The Best One-Sided Conversation I've Ever Had.

Thank God for insomnia. I get a lot done in a few hours' time: I read about some of Bob Dylan's electric albums while listening to Music From Big Pink by The Band.

Two things: One, The Band still does absolutely nothing for me. An album later, I was underwhelmed and literally yawning. I will admit, the song "Chest Fever" is pretty cool...but what do you know? The lyrics were made up on the spot, and the song itself functioned as a way for organist Garth Hudson to show off his chops...

From this, you could assume they were some bad-ass proto progressive rock act. Nope. While it's easy - and fun - to dismiss it as lazy hillbilly music that should have just stayed on the back porch, there were some nice qualities to it. One is Garth Hudson's sense of tone, though at times the "cutting edge" synthesizers he was using in 1968 now sound like Nintendos.

But yeah, on the whole, very dull...Zappa used this phrase to dismiss Dylan's Blonde On Blonde, but it works here: "cowboy music." That's what it is. I just don't relate to it. Then again, neither did they, nor anyone not from a century earlier.

The conclusion: I'm still not enthralled by The Band the way so many other rock/music fans are. It's weird, being a Neil Young fan, a Dylan fan...but not liking The Band. I don't know, I guess the issue of authenticity paired up with what I consider a rather monotonous sound puts them in a lower regard.

Then again, I'm not afraid to give a record a second listen. I really ought to sit down and come up with the "Albums I Initially Hated, But Now Swear By" list. You'd be surprised both by the artists and the albums that made it.

Second, I regret not getting into Dylan earlier. In all fairness, I spent 8th and 9th grade delving into The Kinks, Zappa, The Clash, The Sex Pistols, and The Ramones. In 10th grade it was Cheap Trick and shitty 80's music because The Gill and I came up with a movie script we never quite got around to - probably for the best - called Cortland Vice. (See what I mean?)

I had a big Bowie kick the summer of 2003, mainly Diamond Dogs and bits and pieces of Aladdin Sane...though it wouldn't be until May 2005 that I finally picked up what I contend to be two of his four sublime efforts, Low and "Heroes." (The other two being - duh - Ziggy Stardust and Diamond Dogs. And though I've had it since fall of 2005, I've still not listened to Hunky Dory. Guess that shows you what a rush I'm in.) After Bowie, though, it was The Rolling Stones.

Curiously, at the beginning of my senior year, I picked up both a Stones album (the dreadful Black And Blue) and a Bowie album (Scary Monsters, which I rank in the "good, not great" category that most albums tend to fall into), as if to signify the passing of the torch to...Marilyn Manson. I know.

And the weird thing is, I still like him. Once I actually have two nickels to rub together, I will pick up his new album.
"We're From America"


But I was too self-righteous. Too serious...on the other hand, maybe Dylan wouldn't have helped. The first year of college I was too focused on getting laid and then later mellowing out with Shelley - and showing her the music I already had - to do much in terms of expanding my collection. The Smashing Pumpkins made a brief - but probably not brief enough - rotation, as did Nine Inch Nails. Sophomore year of college is was HIM in the fall, and then Frank Zappa came back in a big way. This lasted right up to the spring of 2008 when I met The Residents and Captain Beefheart. This school year it's been Neil Young and The Kinks, the latter for obvious reasons.

So...maybe it was perfect timing.

Maybe I needed the unique - to some, grating - vocals of Billy Corgan from the Pumpkins and Neil to prep me for Bob. Getting acquainted with those ancient blues, folk, and country recordings in Z385 and Z201, along with developing a tolerance/acceptance level for said musics by way of Neil Young that got me ready for the wheezy harmonica and the country/rock/Biblical strains of the magnificent John Wesley Harding, which I may have blown off a year ago. (Forrest, I think you'd like some of this stuff. Neil, too.)

My current situation involving parental units - I won't say whose - only made the defiant "fuck you" of songs like "Maggie's Farm" and "On The Road Again," both off Bringing It All Back Home...well, bring it all back home for me. Of late, the phrase "I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more" has entered my lexicon...and not as a lamentation of my hatred for agrarian-level servitude.

Long story short, "Positively 4th Street" is a perfect summation of the death of my friendship with Gill. As of this week, as far as I'm concerned, the dream is over. He did acid and then asked ME for the number to the local Buddhist temple.
STOP THE PRESSES! AREA MAN DROPS LSD AND FINDS GOD!
"Positively 4th Street"

You got a lotta nerve
To say you are my friend
When I was down
You just stood there grinning

You got a lotta nerve
To say you got a helping hand to lend
You just want to be on
The side that's winning

You say I let you down
You know it's not like that
If you're so hurt
Why then don't you show it

You say you lost your faith
But that's not where it's at
You had no faith to lose
And you know it

I know the reason
That you talk behind my back
I used to be among the crowd
You're in with

Do you take me for such a fool
To think I'd make contact
With the one who tries to hide
What he don't know to begin with

You see me on the street
You always act surprised
You say, "How are you?" "Good luck"
But you don't mean it

When you know as well as me
You'd rather see me paralyzed
Why don't you just come out once
And scream it

No, I do not feel that good
When I see the heartbreaks you embrace
If I was a master thief
Perhaps I'd rob them

And now I know you're dissatisfied
With your position and your place
Don't you understand
It's not my problem

I wish that for just one time
You could stand inside my shoes
And just for that one moment
I could be you

Yes, I wish that for just one time
You could stand inside my shoes
You'd know what a drag it is
To see you

On the subject of God, I've developed this paranoid, irrational fear of death. It's bubbled under the surface for about a year - namely, if there isn't a God, is it really just lights out? Like that scene in Terminator 2 when the T-800 robot is lowered into the liquid steel, where everything just goes black and THAT'S IT?

I couldn't bear the thought of that. The atheists have a good argument, and in all honesty you could do far worse than a man like Richard Dawkins as a spokesman. He's intelligent, he is a master debater (masturbatory pun not intended!), and he's British. Dawkins is like C-3PO in human form, but with an agenda, unlike that war-supporting lush Chris Hitchens. Science. It's all about science...if we can't see it, it cannot be, right? If its existence cannot be scientifically proven, it doesn't exist, right?

We can't see air. But we know it's there because we can feel it...even if it's completely still outside, without a touch of wind, we still acknowledge the presence of air.

Subatomic particles exist...but only in theoretical predictions. Quarks, mesons, etc.

The conditions that exist for this planet to sustain life are too spot on for it to have just been an accident. Our universe had a definite beginning, suggesting the role of a Creator. Whether it was the "Big Bang" as read or a "Big Bang" in the sense that, like the origins of the Earth, took eons to occur is up for debate. It is also unknown.

And yet we can all agree the universe exists, can't we?

Desperate last Friday night, I found myself turning where I thought I would never return. I don't even know why I still have it, but I cracked open the Bible. I read part of Habakkuk and part of Nahum, which respectively address why bad things happen to good people and that the Almighty handles the "smite the deserving" department quite well, in turn rewarding the righteous.

It didn't even answer my initial query on death and the afterlife, yet it still proved to be a solace.

I'm writing this for you on the assumption that
a.) you aren't my parents, and
b.) you won't breathe a word of this to them.

I wouldn't want them to think for a second that their "Oh, he'll come around" mentality had anything to do with this. Because before I turned to the Bible, I read some of the Bhaghavad-Gita. Dull, but worth a second glance, for sure. They ever find this out, in typical Christ-like fashion they will rub it in my face. Besides, their church is boring. I don't like the songs. That and I feel I need to investigate God further before I go into re-investigating the main star of the New Testament.

One more time for the world: this was all me.

For the first time in a long time, I prayed at great length. Just to be extra safe, I did it on my knees, facing east.

