Patterico’s Pontifications » Putting Things in Perspective

Patterico’s Pontifications » Putting Things in Perspective

Best Opening Lyrics: No. 25 - Spinner.com - Free MP3s, Interviews, Music News, Live Performances, Songs and Videos

Best Opening Lyrics: No. 25 - Spinner.com - Free MP3s, Interviews, Music News, Live Performances, Songs and Videos

Crying Music

Do any songs move you to tears?

Not like tears of pure pain that might be shed during Muskrat Love or Whoomp! There It Is.

But tears resulting from powerful emotions triggered by the richness, the complexity, the sheer beauty of the music – and often powered by the memories the music evokes.

I can only think of a handful of songs that have that impact on me.

Point of clarification: These songs don’t make me weepy when I hear them while driving or at the gym (although, admittedly, that last scenario would be more than slightly awkward -- and pretty funny).

But when the circumstances are “right,” when the emotional triggers are in place, the following songs resonate very deeply with me – and have moved me to tears.

Red Sea by Asobi Seksu
Beautiful soaring vocals explode in a fuzzed out, reverb bliss at the song’s halfway mark. The transition between the two is the emotional high point for me. And as I was returning from my grandfather’s funeral last month, sitting on the plane with my iPod, I was thoroughly swept up in that moment – and in the sonic wall of sound that follows (for a glorious three and a half minutes). The tears that silently flowed were of utter joy and remembrance.

Lower Your Eyelids To Die With The Sun by M83
A sweeping, cinematic-style, 11-minute instrumental epic.

A Kissed Out Red Floatboat and Cico Buff by Cocteau Twins
The inimitable melodies of the Cocteau Twins strike a deep chord with me.

When Peace Like A River
The most beautiful, anguished, and hopeful hymn I know.

Those are the songs that move me.

So . . . what songs move you?

Liveblogging from Grand Cayman

Checking in from Grand Cayman, site of the Summer 2007 Amen Properties Retreat. Feeling very tired and a little sunburned after a day of snorkeling and hanging out. More to follow...

The grid

A violent lightning strike blew out the power to our neighborhood yesterday afternoon.

After several hours, a flotilla of utility trucks invaded our alley. No fewer than seven were lined up to replace the transformer behind our backyard fence.

With the arrival of the trucks, I wandered the alley to find out what was what. Let’s just say on this summer day in Texas, I wanted to express my keen interest in the situation and how quickly it might be resolved. (No AC = no air conditioning.)

Yet I didn’t want to seem pushy. Like I was impatient. That I was somehow displeased with these guys and their lack of progress. The situation was delicate.

My strategy was to show empathy, mix in a little gratitude, and show that, hey, I know a little bit about electricity. They needed to understand that I’m not just some suburban numbskull with a fusebox.

So I coolly sauntered up to one of the guys in a hard hat and tool belt. With only the slightest effort I made eye contact, gave a knowing nod and, quite possibly, offered an arched eyebrow of understanding.

“Thanks for getting us back on the grid,” I said.

Structurally, the sentence was good. The syntax, fine.

But at some point during my lunch today, I couldn’t help but think that across town, a group of workers at the local utility were enjoying a hearty laugh at the homeowner who spoke of the grid yesterday.

Now, I couldn’t tell you what a grid is, if we’re on one, or how many grid units I pay for in my monthly electricity bill.

For all I know, I could pop the faceplate off one of our electrical outlets and see the grid. Or hook a 9-volt to the grid and use it to open my garage door. Maybe the grid is a magical, Tron-like dimension filled with unicorns and wizards who shoot cartoon-y lightning bolts from their fingertips.

My wife reminds me I probably learned “the grid” lingo from Die Hard.

I think the hard-hat knew that.

But somehow I felt compelled to let this Reddy Kilowatt know that I get this whole electricity thing.

