duluoz2

[duluoz2]

Musicis historia mea, Part II: The Punk Years

The fist time I heard punk rock, it scared me. It was the first track of the Germs’ “GI” album. My sister had borrowed it from someone, and there it was on the turntable. The cover was black with a blue circle on it; weird. I thought I’d give this punk thing a try. After all, I was an avid “New Wave” fan. I liked Devo, Blondie, Talking Heads, and Elvis Costello; how much different could this punk music be? To be honest, I had seen documentaries about the punks in Britain, and it had seemed pretty creepy; I mean, they had safety pins in their faces! Plus, the scary personification of punk, Sid Vicious, had recently died of a heroin overdose after knifing his girlfriend. No thanks! I’ll stick to the less scary stuff, maybe go as far as liking the Ramones, and, if I really wanted to get radical, the Dickies. 

But here was this album by a group called the Germs; my sister got it from a friend of hers who was actually into punk. So I gave it a listen. The first song on the album, by now a punk classic and one that I have listened to countless times, is called “What We Do is Secret.” It starts with a four count kick drum beat, and then it hits warp drive into a sonic onslaught that is atomic. My usual volume for listening to any music when I was 13 was loud, as in LOUD. So of course I had the volume turned up to ridiculous levels. Big mistake. The drumbeat kicked, and suddenly I was pummeled by guitar, bass, and Darby Crash’s demonic screech.

Standing in the line we're aberrations Defects in a defect's mirror And we've been here all the time real fixations Hidden deep in the furor- What we do is secret-secret!

Not that I understood any of the lyrics (nor do I to this day). All I knew is that I felt like Charlie Brown when he was pitching and someone would hit the ball back at him and cause him to spin around in a cloud of dust while his shirt, socks, and shoes flew off. I quickly took the record off. Nope. Too loud, too intense. I’ll stick to listening to my Devo “Freedom of Choice” album. But deep down, I was intrigued. It all came to a head when my sister made the first purchase of a punk album by a member of my family: the soundtrack to The Decline of Civilization (I know what some of you are thinking; “you mean that movie about the metal bands?” No, the original!). Now recovered from my first encounter with SoCal hardcore, I listened. First song. “White Minority” by Black Flag (after some dialogue from the movie, that is). Again, an aural blitz to start things off. This time, however, I was not scared. And so my initiation into punk rock began.

Now, punk still had a bad reputation. The stories about the punk scene in Britain had scarcely faded into obscurity before we were inundated with shocking exposés about the violence and anti-social elements of the LA punk scene. Fights regularly broke out at shows. The local media had run stories and video about the gang-like attacks at Black Flag shows (the band was blamed for doing nothing to stop the violence). The message was clear: decent people stayed away from this type of scene. No good kids were into it. Parents, lock up your children. The LA punk scene even had its own Sid Vicious; Darby Crash, he of the frightening GI album, had OD’d in December of 1980 (he died the same day as John Lennon, which overshadowed things a bit). But again, although I was initially repelled by the whole scene, I was also intrigued. I was a fan. Punk records started finding their way into my record collection. My friends and I slam danced at the eight-grade graduation dance. I tried like hell to spike my hair. The fix was in.

This was circa 1981. The LA punk scene was in its hardcore golden age. Bands like Black Flag, the Circle Jerks, Fear, the Adolescents, and Bad Religion were kings of the scene. What I didn’t know then was that the punk scene in LA had a longer and more varied history. The nascent LA punk scene had started in the late 70’s and was much more arty and eclectic. There was also a heavy gay element, since many of the artists were used to being on the fringes of society. The music was slower and more experimental. The bands of that era were X, the Weirdos, Catholic Discipline, and the Bags. Bands associated with hardcore music, like Black Flag and the Germs, were also a part of this earlier scene, but their music was different at that time. The punk scene I got involved with was far less diverse; bands were hardcore, and there was a macho element to everything with the slam dancing and fighting.  The kids in the scene were younger and from the suburbs. They were “bored kids with nothing do do,” to put it in the words of the Adolescents. We liked the music loud, hard, and fast. If it was slow, or if, god forbid, a band had long hair, we weren’t interested in it. Thus, bands that would survive the initial influx and go on to some degree of fame in later years by going beyond the SoCal punk scene like the Minutemen, were held in lesser regard than a band like TSOL.

Then a weird thing happened; punk bands started cropping up in the weirdest places. There were scenes in major cities like San Francisco, New York, and Chicago, but bands started coming from places like Milwaukee, Kansas City, and Minneapolis, the heart of the Midwest for God’s sake. They had weird names like Necros, the Meatmen, the Stretchmarks, and, weirdest of them all, Husker Du. They didn’t look like punks. At least, they didn’t look like punks according to my definition. I simply wasn’t’ impressed although I was happy so to see at least a bastardized version of punk going national. Still, Southern California was the place for true punk rock.

