Hold On Loosely

I peek in on her while she sleeps, just to watch her breathe.  She is beautiful every time.  Her chest always rises and falls. Invariably, she’ll make some innocently sweet noise as though she knows I’m watching, and am in awe of every noise she makes.  I am in awe of her.  She is my redemption, and I must protect her from the entire world.  Not everyone gets a second chance. Invariably, I will cross the room, stepping carefully and softly so I don’t molest her peace.  Invariably, I will stand directly over her, admiring her; I will suppress an urge to cry because I love her so damned much.  And invariably, I will lean down to plant the softest of kisses on her softest of cheeks. 

I watch. 

I swell with immeasurable pride.

I question.  I question whether or not I can pull this off without fucking it up.

No, I insist, fucking it up is not even an option. 

†††††

Being a father again at 37 wasn’t exactly something I had etched into my day-planner.  I’d already had two children.   My son was 13, and I had just lost my 11-year-old daughter to suicide.  For immensely complicated reasons, I missed out on a lot of their lives –not my choice, mind you.  I didn’t get to witness either of them taking their first steps.  I was excluded for more birthdays than for those I attended.  I grew to hate Christmas, I was bitter on Thanksgiving Day, and Easter held none of the symbolic renewal for me. 

I would withdraw from the damnably merry families and their complete little lives with their disgusting Christmas trees and how-cute-the-kids-are anecdotes; I’d simultaneously stifle that crippling pain of emptiness without my kids while silently praying that someone would recognize that I didn’t really want to be left alone to brood and include me in their festivities.  I would seclude myself anyway, afraid to infect anyone with my curdled attitude.  Not being a terribly great actor, I always knew that my heartbreak would materialize on my sleeve and people would give me a wide berth in order to maintain their unblemished, joyful moods.  I couldn’t blame them –I wanted to stay away from me, too.  Sometimes I wanted to stick a gun in my mouth, the despair was so intense.  That would ruin a family function, wouldn’t it?

ΩΩΩΩΩΩ

The number that showed up on my caller ID was Erin’s, but the voice that I heard from the other end was not, “Erik, it’s Rashawn! Erin’s water just broke!” 

Microseconds after the words had gushed into my ear, I barked simply, “I’m on my way!” Have you ever watched those cartoons where the character moves so fast from a stationary position that whatever object he’s holding (phone, gun, pencil, etc) is suspended in mid-air –spinning or hanging –as the suggested inertial effect? That’s how fast I’d kicked into overdrive and was on the move.  While my instinct and newly-acquired parental knowledge automated my movements, I couldn’t keep up with the sudden cacophony that now flooded my head. 

What the hell? The baby’s not due for another month! Where are my shoes? I’m too old for this shit! We were supposed to have a ready-bag for this!  We’re not ready!  The baby’s not due for another month! Where are my keys? Do I pack a bag? No –just get to the office, pick Erin up, and get her to the hospital. Oh my God!  It’s happening!  The baby’s really coming!  WHERE ARE MY KEYS?!

My Ford Explorer has seen much better days, and I’m still convinced that it hasn’t forgiven me for the whipping it took that chilly April day as I mounted it like a sick steed, and forced it to gallop to Clintonville.  Slamming through gears and jamming the accelerator to the floor like I was competing for position in a neck-and-neck horse race, I could almost hear the truck whinnying and snorting –trying to accommodate my impossible demands.  Breaking all the laws of God and man to reach Erin’s office in due time, I challenged the police to stop me for speeding. 

I stormed into her office and snatched her up like a trauma patient.  I paused only to visually confirm her water had broken –the evidence forming a wet stain on Erin’s maternity-jeans.   I hauled her out the door and into the passenger seat of her Corolla (which is newer, faster and more reliable).  The entire operation was the practical equivalent of tossing her over my shoulders like a sack of potatoes and sprinting.  Since I’d gotten the phone call from her co-worker, I’d forgotten how to walk.  Every footstep was a run.  The irony?  Erin was cool and calm.  She chuckled at my anxiety, and I silently cursed her for being so nonchalant.

“Goddammit!  We need gas; we won’t make it to the hospital on fumes!” How many times had I told her to keep at least a quarter-tank of gas in her car? Once? A hundred times?

“Honey, calm down.  I’m ok, it’s ok.”  She shifted in the seat, the amniotic fluids likely making her uncomfortable and grossing her out. “We should go to the house and pack up some things before we go to the hospital,” She leaned back, and I was hunched forward, nearly touching the windshield with my nose while I weaved in and out of traffic, flashing my lights and willing drivers out of my way. 

From the gas station to the house to the hospital, I challenged the police to stop me, and I spoke aloud my wish for a police escort, “And think of it, I’d get to speed legally!”  A demonic grin flashed from the driver’s seat.

A wan smile hung from the other, “You’re crazy.” 

Over the curb and around the car at the light.  Flash lights.  Try to cut through Roush Hardware at Westerville Center. Growl in frustration at red light and even lazier traffic that just doesn’t understand my need for it to move the hell out of my way.  Flash lights. Will light to turn green. Make hard right turn at 75mph, probably on only two wheels.  Haul ass, weaving in and out of traffic.  Flash lights.  Almost there.