In light of the past, present, and future, I asked for guidance, patience, and strength. Guidance that I be assured I am doing the right thing. And if not, that it be revealed to me what to do differently. Patience...ah, patience...something I don't have much of, ever. I'm too hasty. I'm ready for it to be the end of August, yet a lot must be done before then - a wedding to attend, an apartment to hunt, etc. Strength? Um, hello? Have you met the people I'm up against?

A seven nation army couldn't hold me back...but I wouldn't mind having the strength of a seven nation army to back me up in this battle of wits.

I'll provide more details later - I've not slept.

So much for being out of the ditch. Oh, well. I might still be in the ditch, but at least I'm further enough up the proverbial road to cope with it, understanding just why it's going on, and ready to work my way out or die in the process.

Alex

"All Along The Watchtower"

There must be some way out of here, said the joker to the thief,
Theres too much confusion, I cant get no relief.
Businessmen, they drink my wine, plowmen dig my earth,
None of them along the line know what any of it is worth.

No reason to get excited, the thief, he kindly spoke,
There are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke.
But you and i, weve been through that, and this is not our fate,
So let us not talk falsely now, the hour is getting late.

All along the watchtower, princes kept the view
While all the women came and went, barefoot servants, too.

Outside in the distance a wildcat did growl,
Two riders were approaching, the wind began to howl.

Meditations On My Final Year As An Undergrad

Be sure to check out the exciting conclusion to my New Orleans trip, just below this entry.

Ok, so here goes.

Dear World -
I've been in a major funk until recently. Things didn't look good for a while, as I found myself losing friends, alienated by the ones I still had, alienated from my partner, disillusioned from my family, at odds with a man I once called my mentor (who by his own admission was/is anything but), the piece of shit car I was driving was on the verge of bursting apart at the seams, I was stuck in a depressingly dead-end job, and with no certainty regarding my admittance to graduate school.

I hid behind a beard and a mean disposition. If it ever seemed like I was taking it out on myself or anyone near to me who truly had the best of intentions, then I apologize. There was a stretch where it got increasingly hard to wake up in the morning, knowing nothing of note would happen in the ensuing day. It also got harder and harder to care.

It took a new car, admission into a graduate program, a successful conference presentation, my final review with the IMP committee, and a series of long talks with Shelley about things that brought me to where I am now:

Note I'm no longer sporting that mid-1970's Neil Young beard. I can't ever see myself being the kind of guy who shaves down to being a baby face on a regular basis. Yes, I will shave clean for my wedding, Shelley's brother's wedding, and others. But I like stubble. It looks good on me.

With one moderately difficult final behind me, all my projects done (hence the gap between entries, including a 40 minute mini-documentary on The Kinks), and an easy final and an intermediately difficult final tomorrow, I can say I'm ready. Shelley's grandparents, who we'd speculated would be a little more sympathetic towards our relationship, are apparently not huge fans of the idea of us. So instead of everyone meeting for what would be a very uncomfortable "Ok, we just sat on our asses for two sweaty hours at graduation, can we PLEASE just go eat?!", we've arranged that our parents meet Friday night before the bustle of graduation day on Saturday. We'll see how that goes when we get to it.

Things are starting to look good. Like old Neil, I'm finding myself emerging from the ditch. Neil's experience is far more harrowing than mine - he experienced the death of two friends - at least on paper. In discussing our life stories, Joseph told me that what more people should understand is that suffering and turmoil in one's life is not something that should be treated like a big fish story. There shouldn't be any one-upping, where the guy who was sexually molested by his scout leader's tale has more credence as a tale of genuine suffering than the boy who was marginalized by his peers for being too smart for his age.

Here I am, now, thinking to myself, maybe a life without regrets is impossible to achieve. Besides that, how much of an existence would you have if you didn't sport a few regrets here and there? I'm now finding myself thinking about things I wish I had or hadn't done. This school year has been a truly formative experience for me. Hell, this past calendar year...can't forget the events of last summer. Shoot, be fair, let's go back to January 2008, when things just got strange, to the present.

Damn, it really did last as long as Neil's visit to the ditch. How about that.

I lost two friends to their drug habits, one to his own ego, and another simply because I'd grown tired of him. The first two? They're long gone as far as I'm concerned, bound to never change until life bites down but hard. That third one? We've rekindled our friendship, though some of my long-running sore spots are still there. I've let his main offense go. And in the fourth instance, he's gladly let me back into his life as a friend. I'm happy for it, but I've noticed my own tendency to keep a distance.

That's just the surface. I almost lost Graham due to Kieth being such a liar. Another friend I feel I've lost is the result of their own attitude and failure to better themselves in a society conducive to upward social mobility. I blame them as much as I blame their significant other being a rock around their neck.

"Time wounds all heels." - Groucho Marx

Can I say I truly don't have any regrets from this year? I wouldn't be where I am now. So...maybe I don't have any [major] regrets. I say major because there's always those minor regrets - "I should have ordered the chicken, this pork is terrible!" - and while I ideally wish things had gone differently I feel wiser and stronger as a person. Less brittle, more mature, less shy, more assertive, less paranoid, more confident, less fragile, more resilient.

If I was able to handle this past year, I'm ready for anything. Even future in-laws.

Alex

Let's end this entry the same way I entered into this phase of my life. I had a quote from this song as the sub-header for this site for quite some time. I don't think anyone noticed at the time, but it was a veiled celebration that Shelley and I were back together, that it was getting better, getting better all the time (and then, followed up by Lennon's lyric of "It can't get no worse," although by the time it was all said and done it, in fact, could get worse. Theoretically, that IS a double negative...)

Ladies and gentlemen, THE BEATLES! (Lyrical emphasis mine)


I used to get mad at my school (No I can't complain)
The teachers who taught me weren't cool (No I can't complain)
You're holding me down (Oh), turning me round (Oh)
Filling me up with your rules (Foolish rules)

I've got to admit it's getting better (Better)
A little better all the time (It can't get no worse)
I have to admit it's getting better (Better)
It's getting better since you've been mine

Me used to be angry young man
Me hiding me head in the sand
You gave me the word, I finally heard
I'm doing the best that I can

I've got to admit it's getting better (Better)
A little better all the time (It can't get no worse)
I have to admit it's getting better (Better)
It's getting better since you've been mine
Getting so much better all the time
It's getting better all the time
Better, better, better
It's getting better all the time
Better, better, better

I used to be cruel to my woman
I beat her and kept her apart from the things that she loved
Man I was mean but I'm changing my scene
And I'm doing the best that I can (Ooh)

I admit it's getting better (Better)
A little better all the time (It can't get no worse)
Yes I admit it's getting better (Better)
It's getting better since you've been mine
Getting so much better all the time
It's getting better all the time
Better, better, better
It's getting better all the time
Better, better, better
Getting so much better all the time

Adventures In Academia, Part Two

Part Four: Planting Seeds
Friday could have been a lousy day, let's be honest. We'd made the trip down, we did what we'd come there to do, caught a live show, and had already eaten a great day's worth of food.

Thank God it wasn't. I stayed up Thursday late night, thumbing through the extraordinarily thick program of panels for the following day. Why not, I thought to myself. There has to be something that is worth attending, right?

The first one of interest I saw for Friday was a panel chaired by Maxim Furek, who I'd met the previous day. His topic was an abstract of his recently-published book, 'The Death Proclamation Of Generation X: A Self-Fulfilling Prophesy Of Goth, Grunge, And Heroin.' It's something for families, especially those with small children. [Lying.]

