Saturday, October 11, 2014
Friday, October 10, 2014
How to wreck a beautiful evening
There are ways you can spoil a beautiful evening.
You know what it's like when you find something on YouTube you haven't heard in about a billion years, and not only that, it's the WHOLE ALBUM so you'll be able to hear every track, and you put your headset on cuz it's late at night, and you start to listen and -
And at first it's great, and the memories just come flooding back. The living room in Chatham with the big reclining chair, and the old drapes with cherries on them and wall-to-wall carpeting like nobody else had yet (covering beautiful hardwood floor that was deemed ugly and old-fashioned). And we'd all be sitting around stoned while my parents were at choir practice, and I'd be sitting in a half-lotus on my camel saddle which smelled of shit and old leather, and somebody'd put this album on and Bob Webster (this jazz pianist who hung around, I was in love with him) would crawl along the floor and put his arms around the big cylindrical wooden speakers that were bigger than anyone else's and stay that way until the whole album was over.
And the album was MOOG. And we all mispronounced it because we were too ignorant to know it was pronounced "moag". And we man, really got off on this album which was really only good when you were stoned, because it was sort of all over the place - some of it brilliant - keyboard stuff in sweeps and drones, clever like commercials for Polaroid Swinger, or suddenly really inspired and beautiful. It was called The Electric Eclectics of Dick Hyman, who my brother described as hermaphroditic because of his name.
So about a billion years goes by and once in a while I look on YouTube and just find tiny fragments of Moog, mostly from scratchy records. I doubt it has ever been re-released. Then TONIGHT I find a video with the whole album on it, every track -
(and also this stuff, silly visual stuff like a kaleidoscope, sort of cool so I giffed it, and at the end you see the edge of the guy's TV screen so you know it's just some TV effect, except that at the start it looks like somebody shining a flashlight through a sock. And it has that VHS fuzzy frizzly part at the bottom, you know what I mean, bad tape or really cheap equipment. Reminds me of my first Beta recorder.)
And then all of a sudden on the right side of your headset, you're either having a flashback hallucination or the headset is picking up police signals or SOMEBODY, some asshole, is talking, aimlessly, stonedly, droningly, on and off so you keep hoping it has stopped, and sometimes there is a very dumb girl's voice always kind of going up like a very insecure person whose every statement sounds like a question, and later on you hear that rustling fumbling infuriating noise like when someone is dicking around with a microphone, and you realize this guy, whoever he is, must have sat there holding his 1973 Radio Shack Captain Marvel microphone up to his 1969 "Hear How Powerful My Speakers Are" speakers while the record turned on his dirty old mouse-shit turntable. Or maybe it was a spinning pancake. Whatever. This is someone's idea of a video? Sharing this timeless, stoned, OK-a-little-bit-too-commercial-and-cute-but-memory-laden album, this CLASSIC '60s stoner album - talking all the way through it in a draggy stoned voice, in the voice of someone who has an IQ of maybe 71 and was still voted Top of his Class because that's how they turn them out now, who
It ruined my evening.
POST-BLAHG. There is a God. I was gnerfing around in Dick Hyman videos just to see what else might be there, and by golly, just a couple of days ago somebody posted the whole album in pristine sound quality, no stoner babbling or fumbling 1969-quality mikes like the emcee at your Junior Prom. Until it's taken down for some reason, like piracy, here it is for you to enjoy. But I'm not taking my post down because it's an example of something, of taking something great and just throwing it up there all buggered up, as if it doesn't matter. Worse, most people neither notice nor care. I can't seem to embed the video here because it won't come up no matter what I do, so here's the link, and I'll post the video again so you can see the kind of album cover that has disappeared, along with normal global climate, rational Republicans and an expectation of a future.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BIutWZqoK-4
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Thursday, October 9, 2014
Drama in the back yard
Such drama in the back yard! Ever since I lost Jasper, my beloved lovebird, I've had a sort of bird-shaped hole in my life. I thought longingly of a bird feeder, but our house is constructed in such a way that it does not allow hanging anything that we can see.
