Music and age: you've always wondered

I could once veer effortlessly from reggae to country to punk to old Rogers & Hammerstein to RED DETACHMENT OF WOMEN (which was especially fun to listen to, if you consider the fact that Richard Nixon was forced to sit through it and even applaud afterwards) and then start all over again. Last year, I finally sold the ancient vinyl record collection (which you may remember I threatened to do HERE), and was embarrassed to find GUY LOMBARDO AND HIS ROYAL CANADIANS, good Lord, where did THAT come from?

For every White Light, White Heat (which made local collector/entrepreneur Gene Berger's heart go pitty-pat when he saw it), there was something goofy like HEAVY METAL TOP HITS, which featured B-sides nobody ever heard of, they weren't top hits at all. Scanning the cover, I realized I bought it dirt cheap just to listen to Golden Earring's RADAR LOVE.



At left: poster advertising the famous communist opera/ballet, RED DETACHMENT OF WOMEN. It sounds pretty much like you think it does.



I find it difficult to listen to new music now, in the proper open-eared fashion. At first, didn't think much of this, but later, I worried. WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME? I think we know the name for it: its called getting old.

I have lost so many of my favorite musicians recently, age and death are unavoidably on my mind. David Bowie lived on the edge for years, so it was not as surprising that he didn't hit age 70, although still heartbreaking. But Prince? He was a vegan, didn't even drink. And (take note) he is YOUNGER THAN ME. I repeat, YOUNGER THAN ME. People younger than me ain't supposed to die. Alarming and saddening.

Also alarming and saddening, regarding the musical tastes of aging people, here is a fascinating account of some research by Stanford University neuroscience professor (and great author) Robert Sapolsky:

[Sapolsky], irritated by his young administrative assistant’s eclectic taste in music, tested whether there are maturational time windows during which we form cultural tastes. He and his research assistants called oldies radio stations, sushi restaurants in the Midwest, and body-piercing parlors and asked the managers when their service was introduced, and how old their average customer was. They found that if you’re more than thirty-five years old when a style of popular music is introduced there’s a greater than ninety-five per cent chance that you will never choose to listen to it. For sushi restaurants, the window of receptivity closed by age thirty-nine; for body-piercing, by twenty-three. The findings were reminiscent of studies that show that creativity declines with age. These studies also indicate that great creative minds not only are less likely to generate something new but are less open to someone else’s novelty. Einstein, in his later years, fought a rear-guard action against quantum mechanics.

Psychologist Dean Keith Simonton has shown that the decline in creativity and openness among great minds isn’t predicted by age so much as by how long people have worked in one discipline. Scholars who switch disciplines seem to have their openness rejuvenated. That may be because a new discipline seems fresh and original, or because a high achiever in one discipline is unusually open to novelty in the first place. Or maybe changing disciplines really does stimulate the mind’s youthful openness to novelty. Or it may just be that established generations resist new discoveries because they have the most to lose by them. The explanation is not neurological: in most brain regions there isn’t any dramatic neuron loss as we get older, and there is no such thing as a novelty center in the brain. Given that aging contracts neural networks and makes cognition more repetitive, it would be a humane quirk of evolution if we were reassured by that repetition. There may even be some advantage for social groups if their aging members become protective archivists of their cultural inheritance.

But the writer remains dispirited by the impoverishment that comes with this closing of the mind to novelty. If there’s a rich, vibrant world out there, he figures it’s worth putting up a bit of a fight, even it means forgoing Bob Marley’s greatest hits every now and then.

It also seems important to listen to as much different music as you can before this cultural "window" closes.

The problem isn't just that the window seems to close, but that we haven't seen everything out that wide window first... therefore, expand those boundaries as far as you can. Best advice would appear to be: Listen to it all when you are young and have open-ears.

RED DETACHMENT OF WOMEN still doesn't annoy me the way it does most people... and its undoubtedly because I heard it so many times as a young pup, even if I WAS forced by the Progressive Labor Party.

And what would the eager young comrades in this 70s, old-school Maoist opera-ballet company say if they saw modern, hyper-capitalist China? Relieved, upset, suicidal, happy? The opera is the sound of a whole nother China, which sounds more familiar to me than today's China... just as I feel oddly warm and cozy when I see now-extinct cold-war thrillers on TV: Its all over now kids, at least the worst! Whew, was that some shit or what?

Entertainment like The Hunt for Red October used to stop my heart, and now I am thinking: I never noticed how Sean Connery's Russian accent needs some work.

The History Project, part 2

My original intention was to put the lady-stuff here on International Women's Day... and I guess you see how that turned out. Hey, better late than never!

And so, I am finally getting around to posting Part Two of the History Project. Intro to the DEAD AIR History Project (and first installment) is here. (You can click all photos to enlarge.)

~*~

Anarcha-Feminist Notes, September 1977, which I believe was published in Madison, Wisconsin.



San Francisco Women's Building Newsletter, March 1981.



From Berkeley 1981, movie poster for "El Salvador: The People Will Win".



Ancient black-and-white photos of my hometown (Columbus, OH) Take Back the Night march, one of those antiquated Second Wave feminist things almost completely lost to posterity. (1983)



Bookmark from Fan the Flames feminist bookstore in Columbus, OH. Since they began in 1974 and this bookmark is celebrating 10 years, it must be from 1984. From Outlook Columbus:

Began in 1974 by six women who each contributed $100 to a book collective, the shop evolved and moved many times over the next 22-and-some years. Fan the Flames grew from the United Christian Center, to the Women’s Action Collective, to the YWCA, and finally to their own space in Clintonville [and the store was then renamed Women's Words]. It may have been the final move that killed them. Moving away from their diverse audience downtown, and adding on to that the burden of renting their own space, proved too much and the advisory board decided to close shop.