Two things fascinated me: one, he discussed an era of popular culture and entertainment that I at least knew tangentially. Sure, I was shitting my pants in the heyday of Gen X, but I'm still doing that in the heyday of Generation Y! [Kidding, I haven't shat myself since elementary school.] But seriously, the 90's just happened - or I can at least vividly remember it; my memories dating back to the 80's possess a phantom like quality, bits and pieces, like the day Nick was born and a few other select highlights - and now it truly is history. There is so much to be discussed, from the media's monopoly over America's emotions (OJ, Columbine, etc.) to examining the subculture that was Gen X.

What really caught me was the study of various generations. We never had a President from the so-called "Silent Generation" elected (though McCain would have had this distinction had he gotten in), for example. This says a lot about this generation, wedged between the "GI Generation," which gave us 7 presidents (JFK through Bush I) and the "Baby Boomers," whose impacts upon society are still felt today. Furek focuses solely on Gen X, though I had to ask him about my own generation, known both as the Millennials and Generation Y.

I posited that maybe, just maybe, we are more cynical, having grown up on lying Presidents ("read my lips: NO NEW TAXES!", "I. Did. Not. Have. Sexual. Relations. With. That. Woman. Ms. Lewinsky...that depends on what your definition of 'is' is.", and of course "Iraq has weapons of mass destruction and can be linked to 9/11), the birth of a non-mainstream media (the Internet), where fact-checking is now a Helluva lot easier, and yes, the 9/11 attacks.

He said these were great points, and based on the cycles in the 1991 book 'Generations' by William Stauss and Neil Howell, the Millennials are part of a Hero/Civic cycle. We'll be the ones to get a lot of things done in our lifetimes for future generations. It's interesting to study, and something I'd like to get more into.

There is a list of exhaustive proportions as well, divvying generations up by name, class, and cycle. Really, really cool. As with the previous day, Dad disappeared when I was talking with Maxim.

Maxim's book sounds great, I just wish I actually had the wherewithal to purchase a copy! I'm not one to shill for anybody, you all know this, but he emailed me after the conference and asked if I was interested in using his books for any classes I was teaching. I explained that I was about to graduate and go on to an MA program, but I was flattered he thought I was an instructor.

But this got me thinking, and this is more something that set in post-conference than immediately after: Professor Michael McGerr (a true gem of a professor at IU) is a member of the Baby Boom. Glenn Gass is, too. Both teach on the history and music, respectively, of the 1960's. I grew up in the 1990's, viewing it from a safe distance contemporaneously, and now able to look back and do some critical thinking. Who's to say I wouldn't one day do a class on the history/music of the 1990's? Just a seed of an idea, left to germinate in the old greenhouse between my ears...

In the exact same room, there was a panel on the topic of humor. The other three lecturers could have gone up and done jumping jacks for 20 minutes for all I cared - the one I was there to see dealt with Frank Zappa's use of humor and its relationship to the carnivalesque. It would turn out the other speakers were great, too, just like the guy who talked about Tom Stoppard alongside the Beatles fan the day before.

My ears perked up when the speaker said she did her Master's thesis on Frank Zappa. Naturally, I made a b-line towards her after the panel, in sync with Dad pulling yet another disappearing act. I told her I'd gotten into grad school and I, too, planned on studying Zappa. My only real question on the subject: "Did you have to deal with Gail?" The answer was no. Thank God. For me, this was pretty much a green light to do Zappa in my MA studies.

Basically what I'm saying is that by Friday afternoon, I had the next year or so of my academic career mapped out.

Part Five: Mommy, Wow, I'm A Big Kid Now!

This part is almost sheer anecdotal drivel. At dinner, I ordered a strawberry daiquiri, since it was only a dollar (and as it turned out, in a cup that is too small for my average number one - see previous entry for info on the number system for bodily functions). But Dad ordered a Sam Adams - it wasn't like Wednesday, where he ordered what I ordered. He actually ordered a beer!

I know, I know, "52 year old man enjoys a beer in New Orleans," stop the presses. Maybe it's not such a big deal...for you. When I was really little, I think I saw him drink beer once in a while. Mom had the occasional wine spritzer. Then, they just...stopped. We were told underage drinking led to nothing short than death or teen pregnancy like most other Baptist families. I was floored Mom was fine with me ordering an Irish coffee on my 21st birthday.

So yeah, it was a little (and by a little I mean VERY) weird to be sharing a drink with my old man. I felt like a grown-up.

Part Six: A New Friend
That night, Dad turned in almost alarmingly early. I think there was a bit of unconscious bad blood because I had decided I was not going to go to Muncie for Easter at the church where Nick is a youth leader...again, something that set in later. At the time, it was more like, "He's a little...strange, don't you think?" I had initially thought he was in a good mood until he realized how much things were costing. I did feel bad about that, and tried to order as cheap as possible.

My objective, once Dad went to bed - since I had no intention of sleeping at 10 PM - was pretty simple. Here we are, at an academic conference. I'm rubbing shoulders with experts and people on the way to being experts in all sorts of areas of popular culture. Surely I could meet somebody who could make for an enlightening till dawn type of company?

I talked to Shelley for about an hour and a half, hoping I'd see Tom, Maxim, Eric (see Adventures In Academia, Part One for more as to which of the multitude of guys named Eric I've met that I'm talking about), the dude who complimented my Zappa shirt on Thursday wander through the lobby...someone? Anyone? Near the end of my conversation, I told Shelley I saw someone I sort of knew - the guy and girl who had bummed me a clove cigarette the night before - and figured I might as well drum up a conversation somehow.

This may come as a shock to you, but I can at times be cripplingly shy. Put me in a situation where I don't know anyone and I could very well be over in the corner, gulping down my fifth cup of lemonade. It's because of this that I didn't quit smoking when Katrina dumped me in September of 2005. I realized it was a great way to start up chit-chat that invariably turned into friendships.

(As a complete side-note, if I hadn't been smoking with some buddies outside Wright in November 2005, I wouldn't have seen Sarah Murto, I wouldn't have asked her to prank call Johnson and ask for phone sex, I wouldn't have gone up to her room after to thank her for making my evening, and I wouldn't have met her roommate, who was a cute little girl with magenta-colored hair and red-framed glasses named Shelley.)

I made a promise to myself: I was several states away from what I call home, Shelley was nowhere to be found, I didn't know a soul in that lobby, so I was going to go up and just start talking to someone. Anyone who was there and up at 1 AM was clearly an attendee of the conference; that alone could be a topic of discussion. So I walked up to this pair and ask if they had any more cloves. No, they had just run out. The girl offered us her pack of cigarettes - which, had I know what was to follow, I would have accepted gladly - but we passed, taking just one each.

His name was Joseph. He hailed from North Carolina, but was attending school as an MA student in San Francisco. His lecture was on Wednesday, on Stephen King. He reminded me a lot of Graham, in a good way in that our professional interests may not overlap, but we both love learning so damn much that we enjoy hearing about it. (Graham's majoring in Linguistics, for example.)

A basic question of "What's grad school like?" was happily answered. There's more reading and more writing, but it's in areas you're interested in. I can't complain about that. I'm not saying I won't eventually, because school can be stress-inducing, but it's a lot less daunting. We also had a lot in common with our fields of study. He had professors saying his critical and analytical approach is well-founded...but he's still writing/talking about Stephen King. I've had just the same problem - and will continue to, I'm sure - with rock and roll music.

"Why rock and roll history? Why The Kinks? Why Frank Zappa?"
I swear to God, if I get these questions again from someone under the age of 65 I'll break a bottle over their head. I'll tell you why - it's fucking relevant, that's why! The same reasons we discuss the poetry of T.S. Eliot or the music of Bach, Beethoven, or Chopin - that's fucking why! If no one does it, they'll be lost forever!