One day I was in the garage and saw an old Ikea lamp and thought: that's it! With some remodelling, it would work as a stand that could hold some sort of container that would drain water (so it wouldn't be flooded with Vancouver rainwater). I didn't think birds would object to wet seeds. After much experimentation and remodelling, we had a sort of jerry-rigged feeder in our back yard and were enjoying the visits of juncos and chickadees.
One day I heard a dreadful screech and saw a large prehistoric-looking winged creature darting and swooping overhead. After looking it up on the Cornell Ornithology site, I recognized the Steller's jay. I noticed at that point having to refill the food supply practically every day, then finally saw His
Birdness up there - such a magnificent creature, handsome, arrogant, a little wicked. But I still couldn't believe he was cleaning out the feeder so often. Then I looked outside one day and A SQUIRREL was climbing the pole of the lamp, shimmying up like some sort of demented pole-dancer. The squirrels had breached the unbreachable feeder. I sprayed the pole with Pam, and now they just endlessly climb in one spot, thinking they're making progress. Squirrels are resourceful but not too bright.
As a little kid, I snuffled out signs of nature wherever I could. Where I lived was decidedly urban, but things were different then, without the incessant din that seems to be part of modern life: the endless construction, the dust and smoke, the earsplitting racket that never stops. Right now as I sit here writing, there is a constant, steady drone of something like a very loud vacuum cleaner. (WHAT IS IT???). No one else ever mentions the noise, because like the frogs in boiling water, they have become so acclimatized to it that it no longer registers on them - or else they are now half-deaf.
The milk was delivered by horse and wagon. Cloppa, cloppa, cloppa. (This ended up in my first novel, Better than Life.) People find it hard to believe, but it was true. My friend and I walked to Tecumseh Park on our own when we were maybe eight or nine. While social critics railed on and on about the blinding pace of progress and how it was killing human beings, not to mention the gross and alarming "population explosion" that no one ever refers to any more, Chatham, Ontario plodded on. Now I see it as a magical place, with a flowering cherry tree in the back yard that I could climb to get into the neighbor's yard to look at their pigeon coop. This was lifted whole for Mallory, my second novel.
Birds were a favorite fascination. We never had a bird feeder, though there were plenty of places we could have put one. In the depths of winter, my mother would ask the butcher for suet - really, just the fat trimmings from steaks and chops - and throw it out onto the snow. She never watched to see if the birds got it, or if it was gulped down by some roaming dog. (Coyotes, raccoons and bears were never a problem then, as we had not yet stolen all their land and backed them against the wall, where they would be demonized for encroaching on OUR territory and causing us trouble.)
I wondered about the suet. The reason she gave was "in the winter, the birds need a lot of fat to help them keep warm." This didn't make sense until a long time later.
I would adopt baby birds that fell from the nest quite frequently, fully believing I was rescuing them. I had no idea then that many species of bird PUSH their fledgelings out of the nest before they are able to fly properly, then swoop down on on them to feed them until they are ready to take off on their own. A strange system, given the ubiquitous cats that just roamed everywhere then (for to keep a cat inside, let alone spay or neuter it, was unthinkably cruel).
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But I took them in anyway, enchanted. Most of them died, of course, because I really had no idea what to feed them. One pigeon made it, in fact he burst out of the box and started flying all over the porch where I had to keep these things. But he was close to flight anyway and only sickened by the pollution in the Thames River. (Some things never change.)
I was also quite taken with squirrels, and noted that another neighbor had tamed a baby squirrel which clung to his arm. I WOULD have a squirrel for myself. Since I was bullheaded, a requisite for living in an environment which was almost wholly devoid of love, I kept on the watch for one. Then I saw a grey baby on the cherry tree, with that stunned, frozen look squirrels have when panicked (have you ever seen one run back in front of a car when crossing the street?). I put my hand out, not just to touch him but to grab him, and got my reward. Had to get a tetanus shot. Heard that bitter, even savage squirrel chattering for some time after that, probably the parents swearing at me, and rightly so.