☺☻☺☻

      I’m sure I hurt her when I wrap her tiny body in my arms and squeeze her like I do.  I don’t mean to.  I can’t help it.  I try to channel the adoration and love I have for her into her, so she feels it.  I hold her tight enough that it might appear as though I’m trying to fuse us together.  Maybe I am.  If we’re fused together, then I’ll always be there to protect her.  I need to protect her. 

The morbid possibilities I entertain are infinite.  I worry she may stop breathing in the middle of the night.  I worry she might contract some heinous virus and die.  I worry she will fall and bump her head, and be dragged into some miserable coma.  I worry some sick sonofabitch will nab her. I worry I’m going to falter; I’m going to fail her in some way. I worry she will need me, and I won’t be there –just like before…

†††††

            When Erik and Bethany were born in 1995 and 1996, respectively, the average American household didn’t have the Internet.  If you wanted to know what to expect as an expectant father, you had to sit down and read a book, like What to Expect When You’re Expecting.  I ask you – who in the world has the time for that? Go, go, go!  Everything I knew about fatherhood at the age of 23 was what I’d grown up with and, frankly, it didn’t amount to much.

Changing diapers and feeding babies was something that I had to do. Being a father wasn’t transformative, it was an inconvenience.  It was a hiccup.  I didn’t know any better. And don’t you know –when you don’t appreciate things or people in your life the way you should, Fate will come thundering along in his cold black chariot swinging a rusty guilt-infected scythe to lay your soul wide open, and wake you right the fuck up by taking away that which you had taken for granted?

            All you can do is learn from your mistakes.  When confronted with a situation you’ve faced before, one in which you have faltered or completely screwed up, you unlock that mental safe –the one that stores your Contingency Plans for [insert life-changing circumstance here].  You begin the process that first recalls All The Stuff You Didn’t Do Right The First Damned Time, and hopefully you adjust accordingly; you step up to the plate, remember your lessons, and Do Better This Time Around.  I guess that would be true of anything, from putting your hand on a hot stove burner to just not knowing enough. 

            This time around, I was armed with the Internet.  The ‘Net affords the immediate answers to life-and-death answers (like, “how to save a laptop that’s had coffee spilled on it”) that I didn’t have at my fingertips in 1996. 

After Erin and I had her pregnancy confirmed in September of ‘08, I subscribed to a weekly email newsletter sent by a website known as babycenter.com.  Synchronized with the projected due date in May, the newsletter gave me a week-by-week synopsis on how the baby should be developing in utero, as well as articles and features written in order to better educate the expectant parents by obstetricians, nutritionists, pediatricians, and other baby-related professional-types.  I eagerly gobbled up most of what I read, and as the pregnancy wore on, I felt more and more confident in the role I was about to play.  Even though this was to be my third child, it felt like it was my first.  In a way, it was.

I was older, wiser…wasn’t I?

            Leave it to a psychologist to shake your foundation and bring you back to reality.  Dr. Jerrold Lee Shapiro wrote an article for the newsletter called “Seven Fears Expectant Fathers Face.” According to him, they were:

• Security fears (Am I going to be able to provide for my baby?)
• Performance fears (Am I gonna pass out at the sight of blood during delivery?)
• Paternity fears (Is the baby even mine?)
• Mortality fears (I’m thinking about the end of life now that I’m about to face the beginning of one)
• Fear for your spouse’s or child’s health (Bad things can happen during childbirth)
• Relationship fears (Is Baby Mama still going to like me after the baby comes, or am I to be relegated to mere errand boy and post-partum whipping post?)
• Fears of “women’s medicine” (Does watching a doctor prod and poke in places a man would rather not think of as “anatomy” shiver my timbers?)

            I wasn’t worried about the baby’s security –I knew that if I had to sell every ounce of blood and semen in my body, she would never need for anything.  I wasn’t worried whether or not she was mine, or whether I’d be able to hold up in the delivery room (I’d watched Erik’s Caesarean delivery with great interest).  To the best of my recollection, I never missed a regular visit to our OB/GYN, so I wasn’t afraid of women’s medicine.  The prospect of Erin neglecting me in favor of the baby wasn’t even a vague concern –we already knew the baby was going to be a daddy’s girl.  More accurate was the specter of Erin being neglected by me.

            And as heartless as it may seem, I didn’t really worry about Erin’s health at risk during the course of delivery –she’s a bad-ass. 

What I did fear, though, was something bad happening to the baby.  I feared her being stillborn, even though we kept tabs on the heartbeat, and even though I had bought Erin a baby heartbeat monitor.  I feared her having the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck, being oxygen-starved, and having to live as a vegetable.  I feared having that unconditional parental love constantly tested by having to forever care for a vegetable. 

ΩΩΩΩΩΩ

            I am sure I looked like a complete jackass bursting into the maternity ward at St. Ann’s, wresting the wheelchair out the door, and beating the hell out of it because it had the audacity to not open for me in my moment of need. I had forgotten how to breathe and think, let alone perform the simple task of opening a wheelchair.  “You looked so cute trying to do everything right,” Erin said later.  Usually, when a woman tells a guy he looked cute doing something important, it means he looked like a complete jackass. 

