RIP MCA

As much as I thrive on pop culture and the entertainment industry, I’m not usually affected by celebrity deaths. Sure, some are sadder than others, but for the most part, I just shrug them off with a sincere, but hardly sympathetic, statement of, “That’s too bad…” before adding them to my New Year’s playlist (if they were a musician.)

Even the tragic ones, like Princess Di, or the unexpected ones, like Michael Jackson, barely register on my emotions. I suppose I do spend some time reflecting on their careers and contributions, and might make an extra effort to watch their movies or listen to their songs, but I don’t feel a real sense of loss the way I would for a friend or family member.

The last time I remember feeling truly sad over a celebrity death was when Tim Russert died. And the weird thing was, I hardly knew anything about him while he was alive, other than his famous election night coverage with the white board.  But after listening to the interviews, reading reflections from his peers, and watching all the tributes, I found myself feeling a keen sense of loss for a man I had never met, but from the sound of it, one I would’ve liked to have known.

Other than that, River Phoenix, Phil Hartman, and Jerry Garcia are the only others that come to mind as far as having an emotional impact. But even though I followed The Dead for years, and transformed my car into a mobile shrine to Jerry, I think I was mourning more for the loss of a lifestyle than for the man himself. 

So when Adam Yauch, aka MCA, of Beastie Boys fame, passed away at the much too young age of 47, I was surprised by how much it affected me. Certainly the shock had something to do with it, as I was under the impression that his cancer was cured, but there was more to it than that. And from the posts of friends and fans on facebook, I know I wasn’t the only one feeling it.

I was 16 when License to Ill came out. The perfect age to buy into the whole fighting for my right to party and not sleeping ‘til Brooklyn mentality. And buy in I did! To this day, I can still recite every lyric on that album, and do the voices. But like most people at the time, I didn’t consider the Beastie Boys to be particularly talented. They were an entertaining diversion, more like the Three Stooges than a real band. They were a flash in the pan. A one hit wonder.  And I never expected them to follow up the success of their debut album.

(Beastie) Boy was I wrong! Paul’s Boutique was released to great acclaim and much anticipation in the summer of 1989 - but I didn’t get to hear it until I was released from Basic Training a few months later. And as great as it was reuniting with my friends and family, hearing, “I’m Mike D and I’m back from the dead. Chillin’ at the beaches down at Club Med…” was what really welcomed me home.

It turned out that while Uncle Sam was doing his best to make a man out of me, the Beastie Boys had grown up as well. Granted, their lyrics were still silly (“Like Sam the Butcher bringing Alice the meat. Like Fred Flintstone driving round with bald feet.”) but artistically and conceptually, they had clearly stepped it up, forcing many of the critics who had dismissed them as a novelty act to take notice. And I couldn’t help but feel a kinship. When I stepped of that flight from Ft. Benning with my shorn head and sea bag, I looked to all the world like a responsible and respectable young man - little did they know I was pulling on a tie-dye and digging through a dime bag before we had even exited the airport parking lot.

By the time the hair on my head grew back, Check Your Head came out. I was 22, a full-fledged adult. And the Beasties were a full-fledged band, playing instruments on a studio record for the first time. It was like every time I took a step forward, they took a step forward. As my interests changed and matured, so did theirs. They were literally providing the soundtrack of my life – even if the songs themselves held little meaning for me.

I didn’t know Adam, from, well, Adam, but I feel sad about his death. He seemed like a good person who used his notoriety and influence to help others, such as his work with the “Free Tibet” movement. Artists as varied as Annie Lennox to Coldplay to the New York Mets have honored his passing with tributes and statements, and the rest of the world seems to have recognized the lasting contributions he and his band mates have made to music and culture.

In fact, the band was just recently inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.  Too sick to attend the ceremony, Adam wrote a message that was read to the crowd:  “"I’d like to dedicate this award to my brothers, Adam and Mike, who’ve walked the globe with me. To anyone who’s been touched by our band, who our music has meant something to, this induction is as much ours as it is yours. To Kate Schellenbach. To John Berry. To John Berry’s loft on 100th St. and Broadway, where John’s dad would come busting in during our first practices screaming, “Would you turn that fucking shit off already!” To my loving and supportive parents, Noel and Frances Yauch, and to our home in Brooklyn where we used to practice on hot Brooklyn summer days after school, windows wide open to disturb the neighborhood. But most of all I’d like to thank and dedicate this honor to my smart, beautiful, loving wife Dechen and our sweet, talented, loving daughter [Tenzin] Losel. Never has a man felt more blessed than I to be able to spend my time with my two soul mates. I love you guys more than you know. I wish I could name everyone who deserves naming, but of course there’s too many names to name. You know who you are, and I sent my love out to all of you. Your friend, Adam Yauch."