The Women's Action Collective was in its own building for awhile, something I can't even imagine now.



Purty Pittsburgh Smoke-In poster, which I framed for my spare room. (1977)



"Freeze It! A citizen's guide to reversing the nuclear arms race"--San Jose, 1983.




Stay tuned for the next installment, sports fans! And I promise it won't be another half-year this time.

The History Project - part 1

Introduction to The History Project

A couple of months ago, I posted an assortment of old leaflets, posters, propaganda, photos and other interesting paraphernalia on Facebook. People liked it and asked me if I had any more stuff.

That is an understatement.

I'm now extending my history-recovery project to Blogdonia. This will be an ongoing DEAD AIR feature! I'm hoping that people Googling old events/people/etc, will find something here that they have been searching for. I am deliberately choosing events/leaflets that seem to have been forgotten and/or have no other online history.

This historical ephemera (etc) is being posted in no particular order, just in the order I manage to find and date it. (There is TONS of stuff buried in my cedar chest, some in scrapbooks and some in folders.) If I tried to post it in chronological order, I'd NEVER get done.

You can click on any graphic to enlarge.

And don't forget, folks: POST YOUR HISTORY! Don't just wait for someone else to do it or it might not get done.



Official WELCOME to the DEAR AIR History Project! If you're visiting here for the first time, greetings! Hope you find something that interests you.

~*~

Descriptions:

1) The cover of the widely-distributed Yippie Journal, SOUR GRAPES, published in Columbus, Ohio, 1974.

2) Program for "Haven Can't Wait: A Day in the Life of Abbie Hoffman" a play based on the Yippie-founder's life, New York City, August 23, 1978.

3) Cover of Red Tide newspaper, Detroit, MI, March 1978.

4) Poster advertising Wallflower Order Dance Collective show: Wildflower Brigade, Ohio State University, November 23, 1984

5) Poster by Citizens Against Nuclear Power, Chicago, IL, announcing protest against the Zion nuclear power plant in Zion, Illinois, Sept 29-20 1979.

6) Poster for "Women in Struggle" film series, Oakland/San Francisco, August 1981.

7) Poster for Wild Women (band) show at the Artemis Society, San Francisco, March 27, 1981

8) Poster advertising Midwest Alternative Press Convention, August 23-24, 1980, Columbus, Ohio.

9) Poster announcing Kate Millett at the "Women and Power" program series, Ohio State University, May 25, 1978.

10) Campaign poster for Jerry 'Babe' Smith, Yippie-affiliated anarchist running for mayor in Dayton, Ohio, 1980. He was a member of the band The Dates.

~*~

More history to come. Stay tuned, sports fans!

Dead Air Church: How we've changed, continued

Blast from the past: Counter-demonstrators at the Democratic Convention in New York in 1980, were given this handy-dandy "non-delegates handbook"--which looked a lot like the official delegate-guide issued to Democratic delegates. (Us scroungy types didn't have to pay the $5; that was for the press, tourists, curious-onlookers and other nosy people who looked like they could afford it.)

~*~




I have been arguing with somebody online about Ayn Rand. Why? Good question. I like banging my head against the wall, obviously.

But as one who has spent most of his life reading about politics and not actually DOING, he hasn't actually met too many Objectivists (Ayn Rand followers) in person. A lot of what I know about them, I realize, has been from arguing with them, up close and personal. For example, I remembered an argument with such a person outside the aforementioned Democratic convention. (It is remarkable how their arguments have NOT changed.)

Thus, when my online-opponent accusingly demands CITATIONS!!!???? --I don't have them. I am reporting what "I have heard Randians say" since it IS what I have heard them SAY. In person. Not write. And not online, since (like Ayn Rand herself) these conversations predate the internet. (Thus, to a great many people of ALL political persuasions, this means my account is disqualified from consideration. Pre-internet history is UNRELIABLE!)

And I heard the Randians say all manner of things, including endorsing euthanasia for old and disabled people. They didn't back down from this position or display any shame. Why should they? They would proudly tally up the savings on their pocket calculators and show you the figures. The more horrified you were, the more GLEE they would take in shocking you. Your shock at their selfishness was just more proof of what a bleeding-heart girlie-girl and/or brainwashed sheep you were. (Slight interruption for amusing link: I Was a Teenage Objectivist.)

In remembering this period of history, I sadly realized, its over. The internet has put an end to it. People just don't blurt out world-class wacko things as often as they used to. It's dangerous; they might get quoted and Tweeted on the spot, or find their rants surreptitiously recorded and saved to YouTube for posterity. This is doubly true for writing: A blog post or forum comment can be copied and circulated by the time you visit the restroom and come back and decide to delete it. Google cache strikes again! Screen shots uber alles!

And so, you just don't get that kind of extreme insanity any more, except from the internet trolls, and they don't count. They don't MEAN IT. (Or maybe they DO, but there is simply no way to know for sure.)

I have been perusing Steven Pinker's recent book, The Better Angels of Our Nature: Why Violence Has Declined. I haven't exactly been READING it, since I tend to doze off during heavy-science discussions, peppered with data, footnotes and suchlike. But I do perk up when he talks about how animal torture is no longer acceptable (for example), relating a harrowing anecdote about how he once tortured a poor rat to death by accident during a lab experiment. And how that situation simply would not happen now, in the same circumstances.

