Loss

The most morose example of change being the only constant I can offer is death. Yes, death. And as the features of my mortality become ever-clearer, it's only natural that I take note of those taking their leave. Particularly those who, by virtue of their work as a musician, actor or as a writer, indelibly shaped my life and attitudes.

Musicians seem to have been particularly hard-hit lately, with music-makers known and sadly unknown having passed. Loretta Lynn. Mimi Parker. Jeff Beck. Tom Verlaine. Jerry Lee Lewis. Christine McVie. David Crosby. Hamish Kilgour.

I can't say I was a giant fan of all of them, but as with any good work, their talents survived both fashion and time. Not an easy thing to do.

Take Christine McVie. Amid the 24/7 drama surrounding Fleetwood Mac in the late-seventies, McVie seemed a low-key and fairly grounded personality in the maelstrom that surrounded the band. Yet her singing and keyboard work were essential ingredients in their success.

Next to the vocal histrionics of band-mate Stevie Nicks, her plaintive, erstwhile vocals took on a powerful appeal. She reminded me of the teammate you didn't know you missed until they were gone.

Parker and Kilgour weren't huge stars, but each contributed immeasurably to their band's sound. Imagine “Words” (my favorite Low song) without her. Or “Anything Could Happen” without Hamish. It's difficult.

Tom Verlaine wasn't a star, either. Like Parker and Kilgour, he tended towards the cult artist end of things. While critically renowned, Television wasn't on everyone's lips, even in the musical hot bed of 1977. But those who knew, knew. His knotted, asymmetrical guitar work contrasted brilliantly with band mate Richard Lloyd, and their music was merely unforgettable.

After Television imploded, he went on to a solo career and recorded much that is deserving of your time.

I came to Loretta Lynn late, even having seen Coal Miner's Daughter back in the day. In the nineteen-sixties, she was scoring hits by recording feminist anthems before the vast majority of us even knew what feminism was. Even more miraculously, she was having them on country and western radio.

Yep. To paraphrase an old Panasonic tagline, Lynn was just slightly ahead of her time.

(For a lighthearted counter-weight to that weighty significance, check the duet she sang with Conway Twitty “You're the Reason Our Kids are Ugly”)

I was aware of David Crosby before I knew who he was. The Byrds had a great run of singles in the mid-sixties, and “Eight Miles High” was a ground breaker. And Crosby, just entering the zenith of his career, played a large part in it.

But the first-generation Byrds were splintering, and there didn't seem to be a part for Crosby in the new C&W edition.

Timing is everything goes a popular expression. And Crosby served as proof, encountering two other blokes also in-between-bands. Graham Nash, ex-of the Hollies and Stephen Stills, a former Buffalo Springfield, needed gigs.

Somewhere along the line, the trio realized “Why not create our own gig?” And so Crosby, Stills & Nash were born. Decry their politics, their embrace of the hippie ethos or the epic, ego-driven battles they suffered, some great music came out of those three.

Jeff Beck first excited my hormones way back in the nineteen-sixties via his work in the Yardbirds. I wasn't privy to the internal politics going on within the band, but his work on songs like “Over Under Sideways Down” left an indelible impression.

As I grew and learned more about the music quickly becoming an obsession, I discovered the Clapton-Beck-Page succession that happened within the Yardbirds. Furthermore, the guy who really moved me was a guy named Jeff Beck.

And just as I was learning a re-appreciation of his work, his was embarking on a solo career that would yield the most-definitive work of his career.

Blow By Blow and Wired remain two of my favorite examples of fusion, a genre that has sadly fallen on hard times and even suffered critical dismissal. But I point our that musicians as esteemed as Herbie Hancock and Miles Davis weren't too proud to investigate it, recording some of the best, most invigorating music of their careers.

So there.

What can one say about Jerry Lee Lewis in 2023? He was one of rock and roll's most- dangerous personalities at a time when rock and roll itself was considered a viable societal threat. Yes, the tightly-wound conformity of the nineteen-fifties was deeply afraid.

Not that Jerry Lee couldn't play. Au contraire, my friend. Mr. Lewis could play the ivory out of a piano's keys without breaking a sweat. In that first storm of rock and roll, he was a force of nature.