I like how he signed it, because even though I never met the man, he was my friend.

"Well I got to keep it going keep it going full steam/ Too sweet to be sour too nice to be mean/ On the tough guy style I'm not too keen/ To try to change the world I will plot and scheme"- MCA, on Intergalactic

PT in Pink

I’ve been going to physical therapy twice a week for the past month to rehab a shoulder injury, and even after 8+ hours of it, I STILL giggle seeing grown men struggling to lift teeny tiny pink one-pound weights – and that includes the man in the mirror: Me!

For those fortunate enough not to have had the pleasure, PT (physical therapy to the cool kids) offers very little in the way of privacy.  There are typically 5 or 6 other people, with various injuries/surgeries, working out at the same time, while several staff members flit about, calling out corrections and suggestions from across the room as they stretch out some poor patient’s newly replaced hip.

And there is nothing hip about the exercises. Most seemed designed by mimes using equipment found at a yard sale. When I tore my Achilles, I spent a lot of time picking up marbles with my toes - but only after perfecting the scrunching up the towel with my toes routine. I’ve seen people doing embarrassing things with pool noodles and averted my eyes at the ones asked to squat until their butt hits a bucket. It's like that "Minute to Win It" show, minus the hope of prizes.

I start my shoulder sessions with the Finger Walk, which is basically doing the Itsy Bitsy Spider with my left hand “climbing” up a post.  Then I sit in an old office chair and raise and lower a set of weightless clothesline pulleys for three minutes. Next comes some multi-colored rubber bands that I stretch and pull in various positions, each time flinching in fear of them snapping back at me. Then it’s on to the pink weights, which are seriously the size of a stick of butter, and utterly ridiculous looking. Fortunately, during my last session, I was told that I’d gotten so good with the pink one-pounders, next time I could move up the orange two-pound ones. I was so proud, I forgot the fact that by my 25^th rep with the pinks, my arms were shaking so much I was actually looking forward to my table work. 

On the table, I’m subjected to several painful stretches at the hands of a very pleasant, but firm, therapist who assures me that she is restoring my mobility by doing something to my shoulder capsule that reduces restrictions. But, the words I want to shout as she manipulates my arm are for a restricted audience only. And the half-dozen others in the room.  Many of whom have no such qualms about voicing their pain and discomfort.

Once I’m stretched, it’s back to more exercise. The therapist likes to save this time to introduce new movements, such as last week, when I had to “write” the alphabet on the wall with a small kickball. At first, the hardest part was remembering how write cursive, but by the time I got to P, I was cursing like a pro.  Another time I had to stand on one of the large rubber bands and pull it up and across my chest until I was holding it aloft like a sword, as if I were some sort of Pilates Pirate.

Each session ends with the relatively relaxing rolling of a giant yoga ball back and forth across the table, followed by ten minutes of ice time, where I pretend to read old issues of People and Us Weekly while sneaking glances at the muscle-bound black guy struggling to lift his petite pink weights.

“Wimp,” I think. “Wait until you get to orange!”

Packing It In

I’m not what anyone would consider sentimental (semi-mental, maybe), so rare is the occasion where I feel emotional towards an inanimate object. It probably helps that I don’t hold on to things long enough to develop an attachment to them, nor do I buy stuff expressly for that purpose.  I don’t seek out souvenirs while on vacation. I don’t purchase concert shirts at shows. I throw out my son’s artwork with abandon and have no issue donating his used things to needy families.

My wife, on the other hand, won't even let me throw out the frozen pouch of breast milk that’s been in the back of our freezer for the past three years, and she is the reason our Christmas trees are in constant danger of collapsing because EVERY ornament we own is special and needs to be displayed.

That being said, I am having misgivings about parting with a particular item: the L.L. Bean backpack that I’ve had since 1991, a Christmas gift from a former girlfriend’s sister (a long story that has nothing to do with why I’m attached to it.)