Pinker's overall concept is that violence is declining. I am skeptical. However, my recent inability to find wacko quotes from Randians (that I KNOW existed back in the day), is a telling testament to his thesis. Hmm. It seems he has a point, and I now have a real-life example of my own: there is less verbal violence and extremism than there used to be. Why? People are held accountable now. You will end up on YouTube! You will end up on Facebook and Twitter and Google Plus; your name will be mud. Your boss and your mom and your boyfriend will SEE IT and you will be HELD ACCOUNTABLE in ways your wacko self could never be held accountable back in the day, before the internet, when you could easily dismiss and deny it all.

That's a real, measurable change in our discourse.

Even the existence of anonymous troll-comments means something: it demarcates the limits of what is acceptable, what people WILL take responsibility for saying and signing their names to.

As the Old Testament, well-known for not messing around, warned us: Be sure your sins will find you out!

That verse now seems oddly prophetic, not merely descriptive.

That's right, the women are smarter

Man Smart, Woman Smarter - Grateful Dead (Live 1985)



Music starts at about 1:25.

Tuesday Tunes: Mind of the South edition

Mary Huff, calling up the ghost of my mother (right down to the hair and the bass), sings "Nitty Gritty"--yeah!

Nitty Gritty - Southern Culture on the Skids



~*~

Mary's bouffant hairdo made me think of Kate Pierson's.

In case you didn't know, there is also a pretty good movie named after this song, titled My Own Private Idaho, starring Keanu Reeves. It's based on Shakespeare's Henry IV and Henry V. Really.

I love Fred's canary-yellow pants.

Private Idaho - B-52s



(Did you catch the Twilight Zone theme?)

The lyrics also contain some excellent advice, as well as an important historic workers-reference (see link):

You're living in your own Private Idaho
Living in your own Private Idaho
Underground like a wild potato

Don't go on the patio
Beware of the pool
Blue bottomless pool
It leads you straight
Right through the gate
That opens on the pool

You're living in your own Private Idaho
You're living in your own Private Idaho

Keep off the path, beware the gate
Watch out for signs that say "Hidden Driveways"
Don't let the chlorine in your eyes
Blind you to the awful surprise
That's a-waitin' for you at the bottom
Of the bottomless blue, blue, blue pool

You're livin in your own Private Idaho
Idaho
You're out of control, the rivers that roll
You fell into the water and down to Idaho
Get out of that state
Get out of that state you're in
You better beware

You're living in your own Private Idaho.
You're living in your own Private Idaho.

Keep off the patio
Keep off the path
The lawn may be green
But you better not be seen
Walkin' through the gate that leads you down
Down to a pool fraught with danger
It's a pool full of strangers

You're living in your own Private Idaho
Where do I go from here to a better state than this?
Well, don't be blind to the big surprise
Swimming 'round and 'round like the deadly hands
Of a radium clock at the bottom of the pool

I-I-I-daho
I-I-I-daho
Whoa, oh, oh, oh
Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah
Get out of that state
Get out of that state
You're living in your own Private Idaho
Livin' in your own Private Idaho

Who could argue?

~*~

I know I've played this one before. This is my favorite song by Pylon, the best Athens band you never heard of... the band who didn't get famous, while all their friends did.

And they should have. :(

Danger - Pylon



Silent film footage is from The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920).

The War over Sally Ride

I was considering writing an obituary for astronaut Sally Ride, when the war over the facts of her personal life broke out.

Was she gay? Apparently so. Interestingly, one of my old friends told me his gaydar went off when he saw her interviewed on TV back in the 80s, when she first went up in space (and was still married to astronaut Steve Hawley). I have heard this "gaydar" comment several times since. I had no idea if this was true or not, so I went to Wikipedia, like I always do.

And wouldn't you know? That's where the war is.

Wikipedia does not see fit to mention that Ride had a 27-year relationship with a woman, Tam O'Shaughnessy, whom she called her partner. Glenn Greenwald tweeted his disapproval of Wikipedia's omission, and got goofy (and thoroughly bigoted) replies, such as "not sure why it matters?"

Not sure why it matters? Does the marriage of a heterosexual person matter, if one is seeking factual biographical information? I think we all agree that it does. In fact, even heterosexual AFFAIRS (not sanctified by legal marriage) are covered in Wikipedia biographies. But since being gay is considered BAD, it is widely regarded as an INSULT if you include this fact about her. Even if its accurate.

So, we have the (possibly) first gay astronaut, and most people do not know this about her. The official accounts are leaving out her grieving widow, Tam. Imagine if this was a heterosexual astronaut 'hero'--and they refused to acknowledge their widow?

Impossible to contemplate. It would simply never happen.

The GAWKER's article about this homophobic fiasco includes a series of comments left on the Wikipedia 'history' page, which would be hilarious if they didn't seek to erase 27 years of two women's lives. For example:

There's another logical gap: according to this bio, Tam O'Shaughnessy was Sally Ride's partner of 27 years, i.e. since 1985. But the article says that "in 1983 [Ride] became the first American woman, the first lesbian [...] to enter space", and it doesn't logically follow that she was a lesbian in 1983.

Do you believe this stuff? ANYTHING to avoid the facts, that the first US woman in space was a lesbian.

Last Autumn, I wrote about this phenomenon (the emphatic denial of gay sexuality in obituaries) after the death of film producer Ismail Merchant. The same hysterical, ridiculous denials surfaced at that time.

Why can't the homophobes at least ACCEPT PEOPLE IN DEATH? It's like they can't let their hatred go, even for a second. They refuse to grant any gay person respect. And if they should by chance actually admire the individual in question (as so many admired both Merchant and Ride), then they MUST deny that they were gay. Because they simply CANNOT ADMIRE a self-professed gay person.