Joseph didn't ask that question - nor did I ask him the same thing about horror films/literature. When we told the other what we spoke on, the mutual reaction was, "Oh, cool!" Another problem we've both had is past examples of criticism/analysis of our respective interests. For me, it's people who will write at great lengths about how bitchin' somebody's guitar solo is, paying no mind to the lyrics - plenty of books of that caliber out there. For Joseph, it's horror fans who are more interested in the depictions of gore and violence than what the films are trying to say.

We both agreed, yes, it's fine to praise the aesthetic qualities of the work...ok, you know what? I'll just say what he said, so much less boring than me:
"Of course I notice the gore in the movies - but it's one of those things you talk about in the theater when you see it happening in the movie! It's not something you write about in your review of the movie!"
(See what I mean?)

But no, I knew exactly what he meant. We shared some of our life experiences, swapped emails, and before we knew it the sun was coming up so we called it a night/morning. There's those one-off bonding experiences you have with someone that produces just as fruitful of a bond as a friendship that has lasted years. I hope I'll see him again, whether it's just once or twice a year at conferences, or if luck will have it we'll find ourselves living in the same city at some point in the future.

For my readers - have you ever had something like this happen to you?

Whatever the case, it made for a great ending to this little story arc that started back in August when Tom invited me to the conference.

Epilogue: The Dark Horse Goes South
As we were driving up Canal Street from the hotel to the Interstate, I decided to ask Dad what was up with him vanishing after the panels. His answer was honest, and more than a little touching:
"This was your thing, I didn't want to get in the way."
My natural response was to say, "But you wouldn't have," but I didn't. Let's be real here...in a way, he would have. Anyone would have, whether my guest had been Eric (brother), Shelley, or Mom. Whatever conversation I was having with whoever would have turned into "The program sounds really exciting, I've heard great things about Boston - Oh! This is my fiance, Shelley. She's a Kinks fan, too..." or "Oh! This is my father, Eric. He's a Kinks fan, too."

Is there any way to get this point across without sounding like a dick? I knew what he meant.

Dad was a little feisty on the drive to the airport, frustrated at the traffic and the markings for the car rental place being so bad. I hadn't gone on a proper family vacation since Los Angeles in 2005 - that was a real shit-shower in and of itself, with (don't laugh) Mom telling me to shut up because I thought the Californian landscape was beautiful but she thought was ugly, and that I only claimed to like it because she didn't...mind you, this was the vacation to celebrate my graduation from high school - and thus hadn't really seen "Dad mad at traffic" for the better part of four years.

What was once intimidating, and subsequently rubbed off on me for years afterward as a practitioner of low-level road rage, I saw now as just...stupid. We had plenty of time, we weren't getting charged by the mile, we'd used up maybe a gallon of gas, so where's the fire? Though I'd mellowed out as a driver since quitting my job at the mall, I've made a conscious effort after getting back to just take it easy. We're all going to get to where we're headed eventually. If you're an extra ten minutes late, who cares?

He wasn't a happy camper at the airline desk, either, having to print out our tickets and what-not. I kept thinking, just mellow out, we aren't late, and it's just a stupid policy. Joseph walked by, tapping me on the shoulder and saying hello - I tried introducing him to Dad, but in his struggle with the ticket machine barely muttered "Hi, how you doing." I bid Joseph safe travels, and we parted ways. Oddly enough, he was changing planes in Dallas before going to San Francisco. Strange how these things work out.

On our way into the airport, I was treated to a free slice of physical comedy. One of the security agents, fat, mustachioed, and all-around dumb looking decided - for reasons completely unknown to me - to kick the rope barricade around the baggage check. (You know the kind I'm talking about? They use it to cordon off bathrooms - sort of a poor man's velvet rope - they also have it at movie theaters now.) The rope became unfastened and snapped back to the pole, but the dumbass had kicked his leg too high and landed flat on his back. Adding insult to injury his phone came out of his pocket and broke into several pieces.

I'm still laughing about it now.

Both flights - to Chicago, then to Indy - Dad didn't talk. I can't help but wonder what was on his mind. It had to have been my not attending Easter services in Muncie. Mom and Dad had both told me Nick would be giving the sermon, while the rest of the service would be put on by his youth group. I'm not against showing support, but
1.) I hate Muncie.
2.) Really? Church? I don't even like going to church in Seymour, going to one in Muncie just compounds this.
3.) I decided in advance to factor in that I was probably not going to be sleeping much Friday night. Lo and behold, I went to bed at 6 AM and woke up at 10. I would not have been much fun due to lack of sleep...then factor in numbers one and two.
4.) Honestly, I really just wanted to sleep in my own bed.
5.) I missed Shelley. She sure as Hell wasn't about to share a car ride with my mom from Bloomington to Muncie, she had a paper to do and I had her laptop. So I would have been flying solo.
6.) Going from an academic conference in 80 degree weather to a complete shit-hole of a town in Indiana that, if memory serves, was enjoying weather in the balmy 40's was not my idea of a good time on any level.

(Eric [my brother] told me Nick's "sermon" was little more than a quick "Thank you all for coming this morning" speech, less than five minutes, and that the service itself ran around a half an hour. Nick and Mom we apparently in dour moods, Nick in particular acting like he couldn't be bothered. Oh, yes, and Mom brought Lily - yes, the family dog - with her. So she had to be dealt with in the car. Seriously.)

After we landed in Indy, I thanked Dad for coming along and witnessing what I considered a pivotal point in my life, between getting into grad school and being there when I read the email to seeing me speak, etc. I also thanked him for covering the expenses and making everything happen.

He told me he was going to walk to where he parked - I needed to take the shuttle to my lot - so he gave me enough money to cover the price for parking and as I stood waiting for the shuttle, he just said, "See ya!" and was gone. No "I love you," no "Take care," no hug, no "I'm really proud of you"...nothing.

I popped Tommy into the CD player of the PT Cruiser and got home right in time for the fade-out of "Listening To You". Perfect timing. Have I ever mentioned that album ranks as one of the all-time best night driving albums? No? Well, it is.

Other than the really odd ending, this really was a life-changing experience. When I told Glenn about it the next Tuesday, all he could say was, "Well, welcome to the world of academia!" Leave it to Glenn to sum it up perfectly. And what a welcome.

Alex

At Least Watch A Movie On TV With The Lights Out

Intermission

There will now be a short intermission, during which the following brief announcement is to be made:

"Dear Bloomington residents,
It's a bicycle race. Seriously, people. Bikes. We all had them when we were kids, except some of the more sheltered types and those with clumsy tendencies (Shelley). No need to get worked up about bicycles going around a massive circle. Now, if these bicycles were to be going up Mount Everest, or going through the irradiated wasteland surrounding Chernobyl (which surprisingly DID pass the spell check), then yes there would be cause for celebration.

Don't ruin such a beautiful day with your Woodstock '99-like tendencies to ruin everything for everyone else. First taste of summer we've had all year long. I for one shall be doing laundry and soaking in the sunshine before venturing out for the evening. Maybe take a ride in the old hot air balloon to survey the atmospheric conditions and drop pennies on cars.

Dictated, but not read,
The Management."

Eric and Maddie are supposed to come into town today. And I guess I need to be the one to call Gill when I want to hang out, even though I don't work and thus have a very open schedule? Oh, well. Once we all congregate it should be a fun evening.

Yours,
Alex

Adventures In Academia, Part One

There's a lot of ground to cover with the conference alone, so let's just see how much I can pound out before I realize it's no longer late and instead early.