And the legendary L.L. Bean workmanship and styling has nothing to do with it either, for while it is certainly serviceable, it is not exactly fashionable. But neither am I. And since it was the only one I had, I used it. For everything.

But after 20 years of daily use through all sorts of work and weather, it was starting to fall apart. And smell. Bad. So this Christmas I put it out there that I could use a new one, and my wife came through with the latest model from the Bean.

I was happy with my gift, and glad for the modern updates, but as I went about the task of transferring over the decades of bike tools and other “essential” items my old one contained, a funny thing happened. I started to feel sad.

Most of the stuff wasn’t even all that useful: a Quantas “survival pack” that consisted of socks, sleep mask, toothbrush, and tiny tube of toothpaste leftover from my trip to Australia ten years ago. A plastic army man found on the ground at a Dead show in Vermont. Several rocks from various beaches that I thought must have looked cool at one time. A half dozen dried up pens. About $5 in coins, remnants of a time when a payphone provided my link to home in an emergency. A bunch of beer caps. A pin commemorating Shea Stadium. And a permanent handicapped parking pass that I found on the side of the road and had always planned to turn in.

Not exactly a treasure trove or time capsule, and except for the bike tools, nothing that I felt the need to include in my new pack. Whatever had compelled me to lug that stuff around for the past however many years no longer seemed logical. But as useless as it all was, I had a hard time throwing it away.

And that’s so not like me.

Typically I would have tossed the whole thing in the trash without a second thought, but I just couldn’t do it. I tried. I opened the lid, lifted the smelly sack by its dry-rotted straps, and prepared to drop it in. But I just couldn’t do it. I eventually got around to discarding the crap inside, and have not felt any pangs of loss for my plastic army man. But the backpack is proving tougher to get rid of. I know I’ll never use it again, but I just feel bad about ditching it.

It has been with me on thousands of bike rides, hundreds of day trips, and dozens of vacations. It attended 10 years of college, without earning so much as an Associate’s.  It’s been under the bright lights of Vegas and in the shadows of Stonehenge. It’s been to the top of Mount Katahdin in Maine and the bottom of a volcano in New Zealand. It was with me and my brother on our road trip West, where we followed Historic Route 66 and hit all the hot spots in between. From the Grand Canyon to Grand Cayman, anywhere I’ve gone, it’s gone.

Hospitals. Book Readings. Graduations.

Canada. The Caribbean. Mexico.

Weddings. Reunions. Rehearsals.

From the times when I could leave it unattended at the top of the Empire State Building to the Post 9-11 world where it’s subject to search in a supermarket, it’s been there.

And now it’s done. The years of sun and sand and sweat have taken their toll, and not even the industrious elves from L.L. Bean can save it.

But I can.

Don’t get me wrong. I can’t fix it or restore it to its former glory. But I can make a place for it in the back of my closet. It’s had my back for so many years, it’s time to repay the favor.

Thar She Blows!

“Call me Ishmael. Some years ago--never mind how long precisely --having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off--then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.”

So begins Moby Dick, Melville’s classic novel about a deranged captain’s search for an elusive white whale. And while I consider myself more an Ishmael than an Ahab, I have spent the past twenty years hunting a white whale of my own. Only my hunting grounds were the woods. And my prey was a ghost train…

I’ve been hiking the same trail my entire adult life, through all seasons and every type of weather, usually alone. There have been times where I’ve walked it daily for several weeks in a row, and others where it might be once every other month. On average, I’d say I’m out there about once a week. But the exact number isn’t important, so let's just say I’ve tramped that path at least 1000 times.

It’s a 5-mile loop through a heavily wooded area that features valleys, cliffs, nice views of the Housatonic River, lots of rock features, and a ½ mile section that follows some old abandoned train tracks near the Stevenson Dam. Or at least I thought they were abandoned…until the first time I heard the whistle of the ghost train.

I call it this because, while I've heard it many times, I’ve never actually seen it. I’ve spotted dozens of deer, tons of turkeys, a few fox, and even the occasional fellow hiker – but what I longed to see was the ghost train.

Many times I’ve been halfway up the mountain when I’d hear the mournful whistle, but by the time I scrambled to the top, within sight of the tracks, it would be gone.

Other times I’d be deeper in the woods, too far from the tracks to make a real run at it, but the whistle would ride the wind, haunting (and taunting) me from a mile away.