And it seemed as if the scene was growing exponentially. More and more bands were formed. Record labels like Posh Boy, Frontier, SST, and Epitaph put out a steady stream of singles, EP’s, and full albums. Live shows were a bit of a problem. By the time I had figured out a way to sneak off to shows, I was either thwarted by the age limit, the club had gone under, or punk bands were banished. Thus, I missed famous venues like the Starwood, the Masque, and Al’s Bar. My first gig was at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium and featured an all-star lineup of Black Flag, the Minutemen, the Adolescents, and DOA. I went with my older brother, my sister, and her friend. At the time, the violence at punk shows was all over the news, particularly the violence at Black Flag shows. Needless to say, I was scared shitless. I dressed for the occasion in what I thought were punk clothes: Levi’s 501s, flannel shirt, and Chuck Taylors. When I saw what many of the other attendants were wearing – leather jackets, combat boots, and bondage pants – I was even more gobsmacked. I had what I thought was short hair, over my ears, but most of the guys at the place had shaved heads. Skinheads! The guys who would randomly pick someone out of the crowd and beat the shit out of him. The atmosphere was strange, threatening. I thought at any moment I would get grabbed by the collar and set upon by five or six guys. I sat in the back with the girls and watched the bands. My brother and his friends, veterans of the scene by this time, quickly made their way towards the stage and into the slam pit (we didn’t call it “moshing” then; I still have no idea what the fuck “moshing” is). I stood well back and just watched. I really don’t remember much about the bands that played that night. 

The things I remember distinctly are a guy coming out dressed as Adam Ant and dancing to “Ant Music.” Seems that, for some reason, Black Flag fans decided that they hated the Ants, and in particular Adam, and that the best way to express such hate was by beating the shit out him. The ersatz Adam, actually Overkill lead singer Merrill dressed in a full Kings of the Wild Frontier outfit, danced and pranced while various member of the audience tried to climb the stage and smash his face in. None of them succeeded. Then, Black Flag, headliners for the evening, came out and launched into “Six Pack,” the new single the band had just released. After that, it’s all pretty much a blur. I remember loud. I remember fast. And I remember mustering up the courage to move closer to the stage and on the fringes of the slam pit. And it was there, while I watched with fascination the barely controlled chaos of the pit (which did not go in a circle, but went in all directions at once), that my brother reached out mid slam dance, grabbed me by the shirt, and dragged me into the pit. I was a pretty substantial 13-year old, about six feet tall and probably 170 pounds, but I got tossed around pretty well. I remember trying to mimic the “dance style” of the others, which was a kind of stopped over, side to side swinging of the arms motion; the tough part was trying to keep on your feet as you slammed into others and they did the same. I fell, was picked up quickly, started again, fell, was picked up, and finally decided I’d had enough and got out. I don’t know if it was because I was young or looked pathetic, but I distinctly remember falling down and getting picked up right away. Kindness? Maybe. Or maybe they just wanted to toss me back into the fray to take another beating. Whatever it was, I was glad I wasn’t left on the floor to be stomped and kicked. I was also glad when I got the hell away from there.

I got back to where my sister and her friend were siting with a look on my face that must have explained what I had just gone through better than any words could. My sister looked back at me with a look that said, “Don’t even think about going back in there!” Okay, Sis. There was no beating at the hand of HB skinheads, no mayhem or riot. The biggest event was a fight between two legends. A guy named “Xhead” got into a fight with John Macias, the lead singer of Circle One. Xhead had been interviewed in The Decline. He got his name from the fact that he had an X shaved into the top of his head. John Macias was a rather large individual with a Mohawk who looked like he could play the entire defensive line for a football team. I don’t know what started the fight, and I didn’t even see it happen, but I distinctly remember Macias leaving the venue with his friends while holding his bloody ear. Pretty heavy stuff. My brother had seen the whole thing and gave me the details. The two squared off for whatever reason (they were both insane would be my guess), and the crowd had formed a circle to let them fight it out. Macias would later be killed by the LAPD in Santa Monica after going nuts and running around PCH and threatening people; Xhead, who was described by X bassist and vocalist John Doe as a sociopath, faded into obscurity. But such was the electric atmosphere that was ever present at punk gigs in the early 80’s. And into such a scene I now found myself entering.

