The other day I was sitting at this computer and letting my iTunes playlist entertain me while I did some tedious but necessary paperwork. I got thirsty. I went into the kitchen to get a glass of iced tea and I could still hear my music playing even though my office is in a bedroom at the front of the house. So I thought to myself, ‘self, that music’s kind of loud,’ and hurried back to turn it down. I stopped by the couch, though, as a sudden thought took me.
I don’t live in an apartment any more. The music that I can hear in the kitchen doesn’t pass the walls of my rental house. I can be as loud as I damn well please.
I have to admit I was a bit taken aback by this. For years now, far too many years, I’ve been an apartment dweller. I’ve had to consider what I do and when I do it very carefully, since I don’t want to be a bother to anyone else. I really do try to live the golden rule; if I wouldn’t want someone taking a shower at three in the morning then it’s not something I want to subject others to.
But now… I live in a house. A detached, two-car garage house with solid walls and a tile roof and a thick front door. The closest neighbors are ten yards away, on the other side of a brick wall and past their own garage. The neighbors on the other side are twenty yards away, and over a fence.
I can make lots and lots and lots and lots of noise now and I won’t be disturbing anyone. I can walk as heavily as I dare on my own floors , I can run the dishwasher at midnight, I can crank up Tom Jones as loud as I can stand it and no one is going to come knocking on my front door in a stained bathrobe to wag an admonishing finger at me.
I’m free.
Now… what can I do with my newfound liberty? Midnight smoothie party? Twenty-four hours of darts? Line dancing in the living room? Yodeling competition? Man, the sky’s the limit.
Showing posts with label tom jones. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tom jones. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Friday, April 22, 2011
You Want To Start A Riot?
Look at the Middle East right now, a hotbed of rebellion, instigated, carried out, and perpetuated by young people. Sure, it's easy to be a rebel when you're unemployed and have nothing else to do all day, but America was a country founded on rebellion, and these foreigners are putting us to shame.
There's a strong streak of wimpiness in American kids these days. And by kids I mean anyone from 16 to 25, young people who are working at Starbucks and playing video games when they should be raising their fists or middle fingers to those people in charge. Their attitude of meek acquiescence is brought on, I believe, by too much sensitivity training early in life. I love you, you love me. Bullshit. And by too much hand-holding by parents and authority figures. Their role models are corporate mannequins like Taylor Swift or the well-behaved and antiseptic Jonas Brothers, instead of Johnny Rotten or Chuck D.*
Where's the youthful rebellion? Where's the 'we don't need no education' of even twenty years ago? It's gone, replaced with bland conformism. Society needs chaos, it needs upheaval, it needs young people who see things as either black or white, not their parents who see nothing but gray.
I realize that asking kids these days to go from living in a bunker behind the Wall** to full-on confrontation with the Establishment is too much. You just don't have the tools, you've been brainwashed for too long. So here are a few acts of rebellion, call it civil disobedience, that you can use to jump-start your insurrection.
Hide all the Rascals at Wal-Mart.
Think of the panic it will cause fat, old, and lazy people.
Flash mobs.
Authorities hate flash mobs. So don't clear it with the mall manager beforehand or you're just ruining the premise.
TP the statue in the center of town.
Every town has a statue, usually by the courthouse. Let them know what you think of their 'system' with a few dozen rolls of Charmin.
Sit ins.
Find a cause, there's gotta be one worth sitting in for. Cops these days are kind of wimpy too, less willing to crack skulls than they were 50 years ago, so you'll probably just get detained and then released. Maybe you'll get tased.
Steal all the flags off the municipal golf course.
A ninja operation in the dead of night seems the best method.