There really is no other explanation for this behavior.

And with that, I will end with my concluding comment in my post about Ismail Merchant:

Again, we see how gay people are disappeared by the culture at large, as heterosexuality, even openly illicit heterosexuality, is heralded.

Unfortunately, it's still an accurate observation.

~*~

EDIT--Wikipedia has added the following paragraph to Ride's obit, due to popular demand: After death, her obituary revealed that Ride's partner was Tam E. O'Shaughnessy, a female professor emerita of school psychology at San Diego State University and a childhood friend who met Ride when both were aspiring tennis players. O'Shaughnessy became a science teacher and writer and, later, the chief operating officer and executive vice president of Ride's company, Sally Ride Science. She co-authored several books with Ride. The 27-year relationship was revealed by the company and confirmed by Ride's sister who also stated that Ride chose to keep her personal life private including her sickness and treatments.

More than I expected.

Dick Clark 1929-2012

In this post only nine days ago, I briefly mentioned the Rolling Stones concert in San Francisco. One thing I remember from that show is a couple dancing together (very well), and when they finished, someone shouted out, "Let's hear it for couple number 14 from Milwaukee!" and everyone standing around applauded, whistled and laughed appreciatively.

I realized that a lot of Americans would not get that joke now. And it made me sad.

His name was Dick Clark, and we grew up with him. Now he is gone, along with his black counterpart, Don Cornelius. And with them passes a whole way of life, memorialized in musicals like Grease: young people dancing on live TV to the popular songs of the day.

Upon hearing of Clark's passing, my first thought was the 'tribute song' by Barry Manilow (a remake of Les Elgart's big-band original, with updated lyrics mentioning the show and Clark by name)-- which Clark liked so much he closed out American Bandstand with it from 1977 until the show's demise.

The song sums it up.

Bandstand Boogie - Barry Manilow



(He actually starts DANCING in the middle, and then continues singing. I very much doubt he smoked!)

We're goin hoppin
we're goin happin
Where things are poppin
The Philadelphia way
Were gonna drop in
On all the music they play
On the Bandstand

Bandstand, bandstand, bandstand

Hey! I'm makin my mark
Gee, this joint is jumpin
They made such a fuss
just to see us arrive
Hey, it's Mister Dick Clark
What a place you've got here!
Swell spot, the music's hot here
Best in the east,
Give it at least
A seventy five!

And as you know, lots of the songs were worth the whole hundred percent. :)

This list gives you a partial idea of the impact of American Bandstand on mass media and pop culture.

Goodbye Dick, and thanks for the jams.

Should we talk about the government?

Pop Song 89 - R.E.M. (caution: topless ladies)

Old movie trailers

... from movies you've never seen. Unfortunately, I didn't find certain ones I was looking for. However, finding some of these was worth the whole expedition, and you are in for a real treat.

And I regret to say the various uploaded trailers for "It's Alive" (1975 version) are not nearly as funny as I remember.

~*~

A forgotten movie of the 70s, almost qualifies as cinéma vérité. The two leads seem not to be "acting" at all.

I suppose it also matters that these are my favorite actors. :)

Scarecrow (1973)



~*~

This is an old-school trailer for one of the best B-movies of all time.

The movie had a famous fake-out ending, which catapulted director Jonathan Demme to the top. (He later went on to fame and fortune as director of "Silence of the Lambs.") And B-movie queen Barbara Steele takes center stage, which makes us wonder how this proper British lady ended up as warden of a nasty American women's prison.

The right woman for the job!

Caged Heat (1974) (caution: nudity, NSFW, sexism, violence, etc)



~*~

Brian DePalma's horror movie about conjoined twins, which simply defies rational description. Margot Kidder was stunningly beautiful!

Sisters (1973)



~*~

Rosemary's Baby and The Exorcist go to the drive-in, starring Juliet Mills, who played Nanny in "Nanny and the Professor." (really) This trailer was shown for weeks on late-night TV, and was very popular with 70s potheads.

Beyond the Door (1974)



~*~

In this movie, a nice middle-class white couple go broke and decide to go into robbery to make ends meet. (Why don't they make heartwarming family tales like this any more?)

Jane was heavily into her JANE FONDA'S WORKOUT phase, and she looks mah-velous!

Fun With Dick and Jane (1977)



~*~

I guess you didn't know that the infamous Gates of Hell have to be guarded? And how exactly would one audition for THAT job?

Well, it probably won't surprise you to learn that you get DRAFTED for the position, and you have no say in it at all. (screams)

The Sentinel (1977)



~*~

Before Terry O'Quinn got mega-famous on LOST, he was a very believable serial killer.

The Stepfather (1987)



~*~

O'Quinn reprised his bang-up role in the rather cheesy and predictable Stepfather 2. This movie came out the same year John List was arrested. It is widely assumed the first movie was inspired by John List, but in fact, List was still at large in 1987. By 1989, the "List story" had entered the national consciousness and you can clearly see the influence of List on the narrative.

Stepfather 2 (1989)

Stray Cat Strut

Stray Cat Strut - The Stray Cats



As my late mother, the musician, would say (and did, the first time she ever heard this song), DO YOU HEAR the difference in a big-ass stand-up bass (as she called it) and a regular electric bass? Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-THUMP.

