I sat in my home, alone. My parents were gone and I surely knew that their fate had been sealed. What a feeling it was, to be alone in my home. I couldn't bear the idea of sleeping alone in my home that night. In the distance I heard shots fired. I thought how did such a thing happen to me? I decided to run for the main gate, and there I was accosted and placed into a labor unit - in the middle of the night. There were others working, crying, being beaten. That morning I knew that everyone had been killed. I heard the sound of one machine gun, then two, then three, then four - all firing simultaneously. I saw the intense and bright light of a spot light. I heard a man scream, murder, murder, then he shouted Sh'ma Yisrael, and then silence. I knew that everyone had been slaugtered - my whole family. I was so in shock that I couldn't weep. I saw them bringing wagons filled with clothing down from the Ninth Fort. Piles of coats and on the top of one pile sticking out from the rest, I saw my sister's burgundy colored coat. I thought, that's it - they're all gone. It stood out from the rest of the black clothing I saw. Her coat. There it was.
The land of the living is truly an odd place. What it must be to be left among the living, among the murderers, among only the ghosts and the memories. The lucky ones had been killed. Odd, so odd. It makes me somehow understand why I have a flood of emotion when I see a co-worker eating her lunch using a real, stainless fork. The sound of the tines against her teeth. The gentleness with which she lifts macaroni with red sauce, up to her mouth. A reason begins to emerge - as if an answer to a question asked long ago, finally arrives, like a relative presumed dead, stepping off a bus, lost for decades. Why we cherish one another. That thing which elevates sinew and blood and fat from the stuff of warm mammals to the photograph, to the fork, to the Torah. The fight against nature - our own murderous kill switch.
I'm sorry. Life is cruel. The faces of God are many, and if we are created in God's image, then God is cruel. But there appears to be so convoluted a collection of reasons for our cruelty - our sadism. We're granted a set of laws which at once says not to murder, but then sanctioned the efficient and gory removal of a cow's trachea, warm, pulsating. And to have that cow on a bun, on Pico Boulevard, brazed and tasty, with sauce made from the embryos of chickens. We've got an excuse. We're abused, pushed, frustrated with just gravity sometimes. But what's God's excuse? Who so pushed God to God's limit that God saw fit to fashion creations with the sharp and grinding molars, good for tearing apart meat? Surely it wasn't the same one who inspired God to allow the dew to fall upon the leaves, who made the beauty of women like the caress of summer breezes. Could the same muse have shown God the opposing facets of a diamond, one shining, another blackened and pitted? It's like a comedy, a silly play where the absurd coincides too perfectly with the stark.
Monday, December 13, 2004
Monday, December 06, 2004
Analog
There are little needles on old tapedecks which sway to and fro like palm trees with the up and down of sound.
How many times have I followed those needles with each rise and fall or Freddie Mercury’s Mama Mia let me go.
Well now my mind is like a racing car down the freeway with wide open spaces and vistas of clear blue sky.
And I’m feeling less and less, and I’m working more and more and I take a little helper when I fall down on the floor.
And the clouds are not threatening and I don’t obsess about deceit.
And the furry little kittens are still asking for a treat.
My car is long and careful not to touch the sides or others.
My ability to ration has never been so clear.
And yet I rave with abandon because my phone didn’t ring.
And my ups and downs are forever buried under the walls of Mauthausen.
I no longer remember where the trail is at its end.
And my needles are pinned.
How many times have I followed those needles with each rise and fall or Freddie Mercury’s Mama Mia let me go.
Well now my mind is like a racing car down the freeway with wide open spaces and vistas of clear blue sky.
And I’m feeling less and less, and I’m working more and more and I take a little helper when I fall down on the floor.
And the clouds are not threatening and I don’t obsess about deceit.
And the furry little kittens are still asking for a treat.
My car is long and careful not to touch the sides or others.
My ability to ration has never been so clear.
And yet I rave with abandon because my phone didn’t ring.
And my ups and downs are forever buried under the walls of Mauthausen.
I no longer remember where the trail is at its end.
And my needles are pinned.
Lou Ferignu's Real Identity
Doctor David Banner, physician scientist, trying to tap in to the hidden Yiddish that all humans have. But then an accidental overdose of kremsels alter his body chemistry, and now when David Banner is gevoren zayer freilach, a startling metamorphisis occurs. The goilem is driven by food, and pursued by an annoying Kossack. “Mr. Jovanovich don’t make me happy, you wouldn’t like me when I’m happy.” The goilem is wanted for dancing he didn’t do, his friend Dovid actually did it. David Banner is believed to be a bissel mishigeneh, and he must let the world go on thinking that he is mishigeneh until he can control the raging freilechkeit which dwell within him.
Residual Effects
I dreamed that I was in a horrible accident and that I didn’t realize that I was still alive. There were piles of bone and flesh and sinew. And I was pulling ribcages from my mouth, like so many fishbones. I had to face all the people I had died with, but I thought I was facing all the people I had survived with. I spoke with them, spent time with them, comforted them. I was then told that these were the people who had died, and I became stunned, with my mouth agape. One of my friends who had lived told me then to return to the land of the dead in order to spend time with them before coming back to the land of the living.
And then I was walking, using a cane, visiting an old sagely rabbi. I gave him my shawl, and he thanked me, and it was Shabbos. And he offered me more protection from the rain, but I only took my baseball cap which was sitting on his stoop, and we then parted. And I think all of this was a play. And it was about being counted among the Jewish People even if you are a scoundrel. And I attempted to set up a table for myself among the others at the Shabbos party, and the cups and wineglasses were dirty, and the drash was incredible, and I didn’t care about the food. I thought about the sons of the survivor I saw last night; all of them frum, with beards, smiling with many children. And they all looked wholesome, but I knew they’re just people; because that survivor said that all goyim are rasha’im, and I think he’s wrong. And so I ask, did all his sons learn the same lesson from him?
And then I was walking, using a cane, visiting an old sagely rabbi. I gave him my shawl, and he thanked me, and it was Shabbos. And he offered me more protection from the rain, but I only took my baseball cap which was sitting on his stoop, and we then parted. And I think all of this was a play. And it was about being counted among the Jewish People even if you are a scoundrel. And I attempted to set up a table for myself among the others at the Shabbos party, and the cups and wineglasses were dirty, and the drash was incredible, and I didn’t care about the food. I thought about the sons of the survivor I saw last night; all of them frum, with beards, smiling with many children. And they all looked wholesome, but I knew they’re just people; because that survivor said that all goyim are rasha’im, and I think he’s wrong. And so I ask, did all his sons learn the same lesson from him?
Re-entry
I dreamed that I was an astronaut, piloting a craft to earth. I was to release two capsules which would fall to an ocean. The map which guided me indicated the name of the target area to be "The Sea of Tranquility." I mentioned to the mission control person that this had a sentimental connection, implying correlation with the Apollo moon landing. The two capsules landed, though on the ground, on the concrete, in front of my parent's house in Albany. I piloted the main craft to safety. I disembarked and was congratulated by a small number of people. The praise was sincere but reserved and repressed. One man came down the street and extended his hand in praise. I thought, how odd. I do a good job and yet no real recognition. I removed my uniform and went to a nearby car, on top of which were my clothes, unlaundered and thrown. I cursed, feeling unimportant and yet relaxed and nonchalant. I put on a striped shirt and dark blue sweat pants.
