Sep 23, 2018

In Praise of The Beatles

In Praise of The Beatles

The Beatles, the musical group, not the beetles that comprise the order coleoptera (which I would rather comment on), need no endorsement from the likes of me, but, for reasons I will make clear in a moment I have gained an appreciation of them, and their music I did not have prior to today. It was always easy listening background music to me - there seemed to be little if anything to excite or offend anyone. That they were the physic sought by young people of the sixties, and a great many that could no longer be considered young, is without question.

Last Thursday I purchased a CD from a thrift store titled “Beatles 1’, a collection of 27 of their songs that climbed the popularity chart to number one. Until today I tended to relegate their music to the ‘teeny-bopper’, pop culture genre, and have always preferred grittier offerings from The Rolling Stones and other groups. I still do, but, I now recognize that beneath and beyond the “She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah” and all the other wonderful, catchy phrases there was/is something more substantial.

So, on a dull, drizzly day as I repotted Edelweiss ‘Matterhorn’, various Iris, Lilies, and too many Pulsatilla vulgaris (Heiler hybrids) I slipped ‘The Beatles 1’ disk into my CD player. The songs are arranged chronologically for the most part and I was amazed, when I glanced at the ‘liner notes’ (I’m obviously an old LP player) that all the songs were recorded during the 1960’s! That’s 50 years ago, isn’t it? Can’t be, my math must be wrong. The sun is in retrograde motion. I can’t be that old. The songs can’t be that old. It’s like something from the movie ‘Brazil” - “They’ve gone metric’.

Damn, except for a few of the earlier offerings which seemed to target the pre-teen audience, I find the music enchanting, meaningful, and likely to still be quite relevant, especially to young people struggling to make sense of their world, many years from now, Those halcyon years when I aspired to be a Paperback Writer living peacefully in a Norwegian Wood While My Guitar Gently Wept. 

Regardless, this is now, and forever, but as I load an old pirated tape of rare, early ‘Pink Floyd’ into my cassette deck and continue with the transplanting I tip my moth-eaten, Venice West Cafe, black beret to John, Paul, George, and Ringo, and praise the goodwill and celebration of life their music engenders everywhere.


Let It Be, Let it Be.

Sep 14, 2018

It Got My Attention

It got my attention

In case you haven’t noticed I am not a religious person, spiritual yes, and a staunch believer in the power of the individual, but not a believer in supernatural beings, unless accepted as such. As a result I often, without malice, and with a certain amount of amiableness, invoke the names of a variety of the thousands of Gods mankind has created, in a less than positive manner. So, what happened this morning reminded of an episode from The Adventures of Superman (aired in the 1950’s). Perry White was the editor of The Daily Planet, the newspaper Clark Kent and Lois Lane worked for. Well, it seems Perry was quite fond of saying “Great Caesars Ghost’ in moments of trial or tribulation. Eventually Caesar [they never specified which one] grew tired of Mr. White invoking his name in such a manner, and so often, and paid the newspaper editor a visit, with the usual expected consequences.

This morning, on my way to grub out a Darlow’s Enigma rose and an errant Trumpet Vine, I realized I had forgotten my large mattock and unconsciously said something like “Kiss the Buttocks of Thor”, and shook my paw at the sky. As I turned to fetch the missing tool I was suddenly struck dumb by noise and light and fell to the ground. I know not how long I lay on the grass but when I managed to open my eyes I found this tremendous lightning bolt firmly implanted in the ground next to me. It had fortunately missed the Corylus Avellana contorta, [Harry Lauder’s Walking Stick], but I swear I smelled brimstone and the ‘lightning bolt’ was hot.

In the future I shall direct my blasphemies, and shake my ragged fist against Rong Yaoling, a Chinese God of Thunder. or perhaps Gao Hui, the Chinese Thunder King, or, better yet, the North American Thunderbird. Or is this perhaps a talon from the mythic bird?