The other day, having thrown a handful of grapes out in the back yard (and yes, I know I'm not supposed to feed wildlife) I noticed a black squirrel sitting up spinning the grape around in its paws, eating and spitting flying pieces out, probably the skin. I decided to see how close I could get. Normally they scram when I open the back door. It was amazing - I came closer and closer, and he just stood there. I was close enough to touch him, but didn't - I had already broken several rules of back-yardness already, and could just hear the scolding I'd get from all those militant naturalists.
Of course he ran away after a few seconds. I wondered what happened. Frozen in panic? Greedy for more grapes? (He had lots already.) I wondered if this was my pole-dancing squirrel, or if all of them had tried it. I do notice the older squirrels look very scarred and beat-up, while this year's babies are still fluffy and sleek. The one grey squirrel who often visits has an impossibly fat, silver-grey tail that makes you want to believe in fur coats again. He flaps it around in that adorable, yet alarming way that squirrels have. Probably a warning to keep off.
This has awakened the little girl in me. Finding things on YouTube that I haven't heard in decades is a strange feeling. I'm reaching out for something. I will probably attain another lovebird, have put my name in with a breeder, but one never knows about bird temperament. I love my Steller's jay, the way he darts his head around, posturing like a proud show dog, and raises his pointed black crest. Well, we haven't destroyed everything quite yet. But I am secretly glad I will not be here in 50 years, or even 20.
I have been trying to recreate an album called Pastorales, long out of print, and have found a few favorite tracks. This piece reminds me of the innocence and enchantment of my childhood "nature days".
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Wednesday, October 8, 2014
Sweet as the punch: The Association
THE ASSOCIATION LYRICS
"Along Comes Mary"
Every time I think
that I'm the only one who's lonely
Someone calls on me
And every now and then I spend my time in rhyme and verse
And curse those faults in me
And then along comes Mary
And does she want to give me kicks, and be my steady chick
And give me pick of memories
Or maybe rather gather tales of all the fails and tribulations
No one ever sees
When we met I was sure out to lunch
Now my empty cup tastes as sweet as the punch
When vague desire is the fire in the eyes of chicks
Whose sickness is the games they play
And when the masquerade is played and neighbor folks make jokes
As who is most to blame today
And then along comes Mary
And does she want to set them free, and let them see reality
From where she got her name
And will they struggle much when told that such a tender touch as hers
Will make them not the same
When we met I was sure out to lunch
Now my empty cup tastes as sweet as the punch
And when the morning of the warning's passed, the gassed
And flaccid kids are flung across the stars
The psychodramas and the traumas gone
The songs are left unsung and hung upon the scars
And then along comes Mary
And does she want to see the stains, the dead remains of all the pains
She left the night before
Or will their waking eyes reflect the lies, and make them
Realize their urgent cry for sight no more
When we met I was sure out to lunch
Now my empty cup tastes as sweet as the punch
Someone calls on me
And every now and then I spend my time in rhyme and verse
And curse those faults in me
And then along comes Mary
And does she want to give me kicks, and be my steady chick
And give me pick of memories
Or maybe rather gather tales of all the fails and tribulations
No one ever sees
When we met I was sure out to lunch
Now my empty cup tastes as sweet as the punch
When vague desire is the fire in the eyes of chicks
Whose sickness is the games they play
And when the masquerade is played and neighbor folks make jokes
As who is most to blame today
And then along comes Mary
And does she want to set them free, and let them see reality
From where she got her name
And will they struggle much when told that such a tender touch as hers
Will make them not the same
When we met I was sure out to lunch
Now my empty cup tastes as sweet as the punch
And when the morning of the warning's passed, the gassed
And flaccid kids are flung across the stars
The psychodramas and the traumas gone
The songs are left unsung and hung upon the scars
And then along comes Mary
And does she want to see the stains, the dead remains of all the pains
She left the night before
Or will their waking eyes reflect the lies, and make them
Realize their urgent cry for sight no more
When we met I was sure out to lunch
Now my empty cup tastes as sweet as the punch
This isn't where all this started. As usual, I was doing something else: trying to track down something obscure, something that wouldn't leave my head, something decidedly dumb. It was a song along the lines of Cherish, with breathy male voices telling a highly unlikely story, only it turned out NOT to be a song by The Association (who did Cherish, Windy and a few other good ones, though Along Comes Mary is by far their best). There was a certain genre of pop then, with young men singing in that callow way, and vibraphones hitting plangent notes (I must look up plangent, I don't know what it means) while a chorus of guys sang, "BOM. . . bom. . .BOM. . .bom. . ."