What motivated me to try to speak this guy’s vernacular? Maybe it’s a corollary of the “When in Rome . . .” truism. (When in the midst of a trained service professional, act and speak like one.) Maybe I was afraid he’d try to pull one over on me. (Uhhh . . . yeah . . . your power is on. Can’t you see it?)

Actually, I think I was just trying to make a bond, a connection with this guy. That from my razor-thin knowledge of the subject, I could wield a single word or phrase to earn me some quick cred.

I’ve done it with fishermen. (Catch any lunkers?) Weightlifters. (Working the lats?) Carpenters. (You like the lathe?) Even teenagers. (What’s shaking, homeslice?)

Come to think of it, this approach with teachers and professors has actually resulted in a couple of college degrees . . .

A joyous farewell

Our family gathered this past weekend to pay our respects to Grandpa, the patriarch who inspired us with his gentle spirit, his kindness, generosity, love, and faith.

That the weekend was one of the most profound and emotionally rich weekends I’ve experienced compels me to write. The only weekend that compares is the one in Tucson when our family gathered to celebrate my cousin Phil’s life.

Why both these occasions resonate so deeply for me was not in the grief and sorrow that accompanies the passing of a loved one.

It was the power of family on display. More specifically, the recognition and appreciation of the love and bond we share as family members in this temporal life.

The death that brought us together obviously offered vivid context to life’s fleeting nature. Even in our gathering, there were physical reminders – from graying temples and deeper wrinkles to stooped postures and an insidious disease – that we exist in a dynamic world, where nothing stays the same.

More context came from the barrage of news updates on the weekend’s UK terror activity, stark reminders that no guarantees are offered on this increasingly dangerous planet.

Indeed, we are but a mist, a vapor.

This was the proverbial elephant in the room. That this group of people, linked through the strongest of relationships, may never come this way again.

Rather than casting a pall over our time together, it served as a reminder of how precious and fragile life is. And I believe it served as the catalyst of glorious, loving behavior.

My family supported and embraced each other. We laughed together. We endlessly ogled over my sister’s beautiful infant, Britta, she a wondrous symbol of life and new beginnings. In our reunion, we found power. In our time together, we discovered joy.

We celebrated life by living in the moment.

How else to explain an impractical, yet spontaneous and absolutely awesome Sunday afternoon road trip to Yosemite with Aunt Joan, Uncle Ed, and Cousin Deb that concluded with an 11 pm burger run to In-N-Out? What a massive memory that is.

This weekend was truly special. It was something to be treasured, to hold dear to our hearts, to remember.

Much was said during the weekend about the generosity Grandpa displayed toward individuals and institutions alike. Even among the grandkids, we recounted how he not only remembered our birthdays (even when he was well into his 90s), but how he would still send us birthday gifts.

For me, this past weekend was the best gift Grandpa gave to us – a priceless reminder to love and appreciate the family he so indelibly shaped.

Note to gpa

That’s how the entry read on my PDA to-do list today.

It’s short hand for “Send a card to Grandpa.” And it's been on my list for a couple of weeks.

Sadly, the window of time has closed on that action item.

Grandpa died yesterday.

I regret I didn’t send him that note. Was going to include the latest picture of our kids. Maybe have them write a heartfelt, hand-scrawled expression of their love, too.

Woulda. shoulda, coulda. As with most passings, the living are left holding regrets like this. “If only I’d . . ." seems to dominate the ethos of those who grieve.

Remarkably, I can easily extricate myself today from this feeling– usually located somewhere between self-pity and self-loathing. My guilt isn’t as heavy, as it's simply no match for the sense of joy that comes with reflecting on a life so well lived.

We last saw Grandpa in September. He was 98. And he looked dapper in his woven suspenders as he waited for us in the lobby of his nursing home.

“Heyyyyyyy” he exclaimed gravelly as the four of us walked through the open sliding glass door. (This particular greeting was a Grandpa signature.)