            Strap her in.   Race to the registration desk.  Be prepared to take the head off any staff who doesn’t immediately respond to Baby’s impending birth.  Meet charge nurse who wields the demeanor of a drill instructor. Orders are barked, she is running this show. Dad is put in his place.  Reconsider head-removal.  Drum fingers.  Announce imminent birth on Facebook.  Hurry up and wait.  Make phone calls.  Drum fingers.  Almost there.

            She arrived less than seven hours later.  Shapiro’s article said that dads who took part in his survey “secretly” counted toes and fingers.  There was nothing covert about my instantaneous inspection and assessment.  Shayne Bethany (Last name omitted) had ten fingers, ten toes, a full head of hair, a healthy cry…and my heart.

☺☻☺☻

            I don’t have to feed her, I want to.  I know she’s getting nourishment.  I don’t balk at changing diapers; I’m vigilant about her hygiene and health.  The first time she ever pooped (a milestone in any new baby’s life), she let go right in the palm of my hand, leaving a black sticky puddle.  There was no disgust, no frustration.  I cried.

I love making her laugh.  Her wide, bright, toothless smile rights even the greyest of days.  She lights up when I enter the room, and it melts my heart without fail. I’ve learned where she’s ticklish, and just to hear her laugh, I’ll go for her “giggle spots.” 

When she cries, though, it slices into me like a samurai’s calculated attack.  Hearing her wail in pain when she got her first shots reduced me to a dithering, apologetic blob.  I could swear I saw betrayal in her eyes, too.  How could you let them hurt me like this, Daddy?

      It’s for your own good, honey.  I promise.  But know this is the only time I’ll ever allow anyone to hurt you.  You are my redemption.  I must protect you from the entire world.  Not everyone gets a second chance.

            The other day, I was chatting with a friend on Facebook.  He just so happens to be the police chief of a certain city in which I reside.  We chatted about the economy and its effect on rising crime statistics.  We chatted about the decay in morals and standards.  We chatted about being protective fathers.  I told him that if I could lock my daughter away until she is 50, I’d be ok with that –after all, I know how boys are.  He reminded me of his daughter, who’s attending Ohio State, and told me, “Enjoy it while it lasts, Erik.  She’s not going to be that young forever, and you can’t protect her from every little thing in life. You’ll have to watch her grow up, eventually.”  But I don’t want to. I don’t ever want her to venture from under my wing –how else can I shield and protect her?  I don’t ever want her to wander any farther than my arms can reach –how else will I catch her if she falls? 

Just hold on loosely, but don’t let go
If you cling too tight babe,
you’re gonna lose control.
Your baby needs someone to believe in,
And a whole lot of space to breathe in.*

†††††

True to its stealthy nature, the holiday season is fast approaching.  Erik Jr. is still going to be kept from me, and Bethany is still going to lie in the cold ground on that windswept, lonely hill in Springdale Cemetery.  It doesn’t get any easier, ever. 

            But I will have a new addition to my woefully diminished family this year.  I will have a reason to smile and partake in the revelry that comes part and parcel with this time of year. 

I will be witness to Shayne’s first taste of home-made turkey gravy.  I will watch her gleefully rip the wrapping paper off her first Christmas gift, only to abandon the toy I thought she’d love in favor of chewing and shredding the paper.  

I will scoop her up into my arms, and I’ll smother her with kisses, and nearly suffocate her with hugs.  Except for her eating the wrapping paper, those scenes will replay themselves every year.

In April she’ll be a year old, and I will take innumerable photos of her painting her angelic face with the rich frosting from her first birthday cake. Only my own death, my last fear, will prevent me from watching her blow out every candle thereafter. 

I have to hold on loosely, though.

 I know I can’t fuse her to me. I know I can’t protect her from everything.  I will do my damndest.  Where I have failed before, I will not fail this time.  Not everyone gets a second chance. 

 

The Box

To look at it is to conclude there is nothing special about it.  It’s just a cardboard box.  It’s perhaps six inches wide, that many deep, and about five inches tall.  Granted, there is an air of elegance to its design – it’s silver, with a linen-textured embossing about its entire external surface.  In an Olde English-looking script, words and phrases adorn the box in silver a couple shades lighter than the box itself.  The cruelest of ironies, some of the phrases are things like: “Fond Memories,” “Family Traditions,” “Celebrate Life’s Gifts,” and “The Big Day.”  I’ve opened this particular box maybe three times since last year.  I’ve opened the box within even fewer times. 

It was the 16^th of June, 2008.  I was due to put my 11-year-old daughter in the ground in a couple of hours.  Finding something special to put in her eternal box was proving to be beyond trying.  Because her death was so unexpected, I had no opportunity to bring something of more sentimental value. 

I was combing Northwoods, the Peoria, Illinois mall for something – anything – that my little girl could be proud to take with her into the afterlife.  I knew she liked Bobby Jack, a popular cartoon monkey.  I knew she liked Chris Brown, the now-embattled R&B singer.  Although I looked for trinkets with either the monkey or the singer, I knew in my heart that neither would be appropriate.  I could say I was getting frustrated, but that would only begin to describe the never-ending swirl of emotions that made me unsure of even my footsteps. 