Part One: Summon The Augur

I don't hate plane rides, but we had an exceptionally rough landing into Houston from Indianapolis. From Houston to New Orleans was about a 45 minute flight, long enough for a beverage. Even though I don't travel much, I've been to a good number of airports:
+ Louisville
+ Orlando
+ St. Petersburg (Florida, not Russia - just so you all know, according to Firefox, Petersburg does not pass the spell-check. But Firefox itself does.)
+ Myrtle Beach
+ Indianapolis (both the old one and the new one)
+ Minneapolis/St. Paul
+ Los Angeles International
+ Pittsburgh
+ Buffalo, NY
+ Houston
+ New Orleans
+ Chicago
I can say - though it's been since I was in single digits that I flew in/out of Florida and went to the Myrtle Beach airport - that the New Orleans airport is probably one of the most surprisingly dumpiest ones I've seen. It looks like they last remodeled it...well, never, actually. Looks more like a hospital. I was a bit disappointed.

But I was not at all disappointed - AT ALL - with New Orleans itself. It was such a beautiful city. From the Interstate into the city I could see some of those typical New Orleans cemeteries with the above-ground vaults and elaborate graves. When - not if - I go back, visiting one of those graveyards will be of high priority. The hotel was great, too. The lobby had a very deliberate retro look to it, and the restaurant's fireplace made the entire lower level have the lovely scent of burning wood. (I'm serious - I love that smell. It reminds me of my grandparents' house.)

Dad was really good company, too. We both sort of balked at how exaggerated Bourbon Street was. As we walked on foot, rounding the corner from Canal to Bourbon, a panhandler - who was the worst liar in the world - hit us up for change. Since I never have cash in my wallet, all I had were coins. So I gave him a fistful, and then he asked me for more! Whatever...there must have been a cheap liquor mart nearby.

Speaking of cheap booze, say what you will about Mad Dog 20/20, one can enjoy 12 oz. of fruity, wine-based deliciousness for a mere $1.79 up here in Bloomington. (I'm writing this during Little 500 weekend.)

But Bourbon Street, which seemingly everyone in my age group recommended to me, was nuts. Shelley lives right across the street from two of IU's many fraternities, so to see a place practically niche-marketed towards these gorillas and their overpaid daddies wasn't the most comforting sight in the world. Since my nerves were a little rattled from the flight, at the bar where we had dinner (at midnight, because we're awesome like that) I ordered a Woodchuck Cider. Dad ordered the same, which I thought was neat. He liked it. I have Graham to thank for that.

Another thing strongly recommended to me was the Po' Boy sandwich. I have a natural aversion to nearly all fried foods - donuts being a rare exception to this rule - so eating a fried crawfish Po' Boy, I will admit I was not crazy about it. The bread was toasted, but it was also too thick. I don't know, I was a bit underwhelmed. But it was food - the last thing I'd eaten was a shitty airline snack pack.

The lady at the front desk told us that the hotel's wireless only worked in the lobby, so at around 2 AM on a sheer whim I asked Dad if he wanted to accompany me downstairs while I checked email. I had left Bloomington around 2:30 PM, and the emails from UMass and BGSU were from 3:15 and 3:30, respectively. The one day I'm away from computers for more than an hour - closer to thirteen - and I literally have back-to-back emails from graduate programs. It put a really good feeling over the entire rest of the weekend. I was thrilled. I still am, thinking about it over two and a half weeks later.

Part Two: D-Day, Or, How I Overcame Caffeine Poisoning And Learned To Love Public Speaking

My first order of business Thursday morning was to locate Tom Kitts. I saw he was participating in some sort of business meeting for the Popular Music panel, so I woke up early, got my name badge and all my official stuff and waited outside the room - funny enough, the same room where we would be presenting later. The meeting ended, and there he was. Just an inch or two shorter than me, skinny, maybe around my dad's age (early/mid 50's). It's so strange to meet someone you've only seen a picture of. Is that what it was like in a world before Facebook and the Internet, where you would meet someone with only a solitary picture as a reference?

Regardless, he introduced me to Nick Baxter-Moore from Brock University up in Canada, who was also on our panel. They were both really friendly. I had just emailed Tom a few days earlier about me worrying about grad school, and he encouraged me to talk to Nick about it. Thankfully, I had a nice update of "I literally found out just last night that I got into U. Mass Boston." They both congratulated me, Tom praised my Kinks essays to Nick. Now, I may have heard this wrong, but I could swear I heard him say, "He's got a blog, too. Really great. I'll send you the link." He may have been talking about someone else, but if not that's cool, too. If you guys do read it, don't be afraid to say hello.

Someone please tell me how to get a hit counter installed on this site - I wouldn't mind knowing how many people are actually that interested in me. Because as I always say I consider myself a fairly boring person.

I told Shelley that if this wasn't some auditory hallucination, or if Tom was talking about someone else, I should have been a little weirded out by this. Yet I wasn't. The night before I'd overheard two people chatting in the lobby, and one of them said "How do you already know so much about me?" And the other person responded, "Oh, I googled you!" Such is the nature of the 21st Century. And it's with that in mind that I realized with a few obvious exceptions (parents, grandparents, a few other self-righteous individuals) I'm really not ashamed of my content here. Yes, a lot of it is written in the heat or excitement of the moment, but I personally like that sort of honesty.

Besides meeting him - finally - and seeing what he looked like/sounded like in person, I was curious as to what I needed to wear. I had brought a suit, button-up, and a tie. When I told him this, he laughed and said what I had on was fine (Zappa t-shirt, jeans, and my black Chucks.) An academic conference this may have been, but this was a panel on rock and roll music.

Anyway, Tom had to go, but Nick and I waited together for an elevator. He asked me how long I'd been into The Kinks. Then I realized it has been just under 9 years. The fall of 2000 was a good time for me. That and spring of 2002 were the best times of my life until college. Maybe some rainy afternoon I'll wax nostalgic about those "good old days." I quipped to Nick that realizing how long it had been made me feel old. As a man with mainly salt in his salt-and-pepper colored hair, he joked back that I didn't really know what old was.

I was too nervous to really eat. Believe me, I tried. I didn't want to keep Dad bored by sitting around and reading and re-reading my essay*, so we went for a walk around the French Quarter, knowing now to avoid Bourbon Street. Which brings me to what I consider the most beautiful intersection in the world: Chartres and Saint Louis streets. Don't ask why, you know as well as I do that explaining beauty is like trying to say why you like your favorite band - it just is what it is. We ate at an open-air restaurant (that was something really cool about New Orleans, that all these places can open up the French doors and just have the outdoors waft in. I had some sort of grilled chicken, vowing fried food would not be a good choice.

Since I am a man who learns from his past mistakes, I opted for coffee. I figured it would calm my tense nerves, keep me relaxed, and help me maintain a slow, clear diction during my speech. [Lying.]

No. Not at all. I felt like 1966 Bob Dylan, the amphetamine-addled one who rocked back and forth nervously while talking at 90 miles an hour about nothing at all.

So we assembled in the conference room. I had decided to put on my green button-up and roll up the sleeves, while still rocking the jeans and the Chucks. One guy asked, "So who here is speaking on The Kinks?" I raised my hand, using all possible willpower to keep it from shaking. Turns out that was the big draw for him to attend our panel. Great, I thought. (More on him later.)

I was the first to go. Holy fucking shit. There I was, strung out on coffee (and lots of it), with a strong urge to urinate, vomit, and do that thing fried foods tend to make most people do, possibly all at the same time. I believe they call that a number 6.** I stood up, placed my essay* on the table, firmly placed my hands on the table, thinking to myself that I could not move a muscle, and went for it.

My words came out like I hadn't had 20 ounces of black coffee, like I didn't have the overwhelming urge to take a piss, and like I wasn't completely nervous speaking in front of 20 people. (So I did mock trial and speech team in high school, but that was four years ago - a lot of the time in front of people I knew.) It went great.