My son shook his great-grandfather’s hand. My daughter gave him a gentle hug around his bent legs; he marveled at her strawberry blonde hair. This was the first time he’d met our then four-year-old, Chloe.

We enjoyed dinner with him in the dining hall, then returned to his room to visit. There we sat comfortably, chatting the time away. With some prompting, he’d regale us with stories about the boys (my dad being one of his three) and about life in California back in the 1930s and 40s. All I wanted to do was to listen, to absorb him. I was quite cognizant that this was a moment in time.

Yet moments pass. And as our time on this evening with Grandpa was nearing an end, we snapped some pictures to capture this wonderful, multi-generational occasion.

My favorite is the one posted here. I took it. But I forgot to take the self-timer off. So as I tried to hold the camera and the kids’ poses steady while the 15-second-timer ticked away, both the kids – and Grandpa – began laughing infectiously at my mistake. It was a total smile.

I cherish this image of our kids with their great-grandfather. And while we’ll never forget the time we spent together on this Monday night, we knew that, someday, these images would have to substitute for time spent with this true gentle man, this “radiant soul”.

And so it is that this must substitute for my Note to gpa.

"A Radiant Soul"

While jogging down Grand Avenue in Milwaukee last night, I ran past a historic, beautiful old church. Formerly the Grand Avenue Congregational Church, the building today serves as The Irish Cultural and Heritage Center.

Which would explain the music and hearty applause coming from its halls Thursday. Curious, I dropped in to discover what turned out to be an annual bagpipe and drums festival.

While I stood in the musty, narrow foyer listening to the spirited music, my wandering eyes met a large plaque on the wall. It was a memorial to someone. His name wasn't familiar to me. Looked like he was a minister deeply involved in the establishment and growth of this church decades ago.

As I perfunctorily read the plaque, I was struck by this description of the man:

“He was an inspiring, radiant soul.”

With these few words, I longed to know him.

Even as I walked away from the festival, that profound, poetic description lingered in my mind, overshadowing any onstage performance I'd witnessed.

I wondered what this man did to exhibit a radiant soul. Who did he inspire? How did he and his “radiant soul” impact the people who knew him? I thought of those who were fortunate enough to have been in the presence of his “radiant soul” – and how richer they must have been for it.

What a tremendous legacy to leave.

It’s a legacy that now extends to a middle-aged business traveler/erratic jogger from Dallas. And it will soon reach my children, who will hear of a remarkable, joy-filled way to live and be regarded.

May we all be remembered in such a way.

Why I Am Not A Mason

Yesterday, a co-worker posed the question:
“What would you do if you weren’t in advertising?”

I couldn’t come up with anything positive, so I offered this spin.

“I wouldn’t be a stonemason.”

That answer was based on my most recent “home improvement” effort, pictured here. (To be fair, this project is closer to the alley than the home.)

Based on the comically glacial progress of this deconstruction project, you could also eliminate any profession related to stones, building, demolition, or bricks. While we’re at it, let’s also cross off the list jobs having to do with project management, resource allocation, or multiplication.

A little background on my project. Apparently, back in the halcyon days of non-rolling, metal trash cans, homebuilders were flush with cement, bricks and a utopian vision for well-organized alleys. So they built an aesthetically pleasing place for the homeowner to house his unsightly trash can.

Sure, this square of bricks was fine for the static, late 20th century trash receptacle.

But these myopic homebuilders didn’t foresee the mobile technology that would revolutionize home sanitation services.

Because the arrival of the wheeled trashcan rendered the unramped trash square irrelevant. The thousands of vacant trash squares dotting our fair city bear witness to this trash-edy.

It was one spring day that I gazed upon our own discolored empty trash square with a disdain like never before. Its mere presence mocked me. That yawning, empty space . . . those walls that shielded nothing . . . why, it hasn't played host to a trash can since the '90s. The clarity came swiftly.

Destroy the trash square. Tear down these walls!

A few whacks of the sledgehammer into it and the project was officially underway.