I sort of had the feel of the song, like you have the feel of a dream that has almost slipped away, one that you were sure you would remember forever. The main thing I couldn't get rid of was an inane chorus that went "and you knew, that I knew, that you knew, that I knew" (ad nauseam). A line or two jumped out at me: "I regained my self-control and -" (blank). "Suddenly I wished I'd changed my shirt." Going nowhere, I decided to search using fragments of the lyrics. Don't ask me how I did it, but I tracked it down, and it was just as awful as I remembered, if not worse:
It was written on my mind
Like the back of an envelope
Rehearsed and very carefully in reach
My cool cucumber non-committal speech
That I wrote while hanging out down at the beach
And I shivered from the cold of the ice in my granite heart
Knowing that you didn't have a prayer
And then I rang the bell and you were there and darling
Then your face was full of me
And then your eyes were too
And I knew, that you knew that I knew that
You knew that I knew that you knew that
I knew that you knew that I knew
I regained my self-control and I tried to close my big fat mouth
Before 'I love you' fell out on the floor
I didn't feel like Batman anymore
I hit my bloody elbow on the door
And then your brother asked if I had money for a haircut
And the pimple on my neck began to hurt
Suddenly I wished I'd changed my shirt and darling
Then your face was full of me
And then your eyes were too
And I knew that you knew that I knew that
You knew that I knew that you knew that
I knew that you knew that I knew
Once I pried it all apart, I discovered that the group was called The Love Generation, a great if hackneyed '60s name. I found the song on YouTube and listened to it (this lyric transcript was full of mondegreens, by the way - misheard words which had to be corrected - Batman was "that man" - bloody elbow was "funny elbow" - etc.) I think they were a watery copy of The Association, which actually turned out some decent tunes. The Love Generation was worth my while for that line about changing your shirt, however - it stayed in my mind, encrypted, for some 50 years.
As for Along Comes Mary. I always liked how the words tumbled over themselves, all on the same note, which somehow had a jazzy sound to it. But what I REALLY like is the fact that their live performances were better than their studio recordings. This one is slower, more mellow, and as a matter of fact all of them are probably stoned, but it helps the piece, brings out that crazy lyric which for some reason reminds me of Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye (my all-time-fave teen novel, right next to Lord of the Flies).
I'm trying to remember how old I was when this thing came out. I used to slavishly watch Leonard Bernstein's Young People's concerts back then - not just because my parents made me - and on one memorable show he demonstrated different musical modes like madrigals and fugues by playing and singing (horribly - he sang like a bull moose) various pop tunes. The kids were delighted, you could see it on their faces. One of those tunes was Along Comes Mary. How do I know this? I was there, I saw it on TV. It was only on once, but like certain odd inexplicable things it riveted itself into my brain. But I had never corroborated it until just a few minutes ago, when I found a YouTube snippet with Leonard Bernstein singing. . .
So it really happened, but could it have been in 1962 as the video claimed? I was eight years old then, my grandson Ryan's age. I must have been a sponge then, which makes me I wonder how much he is soaking up right now that he will remember when he's 60. If there's still a world left to live in.
(Oh, sorry! It couldn't have been that long ago, the song came out in 1966 when I was, geez, TWELVE years old, practically an adult! So much for having a preternatural memory. Now I have to look up TWO words.)
POST-SCRIPT. You thought there wouldn't be a post-script? This could go on all night, but it won't. I could keep digging up scholarly analyses of Along Comes Mary, whether it's an anthem to Mary Jane or the Virgin Mary or Mary Magdalene or the coming apocalypse, etc. etc. And as a matter of fact, when you really look at it, it could be all of the above.