I’d scoured the mall.  I couldn’t find anything.  I was infuriated and ready to throw in the towel.  The funeral would be starting soon, and I would have to show up empty-handed – and empty-hearted.  I swore to myself, I swore aloud.  I cursed God yet one more time, “It’s not fucking fair!  She’s just a baby!”  I stormed through the mall, daring any of the unsuspecting shoppers to bump me, or smile at me, or even look in my direction – I was ready to channel my rage and despair anywhere. I hated everyone I saw instantly. Those with children drew my ire especially.  Damn them, and damn their happy lives. It’s not fucking fair!!

I’d taken the steps to the lower-level of the mall, ready to head for the car, inexplicably on the opposite end from where I was parked.  As I rounded a corner, I saw the shop.  “Things Remembered.”  Then (and I swear this is no exaggeration), I was literally pulled into the shop, down the far right side of the place, and directly to a section near the rear.  “Now what?” I wondered, as I stood there, waiting for the revelation to complete itself. 

The pink felt top and the slightly lighter pink bow that wraps the second box belies its true purpose.  It was not a gift given in congratulations.  There was no memento that recalls a birthday or a Christmas memory. 

There.  The epiphany was now complete.  The angels beckoned almost audibly.  I knew as soon as I saw them that they were what I was looking for the whole time.  To write anymore of this, I must open this second box of three. 

Perched upon a floral-bedecked foam green base concealing the twist-to-play music box, is the adult or mature angel.  The angelic garb flowing, wings sprawled as if to show either pre-flight or (as I suspect) excitement and joy during movement – excitement and joy because s/he’s holding aloft an infant angel.  The scene is one I’ve seen hundreds of times.  There is pride, joy, love, and protection here.  This baby angel is safe.  Not even Satan and his minions would dare try to harm this baby. 

My baby angel must have this to take with her. I picked it up without even a second’s thought, and carried it to the counter where I would have it inscribed with “Daddy’s Angel – Rest in Peace, Bethany.” 

I didn’t know the tune that played when it’s twisted, and I still don’t.  It was played and played and played in the chapel of the funeral home on that darkest of sunny days.  There exists a large part of me that never wants to know what the music is.  All that matters is that my little girl had something to carry with her, and an angel to guide her.

Another exact angel was bought for me to keep.  Even the inscription is the same.  I can’t set my gaze upon the angels within the pink box, which are set inside the larger silver gift box. 

I mentioned a third box, didn’t I?  The box that holds the most precious gift – the one box I never wanted to see closed.

She’s in it.

…But Is It Art?

 

 Rap music has almost always offended my sensibilities as a human being and a musician.  On the surface, it requires little-to-no-skill or talent, glorifies the worst of urban and American life, and, truthfully – just gets on my goddamned nerves. 

And hey – is it even music? Have I been not been just in my relentless attacks of its existence and the culture that accompanies it?  I’m disgusted at the complete assault on the English language that seems to come packaged with this so-called “phenomenon.”  Isn’t 50-Cent unforgivable for dropping the “s” in “Cents”?  And, hey, Nelly – if you’re going to take a pick-axe to my language, at least take that stupid Band-Aid off your face.[1]Is bling really something anyone should adorn, along with the jeans that these “Gs” seem to have to hold up around their waists because they’re 22 sizes too big and that’s “phat”? 

Sam Kinison lampooned rap music in a stand-up several years before he died: “(Rappers) all grab their dicks – you know why? Because they don’t play any fuckin’ instruments!” I took that assessment to heart, identified with it, and used it to bolster my claim that rap was not real music, and therefore, could be dismissed as pure drivel.  In fact, I was convinced that whoever came up with the idea of calling it “rap” simply forgot to add the “c” at the beginning of the word. 

I’ve come to the conclusion that I while I could feasibly sit at home and put myself through the hellish experience of listening to rap for hours in order to gain a bit of insight, I’m actually going to have to (gulp) visit a hip-hop club and experience the whole damned vibe.  I ask around, and Baby’s Mama suggests a place called Rosie O’Grady’s.  Rosie’s is on Morse Road, she says, and she even knows the weekend bartender. In one breath, she assures me I won’t have to dodge stray bullets and then in the next says, “It would be funny to just drop your ass off there and see how long before you call me to come and get you.”  I am already envisioning shady drug dealers and ex-cons, sizing me up and conferring amongst themselves about who gets to pull the trigger on this Uncle Tom, and now she’s going to stoke the already out-of-control flames of my imagination?  I decide right there and then I don’t like her anymore. 

It’s Wednesday night.  I’ve found a sitter for my little one.  And though I’m not too sure what I should wear, I’m spiffy.  I’m redolent of Axe Touch Shower Gel (because it’s manly, and I like to smell like a man – no pansy-assed Dial soap for me), Right Guard Arctic Refresh Ultra-Gel, and Tim McGraw cologne (which I’d lusted after and whined about until Baby Mama bought me a bottle for Christmas last year, and I use oh-so-sparingly). I’ve shaved with my trusty Mach3. I’m sporting my sexiest pair of Levi’s, my favorite satiny almost-dress shirt – which is black and has really cool subtle grey stripes printed vertically, and a silver-ish motif of birds lofting skyward from a tree that I cannot identify. I’m wearing my Italian-made Structures (fine leather dress boots that you can presumably only buy at the ever-upscale Sears).  I look good.  I’d fuck me if I were a girl. 

