Seeking

See the comments from my Steely Dan post to get the background on this one.

Who is your Popstrology Artist(s)?
http://www.popstrology.com/lookup.html

Also, I have to note I didn't even know who my artist is (Check Out, 1979, October 2nd).
Regardless, this is a fabulous way to think about the music which has been etched into my core. My connection to Steely Dan is deeply related to my connection with my father, who introduced me to them.

Popstrology seems to fit the post-modern bill and even in its kitsch-ness provokes some really personal and, of course, musical contemplation. Thinking back in my life, I am struck with what artists were at the top of the charts during certain monumental moments in my life.


Another great artist that I swear was first discovered by my Dad himself, is
Lyle Lovett and His Large Band. Also, probably not super popular among the blogger crowd. His music changed my life. I do not consider him a country singer either. I consider him a blues/gospel musician. More importantly, he is kind of responsible for some of the best moments I've spent with my family and my Dad. I am thinking of a road trip, a four hour concert and just really cool conversations. Plus the sacred bond of our family being hip to Lyle's greatness while the rest of the world seems to miss it is really special to me.

Thanks for the open-mindedness and fabulous comments.

Steely Dan is perhaps my favorite band of all time. Not just because of their fantastic lyrics, but also because of their grossly underappreciated musical talent. The unfortunate habit that department stores, easy listening stations and smooth jazz cafes have of blasting Steely tunes with absolutely no vocals drives me crazy. It doesn't help that the only Steely song blaring from most classic rock stations is "Ricky don’t lose that number", my least favorite song.
Steely Dan is a great jazz and rock band. All of the musicians in the band are incredibly skilled. The layering involved in creating a brilliant song like "Sign in Stranger" is very complex. It is a lyrical masterpiece. The content relates to that which many of my blog readers can relate to, no?

Furthermore, Donald Fagan is a recovering addict, who despite the horrors of that world, got his shit together, sucked it up and continues to make high quality music. Unlike some more popular junkies I know. Finally how many bands do you know that need a dictionary?

I felt inclined to make this defense after standing outside a flower shop with a good friend who made an "ugh" remark at the Steely Dan song coming from the stores speakers.

Oh, and does everyone know what a Steely Dan is? wink wink

This link is fantastic, it is an automatic essay generator that randomly creates post-modern topic essays: The Postmodernism Generator: Communications from Elsewhere

Addressing the blog question posed by the mysterious Baby Livey:
I believe blogging is both a generational syndrome and a sign of the times.
As a syndrome, the act of blogging is representative of a generation that is over exposed to various forms of expression via the internet and random New Media forms. I think Blogging is a collective reaction to these forms as well as a means to cope with technical super stimulation. Perhaps, blogging is representative of a generational voice.

I think a "sign of the times" is an equally adequate description. Can it be both?

Everyone's thoughts?

You can view Baby Livey's comment in the comment section of the previous blog.

How is this for for self-endulgent postmodernism?

The first thing is that I have to say is that I adore the banter and debate from the past few days-it was lighthearted and as Sarah said, very post-modern. Also, I have been having a tough time commenting on everyone's blogs recently. I read them all. I just feel at a weird loss for words. My short-term goal is to comment like a mad woman for the next few days. Okay, now for the meat and potatoes: Synchronicity has manifested itself again in a gigantic way, or unusual coincidence is just becoming the norm.

The Back Story:
I am twelve or thirteen, I think. I am young. I spend every afternoon walking home from the bus stop with my comrade Alex. He is brilliant and beyond his time. I am awkward, hormonal, self-conscious, narcissistic and just starting to discover drugs and alcohol. Regardless, I hang out with Alex constantly. It is spring time and summer break is approaching. Alex and I are experimenting with weed and booze, foreshadowing my future love affair with narcotics and depressants. For the most part though we are young and innocent-ish. Alex announces that his best friend, Ben, from Seattle (where his mom lives), is going to be visiting for the summer. Ben arrives early summer as expected. Ben becomes my first love ever. Ben has dreamy rock star appeal, sunken deep eyes and every quality a young potential deviant is looking for in a boy. We are three peas in a pod. Alex, Ben and I are inseparable. Ben ends up staying to live with his Dad. Ben is also beyond his years and knows more about the exciting world of D&A then Alex and I at this point. This is not obvious at all. I have no foresight. I am in love. The three of us pick up several others to join our merry band of pranksters. I actually have a small social group. Then comes the hit and the pit. One sunny Saturday, Ben shows up at my door with his father. Ben's dad found some weed that was hidden in Ben's room. Ben is going back to Seattle to live with his mom. Not next week, not tomorrow, right then and there. Ben is at my house to say goodbye.

The Middle Story:
Alex and I have never been the same. I took on a life of partying and Alex turned out as expected, overachieving and ambitious with humility. We both kept in touch with Ben but the calls became less frequent. I find out during a few conversations with Ben that he is pretty into the drug scene. I am too, but have not quite crossed the line. Ben and I go on to live parallel lives. Both of us kind of instinctually knowing about the other but not knowing the facts. Alex is subjected to taking me to detox and lending me a couple bucks here or there. After several years the calls with Ben have entirely stopped. Alex and I see each other every 6 months or so. I eventually become sober. "Back in the day" becomes a phrase that truly implies ten years ago instead of just something to throw out in conversation.