Lovingly dedicated to one of the greatest cats of all time, Maurice. He was named after the old Steve Miller song, wherein Some people call me Maurice/Cause I speak of the pompitous of love. He sure did. But mostly he would "slink down the alley looking for a fight/Howling to the moonlight on a hot summer night." I owned Maurice at the time the song came out, and used to sing it to him. (He knew the song was all about him.)

Of course, cat people know that he really owned ME.

And I miss him.

I send him my most loving Deadhead vibes in his next lives and hope to someday meet him again.

Dead Air Church: 30 Years

It is my official AA anniversary, folks! Today marks my 30th year without alcohol. (gasp) I can hardly believe it myself. At left: an image from one of the late-60s AA comic books, titled "It happened to Alice."

I am no longer a member of Alcoholics Anonymous, for a variety of reasons. (I touched on some of my issues with AA here and here.) But I still credit the organization with saving my life. Nothing else would have worked for me. The very aspects of AA that are so harshly criticized now, such as the pseudo-cultish environment, are the very things I most needed. My ongoing druggie-party-atmosphere had always provided me with 'friends'--and consequently, when I cleaned up, I needed "new playmates and playgrounds" to take their place... or I was going to run into big trouble. Immediately. The social environment of AA was crucial.

I remember once having the vivid sensation of having jumped from a window on a very, very high floor... and inexplicably, soft, loving hands, dozens of hands, caught me and brought me safely to earth. Often, when I think of AA, I have this sensation, this vision, that I will never forget, of all the hands reaching out to catch me.

Sometimes it makes me cry, because I did not deserve it. Not at all.

It was amazing that this should happen to me, that these loving, kind hands should catch me after all I had done. This is what Christians call Grace. I deserved to crash through the concrete, and yet... I was spared.

It is impossible to come through such an experience unchanged and unscathed. My spiritual curiosity began then, generously mixed with survivor's guilt: Why have I been spared, when other good people were not? As I would hear (ever more often, it seemed) of famous and nonfamous addicts dying (page down here, for my musings about John Belushi, the first famous addict to die after I became sober), I would experience almost dizzying gratitude (and accompanying relief) that I had stopped when I did.

The gratitude has never abated. Perhaps that is key.

~*~

Recently in Feminist Blogdonia, there was a huge uproar over a controversial, confessional post, written by a popular male feminist, about violence against women he had committed while still using. This didn't surprise me, but it surprised, shocked, and horrified many others. And from their shock, I learned an important lesson: I had intended to write a longer piece for my 30-Year anniversary. I wanted to tell a harrowing story, since it underscores my gratitude; it makes it very clear that I was in crisis, and how far I have come.

And yes, I have a few I could tell.

I now know that such stories, stories of pain and addiction, stories of insanity, stories of possible death, near death and death itself, need to be kept secret and/or only shared with people we know well and deeply trust. Online is not the place, as Hugo discovered. And that's too bad, isn't it? But I am glad Hugo went their first. As a result, I certainly won't.

And so, I shall leave it to your imagination ... with the help of a few movies.

Warning: these video clips tell the truth.


And a very happy anniversary to me! :)

~*~

In this clip from Trainspotting, Ewan MacGregor is in drug withdrawal, hallucinating and haunted by various dead friends, including the baby that died in his apartment (because they were too high to feed her).

Here we learn the important lesson that guilt can become actual monsters that follow you around.



At the end of Clean and Sober--Michael Keaton realizes what the film audience already knows:



From Spike Lee's Jungle Fever, here is Samuel L Jackson as "Gator", with the late Ossie Davis and the incomparable Ruby Dee:



And we end with two trailers from Requiem for a Dream, the best and most honest movie ever made about addiction:

Bright lights, dark room

I am currently watching Dennis Hopper playing a neo-nazi on an old Twilight Zone episode. Very strange.

I heard this hypnotic old song from Speak and Spell the other night. (I have it on vinyl and therefore have not heard it in eons, since I have nothing to play it on.) Now I can't stop hearing: I.. take.. pictures... photographic... pictures... in my head, over and over, as well as the words of today's blog post title. Bright Lights. Dark Room.

Sharing the dreaded earworm!

Depeche Mode - Photographic



Although I usually agree with Eminem that "don't nobody listen to techno"--I always made exceptions for Depeche Mode and Kraftwerk. I also confess to an enduring love of Dirty Vegas's "Days go by"--something I would not ordinarily admit if I were not watching an ancient Twilight Zone episode.

Betty Ford 1918-2011

I was 24 years old when I walked into my first AA meeting. Too young?

Certainly, I already looked like I belonged there, swathed in discarded old scarves like some pitiful hippie-ragamuffin. Although it was dark, icy and cold--January in Ohio--I had walked to the meeting at St Aloysius on West Broad Street. That fact seemed to impress the people at the meeting more than anything I had actually said, which was likely a jumble of drug-addled gibberish that made no sense.

I held onto the one hope I had: too young? Am I too young?

And then, she just sort of settled into my mind. Her presence. It was like she was with me.

The president's wife, you nitwit. It could be anyone. Anyone.
A-N-Y-O-N-E. Any age, any sex, anywhere; there is no membership requirement except the desire to stop drinking.

But... but...

Shut UP, said my conscience, eager to win one for a change. Shut UP. The president's fucking wife.

Anyone.

And she remained there, a presence in my consciousness, a presence occupying my head without my full realization... until now. And she is gone.

Betty Ford was crucial to me, to us. She was so important, possibly the most important person in the American recovery movement save for the founders of Alcoholics Anonymous. Because she was Anyone. She was the respectable person who passed out at a dinner given in her honor. She was a rich man's wife who started to drink to deal with social pressures. And she wasn't Dick Van Dyke or Robert Downey Jr, either, she was a WOMAN. A lady. She had been, after all, the First Lady.