Marlin Brando drove up on a motorcycle and he told of some bolts which needed to be tightened on the bike. I saw that the bolts were loose. I was to accompany him to the repair shop. Another person was with us, though I don't know who he was. The two of them boarded the motorcycle and I was told that there was room for me as well. I felt that they were my friends, yet as I stretched my leg to go over the motorcycle, my sweatpants constricted me and almost ripped. There was room on the bike, yet I could not board it.
And yet, I felt voluntarily removed from the group.
Marlin Brando drove up on a motorcycle and he told of some bolts which needed to be tightened on the bike. I saw that the bolts were loose. I was to accompany him to the repair shop. Another person was with us, though I don't know who he was. The two of them boarded the motorcycle and I was told that there was room for me as well. I felt that they were my friends, yet as I stretched my leg to go over the motorcycle, my sweatpants constricted me and almost ripped. There was room on the bike, yet I could not board it.
And yet, I felt voluntarily removed from the group.
Friday, December 03, 2004
Simpering
A friend asks me "why The Who?" And so I feel perpetually obliged to respond. And you may consider this my final word on The Who, even thought it's dated, and even though my opinions, feelings and missives on the band will evolve. In fact just as The Who has taken upon itself the silly mission of "farewell tours," so does this blogger have the inalienable right to have multiple final words. And on anything I darn well please.
It is upon the heels of much consternation about the recent history of the Who that I find my feelings about them both as individuals and as collective, changing. The excesses which led to the death of John Entwhistle, not to mention the raucous and chaotic lifestyle which culminated in tragedy for Keith Moon are but examples. The needless traumas of Cincinnati, the accidental death of Moon’s limo driver, and the debacle over Pete Townshend’s supposed internet mishap are all converging for this Who fan as signs of a kind of sick and depressing set of realities. I’ve found no end of miserable company with the Who, their music and their antics over the years. But now I look back upon the icons to which I so faithfully devoted my musical love and whose music was to the exclusion of all others, and find I’m left with a certain feeling emptiness and sadness. I’ll take a break from my reflective stance to briefly outline how these gentlemen entered my social and creative consciousness.
In the summer after sixth grade (1979) my brothers were listening to a song called Pinball Wizard. I was hooked on the refrain, but didn’t know the rest. Being in the habit of parroting everything my brothers said and did, I mentioned to a friend that he should include The Who among bands worth listening to. He dispassionately replied, “yeah, the Who is excellent.”
While in 7th grade I lost my musical touchstone, John Lennon. For me it was a death in the family. It was that same year when Ms. Filardi, my music teacher turned the class on to an LP which she felt was a very important piece of popular and modern music; an album called Tommy. She played Overture to the class, and the familiarity (from hearing it at home) together with the legitimating presence of a teacher created an atmosphere in which The Who became required listening. And to boot, Ms. Filardi was a real super-model of a teacher. Comedian David Brenner once said “you can learn from someone you can look at,” but I digress. A couple of short years later my brother, Joe, sat me in a room, switched on a cassette boom-box and ordered me to listen to Pete Townshend perform Drowned from the Amnesty International’s tribute concert, “The Secret Policeman’s Other Ball.” He said, “now listen to the speed of the strumming. His hand must have been a blur.” During Won’t Get Fooled Again (on the same album) there’s a thud sound. My brother informed me that Pete had been so drunk during the performance that he fell off the stool, but didn’t miss a beat. That was the extent of myth and wonder assigned to Pete Townshend, and I was in awe. I repeatedly brought that tape to school every morning, and shared it with my friend Tim Kenneally, en route to Albany High School. Tim, now a seasoned journalist and music critic, already had a well-developed vocabulary to describe The Who, and I was so pleased to have a friend; a generational contemporary who shared my taste.
It was so damn significant because the more exposure to The Who I received, the more I felt the music was addressing guys like me, directly. I was a somewhat geeky, overweight, kid lost in a morass of classmates who at best enjoyed Van Halen, with The Bee Gees chirping at the other end of the spectrum. It was Bar and Bat Mitzvah season when I was in junior high and I was the only kid to have Who Are You played on the dance floor at my party. One of my friends, a very popular kid, screamed “you can’t dance to this,” which I responded to by performing some version of the Batusi, just as I had recalled Adam West swirling it out on screen. Dancing? Who needed dancing when there was music to be heard?!?! I’ve since changed that opinion, but at the time the idea of music for the sole purpose of dancing seemed vacuous and irrelevant. Besides, what did a fat kid like me need with dancing, anyhow?
I became immersed in The Who, and most everything they did, though I didn’t see them live as a group until 1996. My dear buddy, Shalom and I sat in my car outside The Great Western Forum and simultaneously came to the realization that we were about to FINALLY see The Who. During the same tour on the following summer my brother, Izzy and I spent a fabulous weekend together culminating in yet another Quadrophenia performance at Great Woods in Mansfield Mass. I gulped and sobbed as the opening chords of Quad spilled out onto the lawn. These were meaningful events, not only for the fact I felt privileged to be there, but too because I was sharing it with my brother who had mentored me in the ways of Rock, and with a life-long friend with whom I could share the ecstatic vibe.
Thereafter I spent much of my hard-earned money to catch them at a number of venues in and around Los Angeles. I did manage to catch Pete Townshend, both in 93’ and again in 96’ here in LA. Up to that point I viewed Pete as a fairly reclusive solo performer so the opportunity to see him on stage was incredibly special. The Who as a springy and energetic mix of talent, passion and honest aggression was typified by what I saw on the Woodstock documentary and The Kids Are Alright film. Pete wrote, what one journalist referred to as “thinking man’s rock,” and this pundit conversely referred to Townshend as “rock’s thinking man.” The band existed for me as the penultimate fusion of lustful expression with intelligent pop-culture. If I was to be both a Jew, and a man with a foot in the world, that other foot could be found attending a Who show – and the rest of my body would tag along for the ride.
With a year to look back upon, one with my first child Adinah – her words, her steps, her wonderful gaze and the ecstatic glory with which she experiences everything around her – The Who have taken on less significance, quite simply. In 2002 at The Greek Theatre, Pete ended the song The Kids Are Alright with a mantra of “….just keep filling the world with kids…” and I wept. We were pregnant with Adinah and it was just such serendipity that his sentiment reverberated so perfectly. After nearly 25 years I began to gracefully let go of The Who, finally.
But the coiled and tangled amplifier lead – come umbilical cord was not yet cut. When Pete Townshend landed on the front pages in 2003, I sent the fans one letter, and him another. To the oddsandsods Who listserve, I sent the following posting:
We're in the same boat here, my friends. All at once our impulse is to gather support for Pete, and I believe that is because we all feel tangentially associated with the man. The works of his heart and soul have presented the "ground" for so many of our lives. It's painful to even contemplate the possibility that those brush strokes may the product of such a sick and misguided mind. There are plenty of places within Pete's repertoire to witness hints of his own abuse and one can only speculate about recent developments. It's funny because I feel like I'm a spokesperson for Pete lately. All my friends are asking me what I think, as if it makes a difference what the f*** I or anyone else not directly connected to the case thinks.