It wasn’t easy to go to gigs back then. I had to hope that my brother or someone else who had access to a car could take me, and I had to hope that the gig was on a Saturday and that it was all ages. This wasn’t an easy task. Many clubs didn’t want the problems that were attendant with any punk show like vandalism, violence, and general mayhem. While there were those of us who were really interested in seeing a band and maybe getting in some slam-dancing and stage-diving, there was a segment of the audience who were bent on causing trouble. The clubs that would book punk bands became less and less, and oftentimes they were sleazy bars on the outskirts of LA or obscure places that hadn’t been burned by booking punk bands. There were some good venues that had punk shows like the Whiskey, the Cuckoo’s Nest, and Perkins Palace, but there were also odd places like Oscar’s Cornhusker in Azusa, Mindiola’s Ballroom in Huntington Park, and The Timbers in Glendora. They were clearly not suited for such gigs, but they were also some of the only places that would book bands. The Cuckoo’s Nest was legendary. A small club in Costa Mesa, it was located next to a cowboy bar called “Zubie’s.” The punks and cowboys would regularly get into fights (as made famous by the Vandals song “Urban Struggle). It was also the place where a guy named Pat Brown dragged a cop with his car after the cop tried to reach in and grab his keys (again, made famous in a Vandals song; I’ll leave the title to your imagination). Unfortunately, I never set foot in the Nest. My brother attended a few shows there, and my two friends even made it out there to see Black Flag’s first show with Henry Rollins (their parents found out and they got in trouble, so I had that going for me), but I didn’t get a chance (somehow, my mom found out about the Black Flag show and wouldn’t let me go, if I recall). I also never went to Godzilla’s in the Valley, which was a club designed for punk bands. But I did see my share of bands, as I like to explain to the Millenials who think they discovered punk. I saw Black Flag, the Circle Jerks, Fear, Social Distortion, DOA, the Minutemen, Adolescents, MDC, Bad Brains, GBH, the Vandals, the Cockney Rejects, Dead Kennedys, the Mau Maus, Youth Brigade, and many more lesser known bands. 

At a Bad Brains gig at the Santa Monica Civic, the scene of my first gig, I actually got backstage. I still don’t know how I managed it. The Bad Brains played an intense, incredible set, and were finishing up one of their 10 minute dub jams (which they interspersed with their atomic punk songs) and, in defiance of the security that was roughly tossing every punk who attempted a stage dive, invited the whole audience to join them. I distinctly remember lead singer H.R. saying something along the lines of “don’t let these yellow shirts stop you!” The floodgates opened, and it seemed like half the venue rushed up onto the stage. The now a part of the show punks slam danced and jumped around, and after the band finished their song, those who remained on stage started diving headlong into the audience. I don’t know where I got the courage, but I decided I didn’t want to leave the stage just then. I slowly creeped towards the backstage, trying not to be noticed. At one point, a security guard stopped me, but somehow I found another way towards the back. I picked up a guitar case to make it look like I was crew, and, before I even knew what had happened, I was backstage. I got into the Bad Brains’ dressing room and talked to HR and lead guitarist Dr. Know. I also met D. Boon from the Minutemen and a guy named Zachary who was the co-host of New Wave Theater, an odd little show hosted by the odd little Peter Ivers that aired on the local UHF station and featured many indie and punk bands. All in all, it was a spectacular night for a young and impressionable teen. I made my way back to the stage and watched the Circle Jerks from the wings for a while before I decided to rejoin my friends, which I accomplished by racing across the stage and doing an epic front flip into the audience.

And that was just one of the many good times I had as a wayward punk rocker. There were some not so good times too, like the time I shaved my head and was yelled at by every adult member of my family, or the time I was slam dancing to Fear at the Timbers in Glendora and some jackass hit me on the head with something hard that caused a nice split in my scalp, or the time I got kicked in the face by a stage diver at a GBH show. But overall, the experience was very cool. I met interesting people, had a couple of articles published in Flipside magazine, started a band called The Insurgents, talked to Henry Rollins and Greg Ginn at the Whisky one night, talked to Chuck Dukowski from Black Flag and Keith Morris from the Circle Jerks on the phone (you’d call the record labels they were on and they would answer; try that with Justin Timberlake), and saw a lot of bands, some talented, and some not so much. It’s a part of my musical history, and in a way, it informs who I am today with my general eschewing of commercial and popular entertainment (I didn’t always walk the walk; there are a few Duran Duran albums in my past). I don’t know if it’s possible for kids to go through the same type of cool experience. 

I remember interviewing a guy from a band for a music magazine in the 90’s and we were both reminiscing about the old punk days. He was from somewhere in the Midwest, and I remember him saying that the really cool thing about liking punk in the 80s was that you really had to look hard to track down the music. Bands rarely came to where he lived, and the local record stores didn’t carry much of the music, so it made finding it that much more special. It was an experience just to get access to the music. We both agreed, as older guys always seem to do, that things were better in our day because you had to make an effort; now, everything is easy to find and nothing is unknown. I see a lot of people who have a nostalgia for punk who I don’t remember being around when it was actually a thing. Everybody wants to claim a connection to it, but very few people were really there. Whenever I see a young kid with a Dead Kennedys or Black Flag T-shirt or patch, I laugh to myself. My inclination is to say, “Hey, name five Dead Kennedys songs, and without ‘Holiday in Cambodia.’” But, I realize, I was doing the same thing when I was into the Doors and Jimi Hendrix when I was a teen. I’m more likely to say, “You know, I saw those guys.” It strikes them as weird that any adult would make that claim. I guess they’re just finding what they are into although if you can buy a band’s shirt at the local mall, it kind of takes away the whole rebellion thing. So I write this as a retired punk, a veteran of the scene, as we used to call it, who remembers the glory days and now, annoyingly, won’t shut up about how great it was. But really, it was.  

[duluoz2]

Video dramatization of Tobias Wolff’s “Bullet in the Brain.” This is a perfect rendering of the story. 

