Happy Birthday Chuck

It’s Chuck Berry’s birthday. He’s eighty. Happy birthday Chuck, you magnificent mean weird wonderful hack genius AMERICAN.

He’s all those things, surely. And not American. AMERICAN. Only America could possibly produce such as he. The rest of the world loved him, of course, but they could never cobble together a guy like him. The Europeans sent us a bronze broad to stand in our granite harbor, perhaps so something familiar would be standing there when they bolted that dusty museum they inhabit and finally got here. We sent them Chuck Berry records as a way to show them: This is how we roll.

If you read Chuck’s bios, you’re bound to find people desperately trying to minimize and pooh-pooh his criminal background. The gun he used in a carjacking was broken, so it doesn’t matter… Don’t buy it. Chuck is what he is, and never really made any bones about it. He really was kinda mean and edgy and hypersexual and avaricious and pushy and grasping and grabby. Who cares? He went to jail occasionally, and that was that. Chuck had a chip on his shoulder after he got out of jail, but then again, he had one before he went in too. It doesn’t matter.

Chuck Berry is important in the context of the 1950s. He was a big star in the sixties, too, because a whole lot of British bands adored him and mimicked him. He made a little money in the seventies by making a fool of himself with songs like My Ding-A-Ling— simply dreadful, and not very fun, really, for a novelty tune. After a while, Chuck just showed up in varying states of sobriety, with an untuned guitar, plugged it in, then blasted away with an endless procession of ad-hoc bands he didn’t have to pay or acknowledge –sometimes a few Beatles or Stones, sometimes a bar band–he didn’t seem to acknowledge the difference — just cashed the checks all the same. But the fifties; man, he defined America in the 1950s. Forget Elvis.

I offered that video with the underwater sound to show you what the fuss was about. Look at him. The stage is too small for him, and the world is his stage. America was the most important thing in the world at the turn of the twentieth century, but no one knew it. It took World War I to show what paper tigers the european empires were. America shirked the big mantle, and avoided its responsibilities as a great power until the hakenkreuz and the rising sun were waved right in our faces. So we shrugged and rolled up our sleeves and pounded the world flat again — the way we liked it. And the Soviets stood there after, leering over half the globe, and said they would bury us.

There was the sobriety of Eisenhower. The muscle of the finned cars rolling off the assembly lines. The educated children newly minted by the public school. There was Jonas Salk and a million others who beat not only microbes, but fear of sickness itself. Hollywood gilded the country in pictures, and then gilded itself. There were things raucus and fun and serious and thoughtful bubbling out of the radio, and eventually the TV. Broadway shone like a thousand Folies Bergere.

And Chuck Berry, from the center of our universe: Saint Louis, stood up like a man and looked you straight in the eye –fearless. He was full of optimism and bonhomie and his own brand of charm. I’ll strut, thank you, like the peacock I am. He didn’t wink or pinch, he winked and pinched, and meant it. No idle threats, no meaningless boasts. Chuck don’t flirt. Chuck asks flat out with a twinkle in his eye and an angel on his shoulder and the devil in his heart. And he’d put up his fists if you wanted it, and laugh with you after,too–when you were beaten.

Bury us? We Berryed you.

Motorheads

You guys don’t understand Rock music.

That’s OK. You don’t know how you’d fare in prison because you watch Oz, either. You’re a consumer. That’s fine. Well, I was a producer for a while, in a little way, and I worked with lots of other varied producers of your rock and roll entertainment, and I’d like to sing the praises of a certain type of guitar hero: The motorhead.

No, not MotorHead. That’s a band. They have an inexplicable umlaut in their name I can’t be bothered to add. No, I mean motorheads. Watch the Grand Funk Railroad video. Those are motorheads.

You see, rock music wasn’t all sissies like David Bowie and Peter Frampton and so forth. And it wasn’t all pseudo intellectuals like Yes and Sting. It wasn’t all escapees from Broadway or the music hall like the Beatles or Elton John or Queen. It wasn’t all three chord cowboys- all hat no cattle –like the Eagles. It was guys from shop class. It was motorheads.