When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me. Except that Paul was referring to his dead mother, Mary. Or something else, sitting on his nightstand, always within reach.
Anyway, before I ditch this and get some sleep, here is just one fragment of the lunatic responses I found to the timeworn and useless question, "What does the song mean?"
I can't help but dismiss all this talk about drugs when talking about this song. This writer was classically trained & did rock & roll out of necessity more than anything else. I'm going to give you what he had in mind for the REAL meaning of this song. Hear me out & research the subject matter before you come to a rash determination. Along comes Mary is most definately about the role of Mary the Mother of Jesus The Christ. Not only does it describe the life altering affect she has on mortals by way of numerous earth appearances & various apparition sites over hundreds of years, but you hear proof of this as the last verse refers to The Warning which has been predicted numerous times over the many years ("and when the morning of The Warning's passed the gassed & flacid kids are flung across the stars." and then..."& does she want to see the stains, the dead remains of all the pain she caused the night before." also..."Oh will their waking eyes reflect their lies & make them realize their urgent cry for sight no more?") The Warning comes a year before The Miracle In The Sky & is predicted to come on a Thursday night @ 8:30 on the anniversary of an unnamed martyr. During a 10 minute period everything will stop; literally while God our Father opens our eyes & shows us how we offend Him Who loves us so much. This will change life as we knew it up to that point. It will GRIEVE us inwardly & to some it will be such a shock that it will cause expiration. Then we'll understand life as He wants us to & submit our selfish wills for His Divine Will by surrending ourselves to Him & to the service of others who need our help. Search The Warning on your toolbar. Anyway, this is the meaning of the song. Now, listen to the words now that your lyrical eyes have been opened.
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Spread 'em, boys!
Everybody knows that men often need to air their testicles in public. They do this without regard to the female passengers wedged between their spreadeagled legs.
Most women who have taken public transit have experienced the prison of male knees locked on either side in front of them. They must sit thigh-to-thigh with complete strangers who slowly but surely edge farther and farther into their space. The fact these people take up a seat-and-a-half's worth of public space doesn't concern them. In fact, it does not even occur to them.
Men can hold their legs at right-angles, and in fact, often do, while women cringe into themselves, not wanting to sit squashed against a strange man's bottom.
With no pesky females sitting on either side, they can really go to town and be the guys they were always meant to be. Some of us like to call this the Jumping Frog of Calaveras County look.
This guy happened to escape from a Contortionists Anonymous rehab facility. Either that, or he is warming up to do squats at the gym. Were he sitting on a bench seat, the women on either side of him would have been asphyxiated.
Is there a reason their feet are touching? Is it sort of like a Freemason secret handshake or something?
I think you're starting to get the idea. Women must keep themselves small. This is the whole idea of dieting. It's a childlike thing, and children are relatively powerless. And they don't jut their beefy thighs out into another person's seat space because they KNOW it would be rude, presumptuous, arrogant, and just WRONG.
This is a "hey, take a look at my testicles" pose. As one comedian used to say, his pants are so tight you can tell what religion he is. But if you don't like it, hey, don't look! (This does NOT apply to women's breasts, however. If women insist on parading their tits around, they have to be willing to take the consequences.)
This is a really good look at the family jewels. If women sat that way, they'd be raped within 5 minutes - asking for it, weren't they? Just a "come and get it" thing.
Speaking of free pussy, it looks as if this guy's shorts have virtually emasculated him. They have sunk into his scrotum to an alarming degree. I've never seen a man with camel toe before. But we still get to have a really good look, whether we want to or not. If his hygiene isn't good, and let me tell you, there are plenty of men with NO hygiene, you get a really bad smell, too. But hey - isn't it women who stink? They have a whole line of products to kill the smell, and men don't. Maybe airing your nuts in public isn't such a bad idea.
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Tuesday, October 7, 2014
How not to do a search (or find anything)
Listen, I was just trying to find something on a site called, I think, SilentComedyMafia.com. So I thought I'd see what they had on Harold Lloyd. Their system seemed designed to help me NOT find ANYTHING EVER. I have no idea what a wildcard is. I will never look up this site again.
