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« May 2004* | Hilstonblog Main | July 2004 » Hilstonblog Archive • June 2004
Van Halen fans, 20 years later: From binge-drinking to home improvement The last time I saw Van Halen was in 1984. It's easy to remember the year because the title of Van Halen's album that year was "1984" (homage to the George Orwell novel). I was a freshman in college. Last night I saw Van Halen again, two decades later. At the 1984 concert, I recall a rebellious and insolent crowd. There was pushing, people pressed up against each other, and selfish disrespect. Before the show, in the lobby area, my girlfriend was accosted. And although I went after the guy as if I wanted to fight him, I was secretly relieved that my girlfriend pulled me back and protested so vociferously. I'm sure she realized her boyfriend would have embarrassed himself and gotten his tuchus whooped. I realized that as well, which made it easier to stand down -- but not without making the obligatory gestures and uttering the obligatory expletives. At the 2004 concert, it is a much different crowd. Twenty years older, and probably an average of twenty pounds heavier, the crowd is friendly, polite and generous. There is no rush or eagerness to fill the gaps between people waiting for the gate to open. Everyone is patient and slowly shuffles forward as the crowd ahead of them allows, all the while keeping a respectful distance. It is as if everyone is concerned that slipping in between the gaps would be viewed as line-jumping and rude. Instead of passing joints, people are passing napkins or asking the age of each other's children. Instead of vomit and muscle cars in the parking lot, there are mini-vans and hamburgers grilling. Don't get me wrong. There is some drunken revelry from the men who refuse to grow up. And there are inebriated women making idiots of themselves saying things no lady should say. But overall, the difference is quite remarkable. The effect of time and maturity is crystallized in Eddie Van Halen's beverage of choice: Gatorade. 1984 conversation heard at a Van Halen concert:
2004 conversation heard at a Van Halen concert:
The SD factor: The demise of the left eye What are the odds of losing one's left eye? Whatever they are, the odds increase dramatically if:
The evidence:
Sammy Davis, Jr. lost his left eye in a car crash in 1955 (imdb.com). Sandy Duncan lost sight in her left eye due to a tumor behind the eye which damaged the optic nerve. She was given a glass eye by the same eye doctor as Sammy Davis, Jr. (imdb.com). As if that weren't scary enough, what would happen if one were to name oneself "Left Eye"?
Ironically, Lopes, formerly of the pop group, TLC, had recently signed a deal to release an album under the alias N.I.N.A. (Not Into Name Alternatives). (imdb.com) Here's something that two-eyed people never think about: "How to protect my remaining eye." It's a big deal for people who have lost one of their eyes. I find the comparison fascinating. We two-eyed people might think about protecting our eyes (plural) when chopping wood, welding, playing racquetball, etc. But we probably never think about the threat of total blindness in such cases. For the one-eyed person, the stakes are much higher. You'll not see a one-eyed person playing with a pointed stick. Ever. (For a perspective-changing perspective, perceive the following perceptions: Protecting your remaining eye.)
Busy, busy So much to blog about, so little time. In honor of the release of Michael Moore's new film, here is a link to my commentary on "Bowling for Columbine" (the link has been removed for re-evaluation). It's kind of like the way radio stations will play a lot of old Madonna songs in anticipation of her latest release.