Let us remember that Pete is a public personality, and that he needs to be extremely careful about everything he does. That's not such a pleasant thing, and perhaps in a more perfect world he'd have the privacy we desire for him. But he lives in a world in which he has referred to himself as "exalted." The negative externalities of such a fact are being witnessed now . The ironies of Psychoderelict are simply too profound at this moment. "She doesn't have a problem - do you?" "She knows I do . . ." hmmm
I hope it ain't true. But he's a human being. I've done things I'm not so proud of in my life - things I wish I could undo. As a fan I think it's important to remember that we can jump off this boat any time we like. I'm not inclined to do that, simply because so much of what I believe socially, musically and artistically is tied up in Pete's work. That however, does not absolve him of anything.
There are those who can divorce the artist from his art. Picasso was the world's biggest SOB. Lennon was not exactly the nicest guy in the world. My understanding is that Cezanne was not on the side Dreyfuss. Wagner is not someone I would have had dinner with. The list can probably go on. If the worst scenario is true, and Pete is a distributor of this crap, then I would consider unloading all my Pete stuff. I'm a recently new parent, and the idea that I would expose my child to his work, no less to HIM is extremely challenging. I cringe at this thought, but I suspect many of us have entertained such ideas in the last week.
Do I think Pete is innocent? I know that some here, especially the folks who are doing the t-shirt campaign and the website will want to have me lynched for saying this; but no, he's not innocent. Neither am I, nor (dare I suggest) anyone on this list. I think innocence is the wrong concept here, and I don't think Pete himself would use it either. He's not free from blame or sin or guilt - who the hell is? It's about what exactly he is guilty of doing. If he's telling the truth, and so far I have every reason to believe that he is, then that is that. He did technically break the law and it's up to his attorney to get him the lightest possible treatment under the law. Whether or not it's a bad law or not is also quite irrelevant at the moment. I happen to believe in the protection of children and in the sanctity of childhood. And by the way, nobody on this list (as far as I can tell) was interested in the severity of sentencing for these things prior to last Monday. That includes Pete, who (if he is telling the truth) probably endorses some pretty harsh sentencing. According to the experience of someone close to me, who works in the child abuse courts, rehabilitation of such people is rare. The abused have very good chances of becoming abusers, unfortunately. A friend of my family committed suicide because she had been the product of her own father's abuse.
Apparently with Michael Jackson there were indicators; his obsession with children, and his penchant for personally entertaining them privately at his home. Also Jackson's incessant referencing of Peter Pan (Neverland Ranch or whatever he calls it), which it has been argued is a molester's fantasy, is quite strange. I heard one story (unconfirmed) that he had motion detectors in the hallway leading to his bedroom - to alert him if anyone was approaching. Whereas I think Pete is exercising demons. If you haven't read the Salon.com article - you should. I think it's the strongest piece I've read thus far on the matter. His interview with Terry Gross (Fresh Air) is also very telling. Pete is an honest person - perhaps too honest. I recall another interview in which he said that he'd love to find the person who did molest him as a child, and give him a big kiss on the lips (because it helped to define Pete's biggest commercial success - Tommy). But just because he's honest doesn't mean he's beyond reproach. It just makes it all that much more difficult for us. I prefer the honesty, but maybe too much information is also not good. I'm torn apart by this!
My nastier side says that If you want to offer him a legal defense fund, well I'd hope that all those CD and ticket sales are doing their job just about now. I certainly have all the compassion in the world for the guy, regardless if the worst is true or not - perhaps more so if it's true, I dunno. But I'm not interested in some sort of OJ-fan-like, mindless rally for Pete. By his own admission he did something quite foolish.
What do I hope for? I hope the truth comes out, whatever that is. I also hope that the only things the police find on his computers are some really good songs for Roger (or Pete) to sing.
This is one of the many responses I received to this posting:
Hello, I just read your post to Odds and SOds and I was very impressed with your perspectives. I would really like to have your post added to my yahoo group. If you are not a member and dont wish to join -I would really like to post your message on the site- with your permission. With or without your name. or "posted on O&Ss. Or maybe you could post it. But simply I thought it was very well written and said many of the things that Ive been losing sleep over the past week and a half......;)
If you havent been to the group it is at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/PeteTownshendWitchHunt
let me know- I hope that you will join and post it - or some other perspectives. At this point Im thinking that it is not looking good for Pete no matter what happens now. And Im really SO SAD. Im still in shock and disappointed with John......
and now this.Well take care. Let me know if you would allow me to post it or if you will- or if you dont wish to have it posted.
Thanks
Peace
(name withheld)
In the meantime, Pete was in receipt of this obsequious and pathetic note on my behalf:
Pete, I want to express my hope that you are finding the light in all this difficulty. I can only begin to imagine what you are going through. None of us is an angel, and at many times we feel that we have the license to do things - things bound by rules that apply to everyone else, that seemingly do not apply to us. I know your intentions are good, and that you never intended to deprive a child of his or her childhood. I understand from your web postings that you are shocked by the magnitude of the exploitation of children. It can be a cruel and terrible journey at times, because the foe we encounter is often in the mirror. There are times when we feel we have triumphed only to find that it seems the rug has been pulled out from under us. There are hoards of your fans who support you now - they are ready to be at your side. You've provided them with much introspection and means to reflect upon their lives and they want to reciprocate - at least unconditionally, if not more. Please know this, and be honest with them. As a Jewish person, my faith has taught me that truth is the beginning, middle, and end of all things - and that is not within our control. Be well and be happy. B'Shalom - Chaim
I am a creature of habit, and habits are classically confronted with the unrealizable task of attempts at breaking them by weak beings such as myself. I will not attempt to break my habit of the Who. I will realize, with sad sobriety that Keith Moon is indeed gone forever. It is also upon me to see with clarity that John Entwhistle is not only gone, but like Keith is dead largely due to gross manifestations of his own obsessions. I on the other hand do not intend to allow my obsession with the Who or any of its component members or facets of its history to govern my fate, and that is something I need to actively confront, as I suspect a number of other Who fans must do.
Why is The Who so indefatigably saddled with responsibilities far beyond the means of its’ collective or any of its’ individual members ability to accept? Roger takes on a tremendous burden, and I credit him for that. He works very hard, and has always been prepared to carry the torch of the band. Pete arguably gave it up after Who By Numbers, though feels some compulsion, perhaps driven by his empathy for Roger, perhaps by money, and maybe just because he’s an exhibitionist at heart – to continue. I’m glad they are continuing, but it places guys like me in a peculiar spot. I must contend with the history of the band, and the reality of what is no longer in existence. This thing called The Who, can in its current incarnation either be dubbed “The Who Revue,” or another version of The Pete Townshend Project. That’s actually fine with me. The Who was at one time charged with driving “the bus” of revolution, and while their discs spin, the drive is somewhere left behind. The Who is the greatest rock and roll band in the world. Right. Notice I don’t say “was,” because we’re not there, yet neither are we where we were. Enough.