Nick's presentation was on the concert experience - fascinating material, and his research methods were good, too. Tom, the English professor with a Brooklyn accent, talked about the punk group Anti-Flag. It was really cool to hear him read the lyrics, "You've gotta die, gotta die, gotta die / For your government / Die for your country / That's shit." It's like when Glenn says the sort of four letter words that pepper this site liberally in a classroom setting. It's just really cool.

We were fielded questions by the audience. One of the first was on what the status was of a Kinks reunion. Tom and I both answered that question. I responded that I couldn't be too nuts about the thoughts of a reunion, since Ray seems just fine touring on his own, while the fact that they've had, as I said, "seventeen bassists and five thousand keyboardists," the issue of who would be on the album or live tour would mean some of the guys wouldn't be invited. Tom explained that Pete Quaife, the original bassist, is in no condition to tour, as he is on dialysis. (Funny enough, shortly after the conference, Pete made a statement that he has no interest whatsoever in a Kinks reunion and with all respect would like to have his privacy from the public.) And I didn't know this, but Dave still hasn't fully recovered from his stroke in 2004. I found that a little sad. Ray is very keen on getting the group back together, but at the same time, as Tom said, he has a knack for saying this around the time of another album or tour of his own. McCartney did that a lot, too, in the interim period between John and George's deaths.

And then came the hobnobbing, which I quickly realized was the other half of why these conferences exist.***

One of Tom's former students named Eric Abbey,^ now a professor up near Detroit, talked to me about The Kinks, which oddly enough quickly turned to Zappa, since I'm 95% sure I'll be studying Frank's music for my MA thesis. His drummer in his band used to play with former Zappa guitarist Ike Willis' FZ tribute band, the Ugly Radio Rebellion. The guy who asked who was talking on The Kinks was a guy from Pennsylvania named Maxim Furek. Turns out he used to be a music journalist. Tom told me a few days later that a filmmaker/musician/professor/author named Greg Herriges enjoyed my presentation, as well. I guess I was a hit.

Part Three: A Typical Thursday Night In New Orleans. You Know How It Goes...

I couldn't help but notice that during the post-panel hobnobbing, Dad disappeared. It was strange, since I really wanted him to be there and meet these people, too. Anyway, I asked both Nick and Tom what they thought, especially since they knew this was my first conference. They said it was great; when I asked Tom if I seemed nervous, he asked me, "You were nervous?" I guess I do still have some acting skills in me. We all shook hands and parted ways. Tom invited us to meet up with him, Eric, their ladies, and other people to go bowling. I gave him a definite maybe since I didn't know how our evening would turn out.

Dad was down at the end of the hall when I left the conference room. He said it sounded good and that each speaker was interesting. I told him that the first order of business, since the overwhelming urge to vomit had long since subsided, was for me to eat. So I changed back into my Zappa shirt up in the room, but then I remembered there was someone speaking on the "Paul Is Dead" hoax. The other presenter on the panel talked about the plays of Tom Stoppard, specifically the fan-fiction like nature of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead and Rock 'N' Roll, which funny enough features as plot elements The Plastic People Of The Universe, Syd Barrett, The Rolling Stones, and a character designed to be Václav Havel; the play itself takes place between the Prague Spring of 1968 and the Velvet Revolution in 1989 in Czechoslovakia. So how about that? I talk on The Kinks, then go listen to a talk on The Beatles, and at the same panel another guy talks about a play centered on a country I have studied quite thoroughly.

How's that for conceptual continuity?

Just across the street from where we had lunch at Chartres and Saint Louis, we ate at what I learned afterward was a site of great historical significance - the Napoleon House. I had a savory Greek panini. Dad's red beans and rice looked delicious - I'd have a plate of my own the next night. The restaurant specialized in Italian desserts. I had cassata (spumoni ice cream with jam and cake inside) and Dad had bread pudding, with a strong - but damn good - rum sauce. We also noticed the coffee had an extra something in it. Dad told me it was chicory. Best coffee I've ever had in my life.

The Napoleon House was my favorite place to eat. Not that the rest of my story is downhill from here, far from it in fact. I'm recommending it to each of you if you're ever in New Orleans. Chartres and Saint Louis Streets, can't miss it. They also had a full bar menu. We wandered through the French Quarter to Frenchman Street, which is far enough away from the touristy areas that it was actually quiet.

That is, until we heard a drummer off in the distance. You hear the drums first, and as you get closer, the bass and then the guitars and lastly the vocals are audible. Dad and I paid five bucks a piece to see two bands. And they were great! I didn't get the name of the first band, but they were followed by a group called Pumpkin. They were fantastic - sort of a cross of punk and Devo. Really good music, with some great accompanying movies projected on a screen behind them to boot!

It made for some great father-son bonding time. Dad went to bed, but I ventured to the lobby, where I saw Tom and Eric et al. outside the building. They'd just gotten back, so I walked outside to say hello and tell them how our night went. Eric, his girlfriend (maybe wife or fiance? I can't remember...) and I talked after Tom and his girlfriend called it a night. I really, really wanted a cigarette, and lo and behold I smelled someone enjoying a clove nearby. Two people were, so I asked if I could bum. They obliged, and I got to enjoy my favorite type of smoke while making acquaintance with yet another Eric^.

On this note, I bid you farewell for now. It's now 6:35 and birdies are chirping - my cue to go to bed. Speaking of conceptual continuity, its originator will be discussed in the next part, along with extracts of a fascinating conversation I had with a gay Buddhist from San Francisco, and more.

TO BE CONTINUED...

*My essay can be found here in .pdf format.

** The breakdown is as follows:
1. Urination
2. Defecation
3. Vomiting
4. 1 & 2 together
5. 2 & 3 together
6. 1, 2, & 3
7. Nosebleeds
8. Popping a pimple
9. Menstruation
10. Ejaculation
11. Drooling
12. Sweating

Feel free to contribute to this list as desired.

*** The other half is self-promotion, generating/maintaining visibility in academia.

^ As you all know, between my brother, father, brother's father-in-law, two former bandmates, the President of Young Democratic Socialists, a church camp counselor, a friend from the Zappa class, and two of my brother's friends, I can easily say I have no shortage of guys named Eric in my life.

The Best News I've Heard In A While

Freddie Mac CFO commits suicide.
Well, I shouldn't be so damned cynical. The man had a family.

But at the same time I'm sure they're getting compensated well for their loss.

I'll be back at some point to expound on the conference, grad school, and other sundry topics. Some things have changed for the better, others...not so much.

And on top of all this, I'm sick with a chest cold. Damn weather - it's 75 this weekend, but drops down to the 40's and rains Monday and Tuesday? Go on, Indiana. Keep taking away any sense of nostalgia or loss I might have when I leave you in late August/early September.

Oh, yes, not just sick with a chest cold, but sick with a chest cold and a rough draft due in three hours, a rough cut of a video documentary due tomorrow, with the final versions of both due next week.

Didn't I just leave this party of projects and deadlines? Jesus.

Alex

Quick Update

I got into the University of Massachusetts Boston for American Studies!

Same day as I traverse down to New Orleans for the PCA conference - and the same day I found out that I didn't get into Bowling Green State University.

This is what we call cinematic timing.

Now that the wait is over, let's go make this conference a great one.

Alex

My Story So Far...Or, DONE!

Hi kids. Good to see Forrest is back and commenting. I guess word spreads fast that I'm actually using this thing again, and regularly.
Gill and I had lunch today. He was free, so I got him to come to Z202 with me. Our discussion veered towards Zappa, but didn't quite get there.

