Is it just
me, or has this been one heck of a weird summer?
When it
gets to the point that 10-12% of adults in San Diego actually believe that
Superman truly existed and lived in New York City in the thirties, maybe it's
time I stopped making up false survey results like this.
Come to
think of it, I don't think I'd be too surprised if that spurious assertion were
true - I might even
knock up the percentages - but I've always considered surveys as suspect and
worthless as the Bay City Rollers. Or Sade.
Truth has
always seemed easy to distort, and the distortion can be empowering, even
profitable. I'd like to see the very word "percent" eliminated from political
debates, with so much manipulation and decontextualization and intimations of
scholarship. It just tends to hammer home a basic fact that the public is still
unable to grasp: that all politicians are at heart greedy, lying miscreants.
Truth is, I
got up on the correct side of the bed this morning and am feeling as chipper as
I might hope, having revisited in my dreams many of the whoppers I've heard
repeatedly during these sullen summer months.
The strange
music stories keep going around: John Lennon had originally wanted to call the
Beatles the Rolling Stones. Dennis
Wilson was the real creative genius of the Beach Boys. Paul Simon's musical Capeman was originally called Cartman. The greatest conductor of the
twentieth century was Mantovani. Mama Cass Elliot choked to death on Jimi
Hendrix's vomit.
Of course,
those are the famous old chessnuts, and they're all true. But the whoppers that
seem to have sprung from the likes of these call into question not only the sanity
but the humanity of their believers. No doubt you've been hearing that stuff
about Wyclyf Jean, Steve Tyler, Lady ("I'm gagga for") Gaga, Whitney Houston,
and on and on...okay, and about yours truly being an incredibly worthless jerk
who goes around telling everybody about the time in 1978 he went to dinner and
a concert with Paul and Linda McCartney. Don't believe any of it.
When I'm
(oh, by the way, it was March 1979) confronted with so much degeneration of
discourse, it wreaks havoc on my frown lines, but sometime during this summer's
chill I decided to stay away from idiotic arguments and remain, as I said,
chipper.
But then,
inevitably, has come the belligerent, drunken fratboy whom I'd never met who
suddenly wants to kick my ass to impress his drunken buddies and vacuous laydeh. This has far too often brought
me to tears.
"‘Sup,
dude?!" (their dialect fascinates me)
"What do
you mean?"
"You deaf,
faggot? I'm here! I'm here! ‘Sup?!" (priceless)
"I'm not
gonna fight you..."
"Ah mo kick
yo' f---."
"But you're
a miracle!" (I've read Carnegie)
"Let's get
it own, dude! I'm - I'm what?"
"A miracle.
A real live, talking stool sample."
And within
a matter of seconds I'm on the pavement, bruised and/or bloody, crying because
I got hurt. Because it usually hurts a lot.
Ah, but I
suppose it's just because it's such a very strange summer. And it's probably
just the calibre of college student San Diego is turning out these days. Either
way I feel a sweet nostalgia for those days. when these feces vivants were allowed to drink on the beach; sand offers the
victim a relatively cushioned embrace. Concrete has always been brutal and
tough, so proud of its bad boy reputation; only a fool would ask it to soften
up a bit.
It becomes
obvious that far too many modern-day Americans (like those ill-mannered
students) survey Life's abundant menu and order their own destinies from the various section, without even a glance
at the offerings listed within sundry.
As Dr. Stu (Stewart) Pendiss pointed out in 1947's monumental A Final Flush, the difference between a
card game and a toilet is defined by one's attitude toward his God, the
Romantic Ideal, and/or Pee Wee Herman.
This summer
also offered me more welcome proof as to the ignorance of the phrase "you can't
go home again." It's intended, figurative meaning was blown away, thanks to my
Los Angeles friends Craig Ingraham and Deborah Masterson.
Craig (a
superb musician/singer/songwriter) had formed a band in L.A., in 1973, to
record some of his original songs. Deborah, his girlfriend, was one of his
background singers, as was I. (The 19-year-old pianist was named David Benoit,
and I think he still plays somewhere today.) So, we rehearsed and recorded in
L.A., but curiously did our only live shows down here in San Diego, the last
one being at the Starlight Bowl in October of 1973, after which everyone went
different ways and many of us lost touch for three decades or so . . .
On this
summer 38 years later, joined by our
original percussionist, the magical Sody Arzea, we did a show once again, at
Café Libertalia (thanks, Jesse!). Even our original roadie, Stan Stafford, was
back (bless his heart!) and there were moments up on stage with Craig and Deb
that I thought I could swear that my soul... oh, how do I say this?... my soul got
a woodie. (38 years later and he calls it a woodie? Surf city, here we came.) I
thank you one and all, especially the lovely folks who decided to check us out.
I'm certainly hoping for more shows in the fall, as my recent meticulous
inquiry reveals I am up to 90% more chipper when preforming with these dear
friends, home again, than when I'm not. The value of love and memories can
always grow in hungry hearts, and that's an absolute truth.