Information
The following words in your search query were ignored because they are too common words: harold lloyd.
You must specify at least one word to search for. Each word must consist of at least 3 characters and must not contain more than 14 characters excluding wildcards.
SEARCH QUERY
Search for keywords:
Place + in front of a word which must be found and - in front of a word which must not be found. Put a list of words separated by | into brackets if only one of the words must be found. Use * as a wildcard for partial matches.
Search for all terms or use query as entered
Search for any terms
Search for author:
Use * as a wildcard for partial matches.
(Oh-but-there's-more. There's always more. Poking a little deeper into the site, I found just ONE page of about 15 pages of regulations you must follow before even looking at the site, let alone posting a message. Don't read this, please - I use it only as an example of how a web site can drive you into the woods before you even use it.)
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© 2009 SilentComedyMafia.com. All rights reserved.SCM AdminSite Admin Posts: 3Joined: Sun May 17, 2009 4:05 pm
(Post-blahhhg thoughts: hmmmm, the word Mafia may apply here, in some obscure way. But I don't know how.)
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(Oh-but-there's-more. There's always more. Poking a little deeper into the site, I found just ONE page of about 15 pages of regulations you must follow before even looking at the site, let alone posting a message. Don't read this, please - I use it only as an example of how a web site can drive you into the woods before you even use it.)
SILENTCOMEDYMAFIA.COM WEBSITE TERMS AND CONDITIONS OF USE
Last Updated: July 2009
PLEASE READ THESE TERMS AND CONDITIONS OF USE CAREFULLY. BY ACCESSING OR USING THIS WEBSITE, YOU AGREE TO BE BOUND BY THE TERMS AND CONDITIONS DESCRIBED HEREIN AND BY ALL TERMS, POLICIES AND GUIDELINES INCORPORATED BY REFERENCE. IF YOU DO NOT AGREE TO ALL OF THESE TERMS, DO NOT USE THIS WEBSITE.
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Changes to Site Terms
SCM reserves the right to change any of the terms and conditions contained in the Site Terms or any policy or guideline of the Site, at any time and in its sole discretion. Any changes will be effective immediately upon posting on the Site. Your continued use of the Site following the posting of changes will constitute your acceptance of such changes.
© 2009 SilentComedyMafia.com. All rights reserved.SCM AdminSite Admin Posts: 3Joined: Sun May 17, 2009 4:05 pm
(Post-blahhhg thoughts: hmmmm, the word Mafia may apply here, in some obscure way. But I don't know how.)
Visit Margaret's Amazon Author Page!
And he glittered when he walked
Richard Cory
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
I remember that we "took" this poem in school, way back in Grade 7 or thereabouts, and the chagrin, the consternation of the class: "But why did he DO that?" "He had everything." "Everyone envied him." "It's not fair." "It's a joke, isn't it?" " That would never happen."
My "favorite" was this lovely statement, which I have heard echoed many times and from many people - I mean adults who should know better, not kids:
"You kill yourself because you're crazy, and you're only crazy if you want to be."
I wonder now, if that kid is still alive, whether he thinks the same way.
I'm not supposed to think about any of this, of course. As one writer said, Robin Williams' death caused many people to suddenly come out of the closet and proclaim, "Yes, me too". But where are they now? No doubt they have retreated in terror, hoping against hope that no one remembers their foolishness.
I've written about this before. Halloween is coming, and in the past I've seen "mental patient" costumes, often with restraints and lurid "nurses" with syringes full of "sedatives". It's funny, isn't it? Come on. Come on, don't you have a sense of humour?
No. If that's what humour is, then no.
My brother was in these "loony bins", "nut wards", etc., on and off for years. I loved him dearly, and by his own admission he was not just crazy but "ca-RAZY". Eerily, I used to compare him to Robin Williams in his madcap ability to riff on outrageous themes, putting on characters and taking them off like masks, only to change at light speed to another subject entirely. One time he did a riff on the '60s TV show The Real McCoys, doing every voice from Grandpa to Luke to Little Luke to Hassie to Kate to - his personal favorite - Pepino. Some of it was so x-rated that we fell out of our chairs.