There are so far two new songs out there in the ether. I’m very pleased. They are mature, introspective, melodic pieces. They are not, in my opinion important, anthemic wailings of the caliber brought to us on say Who’s Next, though that will be left for history to decide. On the other hand, they are the product of Pete Townshend, who remains a serious artist in my book. And he’s written more material for Roger Daltrey to sing, and I’m happy about that.
Will I shell out yet another chunk of my paycheck to see these old geezers fart around the stage this summer? Assuming another of them doesn’t give up the ghost before or during the show, the answer is most likely yes. I want to be part of the Who’s history. The difference is that I don’t wish to receive the The Who’s kiss of death, either by trampling in an inch of black mud, or via deep and unhealthy association with any of its members.
Los Angeles, CA
April 2, 2004
It is upon the heels of much consternation about the recent history of the Who that I find my feelings about them both as individuals and as collective, changing. The excesses which led to the death of John Entwhistle, not to mention the raucous and chaotic lifestyle which culminated in tragedy for Keith Moon are but examples. The needless traumas of Cincinnati, the accidental death of Moon’s limo driver, and the debacle over Pete Townshend’s supposed internet mishap are all converging for this Who fan as signs of a kind of sick and depressing set of realities. I’ve found no end of miserable company with the Who, their music and their antics over the years. But now I look back upon the icons to which I so faithfully devoted my musical love and whose music was to the exclusion of all others, and find I’m left with a certain feeling emptiness and sadness. I’ll take a break from my reflective stance to briefly outline how these gentlemen entered my social and creative consciousness.
In the summer after sixth grade (1979) my brothers were listening to a song called Pinball Wizard. I was hooked on the refrain, but didn’t know the rest. Being in the habit of parroting everything my brothers said and did, I mentioned to a friend that he should include The Who among bands worth listening to. He dispassionately replied, “yeah, the Who is excellent.”
While in 7th grade I lost my musical touchstone, John Lennon. For me it was a death in the family. It was that same year when Ms. Filardi, my music teacher turned the class on to an LP which she felt was a very important piece of popular and modern music; an album called Tommy. She played Overture to the class, and the familiarity (from hearing it at home) together with the legitimating presence of a teacher created an atmosphere in which The Who became required listening. And to boot, Ms. Filardi was a real super-model of a teacher. Comedian David Brenner once said “you can learn from someone you can look at,” but I digress. A couple of short years later my brother, Joe, sat me in a room, switched on a cassette boom-box and ordered me to listen to Pete Townshend perform Drowned from the Amnesty International’s tribute concert, “The Secret Policeman’s Other Ball.” He said, “now listen to the speed of the strumming. His hand must have been a blur.” During Won’t Get Fooled Again (on the same album) there’s a thud sound. My brother informed me that Pete had been so drunk during the performance that he fell off the stool, but didn’t miss a beat. That was the extent of myth and wonder assigned to Pete Townshend, and I was in awe. I repeatedly brought that tape to school every morning, and shared it with my friend Tim Kenneally, en route to Albany High School. Tim, now a seasoned journalist and music critic, already had a well-developed vocabulary to describe The Who, and I was so pleased to have a friend; a generational contemporary who shared my taste.
It was so damn significant because the more exposure to The Who I received, the more I felt the music was addressing guys like me, directly. I was a somewhat geeky, overweight, kid lost in a morass of classmates who at best enjoyed Van Halen, with The Bee Gees chirping at the other end of the spectrum. It was Bar and Bat Mitzvah season when I was in junior high and I was the only kid to have Who Are You played on the dance floor at my party. One of my friends, a very popular kid, screamed “you can’t dance to this,” which I responded to by performing some version of the Batusi, just as I had recalled Adam West swirling it out on screen. Dancing? Who needed dancing when there was music to be heard?!?! I’ve since changed that opinion, but at the time the idea of music for the sole purpose of dancing seemed vacuous and irrelevant. Besides, what did a fat kid like me need with dancing, anyhow?
I became immersed in The Who, and most everything they did, though I didn’t see them live as a group until 1996. My dear buddy, Shalom and I sat in my car outside The Great Western Forum and simultaneously came to the realization that we were about to FINALLY see The Who. During the same tour on the following summer my brother, Izzy and I spent a fabulous weekend together culminating in yet another Quadrophenia performance at Great Woods in Mansfield Mass. I gulped and sobbed as the opening chords of Quad spilled out onto the lawn. These were meaningful events, not only for the fact I felt privileged to be there, but too because I was sharing it with my brother who had mentored me in the ways of Rock, and with a life-long friend with whom I could share the ecstatic vibe.
Thereafter I spent much of my hard-earned money to catch them at a number of venues in and around Los Angeles. I did manage to catch Pete Townshend, both in 93’ and again in 96’ here in LA. Up to that point I viewed Pete as a fairly reclusive solo performer so the opportunity to see him on stage was incredibly special. The Who as a springy and energetic mix of talent, passion and honest aggression was typified by what I saw on the Woodstock documentary and The Kids Are Alright film. Pete wrote, what one journalist referred to as “thinking man’s rock,” and this pundit conversely referred to Townshend as “rock’s thinking man.” The band existed for me as the penultimate fusion of lustful expression with intelligent pop-culture. If I was to be both a Jew, and a man with a foot in the world, that other foot could be found attending a Who show – and the rest of my body would tag along for the ride.
With a year to look back upon, one with my first child Adinah – her words, her steps, her wonderful gaze and the ecstatic glory with which she experiences everything around her – The Who have taken on less significance, quite simply. In 2002 at The Greek Theatre, Pete ended the song The Kids Are Alright with a mantra of “….just keep filling the world with kids…” and I wept. We were pregnant with Adinah and it was just such serendipity that his sentiment reverberated so perfectly. After nearly 25 years I began to gracefully let go of The Who, finally.
But the coiled and tangled amplifier lead – come umbilical cord was not yet cut. When Pete Townshend landed on the front pages in 2003, I sent the fans one letter, and him another. To the oddsandsods Who listserve, I sent the following posting:
We're in the same boat here, my friends. All at once our impulse is to gather support for Pete, and I believe that is because we all feel tangentially associated with the man. The works of his heart and soul have presented the "ground" for so many of our lives. It's painful to even contemplate the possibility that those brush strokes may the product of such a sick and misguided mind. There are plenty of places within Pete's repertoire to witness hints of his own abuse and one can only speculate about recent developments. It's funny because I feel like I'm a spokesperson for Pete lately. All my friends are asking me what I think, as if it makes a difference what the f*** I or anyone else not directly connected to the case thinks.
Let us remember that Pete is a public personality, and that he needs to be extremely careful about everything he does. That's not such a pleasant thing, and perhaps in a more perfect world he'd have the privacy we desire for him. But he lives in a world in which he has referred to himself as "exalted." The negative externalities of such a fact are being witnessed now . The ironies of Psychoderelict are simply too profound at this moment. "She doesn't have a problem - do you?" "She knows I do . . ." hmmm
I hope it ain't true. But he's a human being. I've done things I'm not so proud of in my life - things I wish I could undo. As a fan I think it's important to remember that we can jump off this boat any time we like. I'm not inclined to do that, simply because so much of what I believe socially, musically and artistically is tied up in Pete's work. That however, does not absolve him of anything.