The Present:
I have not heard from Ben in almost five years. Alex and I barely see each other. As the result of an accidental call on Sunday evening (I thought I was calling Al's Cab Service), Alex and I end up making plans for this coming weekend. I am going to see him and his girlfriend for a few hours Saturday, "back in the hood". Weird but exciting.

Wednesday, a friend is over for dinner. I pull out some old photo albums and do the whole history of Emily spiel (ego). Opening the albums to pages with Ben's pictures I end up unearthing the whole tale to my guest.

Before bed I end up checking all the phone messages I have ignored over the evening. Guess who tracked me down? Ben's voice on the machine sends a goose over my grave. To put it better, I am complexly freaked out. I haven't even spoken about the guy to anyone in a few years. Ben has 8 months sober. He is putting the pieces of his life back together. He is living with his mom in Seattle. I have an overwhelming synchronicity to discuss on my blog.

This is an interesting example of some serious post-modern activity that a good friend thought I would dig. Check it out www.availableonthursday.com

Taken in B&N while flipping through photography books-love this shot

So, The responses to my Grandparents blog were just fantastic. I love the colorful stories posted. It feels wonderful to invoke those kind of memories.
Today is going to be a boring post. I just want to expunge some nervous energy:

About twice a year I have a manic kind of episode. It usually follows a period of depression and is sometimes a reaction to depression. This is one of those episodes. I become overly excited about the world. I am inspired and emotional. I revisit the free-spirited character trait which has become buried by mundane daily tasks and the "grind". I have a billion ideas. Endless analytical conversations with others is my priority. I become superstitious. I feel incredibly "on" but without anything actually productive happening. I get easily confused about what is important in my life. This is an overwhelming feeling much motivated by major transition. I have bizarre dreams with seemingly no purpose. I want to buy trashy magazines and embrace television again. I reconsider my aversion to seafood. I think I should become an activist or join the Peace Corps. I want to write a novel about my life. I get interested in strangers on my bus and wish for their well-being. I know that something is upon me, but I have no patience to explore what might be revealed.

One way I could positively channel this energy is by working on an free lance editing job I've picked up. The documentary, a play by play of an unusual Hindu ritual in honor of the Goddess Kali, is packed with interviews in a rare Indian dialect. I am frustrated about the language barrier and fear that I am not properly expressing what the interviewees are trying to convey. It is a fabulous challenge. I've been procrastinating the whole thing for fear of not doing it perfectly. A typical behavior.

Little known fact: I played the guitar in my youth for quite sometime. I gave it up when alcohol and drugs became more important. I recently acquired a very cheap blue acoustic nylon string git-bucket. It stares at me every evening begging to be fondled. This is my attempt to think about, thinking about, actually playing the poor thing. It may also be another way to move this energy in the right direction.

“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his shadow on the wall...”

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

As always, I love to hear about your mania

So, I have had a tough time wanting to commit to my blog the past few days. When I finally sat quietly a topic manifested.

I am not sure at what point in time the notion of respecting and looking to one's "elders" went out of style. I've always been a fan of this tradition. I think it really set in during my high school job.
I was working in a retirement community called the Wyncote Church Home. I was in dietary. This is not the most glamorous job as one might imagine. Regardless of the fact that I was serving food to women and men incapable of feeding themselves, I am grateful that I had this job. During dinner hour I felt like the dining hall was a gigantic historical text. Many of the patients were incoherent. This did not stop them from shouting our random war stories and recollections from the 20's.
It just occurred to me that I haven't heard many stories about peoples Grandparents:

I have never met my Grandparents on my Father's side. They died sometime around my birth, if I am correct. I am completely convinced that there are pieces of me that resemble them. Every time I look at pictures of them with my Dad as a boy, I feel as if I have known them just as well as any one who I have known alive. There is a photo of my Father with his parents at his Bar Mitzvah. That image popped into my head several times when I became a Bat Mitzvah just last year.

My Grandparents on my Mother's side who I refer to as Gran and Grampa Jim are the most brilliant people I have ever known. Just a week ago a book of poetry arrived in my mailbox that Grampa Jim must have just published. Gran and Grampa Jim have been writing poetry and traveling the world since I was old enough to recognize them and for years prior. They have been living in the same apartment for over 20 years in New York City. The sound of my Grampa Jim reading random facts and articles out loud is instantly soothing. Gran will ask me how I am every time she sees me and then instinctively ask me again, how are you really? They have endured countless school plays and my early poetry and every Christmas for all of my life. I actually feel the knowledge of experience on top of experience oozing out of them. I feel like if there is anyway to really live it is the way my Grandparents live.

Part of the way I learned to stay sober was by the guidance of those who preceded me; well it was actually the only way I learned to live at all. This is my ode to those who know better then I.

I'd love to hear some good Grandparent tales.