He died in 1980, not of suicide as almost everyone assumes, but an accident. Two months later, John Lennon was shot and killed. It was a point of despair in my life.
So what is it about people who seem to have everything, who do themselves in anyway? I think of Phillip Seymour Hoffman, relapsing most awfully into a habit he thought he had beaten. I think of Amy Winehouse drinking a gallon of vodka and poisoning herself at age 27. I think we think they are immune. Not just that they are rich and famous, but loved - aren't they loved, too, I mean by friends and family?
Are they? Is there - is there balm in Gilead?
I have already published a couple of eerily similar photos of Robin Williams with dear friends who hold him so tenderly, he looks like a baby bird fallen from the nest. I once read that people who don't feel loved are like sawdust dolls with a tiny hole in the bottom. It keeps trickling out, almost imperceptibly, until the person is desperate for more supplies to keep from bleeding out.
It's also from remembering Williams, who seems to have died a very long time ago (but at the same time, only yesterday), but most of all it's because yesterday I bought Billy Crystal's memoir, Still Foolin' 'Em: Where I've Been, Where I'm Going, and Where the Hell Are My Keys? It's typical self-deprecating Crystal humour, but not excoriating, with a sweetness, a gentleness that I have always loved about him. In fact, he is my favorite comedian.
He and Robin Williams were best friends. Closer than brothers, in many ways. This book was written and published before his suicide, but on the back is a quote from Williams that now seems poignant and unsettling: "This book is kick-ass funny and truly unique. A Hollywood autobiography with only one wife, no rehab, a loving family, and loyal friends."
I wonder if Williams secretly feared he had none of those things. It's a bit scary that he focused on that, as if to shame himself for having three wives and multiple trips to rehab. To imply, almost, that Crystal was a superior version of himself - or, at least, not so scarred, not so vulnerable.
I don't want to go much farther into this because I don't fancy triggering off a lousy day of depression. It wouldn't do anything to change the situation. But oh how I wish people would wake up. I thought of a scenario that might have saved him - everyone has a theory, so here goes, here is mine:
He is pacing the floor, both despondent and frantic, knowing there is no way out of the crushing adversity that is coming at him from all sides. Soon he will be paralyzed from Parkinson's, his career will be over, and he won't be able to take part in the cycling that has kept him sane. Rehab did no good at all and made everything worse. He looks back with shame over the battlefield of his life, and for that moment he can't see anything good about it. At all. He has made a mess of things, and there is only one way out.
Though it is agonizing to do, though he has to stand up to an immense shame that is nearly overwhelming, he goes over to the phone, picks up the receiver, dials 9-1-1.
"Hello. I'm going to kill myself. Come get me, please. NOW."
CODA. From Leonard Bernstein's Mass. I used to carry this around written on a little piece of paper. Once a counsellor took it from me and read it in a sing-songy, Betty Crocker voice, then handed it back to me saying, "Oh, that's nice."
I remember that we "took" this poem in school, way back in Grade 7 or thereabouts, and the chagrin, the consternation of the class: "But why did he DO that?" "He had everything." "Everyone envied him." "It's not fair." "It's a joke, isn't it?" " That would never happen."
My "favorite" was this lovely statement, which I have heard echoed many times and from many people - I mean adults who should know better, not kids:
"You kill yourself because you're crazy, and you're only crazy if you want to be."
I wonder now, if that kid is still alive, whether he thinks the same way.
I'm not supposed to think about any of this, of course. As one writer said, Robin Williams' death caused many people to suddenly come out of the closet and proclaim, "Yes, me too". But where are they now? No doubt they have retreated in terror, hoping against hope that no one remembers their foolishness.
I've written about this before. Halloween is coming, and in the past I've seen "mental patient" costumes, often with restraints and lurid "nurses" with syringes full of "sedatives". It's funny, isn't it? Come on. Come on, don't you have a sense of humour?
No. If that's what humour is, then no.