So what is music, anyway?  Well, to me, music is loosely defined as the offering forth of auditory coitus.  That’s right – ear sex.  When Pink Floyd’s David Gilmour coaxes those notes out of his guitar the way he does, shimmering and slicing like an aural scalpel, then that’s ear sex.  When John Lennon said that all we needed was love- that was ear sex. John Bonham’s and Tommy Lee’s very different but equally orgasmic percussive attacks amount to ear sex.  Why?  Because those examples are the embodiment of emotion becoming sound.  How much emotion can be conveyed in the steal-point-click arrangement of rap music?[2]

Merriam-Webster’s Online Dictionary defines music as “1 a: the science or art of ordering tones or sounds in succession, in combination, and in temporal relationships to produce a composition having unity and continuity b: vocal, instrumental, or mechanical sounds having rhythm, melody, or harmony.”  Well, already my theory that rap isn’t music is being shot to hell.  While I would challenge anyone to find the comparable instrumental harmonies in Snoop Dogg’s song “Drop It Like It’s Hot” that one would find in say, Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” I have to admit that if rap is nothing else – it’s definitely rhythmic. 

I found Ron Wynn’s article, “Is Rap Music? If It Quacks Like a Duck…” online after an exhaustive search for a no-nonsense approach to rap’s genesis and contribution to music and society as a whole.  Wynn, a writer for Nashville’s The City Paper, asserted that “Though still a stepchild to many in the family of music lovers, the pervasive presence of rap renders academic the cavils over whether or not it is “music.” Rap is created by people who are apparently expressing their experience of life through replicable patterns of sound and rhythm, that is, music. It is produced and distributed by the “music industry,” and its “consumers” respond like pop music lovers have over the several-generation evolution of the mass-market recording industry. So, since it walks, quacks, swims, and eats like a duck….”

Ok, Ron.  I’ll bite.  It’s packaged to look and sound like music.  But I’m not convinced.  Just because you’re a high-falutin’ reporter guy doesn’t mean you know everything.  I’ll just go see for myself. 

A few minutes after 8pm, I pull into Rosie O’Grady’s parking lot.  There are no more than six cars parked.  I stall the inevitable and light one more cigarette.  The marquee advertises a karaoke night on Mondays, a mug night on Tuesdays, and ladies’ night on Wednesdays – hey, that’s tonight!  Since I won’t be here for Thursday’s reggae night, I don’t bother reading beyond that.  It occurs to me that I haven’t the slightest clue what to expect here. Is there going to be a live rap act, or perhaps, just a jukebox? Even better would be a live DJ that I can clandestinely bribe into sliding an Ozzy Osbourne CD into the player. Uh-oh, cigarette’s gone.  Let’s do this.

I’m immediately astonished.  It’s actually a nice looking place.  Rows of red bulbs line the ceiling trim, giving off a seductive glow.  An unoccupied VIP booth (roped off and elevated,  presumably, to accentuate its prominence) folds itself around a small round table with an empty ice bucket that I’m guessing has seen its fair share of Patron. I spot the bar – ah! The bar!  Four (giant) bottles of Grey Goose vodka serve as the back bar’s crown, each slickly backlit with a neon of different color.  I’m almost impressed. For some reason, I’m both taken aback and relieved that there really aren’t many people here.  I count four souls huddled at the bar and laughing frequently.  I zero in on a barstool to their right, and then see the barmaid. She’s white. 

Why does this surprise me?  Already I’m learning that either I really need to get out more, or I had preconceived notions on what I could expect to see here tonight.  I’m going to play the safe bet, and suggest both might be true. 

“What can I get ya, hon?” she asks. 

“Killian’s, please.” I’m determined to stick out like sore thumb.  Besides, I’d already had a Killian’s before leaving the house, and to dump a Corona on top of that would have been just…gross.

Upon reflection, it’s interesting (to me, anyway) to explore whether or not my dislike for rap music and hip-hop culture is a form of mildly entertaining self-loathing.  I am part black, after all. True enough, I am the only mixed-race kid in my family and was pretty much “raised white” (whatever that means); and my exposure to black culture, my agreement with the stereotypical socio-political expectations of blacks in America[3] and the number of black friends I’ve had over the years has been limited.  I know and tell jokes about every ethnic group, even blacks. But does that justify the upturned nose I offer to that genre of “music”? 

I note my comrades-in-drink.  On my immediate left, an old white guy sits, half-turned towards his court, telling jokes.  To his left is a black woman, 40-ish, who might have been vaguely attractive except for the missing teeth (which gave her a cartoonish “piano-smile”countanence).  She’s sandwiched between the Joker, and a hulking black man, laughing gregariously with the white guy.  It’s easy to gather that he’s with Piano-face.  A more diminutive black dude with cornrows, which are covered by a Reds ballcap turned at an angle,[4] rounds out the group, and I am convinced inside of 30 seconds that he thinks I’m a cop (I’ve heard it before – “You look like a cop”) and I won’t make it outta here alive. He’s sneering at me, I just know it. As soon as he starts fiddling with his cell phone, I know I’m in deep shit.  I immediately chide myself for not being smart enough to at least try to blend in – a FUBU shirt, baggy jeans, Lugz boots, a sideways ballcap – would it work? Once you hear me speak, probably not.  How many “thugs” are peeved by sentences that end in prepositions? 