Still, I told him over lunch that we would most likely get to Frank - Gill's been getting into music in a big way lately - which he thought was awesome. Lord knows he's heard me ranting and raving about him like I was his son or something. [Deliberate reference to my father's passing resemblance to FZ.]

So we got sidetracked, as can sometimes happen in the class. Regardless, Glenn showed this neat little clip. Even though we didn't directly discuss Zappa, I put myself in Gill's shoes and could see the "so THIS is where he gets it from!" in his eyes.

It's Frank Zappa on The Monkees, fooling around with my favorite Monkee, Mr. Michael Nesmith. Zappa once said they were "the most honest band in LA."

(One more thing, and then the clip, I promise!) All I can personally say about this is that you really wouldn't see something like this on television.


The song playing while they play the car is "Mother People" from We're Only In It For The Money. You will read this again sooner than you think, but it's my favorite Zappa album.

So, the essays have been revised. Andy has signed the sponsor approval form. We filled out forms giving our availability for the big committee review...it almost feels like the night before Christmas. Or like a store the night before a big inventory shipment is to be put out for Halloween. Everything is all wrapped up and ready.

To commemorate this occasion, I present to you my retrospective statement, the final piece I worked on before completing my project.

It's all done. I can't lie that I'm nervous facing the committee. I don't know why. I don't have to know why. But it's all right, as you know I've been spending the last 22 years looking for something to senselessly lose sleep over.

[Ok, two things:
1. Thank you, Mom, for this seemingly chronic self-doubt and habitual second-guessing. You raised me well.
And 2. Sarcasm deluxe with cheese.]

Still - STILL - nothing! With a rough skeleton of a fallback plan ready, at this point I'm just wanting to know, whatever their decision is. Yes, of course I want to get in to grad school, dammit! I wouldn't have applied if I didn't. But this is almost unnecessary anguish.

I've noticed it's affecting me just a tad, here and there.

[Again - sarcasm, this time with a raspberry vinaigrette atop a bed of sprouts, Romaine lettuce, and topped with feta cheese.]

Read it.

"My primary objective in studying Rock and Roll History through the Individualized Major Program (IMP) was to refocus my academic interests. My first major is Communication and Culture (CMCL), concentrating on film studies. I’m well aware that a student can enter a master’s program completely unrelated to their bachelor’s degree, but I also know that graduate programs have become increasingly competitive. As time passed, I became less enamored with film studies, seeing it as something I could enjoy in my own time and on my own terms.

This didn’t keep me from applying to the CMCL graduate program for the fall of 2008. My newly reignited interest in rock music (due to Professor Andy Hollinden’s class on Frank Zappa and Professor Glenn Gass’ course on The Beatles) resulted in me proposing a study on rock cinema in my statement of purpose. I did not get into the program, which I do not at all regret. I had arranged a Plan B of sorts with Professor Hollinden regarding my pursuit of Rock History through the IMP. I wanted to study the origins and emergence of rock music, its social impact, and to engage in the analysis of specific artists and their works. Thanks to the classes Andy and I chose for my major, each of these goals have been met, and in no small capacity.

Music has been a part of my life for as far back as I can remember and beyond. There is home movie footage of me on my third birthday singing “Yellow Submarine” into my new tape player. As I grew up, so did my appreciation of the music; I constantly had my nose in a book about John Lennon, The Who, or The Rolling Stones, among others. In spite of my firm knowledge on the subject, I still had a lot to learn, especially with regard to the early history of rock. Aside from discovering new favorites in Z385 (History of the Blues) and Z201 (Roots of Rock), I heard the music that inspired the musicians I grew up hearing, tracing the musical lineage to the 1920’s and earlier. A shock (though hardly a surprise) was learning about the treatment of African-Americans by the recording industry. There were countless bluesmen we learned about who made fantastic and important recordings in the 1920’s, only to be found thirty years later living in squalor and working as sharecroppers.

My final project is a series of analytical essays on my favorite band, The Kinks and their (almost) sole songwriter, Ray Davies. As part of the British Invasion of the mid-1960’s, their first breakthrough was with “You Really Got Me,” with its distinctive guitar riff and heavily distorted tone, played by Ray’s younger brother Dave. Their career is marred by a combination of poor management in the 1960’s and Ray’s desire (for better or for worse) to pursue his own artistic goals and desires. A series of disputes, which no one in the band’s inner circle seem to agree upon, led to the American Federation of Musicians banning them from touring the United States from 1965 to 1969. In a twist of irony, this period, in which their records were largely unavailable in this country, yielded what both critics and fans now consider their greatest period. Ray’s role as the band’s leader went to its greatest extreme in the mid 1970’s after returning to America with the smash hit single “Lola” in 1970, as the band released a string of concept albums on such themes as urban development, life as a musician, and school. It may sound silly, but it’s the era of The Kinks that I treasure the most.

My initial pitch for the project was an album-by-album review of their career. This posed a few problems, as they have nearly thirty albums to their name; additionally, in their early years (like any band in the pre-Sgt. Pepper world) they were primarily a singles band, with some of their most important early work not appearing on LP. As with any other artist with a lengthy discography, there are bound to be a few duds as well, meaning I’d have to write about their lesser releases in combination with their classic albums. Around September of 2008, I decided to pare it down, reshaping it into essays covering select themes in Ray Davies’ songwriting as well as essays on two different albums.

The course of my research can best be described as a labor of love. There are so many themes to be extracted and discussed from The Kinks’ work that I had a difficult time narrowing it down to the two I chose (the role of class in the 1966 single “Dead End Street” and three songs focusing on America rather than their homeland), but at the same time I was immersing myself even deeper into the words of my favorite lyricist and the music of my favorite band. I found myself learning lots of fascinating little details from the first day I began assembling notes for the essays right on up to my final essay. Many of these little facts were too minute for inclusion in my writings, though one in particular stands out. As a Frank Zappa fan, I was pleased to read in Dave Davies’ autobiography Kink that he always admired Zappa, specifically We’re Only In It For The Money, which by sheer coincidence is also my own favorite.

Of all my primary resources, I found Tom Kitts’ biography on Ray Davies, Not Like Everybody Else, to be the most thorough and best-written. Kitts is a professor of English at St. John’s University in New York, making his approach a more academic one. The great problem I found with Neville Marten and Jeff Hudson’s The Kinks was that their writing style was journalistic, lacking any citation of resources and avoiding any in-depth criticism or analysis. Doug Hinman’s exhaustively researched All Day And All Of The Night traced the day-by-day activities of the band, helping me peg down release dates and significant events in the band’s history. Ray and Dave have both written autobiographies, X-Ray and Kink, respectively. In true fashion, Ray’s is unconventional in that he tells the story of a young journalist interviewing a significantly older version of himself, recounting the band’s history. Dave’s is straightforward, though many of his stories need to be taken with a grain of salt. In spite of that, his book is very honest and revealing.

On a whim last spring, I emailed Professor Kitts to tell him about my project. He took a very keen interest in my work, and along with Hollinden and Gass he has read each of my essays, offering very in-depth comments and suggestions, the kind one could only get from someone who has written on the same subject. It was after reading my initial essay (on their 1970 album Lola Versus Powerman And The Money-Go-Round) that he invited me to speak at the Popular Culture Association/American Culture Association joint conference in New Orleans from April 8th through the 12th, falling right between the submission of my project and my review before the committee. My topic is “Ray Davies’ Vision of America,” one of four presentations in the popular music category. I can’t think of a better way for my project to come to a close, though I have every intention of returning to this subject at some point in the future.