Some times I’d be past the train tracks when I heard it, too far to turn back. But most infuriating were the times when I was right there – a couple hundred yards or so away– close enough to send me sprinting through the woods, heedless of the branches whipping at my face and rocks threatening to twist my ankles, only to arrive panting at the train tracks with not a train in sight.

Which brings me to the weird part: other than the whistle, the train left no proof of its passing. In the winter, the snow-covered tracks would still be snow covered after it had gone by. Come fall, sticks and branches strewn across the tracks would still be there, unbroken, even though they were directly in the path of the train.

It was kind of creepy.

And until now, I've kept it to myself. For twenty long years, I silently sought the mysterious train. Deep down, I knew it wasn’t really a ghost. And I figured there was probably a logical explanation for its seemingly strange existence. But rather than ask around or research train schedules, I kept my solitary watch in hopes of a real sighting. Unlike Ahab, I wasn’t obsessed with my search. Just moderately preoccupied. But, as it turns out, I was like him in that I didn’t have a leg to stand on…

The mystery was solved just the other day, when I was actually walking on the tracks when I heard the whistle blow. Finally, I thought, as I calmly stepped off to the side and peered down the tracks for my long-awaited first look at the passing train. Let’s get a look at this sucker.

But there was nothing there.

Holy crap, I thought. For a fleeting second thinking it really was a ghost! But then I heard the whistle again. And that’s when I realized what it was.

Directly across the river from the train tracks is the Stevenson Dam. A large dam that holds back Lake Zoar. A large dam with floodgates that are routinely opened. The opening of which is signaled with a loud siren to alert those down river of the wall of water that will soon to be rushing their way. A loud siren that sounds sort of like a train whistle to an idiot in the woods.

So call me Ishmael. It’s better than Dumbass

Stolen Moments

Other than the time the janitor threw my bike in the dumpster*, I’ve been leaving it unlocked and unattended in the school parking lot without incident for the past ten years. And during that same time, I’ve also been leaving my iPod (or the latest incarnation of it) out in plain sight of my staff and students as well.  Again, without incident. And while it would be a large financial loss, and major inconvenience, should either of them ever get stolen, I really don’t worry about such things.

But it seems like every other week I have to justify my seemingly carefree attitude to others, who stop me to question how I could not lock up my bike, hide my iPod, etc. And I always tell them the same thing: I’m too lazy. They usually shake their heads and offer a smug smile, seeming almost happy with the thought that someday, someone will steal my bike and teach me a lesson. But the truth is, I’m really just too lazy to explain the real reason to them. In fact, I’M the one with the lesson to teach.

You see, I believe this whole notion of security, be it a bike lock, home alarm system, handgun, or guard dog, only serves to make us feel more insecure. I know an ounce of prevention is supposed to be worth a pound of cure, but a cure isn’t worth much if you’re not sick. And living in fear that there are thieves and murderers lurking around every corner is, well, sort of sick to me. 

Do you know how much time I spend worrying about my stuff getting stolen? Absolutely none. But I bet many of you who DO make the effort to lock up your bikes or type in a pass codes to your alarm system then go on to worry about all the ways people could bypass your security measures to get at your stuff. Am I right? I don’t want to get too philosophical, but when you chain things up like that, you’re chaining yourself to them. As for me, I’m carefree and confident that my things will still be there when I get back (unless that damn janitor is around!)

So while you are lying in bed at night feeling “safe” that should a robber attempt to break in, your alarm will sound and scare them off, I’ll be in my bed sleeping soundly, since I’m not even thinking about robbers. Unlike my poor father-in-law, who will be up all night worrying about the robbers who are going to read this and then come rob me!

Point is, security is supposed to give you peace of mind, but I find more peace in not expecting the worst from people. Not that I think people are so wonderful and trustworthy, just that the jerks among us seem to take more interest in the things we protect rather than the things we let be. Think about “Wet Paint” signs. If people really wanted that freshly painted bench to go untouched until it dries, they’d be better off hanging a sign that says, “Touch Me!” And rather than posting that “NO TRESPASSING” sign, put one up that says, “Hey Kids, Skateboard Here!” and see what happens. So by locking up you’re stuff, what you’re really saying is, “I have stuff worth stealing.”