Sounds like small potatoes, doesn't it? Well, even the biggest avalanche started as one snowflake. See if you can't make a difference. And stick it to the Man.***
* the Sex Pistols and Public Enemy, respectively, look them up
** it's a Pink Floyd reference, look it up
*** yes, technically I am the Man, and I'm cool with it. But I'm disturbed that you asked permission first.
There's a strong streak of wimpiness in American kids these days. And by kids I mean anyone from 16 to 25, young people who are working at Starbucks and playing video games when they should be raising their fists or middle fingers to those people in charge. Their attitude of meek acquiescence is brought on, I believe, by too much sensitivity training early in life. I love you, you love me. Bullshit. And by too much hand-holding by parents and authority figures. Their role models are corporate mannequins like Taylor Swift or the well-behaved and antiseptic Jonas Brothers, instead of Johnny Rotten or Chuck D.*
Where's the youthful rebellion? Where's the 'we don't need no education' of even twenty years ago? It's gone, replaced with bland conformism. Society needs chaos, it needs upheaval, it needs young people who see things as either black or white, not their parents who see nothing but gray.
I realize that asking kids these days to go from living in a bunker behind the Wall** to full-on confrontation with the Establishment is too much. You just don't have the tools, you've been brainwashed for too long. So here are a few acts of rebellion, call it civil disobedience, that you can use to jump-start your insurrection.
Hide all the Rascals at Wal-Mart.
Think of the panic it will cause fat, old, and lazy people.
Flash mobs.
Authorities hate flash mobs. So don't clear it with the mall manager beforehand or you're just ruining the premise.
TP the statue in the center of town.
Every town has a statue, usually by the courthouse. Let them know what you think of their 'system' with a few dozen rolls of Charmin.
Sit ins.
Find a cause, there's gotta be one worth sitting in for. Cops these days are kind of wimpy too, less willing to crack skulls than they were 50 years ago, so you'll probably just get detained and then released. Maybe you'll get tased.
Steal all the flags off the municipal golf course.
A ninja operation in the dead of night seems the best method.
Sounds like small potatoes, doesn't it? Well, even the biggest avalanche started as one snowflake. See if you can't make a difference. And stick it to the Man.***
* the Sex Pistols and Public Enemy, respectively, look them up
** it's a Pink Floyd reference, look it up
*** yes, technically I am the Man, and I'm cool with it. But I'm disturbed that you asked permission first.
Monday, March 14, 2011
The Small Man
It was just somewhere to be for a year. Maybe two.
That's what Stan told himself when he took the job. He didn't know what he wanted to do or where he wanted to go or what he intended his life eventually to become. But he knew this job wasn't it. Two years, max. Hell, six months if he could find something else that paid a little better.
At the one year mark he told himself he had six months to find another job or else quit. He told himself the same at the two year mark. Then at the three year mark he stopped giving himself six months to quit.
Stan got married in the summer of his eighth year on the job. His first son was born in the winter of his tenth year. He and his wife bought a house six months later.
By the time he'd reached fifteen years at the same job Stan was going gray at the temples, and he wondered where the time had gone. Fourteen years longer on the job than he'd intended, and still no end in sight. There was college to plan for, and weddings for his three kids, and then retirement. His one year on the job looked like it was going to stretch into thirty.
Then the economy tanked and Stan got laid off while some overpaid bastard took home millions in undeserved income. Stan foundered on unemployment - he'd never learned a skill marketable outside his company - and let himself feel emasculated while his wife shouldered the burden of being the family breadwinner.
But one day Stan realized something. He wasn't shackled any longer. He was a free man. He could do anything. Literally. Follow his bliss. Find his passion. Indulge in the way he never had before. He found a new career.
Stan never made millions, but he provided for his family and he held his head up and answered proudly when people asked him what he did for a living. And that was something he never could do before.
That's what Stan told himself when he took the job. He didn't know what he wanted to do or where he wanted to go or what he intended his life eventually to become. But he knew this job wasn't it. Two years, max. Hell, six months if he could find something else that paid a little better.
At the one year mark he told himself he had six months to find another job or else quit. He told himself the same at the two year mark. Then at the three year mark he stopped giving himself six months to quit.
Stan got married in the summer of his eighth year on the job. His first son was born in the winter of his tenth year. He and his wife bought a house six months later.