[duluoz2]

Musicis historia mea, Pt. 1: Better Dead than Deadhead?

There was a time when I wouldn’t listen to the Grateful Dead. It wasn’t that I refused to listen to them; I just couldn’t be bothered. I actually once tried to listen to “American Beauty,” a copy of which I had received as a gift (a relative worked for Sony and had access to “original master recordings” and would give them to my brother and me; remember those?). I skipped to “Truckin’” and never got beyond that. They just didn’t grab me. I was never a hater, like many were and still are, but I did chuckle at the slogan ���I’ll be grateful when they’re dead!” I was mainly an alt/punk fan, though I did have an appreciation for what would come to be called “classic rock,” the Doors, Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, the Paul Butterfield Blues Band, and others. But I never got the Dead. When I was in college, going to see them became all the rage. But, tempted as I was to see what the hoopla was all about, I never succumbed. The only intriguing thing about the Dead was their fans. I’m not talking about the waste cases, stale hippies, or trendy college kids who liked them because it was the thing to do; I mean people who took a scientific approach to the band. Some guys I knew in college were Deadheads, before it was trendy. They would talk about tape trading, about mushroom trips that throbbed in time to the music, about the different versions of songs and how each concert had its own certain, pardon the word, vibe. These guys weren’t stale hippies or waste cases, and they certainly weren’t trendies; they were fans, serious fans. The way they described the whole Dead experience always came back to the music. It was the music that attracted them, what hooked them, and what made them so “deadicated.” But I still didn’t get it.

Fast forward many years; a colleague from the college where I teach asked me to sit in with his band. They were a talented, experienced outfit, and they needed me to fill in for some gigs in the future. I was intrigued, but unsure. You see, the bulk of their repertoire consisted of Grateful Dead songs. Sure, I told them, I’d sit in, but I wasn’t too into the Dead. I’d acquire some CD’s and give a listen and we’d see if it all worked out. That’s where it all started

My cousin Marc worked for Rhino Records, the label which just happened to be the current purveyors of the Dead’s music. He got me some CD’s, among them Live Dead, From the Mars Hotel, Skull and Roses, and the long rejected by me American Beauty. I listened, purely for the sake of learning the songs, you see. Then I listened some more. One by one, the songs etched themselves into my receptive brain; accessible rockers like “Bertha,” “Playing in the Band,” “U.S. Blues,” and “One More Saturday Night;” country sounding tunes like “Mama Tried,” “Jack Straw,” and “Cumberland Blues.” Long set pieces like “Dark Star,” “The Eleven,” and “St. Stephen;” marathon jams like “Lovelight,” and “Hard to Handle;” and the song that, in my mind, best defines the Dead, “China Cat Sunflower/I Know You Rider.” Like a true budding Deadhead, I didn’t even bother with the cliché “Truckin’.” Even the once spurned “American Beauty” worked its heretofore ineffective magic on me; it quickly became one of my favorite albums. What happened? How did I give into whatever muse it is that makes people like the Dead (who I imagine is a dreadlocked guy who smells like incense named Devin).

Well, it’s the music. Sounds cliché, I know. But that’s the truth. Similar to the Beatles, the Dead have their particular fans for their particular eras. Some favor the early psychedelic Dead; others have a preference for the mid-seventies Dead; still others cut their teeth at Dead gigs in the eighties, so that’s their preference. My era? Well, there was a time in the Dead’s career when they were between versions of the band. They started in the early sixties as a folk and bluegrass outfit, then like Dylan, went electric, calling themselves the Warlocks. The Grateful Dead evolved from there into the psychedelic explorers of the late 60’s. They then morphed into the space cowboys of Working Man’s Dead and American Beauty. In that time, they added and then lost drummer Mickey Hart and keyboardist Tom Constanten. From 1971 to 1973 they were a 5 piece with Keith Godcheaux on piano. Ron “Pigpen” McKernan, at whose urging the Dead went electric, played organ and harmonica and belted out R and B and blues rave ups like “Lovelight,” “Hard to Handle,” and “Good Lovin’”. The band was less into long experimentation and more into plain jamming. They could still whip up a mean “Dark Star,” but they could also rock. This is the Europe ’72 version of the band. This is the era that produced my favorite version of “China Cat Sunflower/I Know You Rider,” my favorite song and one that I hope to hear in the afterlife (yeah, I know, hell for many, but fucking Nirvana for me). My appreciation of the Dead can be summed up in about seven minutes of music; the transition from “China Cat” into “Rider” is an aural masterpiece, a perfect rendering of melody and musicianship; it is transcendent.

Whew. Back down to earth.

