Month: July 2009

Reprimand
During one game of “ball tag” in fourth grade, I threw a 2′ diameter rubber ball at my friend Juan. It impacted him square in the chest. He fell 5 feet and landed on his ass. Juan fell from the playground structure that the “not-it” players used for cover. Obviously, the only times we could engage in this game was when the recess-lady wasn’t looking. So, when Juan–humiliated and being the sore loser I did not yet know he was–ran up to me and kicked me in the shin, there was no adult around to break up our soon-to-follow altercation. In each other’s face and hurling threats back and forth, the bell rang before we could make good on them.

Juan decided to continue the spectacle in class. The substitute that day sent us both to the principal’s office where we were both suspended. Last I saw Juan, he had just gotten jumped into his gang, following his expulsion from junior high.

A Close Call
Growing up in a town seething with homophobia, I heard the word “fag” often from any early age onward. Apparently, slurs are not something covered in 7th grade sex ed., because by that time I had only a vague idea of what the term actually meant. Though based on the reactions the term elicited from those called it, I knew it was derogatory.

Waiting in the hall to be let into math class, I decided to experiment with the term myself. David, a classmate of mine who had always been kind to me, had been called “fag” often. I figured: “What was the harm if I did it too?”

So I did.

This angered our mutual friend Ari, who consequently ran up to my desk and tipped it over with me in it. Mr. Moore, without so much as blip in blood pressure, promptly escorted Ari and me to the principal’s office. This time I was not suspended. However Mr. McDougal did an excellent job of making me realize what an asshole I had been.

Scott-free
Mr. Hanks was an important man at Woodland Senior High School. He was 6’5″ of Nebraska corn-fed muscle that commanded Woodland’s varsity football team. When he stood raising his fist at school pep-rallies, he resembled a Mortal Kombat character who just performed his signature Fatality™.

Unfortunately, Mr. Hanks’ talent for coaching had not yet bled into his capacity for teaching. My senior year, he was charged the painful task of teaching AP US Government/Economics to us “Gifted and Talented” smart asses–the vast majority of whom did not appreciate football or foster school spirit.

Near the end of the year, Mr. Hanks split the class into halves: buyers and sellers. For a week, students, depending on their randomly-assigned role, would either buy or sell stocks (actually scraps of paper with monetary values written on them). I was a buyer…and I sucked at it. My apathetic ass always trailed the class with the least profits.

Bored, and having just read Germinal and The Grapes of Wrath, I decided to add some reality into Hanks’ ivory-tower simulation by doing what all good Americans do: buy more than I could actually afford. Needless to say, for that last open market, I was hugely popular. To get my attention, my classmate Jamie positioned her “nannies” (see: glossary, A Clockwork Orange) right in my face.

It was glorious.

Mr. Hanks was not amused. I had thoroughly fucked his market trend and his entire simulated economy…single-handed. If you’re reading Mr. Hanks, thank for not sending me to the principal’s office as I deserved, and thank you for exposing my talent for fucking with shit (i.e. scientific investigation).

“…  This is a high fidelity recording.  Steely Dan uses a specially constructed 24-channel tape recorder, a “State-of-the-Art” 36-input computerized-mixdown console, and some very expensive German microphones.  Individual microphone equalization is frowned upon.  The sound created by musicians and singers is reproduced as faithfully as possible, and special care is taken to preserve the band-width and transient response of each performance.  Transfer from master tapes to master lacquers is done on a Neumann VMS 70 computerized lathe equipped with variable pitch, variable depth helium cooled cutting head.  The computer logic circuits of the VMS 70 widen and narrow the grooves on the disc in accordance with its own bizarre electronic mentation for reasons known only to its designers; this accounts for the lovely light and dark patters that can be seen on the surface of the pressing.  Vinylite compound is used.  For best results observe the R.I.A.A. curve.   …”