By the time he'd reached fifteen years at the same job Stan was going gray at the temples, and he wondered where the time had gone. Fourteen years longer on the job than he'd intended, and still no end in sight. There was college to plan for, and weddings for his three kids, and then retirement. His one year on the job looked like it was going to stretch into thirty.
Then the economy tanked and Stan got laid off while some overpaid bastard took home millions in undeserved income. Stan foundered on unemployment - he'd never learned a skill marketable outside his company - and let himself feel emasculated while his wife shouldered the burden of being the family breadwinner.
But one day Stan realized something. He wasn't shackled any longer. He was a free man. He could do anything. Literally. Follow his bliss. Find his passion. Indulge in the way he never had before. He found a new career.
Stan never made millions, but he provided for his family and he held his head up and answered proudly when people asked him what he did for a living. And that was something he never could do before.
Friday, February 25, 2011
When Tom Sings You Listen
Years ago I gave my younger niece a CD of Tom Jones hits. She loved it, especially the chorus of 'What's New, Pussycat?'* She amazed and delighted my sister's friends who had no idea a little kid could know all the words to any song, let alone Tom Jones. My younger niece is now an accomplished musician and I like to believe that Tom Jones had a very large part in making that happen.
So I was re-listening to my copy of that Tom Jones greatest hits CD - on iTunes, natch, who handles CDs these days? - and I realized that some of his songs don't make a whole lot of sense. I mean, they're undeniably catchy and I can listen to them over and over, but only if I don't pay a whole lot of attention.
To wit, 'Thunderball':
He knows the meaning of success.
His needs are more, so he gives less.
They call him the winner who takes all.
And he strikes, like Thunderball.
Get away from the groovy 60's theatrical score and just listen, and the song doesn't really hold together. Never mind that it was the theme for a James Bond picture.
Or how about 'Help Yourself'
Love is like candy on a shelf
You want to taste and help yourself
The sweetest things are there for you
Help yourself take a few
That's what I want you to do
Or 'Puppet Man'
Baby, Baby, I'm your sweet pet
I'm just your personal marionette
Wind me up and let me go
Don't you know I'm a one man show?
I think I've made my point.
However, the fact that some of Mr. Jones' lyrics approach dadaist meaninglessness makes absolutely no difference. At. All. I want to strike like Thunderball, even though I have no idea what that means. And I want my love to wind me up, even though marionettes aren't wind-up dolls. And I want my love like candy on a shelf, even though candy goes in jars. When I listen to Tom Jones I just sit back and enjoy, and turn my brain off. I leave myself in his tender care, because I know he won't do me wrong.
When Tom Jones sings, you listen.
* whoa-whoa-whoa
So I was re-listening to my copy of that Tom Jones greatest hits CD - on iTunes, natch, who handles CDs these days? - and I realized that some of his songs don't make a whole lot of sense. I mean, they're undeniably catchy and I can listen to them over and over, but only if I don't pay a whole lot of attention.
To wit, 'Thunderball':
He knows the meaning of success.
His needs are more, so he gives less.
They call him the winner who takes all.
And he strikes, like Thunderball.
Get away from the groovy 60's theatrical score and just listen, and the song doesn't really hold together. Never mind that it was the theme for a James Bond picture.
Or how about 'Help Yourself'
Love is like candy on a shelf
You want to taste and help yourself
The sweetest things are there for you
Help yourself take a few
That's what I want you to do
Or 'Puppet Man'
Baby, Baby, I'm your sweet pet
I'm just your personal marionette
Wind me up and let me go
Don't you know I'm a one man show?
I think I've made my point.
However, the fact that some of Mr. Jones' lyrics approach dadaist meaninglessness makes absolutely no difference. At. All. I want to strike like Thunderball, even though I have no idea what that means. And I want my love to wind me up, even though marionettes aren't wind-up dolls. And I want my love like candy on a shelf, even though candy goes in jars. When I listen to Tom Jones I just sit back and enjoy, and turn my brain off. I leave myself in his tender care, because I know he won't do me wrong.
When Tom Jones sings, you listen.
* whoa-whoa-whoa
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