There are those who can divorce the artist from his art. Picasso was the world's biggest SOB. Lennon was not exactly the nicest guy in the world. My understanding is that Cezanne was not on the side Dreyfuss. Wagner is not someone I would have had dinner with. The list can probably go on. If the worst scenario is true, and Pete is a distributor of this crap, then I would consider unloading all my Pete stuff. I'm a recently new parent, and the idea that I would expose my child to his work, no less to HIM is extremely challenging. I cringe at this thought, but I suspect many of us have entertained such ideas in the last week.
Do I think Pete is innocent? I know that some here, especially the folks who are doing the t-shirt campaign and the website will want to have me lynched for saying this; but no, he's not innocent. Neither am I, nor (dare I suggest) anyone on this list. I think innocence is the wrong concept here, and I don't think Pete himself would use it either. He's not free from blame or sin or guilt - who the hell is? It's about what exactly he is guilty of doing. If he's telling the truth, and so far I have every reason to believe that he is, then that is that. He did technically break the law and it's up to his attorney to get him the lightest possible treatment under the law. Whether or not it's a bad law or not is also quite irrelevant at the moment. I happen to believe in the protection of children and in the sanctity of childhood. And by the way, nobody on this list (as far as I can tell) was interested in the severity of sentencing for these things prior to last Monday. That includes Pete, who (if he is telling the truth) probably endorses some pretty harsh sentencing. According to the experience of someone close to me, who works in the child abuse courts, rehabilitation of such people is rare. The abused have very good chances of becoming abusers, unfortunately. A friend of my family committed suicide because she had been the product of her own father's abuse.
Apparently with Michael Jackson there were indicators; his obsession with children, and his penchant for personally entertaining them privately at his home. Also Jackson's incessant referencing of Peter Pan (Neverland Ranch or whatever he calls it), which it has been argued is a molester's fantasy, is quite strange. I heard one story (unconfirmed) that he had motion detectors in the hallway leading to his bedroom - to alert him if anyone was approaching. Whereas I think Pete is exercising demons. If you haven't read the Salon.com article - you should. I think it's the strongest piece I've read thus far on the matter. His interview with Terry Gross (Fresh Air) is also very telling. Pete is an honest person - perhaps too honest. I recall another interview in which he said that he'd love to find the person who did molest him as a child, and give him a big kiss on the lips (because it helped to define Pete's biggest commercial success - Tommy). But just because he's honest doesn't mean he's beyond reproach. It just makes it all that much more difficult for us. I prefer the honesty, but maybe too much information is also not good. I'm torn apart by this!
My nastier side says that If you want to offer him a legal defense fund, well I'd hope that all those CD and ticket sales are doing their job just about now. I certainly have all the compassion in the world for the guy, regardless if the worst is true or not - perhaps more so if it's true, I dunno. But I'm not interested in some sort of OJ-fan-like, mindless rally for Pete. By his own admission he did something quite foolish.
What do I hope for? I hope the truth comes out, whatever that is. I also hope that the only things the police find on his computers are some really good songs for Roger (or Pete) to sing.
This is one of the many responses I received to this posting:
Hello, I just read your post to Odds and SOds and I was very impressed with your perspectives. I would really like to have your post added to my yahoo group. If you are not a member and dont wish to join -I would really like to post your message on the site- with your permission. With or without your name. or "posted on O&Ss. Or maybe you could post it. But simply I thought it was very well written and said many of the things that Ive been losing sleep over the past week and a half......;)
If you havent been to the group it is at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/PeteTownshendWitchHunt
let me know- I hope that you will join and post it - or some other perspectives. At this point Im thinking that it is not looking good for Pete no matter what happens now. And Im really SO SAD. Im still in shock and disappointed with John......
and now this.Well take care. Let me know if you would allow me to post it or if you will- or if you dont wish to have it posted.
Thanks
Peace
(name withheld)
In the meantime, Pete was in receipt of this obsequious and pathetic note on my behalf:
Pete, I want to express my hope that you are finding the light in all this difficulty. I can only begin to imagine what you are going through. None of us is an angel, and at many times we feel that we have the license to do things - things bound by rules that apply to everyone else, that seemingly do not apply to us. I know your intentions are good, and that you never intended to deprive a child of his or her childhood. I understand from your web postings that you are shocked by the magnitude of the exploitation of children. It can be a cruel and terrible journey at times, because the foe we encounter is often in the mirror. There are times when we feel we have triumphed only to find that it seems the rug has been pulled out from under us. There are hoards of your fans who support you now - they are ready to be at your side. You've provided them with much introspection and means to reflect upon their lives and they want to reciprocate - at least unconditionally, if not more. Please know this, and be honest with them. As a Jewish person, my faith has taught me that truth is the beginning, middle, and end of all things - and that is not within our control. Be well and be happy. B'Shalom - Chaim
I am a creature of habit, and habits are classically confronted with the unrealizable task of attempts at breaking them by weak beings such as myself. I will not attempt to break my habit of the Who. I will realize, with sad sobriety that Keith Moon is indeed gone forever. It is also upon me to see with clarity that John Entwhistle is not only gone, but like Keith is dead largely due to gross manifestations of his own obsessions. I on the other hand do not intend to allow my obsession with the Who or any of its component members or facets of its history to govern my fate, and that is something I need to actively confront, as I suspect a number of other Who fans must do.
Why is The Who so indefatigably saddled with responsibilities far beyond the means of its’ collective or any of its’ individual members ability to accept? Roger takes on a tremendous burden, and I credit him for that. He works very hard, and has always been prepared to carry the torch of the band. Pete arguably gave it up after Who By Numbers, though feels some compulsion, perhaps driven by his empathy for Roger, perhaps by money, and maybe just because he’s an exhibitionist at heart – to continue. I’m glad they are continuing, but it places guys like me in a peculiar spot. I must contend with the history of the band, and the reality of what is no longer in existence. This thing called The Who, can in its current incarnation either be dubbed “The Who Revue,” or another version of The Pete Townshend Project. That’s actually fine with me. The Who was at one time charged with driving “the bus” of revolution, and while their discs spin, the drive is somewhere left behind. The Who is the greatest rock and roll band in the world. Right. Notice I don’t say “was,” because we’re not there, yet neither are we where we were. Enough.
There are so far two new songs out there in the ether. I’m very pleased. They are mature, introspective, melodic pieces. They are not, in my opinion important, anthemic wailings of the caliber brought to us on say Who’s Next, though that will be left for history to decide. On the other hand, they are the product of Pete Townshend, who remains a serious artist in my book. And he’s written more material for Roger Daltrey to sing, and I’m happy about that.
Will I shell out yet another chunk of my paycheck to see these old geezers fart around the stage this summer? Assuming another of them doesn’t give up the ghost before or during the show, the answer is most likely yes. I want to be part of the Who’s history. The difference is that I don’t wish to receive the The Who’s kiss of death, either by trampling in an inch of black mud, or via deep and unhealthy association with any of its members.