That’s when my wife spotted me. Shrouded in a cloud of dust, striking my signature “Sledgehammer” pose. I was a heroic symbol of spontaneity and industry.

Of course, that’s not exactly how she saw me.

“What are you doing?”

“Knocking this thing down. It has to go."

“What are you planning to do with those bricks?”

[LONG PAUSE]

“Well, I mean, there aren’t that many. I’ll just put ‘em out for big trash.”

“And how are you going to get them out there.”

“Andrew’s wagon. It’s perfect.”

Hearing that, she spun to return from whence she came, leaving me to my destructive folly.

As the sun set, what remained of the trash square resembled London during the Blitz, the center of the square filled with brick shrapnel. For weeks the ruins stood, undoubtedly fueling the head-shaking chagrin of our second-guessing neighbors who viewed the devastation daily as they drove down the alley. Monday morning quarterbacks, all!

How could I possibly know how many bricks were involved in the creation and subsequent destruction of the trash square?

Last Saturday (that is, ahem, two months later), I knocked down the rest of the bricks. There's a pile of them in our pool yard. Big trash is coming this week. And Andrew’s wagon is getting pretty scratched up.

Alas, my vision for the open-spaced, border-free, wheelcan friendly trash zone is nearly complete.

Now that I think of it, I'd probably go into urban planning.

Examining the Relationship between Nitrous Oxide and Classic Rock

I had the distinct pleasure of receiving a crown a few days ago.

Not that kind of crown.

(Yeah, I know. A coronation would have made for a more interesting blog post.)

Alas, the crown was placed in my head. If only the preposition in that sentence were slightly different . . .

In fact, the crown bestowed upon me involved significantly less fanfare, scepters, goblets, turkey legs, and subservience from subjects.

It did, however, rank higher in the category of royally sharp pain.

To manage this pain – ultimately the consequence of lackluster flossing between teeth #14 and #15 – the good dentist suggested some nitrous oxide. That’s an offer that doesn’t need to be extended twice, even if my employee benefits only cover .000000001% of costs related to nitrous and other barbiturates.

So I settled into my reclined chair and, under a comically small nose mask, began my odyssey into traumatic dental work and late 20th-century rock. Classic rock radio station KZPS is the soundtrack for my dentist’s office.

A few deep breaths later, I giggled as the acoustic ceiling tiles began to shape shift and KZPS launched into its well-worn “classic rock lunch hour”.

The conditions wouldn’t exactly appear to be primo for listening. External competition for the music came from whirring drills, ringing phones, and discussions about insurance and area restaurants from the front desk. My overactive internal monologue and the loop of the dentist scene from Marathon Man playing in my head also created listening distractions.

But I not only heard the classic rock, I seemed to feel it at a deeper level. (That along with the intrusive crowning pursuits.)

Ironically, the nitrous served as an agent of clarity. It exposed some of the songs as thin and formulaic. Totally calculated. Joyless. And, in some cases, just plain silly. Like Dirty White Boy by Foreigner and Cherry Pie by Warrant.
Even a deep cut from Kansas Leftoverture and Great White Buffalo from Ted – two of my longtime favorites – came across as bland and uninteresting.

Yet the gas brought out the richness, layered complexity, and brilliance of songs like Houses of the Holy, Tush, and Won’t Get Fooled Again. I was struck by the passion and depth of these songs. Classic rock, indeed.

The nitrous enabled me to better define what makes a classic. Attention program director: The definition of classic should not be limited to a matter of time and popularity. (i.e. 20+ years old + Top 50 on the charts = classic.)

A true classic stands the test of laughing gas.

Of course this is a bit of a moot point, as KZPS changed formats Monday. Now the station is serving up “Lone Star Rock,” some hybrid of country and classic rock.

Assuming my dentist still has his tuner on 92.5 FM, I’ll see how Willie and Waylon stand the nitrous test next time I’m unceremoniously crowned and gassed.