Since one of my minors is in Slavic Languages and Literatures, my IMP committee suggested (if I had the time) to do an independent study on rock music’s relationship with the underground counterculture in Soviet-controlled Czechoslovakia. It may sound a bit esoteric, but the idea interested me. I found myself short on time last fall to pursue it, unfortunately. However, I am currently in a course on Hungarian culture through Central Eurasian Studies. My professor, Lynn Hooker, encouraged me to do a similar paper on this topic, though centered around Hungary rather than Czechoslovakia. She has recommended two books detailing the history of the suppression of popular music behind the Iron Curtain: Rock Around the Bloc: A History of Rock Music in Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union, 1954-1988 by Timothy Ryback and Up from the Underground: The Culture of Rock Music in Postsocialist Hungary by Anna Szmere. Additionally, in Z120 (Music in Multimedia), my final project is a brief video documentary on The Kinks, using both found footage and interviews to be filmed by me. Both of these projects are due at the semester’s end and are still in their formative stages at the time of this writing; I can gladly provide more information at the time of my committee review.

I can easily say Z402 (the Music of Frank Zappa) was my favorite class. This was the class that prompted me to rethink my academic interests. Having been a Zappa fan since the age of thirteen, it was both a joy and a revelation to be able to discuss and dissect Zappa’s music in an academic setting. In spite of my preexisting knowledge of the music, I still found myself learning lots of facts about the man and his music. My favorite nonmajor courses (it’s a tie) were both in the Slavic Studies Department. The first was Central European Cinema, which I had with Georgian Professor Dodona Kiziria. It opened my eyes to world cinema, while my second choice, Professor Bronislava Volkova’s course on Czechoslovakian Film and Literature in the Postwar Period took it one step further. The movies are beautifully made, and in the case of Czech cinema they are often laced with black humor. The readings required for both of these classes have become among my favorite books, as well.

When asked why I’m choosing to study Rock History, I tell them it’s all a matter of cultural significance. Though at first glance it may seem frivolous, I explain to whoever asks that I analyze the lyrics in the same way as poetry. Not all artists are subject to as thorough of an analysis as The Kinks or Dylan or Neil Young would be, for example. The lyrics are reflective of both the songwriter and the times; analyzing any artifact of popular culture is a method of studying the way of life in a particular era. In Professor Michael McGerr’s class From Ragtime To Rap, the history of (mostly) American popular music was used as a way of looking at American society from the Victorian era to the present day. The music was then connected with such topics as gender roles, race relations, and the politics of the times. Since I am not a “properly” trained musician, I limit my discussion of the music to how it frames the lyrics and enhances the mood of the song. I also do my best to describe and comment on the music in a way non-musicians can understand. I have read musicological pieces on Zappa and The Beatles, and frankly I found them to be a little dull and not at all captivating.

My decision to study The Kinks solely hinged on my belief that Ray Davies deserves praise for his talent as a lyricist, on a par with John Lennon and Bob Dylan. He could step back and criticize the conservative elements of British society in one song, only to turn around and point a derisive finger towards the hip counterculture of Swinging London. Many of his songs tell stories, putting the listener into another person’s mind and observing their world. His sense of almost cinematic detail is stunning, with his penchant for storytelling giving him a truly unique style.

In regards to my plans post-graduation, I am currently waiting to hear back from the University of Massachusetts Boston, Brooklyn College, Bowling Green State University, and Case Western Reserve. For each respective school, I have applied to American Studies, Musicology, Popular Culture Studies, and Music History programs. With the present situation in the American economy, I’ve become well-aware that many graduate programs are feeling the squeeze, prompting me (in a situation not unfamiliar to me) to form a fallback plan in the event I am not admitted to any of the above institutions. If graduate school is not in the cards this time around, I will reapply to the same programs. In the meantime, I’m making plans to relocate to Austin, Texas, a city that boasts a thriving economy, music scene, and arts culture. I’ll resume work on my Kinks essays and seek to get them published upon completion. Wherever life takes me, I know I’ll be happy."

I'm proud of that ending. Not conventional, but sort of my way of flipping the bird to this tanking economy. It won't get me down. So long as I'm happy with what I'm doing, whatever and wherever that may be (though the latter is certainly key in shaping my happiness), life will be good.

There's other stuff going on. Madness with the future in-laws. Doesn't quite have me rethinking the whole thing, but it's certainly like having a really deep splinter stuck in your skin. Don't quite know what to do with it.

In some ways, I hate the fact that I won't have a father-in-law who can sit down and talk with me about Neil Young or someone like that. Her mother won't tell me about how she grew up with the biggest crush on Keith Partridge or Ricky Nelson. Nope.

If I travel for her brother's wedding - yes, a date has been set - we're going to Dallas first, then we get to ride in a car with her parents for five hours between Dallas and San Antonio.

Oh, and they don't listen to music in the car.

Ok, so maybe I'm rethinking some things. Especially since the debate of "Where's the money going to come from?" rages on. I don't quite have the courage to tell my parents that I'd like for them to fund this excursion. Her parents won't. In spite of their, um, well-to-do-ness, they aren't one for charity. And if Shelley pays my way, they apparently can't know this?

She doesn't want to be there alone. And I don't blame her. Her brother met his future wife in October, had the engagement plans ready by December, proposed in March, and will be marrying her in June. They've also seen each other less than ten times. This is all somehow fine with Shelley's parents and family, and yet there will be aneurysms aplenty with her own betrothal. Even though we've dated for nearly all of our college career, the engagement came after three years...oh, yeah, and we fucking postponed our original planned date to, um, please certain parties.

This is too depressing to discuss. I can't even remedy these feelings with my usual sarcasm and cynicism.

Later.
Alex

Midnight Snack Recipes

If you're ever feeling a bit hungry in the middle of the night and need a quick fix, try these on for size. In spite of the similarities of ingredients, the tastes were remarkably different.

Sweet And Spicy Garlic Toast
Spread sweet and spicy mustard over a slice of bread (rye, wheat, white, pumpernickel - your choice)
Sprinkle as much garlic powder as you like - I recommend the California blend
Cover the mustard/garlic with shredded cheese (I used cheddar, but again - your call. If you want to use Monterey Jack, go right ahead.)
Put in toaster over until cheese is melted, or the underside of the toast appears browned.

I made it on a complete whim. One food that has always eluded me - as much as I'd like to try it - has been Welsh Rarebit (or Rabbit - both spellings work), which is apparently a cheese/beer/mustard/paprika concoction drizzled over toast. It sounds really good. I can only envision what it tastes like. Another one I'm interested in is Scotch Woodcock (again with the deceptive name), which is lightly scrambled egg & cheese with anchovy (or anchovy paste) on toast.

My only issue with the first recipe here is that a little bit of sweet and spicy mustard goes a long way. Spread just enough that you can still see the bread's pores. Trust me.

This next one I made with a bit more of a purpose.

Brown Mustard Garlic Toast
Spread spicy brown mustard over a piece of bread.
Sprinkle garlic powder and black pepper to your desire.
Top with shredded cheese (in my case, cheddar) and a dash of Parmesan.
Put in toaster oven, melting cheese and making the toast golden brown.

Try it out. Let me know what you think. I'm sort of experimenting with maximizing flavor while minimizing costs. Bread is cheap. Mustard is cheap. Shredded cheese is cheap.

Other items I find myself buying due to their price:
+ Potatoes
+ Sweet potatoes
+ Baked beans
+ Low-end cereal, usually store brand
+ (Rarely) Hot dogs
+ Wheat bread
+ Soy milk
+ Granny Smith apples
+ Pickles
+ Ramen noodles (Beef, Chicken, and Oriental)

M@, Forrest, you've been to college. Any cheap-ass recipes you recommend? I've heard baked bean sandwiches are popular at colleges in the UK, much like Ramen noodles here.