As were all of them.

The Shitshow of Online Dating

Like you, I have been told repeatedly that the way to meet people these days is online. Everybody's doing it. Knowing as I do that social media is stuffed with fakes, frauds and trolls, I wasn't eager to participate.

But more-desperate than I cared to admit, I enrolled with three different sites over the past eight months (not simultaneously). Their names have been withheld to protect the guilty.

My first bit of advice is that if you are male, run away.

Run away in the opposite direction as quickly as your central nervous system will allow. This because if you are a male on a dating site, you are one of three things: a child molester, a serial rapist or a gigolo expert in defrauding lonely divorcees and widows of their assets.

Guilty until proven innocent is a good start.

More to the point, you should consider this: the Puritans believed the best way to determine whether a woman was a witch was to tie her up, weigh her body down with stones and then cast her into a body of water.

If she undid her bindings and rose up out of the water, she must be tied up (again!) and burned at the stake. And if she remained under water? She was not a witch.

Yeah.

And that's with the women presumably seeking a partner.

Then there are the attention whores.

There are attractive women at every age. Some are especially attractive. If their personality profiles seemed a good fit with mine, I would contact them as well.

But just as people in the early days of Facebook would work to accumulate the biggest number of followers as opposed to actual friends, many of these women seek only the greatest number of responses from men.

But know this—that is the end of their interest in you. You are merely a notch on their cyber bed post.

Naturally, these critiques inevitably invoke questions. Questions like “Ever consider they just weren't interested in you?”

Of course.

In any gathering of people, you are going to be liked by some, disliked by others and might fail to even register an impression either way with others. It's a dynamic we encounter everywhere, everyday.

I get it.

I never, ever expected to become “Man of the Month” on any of these sites. But I did possess a realistic expectation that I would encourage some interest. That there would be a woman, somewhere, who would be interested. Or at least curious.

Nope.

Let me say that I am a decent looking guy. I have all my teeth. I have just one nose, correctly positioned in the middle of my face. Ten fingers, ten toes. I am self-supporting. Healthy. I don't possess a record. I own my own home. And genuinely like women.

I am kind. Respectful. Responsible. And like you, I'm not adverse to a good time. I love to dance. Eat. Watch movies, read books and listen to music. Volunteer. I love listening to people's stories. I love getting to know them.

Oh, that's right. I am also a predator, a rapist and a swine. (I keep forgetting.)

So if you're a man looking for a partner, this is the landscape you'll encounter. Good luck. Given my experience, if this is the way people are meeting today, loneliness will become a growth stock. Invest now. 

And what of birth control devices?

“Cancel!”

The crowning blow came from a woman who asked me if I'd had any dates. I told her I hadn't even had a conversation. An actual date was very, very hard to imagine.

She went on to detail the dates she'd had with three different men. It was not nice. It teetered into a full-blown rant as she described them as users, bitter divorcees and men who needed someone to maintain or entertain them until the ideal victim presented herself.

I told her I was sorry for these experiences and meant it. But I soon became aware of another truth. With the assumption that this women had provided accurate descriptions of these men, character deficits notwithstanding, they were getting dates.

I was home.

What's wrong with this picture?

I became angry. I wanted to write her back and say “Good for you. Your obviously unassailable character assessments have led to multiple dates with men who left you feeling bereft and used. Well played!

But you know what the real tragedy is? That would have been if you engaged in conversation with me. Or—gasp—we'd actually gone on a date. It's too unspeakable to even acknowledge. Oh, the horror!”

With this new realization in mind, I at last understood what an endless expanse of waste dating web sites are. (Unless of course you are mentally ill or harbor a need for masochism, in which case I would urge you to enroll in as many sites as you can manage.)

And as badly I feel for the woman who texted me about her dates, I wonder if she is someone prone to unconsciously picking men who seemed familiar to her—like exes. Studies show that we frequently will opt for something uncomfortable-yet-familiar as opposed to something completely different and unfamiliar.

It is entirely possible she continues to date her exes. No wonder the dates don't go well.

