When we went out to view the moon on February 21, binoculars in hand, we saw only a cloudy sky, shrugged out shoulders, and gave up. We didn’t think to look again for a few hours, by which time the clouds had cleared. Who knows how long moon was in view — probably for most of the eclipse. As it is, we only saw the very end of it, which made the moon look like a giant cookie with a bite out of it. How’s that for poetry?
When I was a kid, there was some cheesey ’50s movie about going to the moon they showed all the time on TV, but now I can’t find any information about what that film might of been. Coulda been this one. I’m sure it was pretty unwatchable, whatever it was.
Well, what the hell? Was it because it had some crazy secrets they were afraid of leaking? China and Russia think it’s because the U.S. Military just wanted some practice shooting shit out of the sky. What is this, some sort of time warp back to the Reagan era and star wars? Frankly, it’s hard to tell anymore if it’s worse now or it was worse back then. The only advantage back then is we were 20 years away from global warming, and now global warming sits on our collective lap like a jumping cholla that jumped on the worst place.
Since I wrote this post about the Beatles, it’s been a goddamn Beatles free-for-all in Universe Nerge. Every day K and I have heard a Beatles song played at least once while in a public place. Yesterday was a real horror — we heard two different Wings songs in two different places.
I’m okay with the Beatles being played ad nauseum in perpetuity, but I must ask: Why? Why Wings? Some music should die. It’s already withered, lifeless, bereft of creativity, so why isn’t it dead? There’s only one explanation: Wings songs are like musical zombies. Decaying and soulless, they still wander the earth, looking for an unguarded ear to slip inside.
PLUS: Freaky synchronicity.
Last night I wrote about the pervasiveness of the Beatles, and tonight, synchronicity has kicked me in the ass.
There’s a video on YouTube of K and I imitating Simon and Garfunkel. The video is quite obviously a joke rather than an actually tribue; I’m wearing a blonde jewfro wig that is so large it looks like a sheep laid down on my head and went to sleep. However, to our credit, it’s a well crafted joke; K and I practiced singing The 59th Street Bridge Song many times before we recorded it and performed it for our couple of friends on Halloween.
However, some (fill in pejorative noun here) wrote this comment on the video:
wrong vocals, Garfunkel.. you’re singing a high octave.. and even so, not right..
Thanks, bro, for letting me know I can’t really sing like Art Garfunkel. You’ve saved me from a life of delusion.
Wouldn’t you know it, this guy actually gets on stage to perform Beatles’ Covers and EVEN WORSE, WINGS’ COVERS and has really lousy footage to prove it. I guess he mistakenly thought we were serious? I’m not sure how, except he’s from Brazil — perhaps something got lost in the cultural translation.
The Beatles: absolutely the most pervasive, long-standing pop icons in the U.S.– who knows about the rest of the world. I swear, I can’t get through a day without some Beatles reference floating my way. This despite the fact that they broke up in 1970 and poor John’s been dead since 1980. For instance, when I went into my local independent video store (you rent from one, *don’t you?*) on Monday, they were playing Hard Day’s Night on their gigantor TV. Today, when I went to the taqueria to grab my lunch, the girl behind the counter (looking all of 19) was wearing a Beatles T-shirt.
Some people, like K, hold a not-so-secret animosity towards the Fab Four. The reason this category of folks always give is that they didn’t deserve the popularity they had. I cannot comment on whether their fame was deserved or not, for I was brainwashed to like them from an early age. Released when I was three, I recall seeing the cover of Meet the Beatles in almost every home I visited during my formative years.. Frankly, I didn’t have a clue who those floating heads belonged to until years later, but they also appeared on my lunch box. Woe to me that I don’t still have *that* collector’s item.
One of my clearest recollections of being on top of the Empire State Building for the first time, in 1969, was that someone had dropped a 8″ x 10″ glossy of the Beatles over the edge of the building. It didn’t fall, though — the updrafts were too strong. The picture never falling really impressed me. I wondered for years — did it ever fall? If so, where?
However, despite all this, let it be said that I absolutely hate Magical Mystery Tour. (Just try reading the “plot” summary, har har.) I believe when I saw it, much to my detriment, I was the only member of the audience not on acid. This film (which sadly, I recall quite clearly) is unwatchable and somewhat pukey to the sober mind.
Love them or hate them, their fame does not wane. I’m sure if I end up in an old folks home they’ll be blasting the Beatles day and night on the P.A., everything from Love Me Do to Revolution #9. And, although I’ll have forgotten my own name, I’ll still know all the frickin’ words.
Well, it could be worse. So, without further ado, here’s one of my favorite childhood songs:
Everyone is haunted by their past to some degree. No one emerges from childhood and adolescence unscathed. Although, perhaps there is a small minority who does. My college roommate claimed to have had a fairy tale childhood and fairly untraumatizing teen life. Since she was one of the most even-keeled people I had ever met, and incredibly non-neurotic (except for thinking that her upper arms were too fat), I’d say she wasn’t making it up. But then there’s the rest of us.
I’m wondering how one exorcising ghosts from one’s mind. I can look at them, shine a bright light on them, examine them from all angles, but the just don’t go away. I suppose there’s just no good way to eliminate bad memories — just look at what happened in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (I know, I know, it’s fiction.) Why is that? Why does the cruelties of thirty years ago still bother me?
Suddenly, an old commercial comes to mind, even more annoying than my pesky psychological ruminating. Hmm, truly horrible to watch. Although it does explain *some* of my trauma from the past.
While reading The Minds of Birds by Alexander F. Skutch, it’s hard not to stop every five minutes or so and say to K “Here’s an interesting fact…”. This book is chock-full of fun birdie knowledge.
One of the most charming ones is that male birds will bring food to the nest before the eggs are hatched. He’ll even offer little chirps of encouragement as if he just can’t wait to see his little babies. Sort of like decorating the baby room before the birth, I suppose.
Another one is that birds have a very good ability to identify individuals — not just other birds of their species, but people as well. I’ve been wondering about this — whether the birds at my feeder know who I am. Apparently they do. Why don’t they ever thank me?
Okay, one more. Apparently, birds who hoards seeds (mostly jays and nutcrackers) have the ability to recall hundreds and even thousands of specific sites where they buried them. Multiple experiments have been done to show that it isn’t that they can smell them, or that they are finding them at random. Birds actually have prodigious memories — certainly much better than mine.
Hey, and by some quirk of synchonicity, the Pinion Jay — one of the birds mentioned for seed finding– is the bird of the day!
And now, just for fun:
I was reading up on the marriage laws of California (for no particular reason, nope), and noticed this line:
Only an unmarried male and an unmarried female may marry in California.
My mind went blank for a moment. I have no idea why, but I actually *forgot* that only straight folks can get married (or, at least, people pretending to be straight folks). Maybe I fell into a wormhole to the future (or something), but this sentence seemed absurdly arcane.
On the other hand, California is very liberal about who can perform a wedding. In fact, just about ANYONE can. They just go down to city hall to be “deputized”, and they can perform a marriage (just one, it seems).
So there you have it — California in a nutshell. Liberal kookiness with staid conservative values.