My brother was in these "loony bins", "nut wards", etc., on and off for years. I loved him dearly, and by his own admission he was not just crazy but "ca-RAZY". Eerily, I used to compare him to Robin Williams in his madcap ability to riff on outrageous themes, putting on characters and taking them off like masks, only to change at light speed to another subject entirely. One time he did a riff on the '60s TV show The Real McCoys, doing every voice from Grandpa to Luke to Little Luke to Hassie to Kate to - his personal favorite - Pepino. Some of it was so x-rated that we fell out of our chairs.
He died in 1980, not of suicide as almost everyone assumes, but an accident. Two months later, John Lennon was shot and killed. It was a point of despair in my life.
So what is it about people who seem to have everything, who do themselves in anyway? I think of Phillip Seymour Hoffman, relapsing most awfully into a habit he thought he had beaten. I think of Amy Winehouse drinking a gallon of vodka and poisoning herself at age 27. I think we think they are immune. Not just that they are rich and famous, but loved - aren't they loved, too, I mean by friends and family?
Are they? Is there - is there balm in Gilead?
I have already published a couple of eerily similar photos of Robin Williams with dear friends who hold him so tenderly, he looks like a baby bird fallen from the nest. I once read that people who don't feel loved are like sawdust dolls with a tiny hole in the bottom. It keeps trickling out, almost imperceptibly, until the person is desperate for more supplies to keep from bleeding out.
What got all this started again? Well, it's close to Halloween which makes me think of all those awful mental patient costumes, totally dehumanizing but seen as ghoulishly funny, and CERTAINLY not anything to be offended about. (You're too sensitive, you know? That's your whole problem.) We don't have Parkinson's or MS or ALS Halloween costumes, but then again, these illnesses are "physical", "real", no one's fault, with the sufferers seen as dignified and courageous, and therefore not frightening or subject to mockery. After all, it would be in very poor taste.
It's also from remembering Williams, who seems to have died a very long time ago (but at the same time, only yesterday), but most of all it's because yesterday I bought Billy Crystal's memoir, Still Foolin' 'Em: Where I've Been, Where I'm Going, and Where the Hell Are My Keys? It's typical self-deprecating Crystal humour, but not excoriating, with a sweetness, a gentleness that I have always loved about him. In fact, he is my favorite comedian.
He and Robin Williams were best friends. Closer than brothers, in many ways. This book was written and published before his suicide, but on the back is a quote from Williams that now seems poignant and unsettling: "This book is kick-ass funny and truly unique. A Hollywood autobiography with only one wife, no rehab, a loving family, and loyal friends."
I wonder if Williams secretly feared he had none of those things. It's a bit scary that he focused on that, as if to shame himself for having three wives and multiple trips to rehab. To imply, almost, that Crystal was a superior version of himself - or, at least, not so scarred, not so vulnerable.
I don't want to go much farther into this because I don't fancy triggering off a lousy day of depression. It wouldn't do anything to change the situation. But oh how I wish people would wake up. I thought of a scenario that might have saved him - everyone has a theory, so here goes, here is mine:
He is pacing the floor, both despondent and frantic, knowing there is no way out of the crushing adversity that is coming at him from all sides. Soon he will be paralyzed from Parkinson's, his career will be over, and he won't be able to take part in the cycling that has kept him sane. Rehab did no good at all and made everything worse. He looks back with shame over the battlefield of his life, and for that moment he can't see anything good about it. At all. He has made a mess of things, and there is only one way out.
Though it is agonizing to do, though he has to stand up to an immense shame that is nearly overwhelming, he goes over to the phone, picks up the receiver, dials 9-1-1.
"Hello. I'm going to kill myself. Come get me, please. NOW."
CODA. From Leonard Bernstein's Mass. I used to carry this around written on a little piece of paper. Once a counsellor took it from me and read it in a sing-songy, Betty Crocker voice, then handed it back to me saying, "Oh, that's nice."
I don't know where to start
There are scars I could show
If I opened my heart
But how far, Lord, how far can I go?
I don't know.
What I say I don't feel
What I feel I don't show
What I show isn't real
What is real, Lord
I don't know
No, no, no. . . I don't know.
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