Inside Voices Sometimes I hear soccer moms say stuff like, "Let's use our inside voices, please." That's the "positive-reinforcement" way of saying, "Shut your pie-hole, you pre-adolescent ingrate!" This translation is based on observed evidence, namely, the clenched teeth through which the positive reinforcement is communicated. Some time ago, upon deep reflection about the "inside voice" concept, I came to the conclusion that I have no distinguishable "inside voice" or "outside voice." At first, not wanting to feel left out, this saddened me. But as I pondered this, I realized a monologue was being delivered inside of me, by my "inner voice"! It was clearly not my "outer voice," which is much louder. I came to understand that the inner voice was being uttered by someone, some inner self. So I decided to identify it as my "speaking self". Some time later, as I sat listening with mild amusement to my speaking self, a question suddenly popped into my mind: If my speaking self is speaking, who is listening? Why of course! There must also be a listening self whose job it was to listen to my speaking self speak! Eventually, I recognized the fact that the speaking self must be simultaneously thinking in order to speak with clarity and coherence, and the listening self must also be simultaneously thinking in order to properly comprehend what was being spoken. I was delighted to discover that the unifying component of this process was the cognitive consonance provided by my thinking faculties, which perfectly united my speaking self with my listening self. Of course, this harmony couldn't last forever. Everything seemed fine until I sensed something horribly wrong was happening behind the scenes. It all began with a certain unease and inner tension that began to manifest within me. I noticed that my ability to quietly muse and reflect was somehow hampered. I found myself unable to analyze or evaluate anything without a deep sense of frustration. It was as if my speaking self was no longer speaking, or my listening self was no longer listening. I had the distinct impression that I was onto something, when it suddenly dawned on me: My listening self had something to say and was demanding to be heard. Consequently, it was getting annoyed at the speaking self, who, as one might guess, is not a very good listener. Not to mention the fact that the speaking self was also trying to speak, as the speaking self is prone to do. But the listening self was too busy trying to speak also, and was getting more and more annoyed. So I found myself unable to hear my speaking self speak. Imagine the mess that created. My listening self was so consumed with speaking that it would not listen to the speaking self. The speaking self could not get through to the listening self because it was not listening. An awful cognitive dissonance erupted out of the thinking function that was supposed to bring harmony between the two. What was my solution? There was neither the time, nor the ability, to analyze and evaluate the situation. So, almost instinctively, my cognitive faculties teamed up with the speaking self and started to ridicule the listening self. "You sound like an idiot! Do you hear yourself? Shut your pie-hole, you pre-adolescent ingrate!" Well, that did it. The last thing the listening self wanted was to be ridiculed, let alone called a pre-adolescent ingrate. To my delight and amazement, the listening self stopped speaking, and in a quiet and dignified manner, nodded in apology, and took its rightful place as the listening self. Positive reinforcement? Phooey! Nothing works like a good ridiculing.
The trivializing of Bill Clinton According to a BBC article, Bill Clinton saw sleeping on the sofa as a "positive sign." "I thought that in a funny way the fact that I was sleeping on the couch and they [Hillary and daughter Chelsea] were still in the same house with me meant that Hillary and Chelsea hadn't given up on me," he said. "I figured out that I was getting a whipping at home where I should have gotten it. I felt that everything they wanted to say or do to me, they had an absolute right to do so. "The fact that I was still able to stay under the same roof ... I thought that was progress." Can anyone take this seriously? Could Hillary have actually kicked Bubba out of the White House? Can anyone picture him walking the streets of D.C. in the rain, with some "Please-take-me-back" music playing in the background, Secret Service agents within an arm's length of him at all times? What then? He checks into a hotel or goes to the local bar and drowns his sorrows? Bubba continued: "I was just glad to be among the living there at home and frankly, perhaps I shouldn't acknowledge this, but it was a relief to have to go to work and concentrate on something else because otherwise I would have nothing to think about all day long but what a bad fella I'd been." Bad fella? I know I wasn't very observant at the time, but I seem to recall Bill Clinton as being a confident and competent speaker. While I certainly disagreed with his ideology, I nonetheless viewed him as one who could effectively and authoritatively communicate his (or at least someone's) ideas and opinions. But his recent performances on the talk show circuit have given me a different impression of him. He seems less confident, less articulate, more bumbling and more trivial. It's hard for me to believe it's the same person. But as I mentioned above, I didn't pay as much attention back then.