But that isn't my problem, is it? What I'm left with is the fact I reached out to something like three-dozen women and had one tepid response. (And no, that doesn't include the ranter.) Not great odds. 

In the end, these sites are for attention whores and former spouses seeking revenge on the opposite sex. And I, unfortunately, am neither.

Goodbye. 

 

The Curious Case of Carlos Corrrea

 From my vantage point, Carlos Correa is a highly-talented ballplayer. Distinguished? A deserving all-star? Definitely Can't imagine the team who wouldn't welcome him into their locker room.

Correa plays shortstop, a position demanding extraordinary flexibility, balance, quickness and a throwing arm that is both powerful and accurate. Correa is no slouch at the plate, either. Correa sports a lifetime batting average of .279 and an OPS of .836. His calculated WAR over a 162 game schedule is 7.2.

All are well above average.

So in a free-agent market, it stands that Correa—at age 28—is certainly going to attract attention.

Which he has.

But however talented a two-way player he is, there are questions about his durability. Over his eight-year career, he has played in just 888 games. That's an average of 111 games a year, or about two-thirds of the MLB schedule.

Expected to be offered a Grade-A ginormous contract, Correa landed one. The San Francisco Giants offered him a thirteen-year contract for 350 million-dollars. Translated, that means he'd be earning 26.9 million-dollars per season through the age of forty.

I should clarify that I have no bone to pick with Correa. He has become a significant player at a very difficult position. And as pointed out earlier, he can field and hit. And if Giants owner Charles Johnson wants to drop 771,617 pounds of dollar bills into Correa's lap, Correa would be a fool to refuse it.

But then something happened.

In contrast to the dozens of MLB owners who mindlessly dispense decades-long contracts for hundreds of millions of dollars, the Giants paused and activated their brains. And if that isn't shocking enough, know the Giants backed out of the deal, stating there were medical issues that prohibited them from moving forward.

Ignoring the lack of precedent, Correa's agent (the insufferable Scott Boras) immediately dialed up the free-spending owner of the New York Mets. Informed of the newly-available Correa, owner Steve Cohen immediately offered Correa a nearly identical contract.

And then something happened—again.

While perusing Correa's medical record, the Mets happened upon the same issue that stopped the Giants in their tracks. And their offer remains unsigned as well. I'm sure Correa and Boras are very, very frustrated.

I'm an old guy. Been following baseball for over half-a-century. While initially excited by free-agency, salaries have become an absurd joke. And while neophytes might wonder how these teams pay these enormous salaries, the answer is they don't.

You do.

And as a result, baseball (like other sports) has become increasingly inaccessible to the people at the core of its fandom.

So I'm heartened to see owners engaging their brains before rubber-stamping contracts that are—at best—questionable. And before you label me as anti-labor, know that the era of grossly underpaid professional athlete ended roughly forty-years ago.

Yes, theoretically baseball players ought to be able to make any amount of money possible—just like you. And yes, baseball owners ought to be able to pay their employees whatever amount the market will bear.

The problem is that baseball remains a consumer product, dependent on millions and millions of fans being able to consume it. And the more out of reach the game becomes, the harder it will be to locate the legions of followers required for its survival.

I hope this contract re-think is only the first of many to come. And if my views upset Correa and Boras, please remind them that if I regularly showed up for work just two-thirds of the time, I wouldn't be negotiating a thirteen-year, 350 million-dollar contract.

I'd be unemployed.

Merry Christmas

Ah, the big day. Christmas.

Once more set against a world rich in turmoil, its message of love and goodwill seem almost childishly naive. Perhaps they have endured because all of us, whether or not we make our feelings public, wish for them.

Rancor and divisiveness are exhausting.

Peace, understanding and cooperation are not.

Just a thought.

 

Anything Can Happen, and It Probably Will

It took me a long time to get to New Zealand. Not in terms of actual travel, but musically. In terms of the pop music that existed there practically unknown to the rest of the world. Sure, we all knew the music of its neighbor to the west: AC/DC, INXS, Nick Cave, Tame Impala, the Divinyls, Powderfinger, Midnight Oil and the Church.