Effusive, I know, but that’s the thing about the Grateful Dead’s music. At its best, it elevates existence; it is just so good that it makes you want to get down on your knees and thank Calliope. I’m open to the fact that many don’t see it the way I see it, or hear it the way I hear it anyway. But even for the naysayers, I think there has to be an appreciation for the fact that Deadheads are such advocates for their musical worldview. It’s the reason Deadheads are so dedicated to the band and why the remnants of the Dead are still at it as Dead and Company featuring John Mayer. The gigs still happen, the deadheads still attend, many by SUV and Land Rover, sure, but they still get there. And there are still the dreadlocked, unwashed, and perennially stoned crusty hippies of all ages to add to the ambience (and not always fragrantly). Despite the absence of Jerry, Phil, Pigpen, Keith and Donna, and Brent, the experience of a Dead show still manages to reach heights of musical bliss. And no, it isn’t the drugs; I’ve attended every Dead show in my short career as a Deadhead on nothing stronger than beer (and the secondhand vapor cloud of pot smoke that is a fixture of every Dead show, no matter where it occurs).  I’ve seen Ratdog, Furthur, the Dead with all the surviving original members, and the new version. I’ve seen Bob Weir solo. I’ve even seen Cubensis, a Dead cover band. And they were all great. During each show, there was at least one point where I felt the music go to a different level into an expression of pure and unbounded beauty. Yep, it is that good. And are some of the fans a bit, well, odd? Sure, but they’re also interesting, and most are cool people. 

The first time my wife accompanied me to a Dead show, we had to get through “Shakedown Street” which is the parking lot or grassy area of any venue hosting the Dead where the vendors selling t shirts, candles, stickers, and other goods illicit and otherwise congregate. It is where you find the folks who couldn’t get tickets, or didn’t need them, and who are gathered just to be there. They are, needless to say, a pretty down to earth bunch. Some look like they’ve been following the Dead since 65; others look like they don’t even know where they are, and still others just look like plain street people. As my wife and I made our way through the stoner scrum, she held tightly onto my arm while looking around with fear in her eyes. “Relax,” I reassured her, “these people aren’t going to hurt anyone.” We got through unscathed and made our way into the venue. The usual yellow jacketed security guards were making their presence known, but this was going to be an easy gig for them; the crowd was much too mellow to cause any problems. In fact, many of the people were having meaningful conversations with the security, looking earnestly into their eyes and patting them on the back. I even saw a few Deadheads hug the security guards. Yep, easy gig.

 So turn on your lovelight, come hear Uncle John’s Band, go truckin’. As I’m writing this, I’m listening to old British punk, so the musical dichotomy that exits for me can be yours as well (one of my favorite pictures is of a mowhawked Joe Strummer with Bob Weir; the best of both worlds). As the bumper stickers used to read (and probably still do): Listen to the Grateful Dead, even if only temporarily. Then we’ll talk.

[duluoz2]

It’s Only Fantasy (Football)

You know that list of things you swore you would never do, those activities which, for whatever reason, you found distasteful or silly at some point and used to eschew and even ridicule? I’m not talking about anything gross, immoral, or illegal; I mean something that rubbed you the wrong way and you decided you would never, under any circumstances, partake in? (And to you grammarians who are saying to yourselves, “Yeah, like end a sentence with a preposition? You mean something as distasteful as that?” I say, balls! Just bear with me, or with me bear!) Well, one of the things on that list of most detestable activities can now be crossed off of mine. No, I did not attend a Justin Bieber concert, nor did I thread my eyebrows or watch an episode of “Honey Boo Boo.” What I did was something I used to mock and declare was beneath me. I, willingly mind you, joined a fantasy football league.

 Yes I, who used to mock “rotisserie geeks” as unathletic sorts who never participated in a sanctioned football game, who never felt the rough but yielding pigskin fall into their open hands, who never felt the crack of a helmet to theirs, who never dug a face full of turf out of their facemask, it was those whose ranks I joined. I was now one of those people who, when discussing the merits of a particular player or recounting the performance of said player in an actual game would say things like, “Oh, he’s on my fantasy team,” and “Yeah, he put my fantasy team over the top last week.” No longer would I watch football with the detached and clinical eye of the casual fan. No, now I would judge a game and team by the merits of the performance of my players, no matter what team they were on and with little concern about the game’s outcome. Teams or players I once held with disregard I now cheered. All that mattered now were stats, stats, stats! How did my team do in the head to head matchup with my opponent? What changes to my roster should I make? Should I trade players? Should I drop a player and pick up another? What’s the injury status of my player? What moves did I make that were good, and which were the wrong moves?

The worst part is the agony that each Sunday brings when my team falls below expectations. But first there’s the paralyzing indecision about which players to start or sit for each weekly contest. My starting running back had a bad game last week, but according to the prognosticators (who clearly don’t know any more than I do about who is going to have a good week and who is going to fail), he’s on track to score more points this week (each player has weekly projections for how many points he should score). And he’s playing team B, who gave up the most points to running backs last week. But player A has never run well against team B, so it may be a safer bet to start player C. Websites are searched, numbers are crunched, experts are consulted. The consensus is that you should play player A, but still, you’re not sure. After all, he’s performed below expectations all season. So you bench him and start player C, who had a monster week last week and should again since the team he is playing gave up the second most yards to a running back last week. Player C it is. I set my lineup and hope for the best.