Los Angeles, CA
April 2, 2004
The Kernel of The Urinal Puck
Why a journal dedicated to mens rooms? A good question, but I think you know the answer. How often do you enter an establishment with a sense of unease? Is it that meeting you’re about to have? Perhaps there’s an attractive person walking by and you just don’t know how to make yourself known. There could be a whole lot of stuff which influences your comfort level in a place. For instance, how many times have you entered a restaurant and then suddenly had the unexplainable desire to bolt the hell out? I’ll bet it’s happened to you a lot. Or the last time you visited a doctor’s office for the first time – did you just get this sinking feeling of dread? No doubt you did. Well there are a number of factors to explore here, and let’s get to it.
You may have a sixth sense that the toilet is going to be a dump, and you don’t want to find yourself in a stall where the lock doesn’t work, and there’s nothing but paper towels to wipe with when you’re finished. I would drive an hour to find a good toilet, and I really don’t care where it is. I’ve done my business in a parking lot, and I mean a nasty number two, just because I couldn’t find a toilet. It wasn’t pleasant, but it sure beats putting a spot on the front seat. We need to know that there’s a place we can go – that’s just the bottom line. You’ll never find a lousy bathroom in a casino – it just doesn’t happen. Good places to make your product are simply good business. Although, I still don’t know why gas stations, by and large don’t get it. On the other hand, when you need to fill up, and there aren’t many choices – well they can pretty much give you any sort of pot to make wee wee in and it’ll suffice. I don’t think I’ve ever made a poopy at a gas station, though. Don’t know why – maybe it’s a fear that some guy with dragons painted on his chest is going to make me remember my name.
This publication is dedicated to the interests of every man with a functioning urethra and/or sphincter. (If you’re doing it some other way, we’d like to know about it). We will employ a ratings system for bathrooms, and will apply different standards to different establishments – it’s only fair to compare office buildings with office buildings, for instance. Lastly, if for no other purpose, this is just something to read when you’re sitting on the pot. And lord knows, there’s plenty to read, but what really makes you want to make? We hope this does.
Chaimster
11/1/01
There are toilets, and there are toilets
The events of 9/11 have left us devastated. Not to belittle the human tragedy, but there are many dimensions to the losses incurred on that fateful day in late summer 2001. Think of all the bathrooms wrecked, crushed into smithereens when the WTC collapsed. How many poor souls were making their last “installments” when the walls came tumbling down? More than a few, I’ll bet. I’ve never been to the Trade Center, though I flew really close to it once in a 20 seater flight from JFK up to Albany. What a place! And the Pentagon - a few good bathrooms lost there too. I don’t mean to imply that just because a bathroom is in an executive office building that it’s superior. Not by any measure, whatsoever. But let’s be serious – there are places we like to, even look forward to making our mark. And then there are places we just avoid like Anthrax, if such a thing can be avoided. For instance, I don’t trust the sanitation of any bathroom with a vinyl or linoleum flooring. It can’t be cleaned properly – ever. I am also very skeptical of Formica or wood fixtures near the sink. They are a breeding ground for microscopic critters! I prefer tile and stone, in almost every instance.
Now style is a different matter entirely. I can be turned off by a dirty bathroom, regardless of it’s construction. The bathroom at Hackett Middle School in Albany New York, for instance is the biggest dump I’ve ever been to, period. You’ll probably hear lots about that hell hole, if you peruse this journal frequently enough. A cavernous space it was, made of marble and tile, and it was the most horrible place – I shudder to think about it. I spent what amounted to hours in the nurse’s office, but not using the bathroom. No, good ole Ms. Lambombard was a very kind person. I came to her complaining of a stomach ache on many occasions. She had the good sense to understand that I needed to squeeze out some byproduct. On those days it was home where I ended up doing my thing. Yes, that kindly blonde nurse would dutifully call my mom at work. I would then be sent home and would arrive just in time to run to the bathroom and let out a weapon of mass distinction. My father once caught me home at one of these moments and he was ready to kick my ass from there to Schenectady. “Go to school!” he barked, and rightfully so. But whose fault was it?
A school which cannot maintain its bathrooms is asking for disaster. Schools are where kids become social animals. Any commode or water closet needs to have some semblance of cleanliness to be useful. It’s tough to mask the smell of fecal material, let alone radiator encrusted pee pee. And just imaging such an element in the dead of winter, steaming like a locomotive; the stench is enough to make you yearn for the below zero cold. The bathroom at a school needs to be a safe, clean and well maintained environment. A child craves comfort and quiet when he’s eliminating. Imagine you’re in Algebra class and the need to poo has been percolating for some time. You can’t hold it any longer and you politely raise your hand in order to duck out to the john. You expect something well lit and clean, if not offering some privacy. What you find is something shockingly different. To have kaka shmeared on the walls is rather distracting, if not plainly horrific. I’ve heard holocaust survivors describe bathrooms in concentration camps; stories with which I can marginally identify due to my “time” at Hackett. The stalls had no doors, and most of the toilets had no seats. We might as well have been sent to a subway platform and told to lower our trousers, our butts aiming for the wall. It was that bad. I needed to crap and I went home. I didn’t really care that it cost me a year of Algebra, which I had to make up the next summer. Perhaps it was some method of avoiding my charmingly cruel teacher, Mr. Prozik.
5/30/03
You may have a sixth sense that the toilet is going to be a dump, and you don’t want to find yourself in a stall where the lock doesn’t work, and there’s nothing but paper towels to wipe with when you’re finished. I would drive an hour to find a good toilet, and I really don’t care where it is. I’ve done my business in a parking lot, and I mean a nasty number two, just because I couldn’t find a toilet. It wasn’t pleasant, but it sure beats putting a spot on the front seat. We need to know that there’s a place we can go – that’s just the bottom line. You’ll never find a lousy bathroom in a casino – it just doesn’t happen. Good places to make your product are simply good business. Although, I still don’t know why gas stations, by and large don’t get it. On the other hand, when you need to fill up, and there aren’t many choices – well they can pretty much give you any sort of pot to make wee wee in and it’ll suffice. I don’t think I’ve ever made a poopy at a gas station, though. Don’t know why – maybe it’s a fear that some guy with dragons painted on his chest is going to make me remember my name.
This publication is dedicated to the interests of every man with a functioning urethra and/or sphincter. (If you’re doing it some other way, we’d like to know about it). We will employ a ratings system for bathrooms, and will apply different standards to different establishments – it’s only fair to compare office buildings with office buildings, for instance. Lastly, if for no other purpose, this is just something to read when you’re sitting on the pot. And lord knows, there’s plenty to read, but what really makes you want to make? We hope this does.
Chaimster
11/1/01
There are toilets, and there are toilets
The events of 9/11 have left us devastated. Not to belittle the human tragedy, but there are many dimensions to the losses incurred on that fateful day in late summer 2001. Think of all the bathrooms wrecked, crushed into smithereens when the WTC collapsed. How many poor souls were making their last “installments” when the walls came tumbling down? More than a few, I’ll bet. I’ve never been to the Trade Center, though I flew really close to it once in a 20 seater flight from JFK up to Albany. What a place! And the Pentagon - a few good bathrooms lost there too. I don’t mean to imply that just because a bathroom is in an executive office building that it’s superior. Not by any measure, whatsoever. But let’s be serious – there are places we like to, even look forward to making our mark. And then there are places we just avoid like Anthrax, if such a thing can be avoided. For instance, I don’t trust the sanitation of any bathroom with a vinyl or linoleum flooring. It can’t be cleaned properly – ever. I am also very skeptical of Formica or wood fixtures near the sink. They are a breeding ground for microscopic critters! I prefer tile and stone, in almost every instance.