If it could happen to her, it could happen to you. (And do you know how many times I have heard that phrase, in meetings, in monologues, in phone conversations? I have said it myself, and it has been said to me.) Why do you think it couldn't? Who do you think you are? Of course it could. Luck, goodness, intelligence, class, decency, none of that means squat: you can't handle it, leave it alone. Even she had to. It could be anyone.

Anyone.

And how many lives were saved, all because we could point to her and confidently announce, ANYONE? Her presence, her life, became an object lesson for millions... certainly, it was very important to me, to know that she was in our ranks. See? I'm not the only girl! (In 1982, it often felt like I was.)

My deep affection and love for this woman is hard to convey. Her simple honesty and her life lessons, helped so many of us. Just her presence, in our minds, meant so much.

Her legacy overshadows her husband's easily.

Rest in peace.

Oxygen or Anthrax?

Is love like Oxygen or Anthrax? I suppose that depends on what day it is.

Warning: This isn't the top-40 version, but the album-version with the art-rock interlude in the middle. I like it, but lots of people really hated it.

Love is like Oxygen - Sweet



~*~

Love like Anthrax - Gang of Four

Musical interlude

Time for tuneage! (Or is it spelled tunage?) Here are my earworms for the past few weeks; I've been delinquent in not sharing! A variety of styles represented, you should be able to find at least ONE you like.

~*~

In this strangely-staged video, Steve Winwood looks like a boy scout. Come to think of it, he still does. Also, I know he is talking about tribesmen, but I always think of Marvel comics Headmen. I blame my spouse for that!

40,000 Headmen - Traffic



~*~

I debated whether I should jeopardize my musical cred by playing a JOURNEY song ((gasp)) -- an 80s-era secret guilty pleasure of mine, along with Duran Duran. I figured if they were good enough for Tony Soprano, they're good enough for me. Just listen to these purty power chords. (my favorite is at 1:07-14---yowee!) And check out that utterly flawless, bang-up finish.

I love this because it brings back the period surrounding my second divorce quite vividly. Ironically, I wasn't having any fun at the time... but your youth is still your youth, even when it sucks... and one day, believe it or not, you will wax nostalgic over even the suckiest times.

The Girl Can't Help It - Journey



~*~

Did I say Duran Duran?

It is notable that (unlike today) all of the women in this video appear to be of a reasonably healthy weight.

Girls on Film - Duran Duran



~*~

You can close your eyes - James Taylor and Carly Simon



~*~

I frequently quote Billy Jack on blogs ("I try, I really do") and only recently discovered the kidz never even heard of him. Admittedly, I forced my daughter, Delusional Precious, to watch Billy Jack when she was 14 or so (the age I was when I saw it), and she rolled her eyes during most of it. So, I will simply show this montage of clips with the theme song, which you may have heard before.

Time out for hippies!

One Tin Soldier (theme from Billy Jack) - Coven



~*~

There are several excellent versions of this on YouTube, including a great live one w/Crazy Horse, but I wanted the one with fiddles, horse-clopping sounds and Nicolette Larson. (R.I.P.) And whaddaya know, I found it, played right off the record. :)

Comes a Time - Neil Young w/Nicolette Larson



~*~

I was planning to save these last two for Instrumental Oldies, Pt 2, but decided to play them now... since it appears I will never get around to fabled Part Two. I was doing pretty good to post the first one!

Time is Tight - Booker T and the MGs



~*~

Not everyone has an iphone to tell them the names of songs! Whenever this gets played in the store where I work, someone asks me who it is. This was the 'official' video; the original song was well over 7 minutes. (Again, the presence of dancing women of healthy weights! Pretty radical stuff!)

Rise - Herb Alpert

On feminist collaboration with the state

As a veteran of the Watergate era, which I obsessively studied as a young pup, I am so deeply cynical and skeptical of our government, that I initially did not even believe these alleged rape-victims of Julian Assange truly existed. I am still profoundly skeptical, until I see an interview with Barbara Walters or equivalent. (I'll settle for a big blue dot over their faces, as was necessary for Patricia Bowman.)

As I have written before: Deja Vu all over again. The disintegration of the leftist/liberal coalition is in full swing. Obama is a one-termer, as was Jimmy Carter. History repeats itself, almost to the letter, but I can't quite figure out if this is the tragedy or the farce?

When I get confused, I flash back to 1979 and the disintegration of the 70s coalition. And then, it all makes sense.

Feminism was wild, woolly, crazy, brash, overbearing. The refrain was: I am woman, hear me ROAR. Not purr. Not blink our waterproofed-mascaraed eyes and meow nicely. ROAR. As the 80s dawned and Reaganism took over, roaring not only rated patriarchal punishment, but outright banishment. Get with the program, bitches, was the new refrain. 70s feminism became an embarrassment to the new careerist women of the 80s, who bleated incessantly, I'm a feminist but I love men! I love men! I don't hate men! I'm a feminist, but... and then finally FEMINISM as a term, as a philosophy, as a politics, was banished, too.

And something happened.

This phenomenon was first controversially chronicled by a woman I have since been told is "anti-feminist"--which is odd, since she was one of the few women who seemed to understand what the hell was going on. I refer to Katie Roiphe.