“… This band has no past.  Literally.  We can tell you some things—a little of this and a bit of that—but CHEAP TRICK is, in fact, a band without a history.
Rick Nielsen, CHEAP TRICK’s lead guitarist (and when we say lead, we’re not kidding: he’s got thirty-five guitars) and Tom Petersson, the band’s bassist, have spent three out to the past five years in Europe.  Having formed the band overseas, the returned home to the U.S. where they have been performing constantly for the past ten years.  “We came back,” says Rick, “because we like the musical climate.”  With them they have brought a melting-pot of ideas and experiences from throughout the world.  “The European thing and being from America,” continues Rick, “brought us together as CHEAP TRICK and because of our travels we were opened up to an enormous number of musical styles.”
Rick was born in Chicago, but certainly spent little time there.  He met Tom, who was born in Sweden and raised somewhere in the hinterlands of America, under somewhat mysterious circumstances.  Together, in search of adventure and new faces to peer at, they zoomed into Europe, wandering throughout Germany, Italy, England and Spain, blowing amps and minds with astonishing frequency.  They finally came to roost in the South of France amidst a warm sunny clime, nubile bodies and a plethora of expatriot American musicians who, having heard of Rick’s and Tom’s brilliant but joyously unsavoury reputations, were continually clamoring to play with them.
There they met the remaining two members of the band, so that to Rick’s hyperthyroid Donald Sutherland and Tom’s warmth and charm were added Robin Zander’s brain-boiling good looks and Bun E. Carlos’ avuncular charm.
Robin, the thin man with a thousand voices—some say he is related to Lon Chaney—was born in either Boston or Kansas City, depending on which day you approach him.
Bun E., short for Bunezuela, hails from Venezuela where he learned his drumming and where his father was an industrialist moving around South America.  His family was instrumental in the building of the Panama Canal to which Bun E., who is fluent in English, comments, “That was a long time ago.”
While in the South of France, CHEAP TRICK came together, but that is not all.  Rick ran into Ken Adamany in a dusty café one day.  They had known each other in America and when Rick told Ken about the group, the latter, being a manager and promoter based in the Midwest, invited the band back to the States.  To Rick, it seemed like the least likely thing to do.  So he did it.
Despite the fact that Rick and the band are highly unconventional, and despite the fact that Rick himself has been described by some who are most certainly knowledgeable as “a high risk in the business,” CHEAP TRICK’s wealth is their music.
Songs, songs, songs.  The band has so many top notch songs that they used to do three separate sets a night of completely different songs.  Now, with the rigors of extensive touring, they know better.  They’ve obviously had to cut it down and the fact is that they recorded twenty-one tunes for their Epic long-player and could have gone on forever.  The band just hasn’t any “B” material.  Nielsen songs such as “Taxman, Mr. Thief,” “Mandocello,” “He’s a Whore” and “Oh, Candy” put pure musicality—richly varied melodies, lyrics of both thought and heart—back into rock’n’roll.
What you are listening to is only one-half of the story.  Because CHEAP TRICK is that rarest of entities, a classic rock’n’roll band, aware that the disk and the concert are two separate theatres.  On stage, their spectacular showmanship combines magically with their musicianship to create a total event.  You’ll be able to see them soon because the band plays 290 dates a year, taking their music to the streets.  And, after all, that’s what rock’n’roll is all about.

Goat Racism

A couple of months ago, my aunt was offered early retirement from her 25+ year tenure as assistant district attorney for Yolo County, CA. She accepted.

Dogs, horses, pigs, steers, turtles, sheep, cats, iguanas comprise the set of pet varieties my aunt has tended in her life. With the sudden abundance of time her retirement affords, not only did she sew five bridesmaid dresses for her daughter’s wedding, she also delivered three kids, the product of her latest pet project, goats. She did not expect to do this. She was careful to pen Billies and nannies separately. But as Spielberg-instructed Jeff Goldblum hammily said: “nature always finds a way…”

As best as she can figure, rutting billy-goat of breed A maneuvered into the pen of breed B does, and the pasture shook. Three half-breed offspring were conceived and carried to term.

Sadly, shortly after their birth, mamma-goat, failing to recognize her kids, withheld her milk from them. One baby goat died.

My aunt now spends here mornings and evenings bottle-feeding the two unfortunate beings; victims of racial discrimination.

Seeds of Animosity

My father and my great uncle Pep (see: Epic) never got along. Whenever I asked why, dad only replied with vague, unsubstantiated descriptions of Pep’s occasional idiosyncrasies –never any specifics. This past weekend he finally let one slip.

Drilling is the act of driving many tons of steel pipe hundreds of feet into the ground while simultaneously removing the displaced clay, sand and gravel “cuttings”. Occasionally, if drilling is hurried, the hole can cave in around the drill pipe. When this happens, the rig cannot generate sufficient upward force to dislodge the stuck pipe (called “tools”). Drillers, reluctantly, must drop explosives down the hole to break free as much of the tens of thousands of dollars worth of tools as they can salvage.

If one is born male in my family, one necessarily spends time in “the Gulag” (i.e. working 12 hour shifts on drilling rigs) at some point in one’s life. It’s our rite of passage. While some Eaton males, myself included, have managed to escape, my dad, my grandfather and my great uncle Pep were not so fortunate–drilling is/was life for them.

Not only did the Z-boys of Dogtown prosper during the drought of ’77, so did the family drilling company. That year, California farmers near and far demanded more water wells than the business could produce. To keep up with demand, drilling was hurried. And during one job, the frenzied pace likely caused a cave in of legendary proportions. Explosives were required.

Because both my grandpa and my dad lacked the guts to even get near nitroglycerin; purchasing and handling of explosive charges laid in the (assumed) capable hands of Pep. Now Pep was a smart man; he usually did things right. In 1977, terrorism must have been as foreign a concept as equal rights for homosexuals because Pep purchased a crate of TNT wholesale with not so much as a driver’s license.

Pep dropped charges down the hole and managed to salvage some of the tools.

Fast forward to 1982. One morning, en route to preschool in a beat up pickup truck typical of the company’s fleet, dad opened the glove compartment and discovered two, long-forgotten sticks of dynamite laying in wait for a sufficient jolt to awaken them.

When dad furiously relayed his discovery to Pep, Pep replied: “take it easy, they’re pretty safe without the blasting caps…”

What a Tangled Conceptual Web My Mind Weaves

Speaking of preschool and goats. Next-door neighbors to my preschool would sacrifice the occasional goat in their backyard. Only a thin wire fence separated our play area from their ritual. According to my mom, after the first bloodletting any hint of goat plus ax would be grounds for immediate indoor story-time.

Wimpy Christians.

I plan to spend the fourth discussing communism. 

Not that I’m a communist.  I’m of the opinion that it is a worse evil than American imperialism.  I do though, advocate change of an extreme kind (i.e. no government whatsoever). 

Am I unpatriotic?  Perhaps.  My lineage has spilled enough blood for America, and it’s present government, to more than make up for my radicalism.

Afterward, the bus will transport my broke ass back to Lake City where I hope to spend the night in peace.