Now style is a different matter entirely. I can be turned off by a dirty bathroom, regardless of it’s construction. The bathroom at Hackett Middle School in Albany New York, for instance is the biggest dump I’ve ever been to, period. You’ll probably hear lots about that hell hole, if you peruse this journal frequently enough. A cavernous space it was, made of marble and tile, and it was the most horrible place – I shudder to think about it. I spent what amounted to hours in the nurse’s office, but not using the bathroom. No, good ole Ms. Lambombard was a very kind person. I came to her complaining of a stomach ache on many occasions. She had the good sense to understand that I needed to squeeze out some byproduct. On those days it was home where I ended up doing my thing. Yes, that kindly blonde nurse would dutifully call my mom at work. I would then be sent home and would arrive just in time to run to the bathroom and let out a weapon of mass distinction. My father once caught me home at one of these moments and he was ready to kick my ass from there to Schenectady. “Go to school!” he barked, and rightfully so. But whose fault was it?
A school which cannot maintain its bathrooms is asking for disaster. Schools are where kids become social animals. Any commode or water closet needs to have some semblance of cleanliness to be useful. It’s tough to mask the smell of fecal material, let alone radiator encrusted pee pee. And just imaging such an element in the dead of winter, steaming like a locomotive; the stench is enough to make you yearn for the below zero cold. The bathroom at a school needs to be a safe, clean and well maintained environment. A child craves comfort and quiet when he’s eliminating. Imagine you’re in Algebra class and the need to poo has been percolating for some time. You can’t hold it any longer and you politely raise your hand in order to duck out to the john. You expect something well lit and clean, if not offering some privacy. What you find is something shockingly different. To have kaka shmeared on the walls is rather distracting, if not plainly horrific. I’ve heard holocaust survivors describe bathrooms in concentration camps; stories with which I can marginally identify due to my “time” at Hackett. The stalls had no doors, and most of the toilets had no seats. We might as well have been sent to a subway platform and told to lower our trousers, our butts aiming for the wall. It was that bad. I needed to crap and I went home. I didn’t really care that it cost me a year of Algebra, which I had to make up the next summer. Perhaps it was some method of avoiding my charmingly cruel teacher, Mr. Prozik.
5/30/03
This Toe Pea Ahhhh
I have descended upon a field, with a road running down its center. The fields are green, and there are rolling hills and patches of trees off several hundred meters on both sides of the road. I am in a plane, and yet it is a car. I sometimes fly, while other times I walk. The plane changes size and shape, depending on my whim. Off to the shoulder on the right side there are a row of three, half-buried, old school buses protruding from the earth at an angle, pointing upward. There are people living in the buses.
My plane is now a caravan; a series of campers, trailers and small trucks. My wife, family and friends all live in this caravan, and now the residents from the school buses approach us. I am afraid. One of the residents is a menacing looking man, with razor stubble and tattered clothing. He has a smile on his face which I know quite simply means determination. He does not speak. They board one of our trailers and begin to take my family hostage. They casually commandeer our pots and pans, and the threat is unclear, but I know we’re in trouble. I forcibly confront the leader and tell him he cannot take us, he cannot harm us. He continues his grin and says nothing, taking my wife by the arm. I’m very afraid. He takes her and now they are several yards away from me, and I am feeling helpless.
My plane is now a caravan; a series of campers, trailers and small trucks. My wife, family and friends all live in this caravan, and now the residents from the school buses approach us. I am afraid. One of the residents is a menacing looking man, with razor stubble and tattered clothing. He has a smile on his face which I know quite simply means determination. He does not speak. They board one of our trailers and begin to take my family hostage. They casually commandeer our pots and pans, and the threat is unclear, but I know we’re in trouble. I forcibly confront the leader and tell him he cannot take us, he cannot harm us. He continues his grin and says nothing, taking my wife by the arm. I’m very afraid. He takes her and now they are several yards away from me, and I am feeling helpless.
Receipts
Dinging flying rubber over stone park meadows
I'm angry at costs
Business is busy and death might not solidify things
Because the crust is high and my needs are jacked
That scraping sound I'm hearing is the only the bottom of my bear
El Condor pasa eldorado incognito
I'm angry at costs
Business is busy and death might not solidify things
Because the crust is high and my needs are jacked
That scraping sound I'm hearing is the only the bottom of my bear
El Condor pasa eldorado incognito
Shoes
There's nothing great or particularly dignified about being a survivor of the shoah. Most survivors are eeking out a quiet life, in some corner of the globe, trying to forget what happened to them, while attempting to evade the curse, the knives in their hearts when remembering those they loved. The Shoah Foundation has given stage to these scratchy little voices, as though they were the most important document; in the end, a minor testament to the suffering of humankind. It's as though millions of dollars in resources, people, offices, and time (oh the time) were set aside to preserve such details as what a person ate on shabbat in Piotrkow Poland between the wars. Does anyone really give a monkey's _ _ _?
There is a movement afoot to relegate Judaism to yet another of the world religions, to place it in the category of other faiths; to deconstruct the faith of Abraham in some fashion so as to distill it to a collection of fads, peculiar traditions born of idiosyncracy or obsession, the footsteps of some people we've heard about, but otherwise really shouldn't consider all that important.
A survivor's voice breaks as he holds up an enlarged sepia-tone of his mother who happened to die on this date in 1944, "burned in Auschwitz." He wishes to begin his testimony this way, in abrupt opposition to the routine which the interviewer and the videographer are about to fall into. Our little white-haired man donning a black kippa, lost in his short-sleeved button down shirt, defiantly holds up the photo - with apparent great awareness that the camera is rolling - that this is his great opportunity to memorialize his mother. But is he also somehow paying tribute to something else? Or is it just what my emotions and experiences impose upon this? I know it sounds lofty, and I think secretly to myself; he's lighting a candle in memory of the Jewish People of Europe.
The testimony is full with asides, irrelevant to the history, and yet central to the picture of history; that which is through the *prism of personal experience. The inventor of television set out to create a new device which would excite and change the way we communicate, educate and entertain, though his life ended in near despair due to the fallen nature of his revolutionary toy. But in this case, I believe that Philo T. Farnsworth would be proud. The pause, the deep breath, the change in smile - visual history. It is the timing, the micro-expressions, the story which can function on so many levels - it has made every last dollar spent on this project a huge bargain.
I have a dear friend who takes pleasure in making sport of any and all institutional memory of the Holocaust - and it is my cultural prerogative to both agree with him, and to simultaneously fetch his comments upon the heap of denial and flotsam that make up some growing component of modern Judaism. And yet the reason he is on the money with his ascerbic remarks is because he knows that what was destroyed - the diaspora civilization centered upon study, the pursuit of justice, and the fetishization of the search for meaning, and all the flawed realities of a civilization insulated (unsuccessfully) by a millenium of coexistense, headed for the flames - none of this is the focus of mass and public preservation, by and large. At least that is what I glean from his ire. My friend likes to make fun, because he's painfully aware that subjects such as this taste better when marinated in sarcasm.