But New Zealand? Not so much.

I'd like to claim that through my forays into every used record store in Chicago I'd single-handedly unearthed the glories of Straitjacket Fits and the 3Ds and the Tall Dwarfs, but that would be a lie.

Closer to the truth were the multiple volumes of The Trouser Press Record Guide I owned, exhaustively compiled by Ira Robbins. The entry that captivated me most was for a band called the Clean. I immediately set-out to find their two 1982 EPs—unsuccessfully.

Fortunately, a compilation was released about that time, sparing me the anxiety that had accompanied my pursuit of Big Joe Turner and LaVern Baker LPs. I was enchanted, and eventually found their EPs as well as two terrifically rare live albums.

I didn't hear the news of Hamish Kilgour's death until a week after it happened. Granted, we're not talking about an A-list celebrity, but given my long-delayed introduction to the music he made with the Clean, it somehow seemed appropriate.

The drummer was reported missing November 27^th and discovered in Christchurch the 29^th. He was 65. No cause of death was given.

He learned the drums by playing along with Velvet Underground records, indicating a desire for something fresh and different. His playing was a big part of the trio's sound, appropriately described as “pulsing, dirty, metallic pop.”

Joined on guitar by his brother David and future Bat Robert Scott, the band clicked big in New Zealand. They toured and played sold-out dates throughout the country.

Then they broke up.

Like so many bands, their influence was larger than their catalogue. In addition to providing the first single for Roger Shepherd and his fledgling record label Flying Nun, the band's inventive, lo-fi sound eventually found its way to fans all over the world.

Contemporary critics credit the Clean with influencing bands like Yo La Tengo, Pavement and Superchunk.

Following the end of the Clean, Kilgour founded the Great Unwashed and later, Bailter Space. By 1988 interest in the Clean had grown to the point where a reunion was arranged. A powerful collection (Compilation) was released which included new songs.

In 1990 Vehicle was released.

Eight years after their two EPs turned New Zealand on its head, the Clean at last had a profile equal to their influence.

But with Hamish now residing in New York City and brother David remaining in New Zealand, new Clean releases were sporadic. In the meantime, Hamish kept busy with a multitude of bands and solo releases.

Kilgour once said, “There's no point worrying too much about the commercial viability of your music. Fads and fashion come and go.” They were words only a non-conformist like Hamish Kilgour could speak.

The best description of the artistry that wound its way through his records was captured in a 2012 interview. “Often in simplicity, you find magic things. You're looking for this magic spot where beats sit.”

In a time marked by the losses of Christine McVie, Loretta Lynn and Mimi Parker, this might be the most regrettable.

Rest in peace, my friend.

Selig, Bonds & Clemens

Like so many other public institutions, the Baseball Hall of Fame has become something of a battleground. Who belongs, who doesn't. Who has been unfairly ostracized, who has been unfairly admitted. The allegations (and the debate) goes on and on and on.

The current disagreement is over the players who benefited from steroid usage. While technically not a rules violation (baseball was notoriously slow to act on their usage), it obviously provided an under the counter advantage for those who imbibed.

Mark McGwire, Barry Bonds, Manny Ramirez, Roger Clemens, Sammy Sosa, Alex Rodriguez, Rafael Palmeiro and Jose Canseco are only the most-prominent names who admitted to using. Dozens (probably hundreds) of others also used them. But even in an era of bloated hitting statistics, steroids didn't turn everyone into Mickey Mantle.

Which is fundamental to the pro-steroids argument. Bonds and Clemens would've made the Hall of Fame, anyway. Why should they be punished for enhancing their skill set?

And I agree. To the first part, anyway. Both enjoyed notable and highly-successful beginnings to their careers. But as we were to see, that wasn't enough. It didn't matter that Bonds was a Gold Glove All-Star and a perpetual MVP candidate. Or that Clemens was a consistent Cy Young contender. They had to be Babe Ruth, too.

Bonds also underwent pronounced physical changes, including an enlarged head. Never one of the games nice guys, he became highly irascible, lashing out at fans and the media at the slightest provocation. I'll never forget his pronouncement that “we” didn't like him because he was Black. 