They were good at sports, but wouldn’t play on teams because they didn’t give a fig. They liked two-stroke engines, took apart LED watches, and had jobs when they were sixteen. They bent sheet metal for the HVAC guy, or did body work in a garage, while you were home watching TV. They had mini-bikes and guns for toys when they were little kids while you were playing Clue. They were shaving, or needed shaving was more likely, when you still had your mother’s face. They had a sunny, easygoing disposition, got Ds in everything in high school, and got all the girls the football players didn’t vacuum up. And a lot of the ones they did, eventually.

It was all because they were good at math and music, they were masculine, and they could play rock music. Their music, whether copied from others or home-made, was raucous and lively and manly and fun and brash and direct and unaffected. They weren’t sexual as a pose. They weren’t pretending to like pretty girls by the armload.

I’m not paying attention closely anymore. I don’t know if there are people like this around anymore. I can’t think of any. They never whined, so no grunge, thanks. They never committed suicide, because they were happy all the damn time, so no Cobainiacs need apply. They’d never dress up, so that leaves out the Ozzie wannabes.

Oh well. I’m Rock and Roll Darwin, and I’m here to assure you: These dinosaurs once roamed the earth. And they were a blast.

More Hysterical Fiction

[Editor’s Note: This story was written to accompany a candle shelf, a common item in colonial America, sort of our forebear’s wall sconce. I’ve used real people and places, but it’s fiction. Any man that has called on his sweetheart knows that being fiction, it’s a long way from being fictional.]
{Author’s Note: There is no editor.}

From Wethersfield we went out, about half an hour before sunrising, for Quabaug. We lost our way in the snow, which hindered us some hours. Having neither house nor wigwam at hand, we lay in the woods all night. Through mercy, we arrived in health to the proceedings. JosephBradford, appraiser, had begun calling out the Probate Inventory of our beloved departed Obadiah Dickinson, father of my bride, recently deceased of apoplexy in the yeare of our Lord 1750.

My bride was in distress, and Mr Bradford, spake quickly, and the words tumbled out and gathered and split asunder again without warning, and we were content to let them go past without signifying. Mr Bradford paused, with force, and called my name most clearly, and approached to take my hand. He placed in my hand six coins, of no value, worn and dirty with much handling.

“It was the earnest desire of Mr Dickinson that these be returned to you, sir. “

I was adrift.

“I know not of these coins, sir. That cannot be returned which was never given. “
My wife pressed my arm, and looked at me with with such emotion, I did not spake further, hoping until such time as she could explain this mystery.

For my wife’s father, who was a good man, and true, did not care for such as myself. He tolerated me only, and watched over his girl as a bear watches his cub. I felt always his look over my shoulder, even betimes he was not present.

We hired a team to bring such belongings as were meet over the frozen Connecticut River to our lodgings, Methinks the villein charged more than the lot was worth to transport them, but he avowed he would not hear the frozen river cracking under each footfall for less than a treasure. My wife could not do without what little was left of her father, and I grudgingly gave way.

“Why should your Pater, who knew no rest in minding me, make me this present? He did not care for me.”

“You are harsh, Caleb, and wrong in the bargain.”

“I speak the truth, woman, Bless his soul, but he did not care for me. He has given me this trifle to shame me afore the appraiser.”

“Nay, Caleb, they are your coins, and it is his love which it displays, not scorn.”

“How can this be?”

“You are older now Caleb, and forget the things of your youth. But my father, and I, did not forget.”

“What do I forget?”

“You would call on me Caleb, with your hair in place and your clothes brushed. “

“Yes?”

“And my father would let us sit alone in the room, while he smoked outside; do you remember?”

“Just so; I had forgotten.”

“Father would say he would come back inside when the candle flame could not be seen on the candle shelf anymore.”

“Through mercy! I would put the coins under the candle to raise it up and prolong the time. “

“Yes Caleb. He knew. And now it is time you knew- Father did not smoke.”

Business 101

I’m not in the advice business. I’m willing to talk about what I’m doing. That’s different.

I have no formal business training. I’m not sure it matters much. It would be nice if they could train you to be able to run something effectively right out of the gate, but it seems unlikely. All the advice I got from business educated persons while running businesses wasn’t just worthless, it was actively bad.

It may be because I’ve always been in the construction industry, more or less. It’s different in many respects from other industries. When I went to college, there was no such thing as Construction Management. It was a blue collar profession right to the top.