In his short story "A Friend of Kafka," Isaac Bashevis Singer states that those who walk into history often do so in clumsy boots. I'm not sure how tight or form fitting Mr. Spielberg's actual footwear is (though I suspect it's a perfect fit). Regardless however, the scholars, cataloguers, resentful mobs, neo-nazis, and the other would-be candidates in the mass hierarchies of suffering - all undoubtedly wish they had even a pair of forgotten galoshes to carry them to their sofas where they might take a moment to perhaps recall their mother's stew recipe or ruminate over a fateful trip to the market. Steven has given back to each of his interviewees a set of wooden clogs - these are lined with velvet.
*Immanuel Ringleblum - on" The Oneg Shabbat Archive," created in the Warsaw Ghetto
There is a movement afoot to relegate Judaism to yet another of the world religions, to place it in the category of other faiths; to deconstruct the faith of Abraham in some fashion so as to distill it to a collection of fads, peculiar traditions born of idiosyncracy or obsession, the footsteps of some people we've heard about, but otherwise really shouldn't consider all that important.
A survivor's voice breaks as he holds up an enlarged sepia-tone of his mother who happened to die on this date in 1944, "burned in Auschwitz." He wishes to begin his testimony this way, in abrupt opposition to the routine which the interviewer and the videographer are about to fall into. Our little white-haired man donning a black kippa, lost in his short-sleeved button down shirt, defiantly holds up the photo - with apparent great awareness that the camera is rolling - that this is his great opportunity to memorialize his mother. But is he also somehow paying tribute to something else? Or is it just what my emotions and experiences impose upon this? I know it sounds lofty, and I think secretly to myself; he's lighting a candle in memory of the Jewish People of Europe.
The testimony is full with asides, irrelevant to the history, and yet central to the picture of history; that which is through the *prism of personal experience. The inventor of television set out to create a new device which would excite and change the way we communicate, educate and entertain, though his life ended in near despair due to the fallen nature of his revolutionary toy. But in this case, I believe that Philo T. Farnsworth would be proud. The pause, the deep breath, the change in smile - visual history. It is the timing, the micro-expressions, the story which can function on so many levels - it has made every last dollar spent on this project a huge bargain.
I have a dear friend who takes pleasure in making sport of any and all institutional memory of the Holocaust - and it is my cultural prerogative to both agree with him, and to simultaneously fetch his comments upon the heap of denial and flotsam that make up some growing component of modern Judaism. And yet the reason he is on the money with his ascerbic remarks is because he knows that what was destroyed - the diaspora civilization centered upon study, the pursuit of justice, and the fetishization of the search for meaning, and all the flawed realities of a civilization insulated (unsuccessfully) by a millenium of coexistense, headed for the flames - none of this is the focus of mass and public preservation, by and large. At least that is what I glean from his ire. My friend likes to make fun, because he's painfully aware that subjects such as this taste better when marinated in sarcasm.
In his short story "A Friend of Kafka," Isaac Bashevis Singer states that those who walk into history often do so in clumsy boots. I'm not sure how tight or form fitting Mr. Spielberg's actual footwear is (though I suspect it's a perfect fit). Regardless however, the scholars, cataloguers, resentful mobs, neo-nazis, and the other would-be candidates in the mass hierarchies of suffering - all undoubtedly wish they had even a pair of forgotten galoshes to carry them to their sofas where they might take a moment to perhaps recall their mother's stew recipe or ruminate over a fateful trip to the market. Steven has given back to each of his interviewees a set of wooden clogs - these are lined with velvet.
*Immanuel Ringleblum - on" The Oneg Shabbat Archive," created in the Warsaw Ghetto
Stah Vaws
I cry when I watch a Star Wars film on the screen. I could negatively cite some reasons I do this; for example I do this not because I love Mark Hammil nor to show my great affection for the Dykstraflex camera system for that matter. No. I cry because of all that I associate with Star Wars - the innocence of being in fifth grade, seeing that trailer for the first time; those quick clips of Chewbacca screaming, Vader as he turns his head toward the camera, and so on. My friends and I were completely mesmerized and overwhelmed with the "omigosh, what is that!?!?!?" feeling which the trailer elicited. And to top it off, the movie delivered. It was quite simply a quantum leap in filmmaking. I cry because it works in its simple, 10 million dollar budget, scrappy way. It was an extraordinary moment which George Lucas seized upon. And both charmingly and effectively, where he didn't have the time, money or technology to pull off some trick, he made due - and it worked.
In fact, that is one of the reasons it worked so well. Because where his team artfully juxtaposed, say the large mock up of a Duback (completing the illusion that this was a real place, and that these things do exist without having to show them lumbering along) with a shot of C-3PO complaining that Jawas are disgusting creatures - that's all we needed in order to have history, time, and story meld into one marvelous illusion. He made the most important step in filmmaking the last 30 years by turning film from a two-dimensional into a 3-dimensional experience. Of course it's his choice to make the film over into what he dreamed. In fact I think he did so because he lost track of what was truly magical and yes, important about Star Wars. He overcooked the proverbial sauce. It's spicier now, but it doesn't taste as good.
In my opinion he could have done two, no three things: 1) digitally remove the pancake makeup from the chest plate on Han Solo's uniform in the detention block scene, 2) lift out that silly little medium shot of Vader's mimed gesticulation to Tarkin, and finally 3) clean up those frames where Obi-Wan's light saber 'shuts off' during the final duel with Vader. That's all it really needed. But then again, one doesn't create hoopla over fix-up and touch-up scenes. And does any one of us really need the newly concocted, annoying little robot interaction when the landspeeder whizzes into Mos Eisly? Feh! That's not what Star Wars was about. No way. This is about moolah!
In fact, that is one of the reasons it worked so well. Because where his team artfully juxtaposed, say the large mock up of a Duback (completing the illusion that this was a real place, and that these things do exist without having to show them lumbering along) with a shot of C-3PO complaining that Jawas are disgusting creatures - that's all we needed in order to have history, time, and story meld into one marvelous illusion. He made the most important step in filmmaking the last 30 years by turning film from a two-dimensional into a 3-dimensional experience. Of course it's his choice to make the film over into what he dreamed. In fact I think he did so because he lost track of what was truly magical and yes, important about Star Wars. He overcooked the proverbial sauce. It's spicier now, but it doesn't taste as good.
In my opinion he could have done two, no three things: 1) digitally remove the pancake makeup from the chest plate on Han Solo's uniform in the detention block scene, 2) lift out that silly little medium shot of Vader's mimed gesticulation to Tarkin, and finally 3) clean up those frames where Obi-Wan's light saber 'shuts off' during the final duel with Vader. That's all it really needed. But then again, one doesn't create hoopla over fix-up and touch-up scenes. And does any one of us really need the newly concocted, annoying little robot interaction when the landspeeder whizzes into Mos Eisly? Feh! That's not what Star Wars was about. No way. This is about moolah!
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