 Sunday arrives (or, in many cases, is already here by the time I'm finalizing my roster). Now, the waiting. Games on the East Coast start at 10:00 in the morning here on the West Coast, afternoon games start at 1:00, and then there is the 5:30 pm game and Monday night’s game. Conceivably, with the Thursday game added in, I’ll be checking results for 5 days straight. Of course, I tell myself that I’m not going to constantly check in. Hey, if I happen to be online, I might take a gander, but it’s not like I’m going to be looking at the computer or my phone every 5 minutes. No, not me! But of course, that’s just what I do. Running back C has accrued 2 fantasy points for far. Running back A, whom I didn’t play, has 5. Why am I checking a player I didn’t play this week? Just out of, you know, curiosity. And because I just know that since I didn’t play him, he is going to have a record day. And of course, he does. He runs for 120 yards and scores 3 touchdowns for a total of 30 fantasy points, which is a lot in case you’re wondering. Running back C? 3 points. 34 yards. No touchdowns. Probably left the game with explosive diarrhea for all I know. I curse my lack of foresight. My wife wonders why I’m so annoyed, “My damn fantasy team!” I explain. “Oh,” she says, rolling her eyes. I'm behind in the weekly matchup by 10 points. According to the weekly projection, my team which consists of a quarterback, two running backs, three receivers, a tight end, a kicker, and a defense and special teams unit, was projected to win by a mere 3 points; now it tells me I’ll lose by 12, if all goes the way it is supposed to. Wait! My other running back, not chosen to do well this week, is playing in an afternoon game, and he’s having a career day. Back in business! According to the latest projections, I’ll win by a comfortable 8 points. Despite the poor performance of running back A, my defense is on track to score 15 points in the evening game. All they have to do is score at least 9 of those, and I will be victorious. The afternoon games done, I wait for the 5:30 game. It is the last game in which I have players, but it's not the last game I have to worry about. My opponent for the week has a player left for Monday night’s game; I’m not too worried, however, because it is his kicker. How many points can a kicker score?

 Normally not very many. I mean, a kicker has to kick like 8 extra points and 5 field goals from 50 yards to really have an impact, and that’s not likely. Oops! My opponent’s kicker has a career day, wins the game with a 78 yard field goal and sets a new NFL record for points scored by a kicker, and is probably made king of whatever southeastern European country from which he hails. My team is defeated; the dream is over.

 At least for this week.

 Tuesday brings a summary of the weekend’s performance and a rating of it, along with standings and projections for the next week. My team performed below the “experts’” expectations. The players I chose not to play all had career days. I’m left to ponder what if? What if I had started receiver C? Running back A? Quarterback B? Who should I play next week? The process begins anew.

 My wife, who possess the pragmatism of most wives, can't understand my agony.   “Why do you play if it causes you such stress?” she asks.

“Because,” I explain, “it’s fun!”

 At least, it is if you’re winning. The first time I played in a fantasy league, my team made it to the championship. I already had the system wired! Then, in the championship match, for all the fantasy marbles (which would be a great name for a sci-fi villain, by the way), my starting quarterback, who had been killing it every week, suddenly forgot how to play football (or he got hurt, I don’t remember). He singlehandedly cost my team the title. (I don’t want to name the player, so I’ll just refer to him as Fortune). Fortune’s bad day meant that I would be denied the cash prize for winning it all. I did get the second place cash prize, but it felt empty. I had come so close to triumph. Cue the sad trombone.  Still, I ended up with $150, three times my initial investment, and I had the pride of having gamed the fantasy system on my first try. Next year, I’ll be even better!

 The next season came along, and I went into the fantasy draft like it was the real NFL draft; I had printouts with each position ranking and my choices for each position with alternates in case they were taken. I was ready, researched, and raring to go. This fantasy stuff is easy; if you don’t get the players you want initially, you simply make adjustments during the season. This is necessary if you find yourself with a player who is underperforming or who gets a season-ending injury. Sometimes, it pays big dividends. My main concern for the new season is to get a dependable running back; the main RB I had last season was highly touted and projected to have a good year. Every week, he underperformed, and every week I started him, assured by the experts that he would break out at any moment. I finally benched him and, lo and behold, he had a career day. I’ll take no chances this season and opt for someone more dependable and less confounding, so I make my choices accordingly.

 I’ll dispense with the details of the season, except to relate that my running backs all had down years, got hurt, and one, I believe, went into the witness protection program. The running back I had last year who underperformed? Career year! My team? Dead last! Basement, cellar, bottom of the barrel. Every week was frustration, every game a new lesson in humility. I changed my roster, tweaked the lineup, consulted the prognosticators, read tea leaves, whatever I needed to do to turn things around. In the end, it was all to no avail. Again, my wife wondered why I put myself through such misery (because it’s fun!). That’s it! I’m not playing this dumb game anymore. I’ll save myself the stress and go back to being a regular person. Sundays (and Thursdays and Mondays) will be mine again. The air will be clearer, birds will sing, and I’ll watch the game with mere interest, no longer held under the sway of stats.