What it really comes down to is, I just don’t see the sense in worrying about all the things that could go wrong or might happen. I’d rather spend my time enjoying the things that are happening. Screw those people who say shit like, “If you gave up your daily trip to Dunkin Donuts, and saved the money instead, you’d have $1000 at the end of the year.” To me, if a two-dollar cup of coffee makes your day a little better, good for you! Enjoy it! Which is why, as much as I enjoy the freedom I feel while riding my bike, and as pissed as I’d be if someone stole it, I’m willing to take that chance rather than give up the real freedom of feeling truly secure.

*****************************************************************

*Every morning, I hop off my bike and let it fall into the tall grass that borders the school’s property. I am such a creature of habit, it usually winds up in the same spot in the same position every day. Which is why a few years ago, a new custodian at our school assumed the bike was abandoned. Every morning he’d drive in and see it laying in the grass, and after a few weeks, decided to do something about it. Namely, toss it in the dumpster! Luckily I retrieved it before the garbage truck did.

A Dirty Job

The call went out, and when someone like Ralph asks for help, the call gets answered. Ralph is the sort of guy who busts his ass 24/7 maintaining a beautiful home and thriving business, yet he is never too busy to help someone else. Whether it’s helping you have a good time at a party or helping you move a pool table, he is always there to lend a hand. So when the call came that he needed help consolidating his two buildings, Valley Electric Supply and Valley Lighting, under one roof, we all wanted to pitch in.

Problem is, none of us had a fucking clue what to do!

When we arrived, we found ourselves in one of those situations where there was SO much work to do, there was almost nothing to do. And with only a handful of people with an actual clue as to where things went, what they were, etc, the rest of us were left fighting over the one or two jobs that we could handle without screwing up too badly.

I successfully stole Robin’s job of shelving the “Arlington” products and spent the next two hours scouring the incoming pallets for the distinctive A logo. Once that was done, I enviously eyed Geof as he put up the drill bit display while trying to look busy breaking down whatever empty boxes I could find and dragging pallets back to the loading dock.

During one such trip, I was given a “real” job: organizing and stocking the warehouse’s light bulb and outdoor electrical supply section, and, regrettably, the ballast area - which, for the uninitiated, is some gravity defying heavy stuff. Imagine something the size of a box of Pop Tarts that weighs close to forty pounds. And that was the light stuff! No pun intended.

But, with MUCH assistance from Rusty, I somehow managed to do a halfway decent job, all while learning a thing or two about electrical equipment. I hadn’t asked so many “what’s this?” and “where’s this go?” questions since Father/Son Night in elementary school.

Speaking of sex, a large portion of the day was dedicated to goofing on all the sexually explicit names given to the mundane materials. We giggled like schoolgirls over things like butt splices and tool lube. We found hot dipped nipples and two-hole rigid straps incredibly amusing. There was a giant bulb that promised” high energy discharge” and a multi-gang box that sounded downright slutty.

Chances are, none of the items ended up in the proper spot, but we did manage to empty the old warehouse and fill the new one, so that’s a start. Right? I can only hope that what we accomplished was at least of some assistance to Ralph, for he greatly deserves it. But if not, he knows where to find me (unlike, say, the boxes of lugs that I stocked!)

I'll Wait, Because You Really DON'T Got Me!

I was a pretty big Van Halen fan back in the day. I spent hours listening to their albums while trying to draw the perfect VH symbol on my notebooks and book covers - but never on my jean jacket (though I’m not sure if it was because I was too cool, or just too afraid I’d mess it up!)

Speaking of messing things up, I even stuck with them through “5150,” when Sammy Hagar showed up and pussified their sound.  That is until I found Tesla’s “Mechanical Resonance” and realized I didn’t need Van Hagar anymore. Besides, to me, the real Van Halen will always be the David Lee Roth led version. 

But any thoughts I might have had about checking out the recent reunion efforts were quickly quelled when I saw who they would be touring with for their big comeback….

Kool & The Gang

Yes, you heard me right. The mighty Van Halen will have Kool & The Gang as their opening act.  And while I have nothing against the band and their music, and in fact , really like “Jungle Boogie” and “Get Down on It,” they are not a rock band by any means.  For one thing, they have an ampersand in their name! Umlauts are cool. Ampersands, not so much.  And then there's this...

Point is, after seeing such a double bill, I didn’t even have to listen to the “new” VH album to know it was going to suck. So rather than waste my money and taint my fond memories, I’m just going to go back to 1978 (and “1984”) and enjoy some real music.  Seems like everything was cooler back then. Even Kool & the Gang!