I’m terrified that if I whip out my pad and pencil, I’m going to confirm Cornrow’s suspicion and wind up being the lead story on 10TV’s 11 o’clock newscast.  I can hear it now, “A very stupid Westerville man was found dead in a grease dumpster tonight after he thought it would be a good idea to be somewhere he shouldn’t have been.  Police say the victim was found with a mechanical pencil stuck in his neck. Coming up, Obama’s quest to make ‘Gin and Juice’ our new national anthem.” 

The barmaid, Linda, is a 30-year veteran of drink-slinging, and has been at Rosie’s for two years.  She’s mostly all-business, and dismissively sets about doing barmaid stuff once I’ve pulled from her all the four-one-one I’m going to get.  Fine, you just make sure I don’t go thirsty, lady – got it?

The place looks a lot bigger on the inside than it does on the outside, and beyond the bar, I see a couple of rows of pool tables.  While my eyes scan my new surroundings, my ears tune into the music coming out of one of the many ceiling-mounted speakers.  Am I hearing…? I’ll be goddamned!  That’s “Pretty Fly for a White Guy” by the Offspring!  Simultaneous to this ironic observation, I spot the dance floor, backed by a giant projection screen and displaying the music video for the accompanying rock song.  I find out later (albeit, not much later) that once the live DJ shows up, the musical variety takes on a noticeable shift. 

The Hulk notices me laughing at the old man’s last, departing joke, and for some odd reason, sends over a Killian’s for me.  I raise my bottle in genuine appreciation and stiffen internally for the first beats of a song I don’t immediately recognize.  Turns out, it’s Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing,” re-mixed rap-like.  I guess it’s not so bad.  I guess. 

The next song I hear I definitely don’t know, and its hypnotically throbbing beat is vaguely seductive in its sway, electronically pulsing an image into my head – I can safely imagine a stacked, leggy blonde mynx in skin-tight lamé pants suggestively grinding her hips and shaking her ass to suggest copulating would be a heavenly experience –or, I simply need to get laid. 

The next thing I know, The Hulk is sitting next to me, buying me yet another round as we swap cursory introductions.  His name’s Kelvin Lindsey.  Turns out, Lindsey’s a former OSU football player.  He tells me he’s just turned 50.  The guy doesn’t look a day over 30. I call “Bullshit.”  He shows me his ID, and sure enough, he’s 50.  He’s warm, genuine, and I don’t feel so out of place now.  Hell, even the trigger-man is on this end of the bar now, cutting up with us.  I am now officially Having a Good Time. 

Alright, the sociological aspect of this little experiment has been completed.  It would be accurate to say that some of my hardened disdain for rap/hip hop and its culture is truly rooted in my aforementioned limited exposure to blacks, period.  I don’t know the first thing about black or rap/hip hop culture even now, except that if I’m going to get shot tonight, it’s probably not going to be by these guys. I’m definitely not a homie, but I’ve proved to myself I can hang with ‘em, yo.

But what about the music?

I strategize mentally on tactics for approaching the DJ. I see him back there, in his corner booth, elevated – well, I see his profile – the neon behind him is preventing me from seeing much more than that.  Should I sidle up to the booth and shout, “Yo, dawg!”?  Again, I stick out like a sore thumb here and no one’s going to believe I’m urban anything.  This might take some figuring…

…or not.  Before I can plot too hard, and fry the few brain cells I have left, the DJ is standing next to me, ordering.  Providence? Fuckin-A!

He’s not only agreeable to talk with me, he’s eager. He’s a slight man, dark as coal.  His wire-frame glasses and carefully-chosen casual attire suggest that he might be a bit of a nerd. He goes by the handle “DJ Exclusive,” and when I ask him if he can define the difference between hip hop and rap, he breaks it down for me.  “Hip hop has a real story to tell,” he explains, “like, they have a message.”  So? Doesn’t 50 Cent claim to have a story to tell? Isn’t he classed as a rapper?  “Opinions on that vary from person to person.” 

I’m right.  He’s a nerd, a DJ-ing, very articulate nerd.  He mutters nothing about “bitches,” and “gats.”  Instead, I fight to shake off the effects of the six or nine beers I’ve had so I can keep up with him.  But am I gonna worship his command over the English language or shake him down?  Breathe, focus, repeat.

OK, Mr. DJ Exclusive, let’s say we find someone from Montana, who’s never listened to either rap or hip hop – what CD from each would you present to said Montanan as a definitive example of each?  “Well, definitely, NWA’s[5] Straight Outta Compton would be my rap choice, and Tupac’s Makaveli would define hip hop, because he did some rapping, but most of songs were about the message.” Interestingly enough, my internet searches on Tupac have him considered largely as a rapper. 

Alright, sure.  But does this stuff have any real musical value?  Is it really music?  He straightens out a bit, “How do you define music?  I mean, there’s counting beats and stuff [for rhythms].  It’s music.  How is it not?”  I take another angle, and ask him where the musical talent comes in. 

“Any moron can put ‘bird’ and ‘word’ together and make a rhyme,” I counter, unwilling to give up the fight, “and you just basically told me that sequencing the loops and drum beats isn’t anything more than point-and-click.  So I wanna know where musical ability comes in.”