 Maybe just one more season…

[duluoz2]

Ice Follies

On Sunday evenings, I play in an adult hockey league. It’s largely made up of people from the ages of 30 to 50, though the teenage sons of a few of the players also join us to remind us of the ravages of age. The league is casual in the extreme; we only recently organized teams and started playing actual games. The score is kept, the game timed, and a single referee watches for any egregious penalties but mainly stops play and drops the puck. Overall, it is a lot of fun. It gives aging athletes an opportunity to compete without the prospect of intense competition. Everyone plays, and although there is a clear difference in talent levels, no one is made to feel like he is the last kid picked for the team. The guys who grew up playing the sport are patient and, at least outwardly, accepting of the deficiencies of lesser players like me. The teenagers snicker a bit, but are generally cool. After the game, a few of the players have beers in the locker room and then, once the manager of the rink decides he wants to go home, the beer drinking moves to the parking lot. Comments on the game are made, jokes told, and everyone winds down and forgets the more embarrassing moments that transpired during the game.

 The league is a small one played in the rink where the Zamboni was invented. The rink is a bit run-down, and the ice is in need of repair (there is one part in the corner where the ice drops precipitously, creating a small trench that tends to swallow pucks). The skill level fluctuates wildly. There is never a crowd to watch the games, just a few dedicated family members. Getting to the rink is a bit of a drive, and it usually takes some summoning of enthusiasm to get myself there with enough time to go through the task of putting on my equipment and getting on the ice before the game starts so I can warm up. There is also the feeling of, “why am I doing this?” Is this a pathetic attempt to stave off the inevitable physical decline that comes with advancing years? Is this just an excuse to hang out with the boys (and girl; one of our most dedicated players is a woman), disguised as physical activity, a desperate attempt to remain relevant? Nah. I’ll tell you what it is. It’s a good time. It’s an hour-long aerobic exercise session with the sometimes (or for me, rare) thrill of putting the puck in the net. It’s a chance to get to know some people, to exchange stories, to bond over the shared love of the sport. It’s challenging, it’s frustrating, it reminds you of your limitations, but it is never a drag. It’s a chance for weekend warriors to get a shot at glory, with healthy doses of humility. It is everything that is good and bad about life.

 But what is it that gets us out there? Sure, there is the chance to relive past athletic glories, to enjoy the camaraderie of being a part of a team, no matter how loosely organized. What is it that makes us chance embarrassment, or, at worst, injury? We may not skate as fast as they do in the NHL, but hitting someone on the ice (accidentally, of course) still hurts. It is jarring and is usually followed by profuse apologies and attempts to pretend it didn’t really hurt (trust me, it does). The bumps and bruises aren’t fun, but they make for some good stories at work the next day.”So, how did you get that bruise Bob?” “Oh this? I got it playing hockey.” Pretty cool, when you think about it.

 But it’s more than simple boasting or machismo which explains our dedication to our Sunday league, our need to defy Father Time and show that we can still be physically active. Those are all important components of why we play of course, but they’re not the most important. No, I think there is something a bit more, if you’ll pardon the Ken Burns-ish terminology, metaphysical at play (I know, I know, but bear with me; I’m onto something here). We play because we can. We can because we are. I know this sounds way too Zen for such a simple topic, but simplicity is the essence of Zen, and it is the essence of our need to participate in life. We play because it gives us a pure experience. Purity is what we pursue; it sure as hell isn’t excellence, because it isn’t really possible, and anyway who cares about being excellent? It is the simple need to play.        

 I don’t think anyone who plays in the Sunday league thinks beyond having a good time and getting some exercise; that’s not to say that I’m the only deep thinker of the bunch. It just shows that the activity brings about the opportunity for us to be in the moment, for lack of a better way of putting it. On the ice, it gets down to basics; skate, pass, shoot, try not to crash into anybody or fall ass over teakettle to the ice. And I guess that's the point I'm trying to make. There is no purer moment than when one is involved in physical activity; it brings us back to our essence. All that matters is the moment. It gives us a chance to just be here now. And that’s what my fellow weekend warriors and I are chasing, whether we ponder it or, better yet, just accept it.

 So we’ll be at it every Sunday, chasing the past and living in the moment of experience. We’ll get tired, we’ll get sweaty, we’ll sometimes hurt our bodies or our pride (or both), but we’ll be there living for that moment when we take a perfectly placed pass on the tape of our stick and skate skillfully, if a bit shakily, towards the net and unleash an almost perfect wrist shot and hear the mesh of the goal net move as the puck slips past the goalie. We’ll raise our arms in triumph, collect some high fives, and have that moment for ourselves, then we’ll forget it as we go over the numerous gaffes we made (or that our fellow players will remind us of) as we drink beer and talk after the game. Above all, we’ll revel in the purity of the moment, and we’ll have it to recall when we need it.

[duluoz2]

TV or Not TV?

