half of the essay is that you don’t have any more musical authority than your audience. In past essays your tangents were seamless/interesting enough that I was willing to tolerate your slamming the brakes on the narrative. This one didn’t make it. Keep it moving or give us confidence that the divergence is worth it.
PL: I’m missing credibility of a music critic? From what vending machine should I have procured the necessary certification?
The divergence is worth it if you get it. If you don’t get it… If the Young paragraphs don’t resonate for you, selah… That installment wasn’t your thing. But your confidence, or lack thereof, is not my issue. Hence, my recommendation to Sherry (Jack’s the comment above) that the better critique is to just say, “The Young thing bored me.” That’s reasonable. Confidence, on the other hand, is a personal matter. Not the stuff of criticism.
As to “moving it along,” when I go linear, I’d only hope to lose the ability to manipulate a keyboard as well. The concept that it’s the story or punchline rather than the writing, or delivery, is a major part of what’s driven the quality of entertainment to its present location.
Think you’re on to something good here, PL. Culture’s a shared experience; anyone who wasn’t around to see the man play probably won’t care that much. I’m a decade removed (not to mention leaving the USA permanently as a teenager) from the pop culture you’re discussing, so I rarely find myself compelled to comment on those parts of your articles. For me, though, what keeps me coming back is that there are very few people who are able to paint such a clear picture of a culture in the way you do – you’ve an eye for all the little details that matter. Whether or not I personally feel connected in any way to your cultural references isn’t really the point. In any case, the destination could never be the focus of any good contemporary American writing. After all, who in the States, these days, has a story to tell that is genuinely fascinating by itself AND true? You do a great job of presenting the meaningless, ridiculous corporate existence in a way that might even get people to do more of what they should have done all along to cope – laughing not only at what’s around them, but also at themselves.
PL: And this is why your comments are always a welcome addition. It’s all in the picture, and as to Americans having nothing to say, Eureka. We’re lazy, overfed, overindulged, overmedicated and mixture of mis- and under-educated. No shit we’ve little to talk about. What binds us? Twitter? American Idol? The unbearable lightness of a Michelob Ultra buzz?
The take-away is all in the picture. The punchline, the linear progression? Fine and dandy things, but always secondary.
Nice to have you back. The Dr. Dre inclusion is pure left field.
PL: Chronic 2000 is brilliant.
um, did you just admit your wife isn’t “absurdly hot” way up top there?
Does she read your website???
That lady must have some pretty thick skin.
PL: No. Respectfully, I think you might be transferring the way you read it to my wife. Perception’s reality, etc… I do that a lot myself. And I’m always amazed to hear what people take away from things I write. I have a stack of emails about the book that utterly confound me. People get so many personal messages from stuff I could never have imagined.
She reads a lot of the stuff. We’re absolutely open with each other about everything in our past. We’re each friends with a few of each other’s exes. But yes, she’s thick skinned. So am I. We’ve had the discussion about which boyfriend had the biggest penis and she’s been very candid about me being #3. I have no comeback because she’s still got the best ass of any chick I’ve been with.
I personally thought the Neil bit was
fantastic. His musical appeal spans generations, your endorsement was fun, thought engaging, and entertaining. There’s not a single thing wrong with this piece of writing in my view.. Well, except the “to be continued.”
I’m now eagerly awaiting your next installment.
PL: Agreed. I liked it myself, and it’s inexcusable for me to have taken so long to acknowledge the man.
U2 and credibility in the same sentence? That sanctimonious rubbish? Once you have your own Ipod commercial I think you can be fairly shuffled into rank alongside the Nickelbacks and Beyonces.
PL: Lighten up, Francis. Yeah, Bono’s a cheesy ham. But “Red Hill” is a good song.
Great stuff on Neil Young here, I’ve never heard him described so correctly. And I agree with you–Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere is definitely his finest record. If you want to read a good piece about Neil Young, circa 1980, Cameron Crowe wrote an excellent article called “The Last American Hero” for Rolling Stone, back when they didn’t give the Jonas Brothers four out of five stars. From what I remember about it, it speaks to a lot of the points you mentioned:
http://www.rollingstone.com/artists/neilyoung/articles/story/9102787/cover_story_neil_young_the_last_american_hero
And that one album you mentioned, Trans, from the early 1980s is pretty hilarious. It’s not terrible, just very strange.
PL: Thanks. That’s a great link.