Poop porters On any given day in my quiet suburban neigborhood, dog-owners can be seen walking the tree-lined streets, being led around by their canine charges, and carrying a translucent plastic bag. In that bag is the Poop (henceforth denoted, the Poop, i.e. capitalized, with the definite article, out of respect for its supreme grossness). It is the epitome of gross. The Poop is mammalian, which means it is warm. The mammal is a carnivore, which means the Poop is malodorous. The dogs tend to be large, which means — you get the picture. Not being a dog-owner presently (my parents were dog-owners; my youngest son is allergic to pet dander), I do not participate in the daily ritual, nor do I know firsthand if there is a certain dynamic or etiquette that is observed between neighbors who pass each other whilst walking their dogs. For some reason, I'm especially curious about that. Do they ever stop to chat, bag of the Poop in hand? Will one ever remark on the size of the load the other is carrying? "Wow, what are you feeding her?" Or do they avert their eyes, politely say hello and keep walking? My thinking is this: No matter how well I know a particular neighbor, I will not stop to chat if they are holding a bag of the Poop, lest the expression on my face and the darting of my eyes betray my unease about having a conversation in the immediate presence of fresh fecal fecundity. I doubt I would be able to say a sentence without accidentally commenting on the Poop. "We took the kids to Kennypoop last week. That Thunderpoop is a great rollercoaster." Don't get me wrong. I would rather see the Poop in a bag than find it smeared on the bottom of my children's shoes. So I'm most grateful that my neighbors are considerate and conscientious about their dogs' Business. Their courtesy notwithstanding, I get an enormous kick out of seeing a car pull up alongside one of the Poop porters to ask for directions. Picture this: The driver wants to know how to get somewhere. The dog-walker has a leash in one hand and the bag with the Poop in the other. Which hand will be raised to eye-level to point the driver in the appropriate direction? The Poop hand, of course, with the Poop bag swinging freely, commanding all the attention, "Look at me! I'm the Poop! I defy you to focus on a single word that is being said to you right now! All you will remember is the Poop bouncing around inside this bag, and swinging defiantly in your face!"
I judge thee 'judgmental' On one of those public service messages that show up on network television, the actor from "Will and Grace" (Eric McCormack?) peers into the camera with all due gravity and says to us: "Unless you're sitting in a courtroom banging a gavel, you shouldn't be judging anybody." Really, Eric? Were you sitting in a courtroom banging a gavel as you made that judgment? And another thing: Judges don't really judge. The jury does. The judge is just a referee who sits there to make sure none of the rules are broken in the process. They should stop calling them judges. They should instead call them "legislators," especially those on the Supreme Court.
Hacked on phonics The Greek word for "knife" is sikarios. The Latin word, sica, means "stiletto." I'm struck by the phonetic similarity of these words to the Arabic name "Zarqawi," especially considering the mode of execution favored by these butchers.
By the book Having viewed 3 videos and/or photographs of "beheadings" by Islamic extremists, I'm convinced there must be something significant in the method. There are certain ingredients these murders have in common. Bound hands, apparent surprise by the victim, the use of a knife, the way the victim is forced to the ground face down, and the placing of the severed head on the small of the back. I wouldn't be surprised if each of these components had a specific religious significance. May the ruthlessness with which these hooded cowards commit their murderous acts be returned upon them in their sempiternal suffering in hell.
Epiphany I had an epiphany today. My new schedule doesn't suck as bad as I originally thought. Here is what I've noticed. This new schedule makes me busier, which forces me to work harder and smarter. It keeps me on my toes and I get a welcomed adrenalin rush from the pressure. Furthermore, I have less time at home, which means I am forced to be more productive with the time I have. Common sense, I know. But sometimes the experience is needed to flesh it out.
Old Yeller "Old Yeller." That's what I call this old guy I see along the River Trail near Roberto Clemente Bridge. I'll see him every day, either walking aimlessly or sitting, facing the Allegheny River, staring off into space, mumbling to himself. Every once in a while, sometimes just as I'm going past him on my bike, he'll holler something at the top of his lungs. It's unintelligible, but angry sounding, and it scares the daylights out of me. Probably a Kerry supporter.
*The Hilstonblog was born on June 16, 2004. ©2004 James Hilston
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