He ponders a moment, and then admits, “That’s a real good question.  A tough question.” I have him – I’m going to win this argument!  I ask him about “gangsta rap,” and his take on its social contribution.  “It’s both a blight, and a valid form of expression,” he says. “I mean, these guys are telling a story too, really.  It’s raw, and it’s ugly, sometimes.  But it’s still expression.” This DJ’s no dummy.  It’s time to go for the jugular.

Well what about the 13-year-old kid out on the corner slinging dope because ol’ 50 told him to “get rich or die trying?”  Isn’t that a testament to the lack of validity? “That’s more of a parenting thing,” Exclusive tells me.  He’s unflappable, and if I poured hot water down his throat, he’d piss ice cubes- he’s that cool, that fucking smart.  I’ve put my tail between my legs now, and wave a white flag in concession. He senses I’m withdrawing and, to help me save face,  graciously steers the discussion to how hard it is to take someone seriously with overly-large t-shirts, ballcaps turned to the side, and pants so baggy you have to hold them up to keep from facing exposure charges.

And you know? I’ll be damned if he isn’t right.  As the interview winds down, my ears pick up the song coming over the speakers.  Is it ear sex? No, but there is something musical about it.  There’s an organized sequence of notes, it’s rhythmic, and it’s not altogether despicable. Ear sex it’s not –maybe closer to masturbation.  It wouldn’t be my preferred choice, but if I were stuck on a desert island, it would be better to have this than nothing.  I consider this on my drive home, punctuated by a stop at McD’s.

I believe it was composer Eric Salzman who said, “There is a music for everybody.”   

I would guess, then, that applies to the culture surrounding the musical genres.  When I think about it, some of the stigmas attached to rock and metal are pretty much deserved. 

Motley Crue did some horrendous things with women, as documented in their tell-all, The Dirt: Confessions of the World’s Most Notorious Rock Band. Norwegian black metal bands garnered infamy for burning down churches and killing themselves and each other.  GG Allin, a hardcore punker who was known for assaulting his audiences with urine, feces, and whatever else he could get his hands on, planned to gun down members of his audience and his band on his planned final concert – luckily, he died of a heroin overdose before he was able to carry out his farewell show. 

I’m still not a fan of rap or hip hop.  It’s still musically boring to me, and it’ll be a cold day in hell before I shell out one red cent for 50 Cent’s Get Rich or Die Trying (which I suspect would have sold considerably less if it had been titled Work Really Really Hard for Your Money, and Go to College) I still think it’s silly to wear those stupid baggy jeans.  But if nothing else, my excursion infused a nanoscopic amount of “live and let live.”

Merriam-Webster’s Online Dictionary also defines music as “2 a: an agreeable sound.”  Sure, I’ll live and let live – and as soon as I get home, I’m going to crank up Endgame, the brand-new CD by Megadeth.

 

---

 

[1] “Hot in Hurr” – Give me a break.  Say it aloud, go ahead.  It doesn’t sound right, doesn’t feel right, and therefore isn’t deserving of the butchery levied by Nelly.  That must explain the Band-Aid – it’s a defensive wound, courtesy of the English language.  Go, English language!

[2] That’s right; I said “steal.”  How much money has Puff Daddy-P.Diddy-Puffy Who-the-hell-ever He Is Combs made by simply adding different lyrics and a hip hop drum track over hit rock songs?  Well, I’m not going to offer up a dollar figure, it’s a rhetorical question. I do remember reading that Andy Summers of the Police (who wrote “Every Breath You Take’s” hypnotic guitar riff) was pretty pissed off when he heard P.-Whoever’s remix of that song.  Can’t say I blame him.

[3] I almost feel they smack of reverse-racism and entitlement.  I mean, if whites suggested a White Entertainment Television channel, the outcry would be skull-shatteringly loud.  There can be an Ebony magazine, but not an Alabaster.  “Black Pride” and “Black Power” are acceptable slogans in society, but “White Power” and “White Pride” is not.  If a politician mentions trimming entitlement programs like welfare and the like, he’s accused of being a heartless racist, eager to destroy the lives of the downtrodden.  You can’t convince me these aren’t things you haven’t wondered about. 

[4] Signifying what? A gang affiliation? An indifference to symmetrical fashion?

[5] I guess this stands for Niggas with Attitudes…I’m not touching it.

So, let me get this straight…

We, the USA, are in such an economic turmoil that we can’t manage to keep cops on the street…but we can fork over $200M in aid to a non-country???

Are you f@#$ing kidding me!?!  How much more are we expected to endure before the masses take to the streets with pitchforks and torches?  I sense that before it’s over, lynching of public officials will be more commonplace than tragedy.  The backs of the American People are breaking, the patience of the American Spirit is dwindling, and the hope of the American Dream is gone.

Seriously, folks.  We need a real shift in dynamics here.  We need a wake-up call.  Unfortunately, that wake-up call/reality check will probably cost many, many American lives.  History never fails to repeat itself in the good ol’ U. S. of A.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090724/ap_on_re_mi_ea/ml_palestinians_us

I Miss You…

A year later. It seems as though everyone’s forgotten you. It seems as though everyone’s moved on with their lives and chalked you up to a distant memory. Frankly, it makes me sick. How could you not be a motivating force? How could you not be a daily remembrance? How could anyone just pretend you never happened?