From The Morning After: Sex, Fear and Feminism by Katie Roiphe:

The image that emerges from feminist preoccupations with rape and sexual harassment is that of women as victims, offended by a professor's dirty joke, verbally pressured into sex by peers. This image of a delicate woman bears a striking resemblance to that fifties ideal my mother and the other women of her generation fought so hard to get away from. They didn't like her passivity, her wide-eyed innocence. They didn't like the fact that she was perpetually offended by sexual innuendo. They didn't like her excessive need for protection. She represented personal, social and psychological possibilities collapsed, and they worked and marched, shouted and wrote, to make her irrelevant for their daughters. But here she is again, with her pure intentions and her wide eyes. Only this time it is feminists themselves who are breathing new life into her.

Self-described feminists ran to the state, to the patriarchy itself, to local police forces and courts that had never given a shit about women, to punish other men. Without apology. In fact, quite proudly. No political equivocations or similar excuses were given, i.e. we need mean guys to police other mean guys. Battered-women's shelters became beneficent arms of the therapeutic culture; police were suddenly seen as the good guys, keeping an eye on those other dangerous, brutal men. (The most horrific suffering in these situations came from battered women married to police officers, since those particular men had easy access to locations of safe-houses.) Radical volunteers at these shelters, even women who had initially organized them (such as Sue Urbas, R.I.P.) were suddenly persona non grata in the places they had started themselves. The experts and the social workers, acting as arms of the state, stepped in. (You can almost hear John Wayne: We'll take over now, little lady.) And they did. By the end of the 80s, they were in the process of doing the same thing to Alcoholics Anonymous and various other self-help organizations. The state, massive apparatus that it is, does not take well to being left out. And men, in particular, were NOT going to be left out of the project, any project.

By 1999 and the advent of LAW AND ORDER: SPECIAL VICTIMS UNIT, the whole concept was solidified. The law is Our Friend. The state will bring sympathetic justice to raped women. We can trust them. This pro-state, pro-government propaganda has never abated.

If you grew up during that time, you don't know any different. You believe the government is there to help women. You do not believe that the government has its own agenda regarding feminism and women. If you say such things to young women, they will furrow their brows: but there are women police officers, they say. (Mariska Hargitay is popular for a reason, you know.) The concept of the state as an agent of repression, is utterly foreign to them. To say otherwise renders you some kind of lefty/anarchist nut, or worse, a conspiracy theorist. Not a realist.

As a result, the entire invasion of Afghanistan was given a properly feminist spin: Women are being abused by the Taliban! Of course, we must invade. Mavis Leno and other billionaire Hollywood feminists unabashedly called for military intervention.

~*~

To review: The US government is a repressive, carnivorous force.

Ask the women of: Japan, Korea, Philippines, Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos, Angola, Nicaragua, Panama, Grenada, Iraq and Afghanistan. (I'm sure I'm missing a few interventions; how could we possibly keep track of them all?) And that is only a half-century's worth of military meddling. As I have written here before, the US government has had its fingers in the business of so many countries, only God knows the extent of it. And by giving our blessing to the state, by running to the state to settle our conflicts and making sure Mariska Hargitay and company have jobs and plenty of work to do, we collaborate. As US residents, we can't help some collaboration (if you don't pay the IRS and fund their wars, they will put you in jail for tax evasion), but other, more insidious forms of collaboration CAN be directly avoided.

Yes, the word for today is COLLABORATION.

The feminists who are currently mouthing well-intentioned variations of: Yes, we know Julian Assange has a big red target on his back placed there by the US government for exposing war crimes against unnamed dark women in Asia with (waving impatiently) smart bombs and stuff, but we must hear out the complaints of these (Daisy first believed nonexistent) Swedish white women who are accusing him, because, well... what would Mariska Hargitay do? What have we been TAUGHT to do?

Listen to the women!

Well, I do listen to women. I listen to the victims of US repression and violence. I listen to the victims of rape in other countries, women who claim their country and governments have been totally destroyed by an advanced, high-tech military campaign financed by MY money, MY government, without MY consent. Have you written about that, American feminists? Have you denounced war, made in your name? Have you profiled THOSE rape victims? Have you believed those victims and made them the centerpiece of your political campaigns? And why haven't you?

Certain feminists have actually written more about Michael Moore declaring the rape allegations are "hooey" --than they have against the war(s) and US imperialism against the unnamed dark women of the world, which is certainly NOT hooey. They seem far more upset over Michael Moore and Keith Olbermann saying predictable and stupid guy-shit on TV, than they are about the wholesale rape and assault of entire fucking countries. Because you know, American feminists should have the right to watch TV without being offended! (Since when?) The fact that these feminists are going after two erstwhile progressives, is pretty gross. Glenn Beck and Bill O'Reilly trash women and feminism every single day, but somehow, that isn't quite as upsetting.

This disgusting state of affairs has made DEAD AIR almost too nauseated to continue. And then, yes, dear readers, Daisy rallied.

What made me rally? I saw a picture. I decided to share it here. The photo above is of one Dorothy Wetzel Hunt.

Speaking of conspiracy theories, does anyone remember Dorothy Hunt, the wife of E. Howard Hunt?

Dorothy Hunt died. Dorothy Hunt was expendable. Just like all those women in Afghanistan are considered expendable. And the women of all the countries I listed above, were also expendable. American women deserve to live in comfort, and goddamn anybody, male or female, Michael Moore or Dorothy Hunt, who stand in the way.

I can only remember one feminist, Robin Morgan, mentioning Dorothy in a poem. Period. No other feminists gave a shit. She was probably a Republican, after all. No question, she was a CIA agent:

Just before Hunt boarded the aircraft she purchased $250,000 in flight insurance payable to E. Howard Hunt. In his book Undercover (1974), Hunt claims he was unaware that his wife planned to do this. In the book he also tried to explain what his wife was doing with $10,000 in her purse. According to Hunt it was money to be invested with Hal Carlstead in "two already-built Holiday Inns in the Chicago area".