Really, Barry? Is that the reason? Are you saying that if you were white I'd be your fan club president? 

Hmmm.

Whatever regard I carried for him evaporated at that point. I relished his unofficial nickname: Asterisk. In addition to his chemically-enhanced output, he became the game's biggest asshole. Is that what's known as a win-win?

To the remaining members of the steroid club, Bonds was a blessing. As the player who enjoyed the greatest, most eye-popping benefit, he took a lot of heat off of those performing in smaller markets or with under-achieving teams.

The most convincing pro-steroids argument came from a baseball writer at the Chicago Tribune, who defended her picks thusly: The Commissioner who turned the blindest eye possible to the steroids scandal was voted into the Hall of Fame. Why? Because he made his employers a whole lot of money.

Should we really punish the players?

It is an argument I cannot fault. 

After the 1994 strike, baseball found itself on shaky ground. Or at least ground as shaky as a multi-billion dollar business ever finds itself on. It was scared. It's probably an overstatement to say the 1998 home run chase between McGwire and Sosa saved baseball, but again, it poured an awful lot of black ink into baseball at a very crucial time.

Being businessmen first, last and always, it doesn't take a great deal of imagination to envision team owners urging Bud Selig to go as easy on steroid use as the public would allow. And for that reason and that reason only, I'm grateful for Barry Bonds. His outsized success was impossible to ignore. Ditto questions about the game's integrity.

Judging by the vote counted Monday by the Contemporary Baseball Era Player's Committee, plenty of questions remain. And none of them appear to be answered with the words 'Hall of Fame'. Neither Bonds, Clemens, Palmeiro or Curt Schilling received the number of votes required for entrance.

I'm sure another generation, by and large ignorant of the steroid era, will look at their numbers and wonder why a previous generation had a problem with them. But for now, justice has triumphed. And in 2022, that's something.

 

Ten Years Gone

I am as naive as any right-wing conservative you care to name.

For instance, on December 14, 2012, as the news about the Sandy Hook, N.J. elementary school shooting broke, beyond my revulsion and sorrow was the thought that maybe, just maybe this might be the mass murder that would propel the United States to enact profound changes within the Second Amendment.

Yep, I was the doctor who confused pancreatic cancer with indigestion.

Meanwhile, unflushed conspiracy-theorist-slash-radio-host Alex Jones ranted and raved about the shooting, claiming it was an event staged by the U.S. government that would one day enable the government to confiscate America's firearms.

(Dear Trump-tard, Be honest. Isn't everything that happens in the world ultimately a plot to confiscate American's guns?)

So. If burying your eight-year-old daughter wasn't traumatic enough, imagine some mentally-ill conspiracy theorist trumpeting this idea and inciting the mental-defectives which constitute his audience to actively and deliberately harass the parental victims of this shooting.

Which of course they did.

In La Piazza Gancio land, Jones would have been placed in an industrial-strength meat grinder with his remains scattered for the benefit of any diseased rodent that cared for them.

Sadly, it seems that turds also enjoy the benefits of the Constitution. Which is another way of saying that, yes, Alex Jones had rights.

Thankfully, so did the survivors. They sued Jones for his toxic re-interpretation of the shooting and in late-November, won. While I've no qualms with the damages awarded the families, I do regret the lack of oversight which might have been able to freeze Jones' assets.

Thusly, he is moving as a much more slender man, hiding and transferring whatever he can lay his fat little hands on to prevent it from being part of the damages. He even declared bankruptcy, just like his buddy Donald.

Yes, imitation is truly the sincerest form of flattery.

I don't know how successful his attempts will be. But for a domestic terrorist who employs a lawyer who declared the verdict as a “very, very, very dark day for freedom of speech”, just about any annoyance or inconvenience we can heap on Jones is appropriate. (Meat grinder included.)

Before I close, let me correct Jones' lawyer, Norm Pattis:

Mr. Pattis, I believe the very, very, very dark day for freedom of speech you refer to was the day your client opened his mouth about Sandy Hook. 

Wikipedia lists Jones as having four children. In a better world, he would soon know the pain those Sandy Hook parents already know.