By Andrew Robles

Inevitably, the moment arrives. I’ll be at a party or some other social function when somebody will start extolling the virtues of some TV show, usually one of those hipper than thou, “edgy” cable series. “Did you see the latest episode of (insert name of hip show here),” someone will ask me. I reply in the negative. The individual will then attempt to ascertain why I selfishly missed this watershed of creativity. I inform the person that I do not watch said show. “Oh man,” he or she will exclaim, with palpable pain at my inability or, worse, refusal to participate in such a momentous cultural event. Next the person will go on at some length about the virtues of the show and how it is the greatest creative statement since Picasso’s “Guernica.” At this point, I sheepishly inform the person that I do not have a TV. “Wha’?” Is the usual response, followed by “Wow, how do you do that?” Oft times the TV extoller then makes some sympathetic noises along the lines of “I should do that too” or “well, I don’t really watch much TV anymore.” But the question always arises, why? (Though how is a good one too). 

“How” was more by accident than design. When my wife and I got married and moved into our new apartment, we decided we didn’t want to bring my old TV to our small place. So I parted with mine, and we thought if we wanted a new TV, we’d get one. In fact, more than one of our friends (OK, two) offered to give us one of their unused sets. But we held off, mainly for practical reasons; there was no statement being made, no standing athwart popular culture and yelling “Yuck!” No, we simply didn’t see the need for a TV, and most of our friends didn’t really find it strange since we were newlyweds and all, and we’d find other ways to pass the time, wink wink. So we went about our TV-less life feeling none the worse for missing the latest developments of “Dancing With the Stars” or “Big Brother,” not that we cared before (I know, I know, how did we cope? Well, my wife lived through the dissolution of her country and war, and I did sit through “Titanic”).

Fast forward seven years; we still have no TV. And we are in no hurry to get one (obviously). In fact, the saying “absence makes the heart grow fonder” does not apply to TV. Our apathy towards TV has turned into antipathy. We really don’t care if we never own a TV.  

Now let me qualify our disdain for television with some, uh, qualifiers; first, while it is true that we don’t have a TV, that doesn’t stop us from taking advantage of the internet to watch quality TV shows. While the bulk of what we watch on the web consists of classic TV shows, new shows are also available, and we’ve seen a few. If anything, comparing the classic shows to the new merely reaffirms our jaundiced view of current entertainment.  So it is not necessarily the medium that we have eschewed. However, our access to internet TV has not led us to more and more viewing. And our exposure to regular TV on those occasions when we’re at someone’s house only reinforces our growing disdain. OK, you may say, so it’s made you even more of a negative person who has added a compendium of slices of our popular culture for which to harbor ill will; congrats you unpleasant jerk! Well, that wasn’t been the only result. While it is true that our contempt for the drivel emanating from the tube is at an all-time high, there have been some positive outcomes.  

The most positive result of our low TV diet is that it has allowed us to focus on other, gainful activities (non snicker-worthy). The fact that I’m writing this instead of flipping channels is one example (though, admittedly, this is to my benefit and much less so to the reader’s). I have reaffirmed my love of reading, and with no TV to provide a convenient distraction, the volume I now read has increased markedly. There is also the positive effect no TV has had on the fine art of conversation. No, my wife and I don’t sit around sipping brandy and smoking fine cigars discussing Wittgenstein (I don’t smoke cigars), but we are forced to engage in verbal communication, and this is a good thing, of course. A lack of TV also encourages a more active lifestyle as well, since there is no better way to pass the time (and no better visual treat) than to go for a hike or bike ride. A TV-less existence can lead to some odd moments of course, such as the time I got a call from my brother and he asked what my wife and I were up to. “Well,” I explained, “I’m reading a biography of Mark Twain, and Nina is knitting.” Pause. “Jeez!” my brother finally exclaimed, “Are you using candlelight?”  

Do I miss TV at all? Well, aside from its absence seemingly consigning us to a nineteenth-century lifestyle, not really. And what does the future hold for me and TV? What about when we have kids? Can we do without the great babysitter that is TV? We’ll see, though we’re inclined to apply our no TV policy to our progeny. Overall, I can honestly say that there is no need for TV in one’s life; we can all certainly do without it, and technology today makes it possible to watch what we want, when we want it, without the need to even have a TV. Do we feel behind the times, bereft of a proper grounding in popular culture? Sure, but who cares? We stay on top of popular culture just enough to keep us basically current, and that’s all we really need.  

The purpose of all this is not to condemn TV or the practitioners thereof; there are some fine people in the TV industry trying to do quality things (most of which seem to wind up on PBS). It’s that TV is just so unnecessary. There are many alternative activities to watching TV, and just about every one of them is vastly more worthwhile. And there is the siren song aspect of TV to deal with. My TV watching is negligible, but I waste a lot of time on things like YouTube, Netflix, and Hulu. I guess old habits are hard to break (the next step will be to cut out the internet). There is a vast world beyond the TV or computer screen. All you need to do is turn it off.

[duluoz2]

The infamous “Jackass” theme song in its entirety...

[duluoz2]

Back in the garage with my bullshit detector

The Clash