Nixon administration figure Chuck Colson told TIME magazine that "I don't say this to my people. They'd think I'm nuts. I think they [the CIA] killed Dorothy Hunt."[2]Also killed in the December 1972 plane crash was CBS News Correspondent Michele Clark and Illinois Congressman George W. Collins.

"This was probably the most investigated airplane crash in history" said Deputy Cook County Coroner John Haigh. [3] National Transportation Safety Board ruled it to be pilot error. [4]

Sure it was. (Holiday Inns! Ohhh, that is perfect.)

And how thoughtful of Dorothy to purchase all that life insurance just in the nick of time to pay her husband's lawyers! What a nice lady.

I have often imagined how Dorothy felt, boarding that plane and suddenly GETTING IT. What was it was like to know you had that giant red target on your back (the same one now on Julian's back) placed there by the US government? This was the entity she had worked for, sacrificed for, and thoroughly believed in. A lot like The Mafia. It's your life, and then, finally, it is your death.

And so, I write this for Dorothy Hunt. We will never know the truth about your death, Dorothy. And I apologize for all the feminists who didn't bother to investigate. Mariska Hargitay-on-the-trail does not apply to everyone.

This is for all the feminists who believed in ((cough)) "pilot error"; all the feminists who shrugged because you had the wrong politics and the wrong husband.

Similarly, we see that liberal white US feminists are currently picking and choosing which victims are more important than others. Millions of victims of US carnage should rightly rate a few more blog posts than Michael Moore acting like Michael Moore, you know?

My question to all of you is: why haven't they?

As I said, I am profoundly skeptical. I see the hundreds of probably-astroturfed blog post replies with all of the not-linked commenters predictably stating RIGHT ON, we are glad you are standing up to Assange the bully-rapist! How many of these posts are by government plants or right-wing apologists? Are you absolutely certain you are pursuing the right course of action? Do you see that you are (coincidentally!) weakening the individual who has exposed the war crimes of the government? Do these war crimes bother you at all; have you READ the Wikileaks documents? Women's bodies are littered throughout. Do you care about them? (And if you do, why have you not written about them and said so?) Julian's organization, Wikileaks, has exposed horrific war crimes. Why are you going after him, with the blessings of your repressive government? Is your attack on Julian ultimately going to endear you to the women of the world, women unfortunate to have been born on the wrong side, women who have been left without running water and whose children have been blown up?

Oh, please.

They are using you.

And they will continue to use you with aplomb and make sure you get lots of attention, blog links and air time. They will flatter your ego and put you on radio and TV. In fact, you can work for the government right up until the moment of your elimination, when you are no longer useful. Ask Dorothy. Ask her as she was standing at that airline desk, her heart pounding, purchasing all that life insurance.

I'm sure Julian has purchased his.

Just like heaven

It really is!

~*~

Just Like Heaven - The Cure

I never saw Lynyrd Skynyrd, but I sure saw AC/DC

It's Saturday and time for my weekly earworm roundup. Yes, earworms all through the election and beyond.

~*~



Here is a 70s song I've always identified with, particularly on a religious/spiritual level. Yep, I know just what he means.

I've always loved the line "and I nearly died from hospitality"... ohhhh, me too.

Couldn't Get it Right - Climax Blues Band



~*~

In the US, the hit version stopped right after "funny how tiiime fliiiies"--but the British version goes on about 45 seconds longer. I like the original better.

Head over Heels - Tears for Fears



~*~

For my beloved Mr Daisy! "I never saw Lynyrd Skynyrd, but I sure saw Molly Hatchett..."

It's a righteous song indeed, that genuflects at the name of the late Bon Scott. (My spouse goes through periods of playing this over and over, hence the unavoidable earworm.) If you ever see the Truckers play this live (we did), you will witness a giant crowd of hopped-up rednecks screaming in unison "With Bon Scott singin LET THERE BE ROOOOOOOCK!!!!!" which I bet is scarier than shit. (But what a lotta fun.)

Let there be rock - Drive By Truckers



~*~

Wait, why don't I just show it to you?

Let there be rock - Drive By Truckers (live)



Repeating my goal: to come back as Shonna Tucker in my next life!

Have a great weekend!

Lisa Blount 1957-2010

At left: Sid isn't gonna like what Lynette says next.



One of the greatest movie-bitches of all time has passed. She was my age.

Lisa Blount played the evil vixen Lynette, who drove nice-guy Sid (David Keith) to suicide in An Officer and a Gentleman. I also remember her from John Carpenter's creepy Prince of Darkness, which you will hopefully see rerun during Halloween weekend. She was an Oscar-winning producer, as well.

The expression worn on Blount's face as she exits the motel room in An Officer and a Gentlemen, after telling Sid her period is late? (Note: it wasn't.) Priceless, just priceless. Actresses who can convey entire WORLDS OF THOUGHT in their facial expressions, are in short supply... botox is making them obsolete, for the most part.

Goodbye dearest Lisa. People everywhere would remark for DECADES about "that bitch in Officer and a Gentleman," and I hope you were suitably proud of your work. Although the ultra-famous leads overshadowed you, your accusatory shout, "You're no different than I am, Paula!"--was the best line in the movie (and the only feminist line), delivered with the ring of truth, which it was. She wasn't any different than you, but people had to believe she was to enjoy the movie, didn't they? You kicked ass, girlfriend.

Rest in peace.