You’ve given me more in death than I ever gave you in life. I live each day for you. My accomplishments and decisions are truly rooted in honoring you. You inspired me to go to school, to do something. You inspired me to take on the monumental tasks I have set. I want to make you proud. While your message appears to not have been heard, I need you to know I listened. I responded. I still respond.

Your baby sister, like you, is beautiful. You’d love her. I gave to her your name as a reminder, as an honor. She is a happy baby, and I refuse to ever let her be away from me. My sun rises and sets with her. I see alot of you in her, and in my mind, you live on through her.

Your brother? I fear for him. Your mom has poisoned and ruined him, and I am afraid there might be little chance of rescuing him from himself. He needs me, but the obstacles placed there by those who would prefer to hurt him to get at me are almost insurmountable. I have tried to keep my word to you, but I am running out of time, and running out of resources. What can I do?

I still have the dream. It’s the cruelest of punishments – waking to realize I couldn’t stop you, and you’re still gone. I thought it might get a little easier with time, with Shayne. Not true. I think in alot of ways, it’s gotten harder. I am ashamed of myself.  I’m ashamed of those who could have helped you and did not because they worried about what others would say. 

     It’s not in vain, I promise you.  You are not forgotten.  You are remembered and missed daily, hourly.  I miss you.  I would give anything to have you back.  Anything.

Lost and Found Slideshow

This requires no words

http://www.vuvox.com/collage/detail/01457f441a

Enough Already!?

OK, I get it.  Michael Jackson’s still dead, his kids aren’t his, he died broke, and on and on and on.   How much more coverage can this get??

I wanna know about North Korea, and Iran, and our socialist president. I wanna know if Sanford is going to have an Argentinian love-child. 

I get it, Jacko’s dead.  Can we move on please?

A Look Ahead…

    My “band” The Suicide Watch Project, consisting of only myself at this moment, has wrapped up the drum tracks and will start tracking guitars in a few days.   After that, I will record the bass parts, then the vocals.  All that will be left after that are the lead guitars.  Final steps will be mixing and mastering…then it’s off to be reproduced.  Woo hoo!  Release date? I wish I knew.  I do have cover art though, and it will be as intense as the music itself.

Can’t wait.  Should be fun.  For a preview of the music, visit my Myspace

Thanks, Jacko.

     I admit being among the many who had written off Michael Jackson as a too-bizarre pedophile worthy of scorn and ridicule.  I ignored his music and I cringed at the revelation he was having kids. 

     Whatever his eccentricities, whatever his motives, whatever his dealings with children, it’s not for us to judge.  I realize that now, as I’m sure many others do.

      Jackson gave millions and millions of people – of all walks of life, of all races and ages, of all nationalities- a measure of joy and release through his music.  His message didn’t need to rely on graphic depictions of sex or violence.  He truly had a gift and knew it.  I believe he felt like he was paying it forward, and he did.

     I’m not going to run out and buy up his catalog, but I have a very newfound appreciation for his contributions.  I, much like everyone else, spread hateful jokes and suspicions. 

    For that, Michael, I’m sorry…and on the behalf of everyone you may have reached through your art – Thank you.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZI9OYMRwN1Q

Here There Be Questions…

      I have never believed Osama bin Laden or al-Qaeda was responsible for 9/11.  Not even on that day was I caught up in anti-terroristic fervor.  While Americans were lining up to pay $9.50 for a gallon of gasoline because “they were out to get us,”  I had a phone conversation with a long-time friend that sorta went like this:

Me:  Hello?

Him: Hey…are you watching CNN?

Me: Um, who isn’t?

Him: Yeah, true. 

(Silence)

Him: You’re quiet.  That’s never a good thing.

Me:  Do you see what I see?

Him: Yeah.  I think.  Wait, what do you see?

Me:  Three really big buildings that came down really nice and neat.  A bunch of people who said they heard or saw explosions in the towers before they came down, including cops and firefighters, aren’t being heard from anymore.

Him:  Yeah? So?  I’m glad they came straight down instead of falling over – more people would have been hurt.

Me: So you think that those comparatively small jets made those buildings collapse like that? 

Him:  Hm.  Why didn’t they? I mean, I see what you’re saying, but I just wanna play devil’s advocate for a minute.

Me:  You’ve never seen a building come down like that, dude? 

Him: No.

Me: Yes you have.  Remember when we went to watch the–

Him: Oh yeah! I remember now.  The old bank downtown. 

Me: Right.  It was a freakin event, wasn’t it?  Downtown was jammed.

Him: Hey, remember that blonde in the shorts that you–

Me: Anyway…that building came straight down, is what I’m saying.  It’s called a “controlled demolition.”  And that’s the only time a building comes straight down like that.

Him: That was alot of fire though. 

Me: Speaking of fire, what was missing in Pennsylvania?

Him: Huh?

Me:  The jet that crashed in the field, supposedly.  How come more grass at the crash site isn’t burned?  You’re going to tell me a fully-fueled jet crashed in a grassy field and only a little bit of grass burned up?

Him: Ok, I think you’re reaching now. 

Me: Am I?  Then tell me how this really big jumbo jet can crash into the Pentagon, yet there aren’t any pieces of fuselage seen around the point of impact?

Him: Maybe they cleaned it up. 

Me: Yeah, maybe they did. 

http://911truth.org/article.php?story=20041221155307646

http://pilotsfor911truth.org/index.html