I read Adam Smith and F. A. Hayek to get the big picture. I have no use for Keynesians or Marxists. Keynes says bang on the side of the TV to get a good picture. Marx says steal the TV, and then break it so no one can watch it. Then we’ll all be happy. The world doesn’t work that way. As far as getting the small picture, I just paid attention. I’ve learned some harsh lessons along the way, but never as bad as educated persons did alongside me. I’ve seen some colossal errors made due to hubris. I just plug away, generally. I’ve always made the most money doing things most everyone thought was crazy when I began. I could fit it on one page in pencil and all the numbers added up. That kind of crazy.

I have absolutely no use for show-biz management. Lee Iacocca and Donald Trump and all those guys with the laser pointers and the Rah Rah speech couldn’t find their ass with a map and flashlight in the real world. They either build houses of cards and sell them before the wind blows, or allow you to point a camera at them while they run things into the ground for amusement. That’s why they’re telling you how to do it at $450.00 a ticket in a seminar. It beats working.

When I was working at a large commercial construction company, every once in a while, I’d be sitting in a meeting room with a fat sheath of figures of doubtful accuracy and utility, pressed into my hand by some inkstained wretch who had the BIG ANSWER. Move things from column A to column H, and all would be well. Institute Protocol F to counter Bad Behavior M and we’ll lay in the clover. Make Target X and Bank C will give us a toaster.

“You do realize that something happens outside of this building, don’t you?” I’d ask.

These gentlemen thought that the building of large and complicated things out in the landscape from Canada to Florida and Martha’s Vineyard to Sausalito existed simply to give them figures to Rubik around on their desktop. They did not realize that they existed to support the actual operation. They thought they were the actual operation. Everyone in the government makes this same mistake, 25 hours a day, 11 days a week, by the way. A quarter of a billion dollars was going through that business a year. Very few of my colleagues had ever seen one bit of it generated.

They ran that place into the ground.

I was a middle manager. I helped make them a lot of money while everyone else lost it by the bushel. They hired consultants to restructure, and the consultants were instructed to ask me how I did it. I sat in front of them and got the same feeling an ugly puppy must get when the vivisectionist visits the dog pound. Some things are not amenable to being pulled apart for inspection. The components only work when they are working together.

I told them I didn’t do anything. I let other people do it. I told them that when the customers called, we always answered the phone, and asked them what they wanted. I told the estimators to accurately determine what it would cost us to perform the required work. I submitted the bids on time and told the customer I wanted the job. If they said someone else was cheaper I instructed them to hire them, and to please keep us in mind for the future. I kept accurate track of how we were doing, and made sure we charged for all the work we performed. And I directed that we deliver the jobs on-time no matter what. When I ran out of one kind of work, I looked for work that was similar to the kind we already knew how to do. I hired good people and I trusted them, while expecting a lot from them.

That was it. They seemed disappointed. They were looking for a slogan of some sort, I think. They promoted me, and I left.

I’m trying every day to make the thing I made yesterday, only better. Or faster. Better and faster is even better. If I can’t make money at it, I am disinterested in giving a congressman $1000 to get a set-aside for me, or a law passed against my competition. I’ll do something else. The market is wise because the market is everybody’s wisdom together. The market will tell me what to do. The customers tell me what to do. I listen imperfectly, because I am imperfect, but I get it eventually. I’m going too slow, and doing a poor job, but it’s always getting better.

I show up every day, and work as hard and as smart as I can. I’ve been told that this pays off in the long run.

Who told me that? Why, everyone that has nothing to do with the government, a university, or a newspaper or television, that’s who.

Take The Sippican Cottage Parenting Test

I’m an OK parent. I’ve seen really good parents. I’m not them.

I am A Parent, though. There is a pass/fail aspect to it, and I defy any person to say I don’t pass. I think that many parents fail because they are not satisfied with passing; they are determined to be THE BEST PARENT EVAR. And they mess up their kids trying.

There is only one way to demonstrate that you are THE BEST PARENT EVAR – your kid must be Bruce Lee/ Buzz Aldrin/ Tom Brady/ Albert Einstein/ Steve Jobs. Unless of course you’ve got a female of the species, you know, the ballerina/astronaut/CEO/oarswoman/scholar/runway model. There will be no finger painting. You will learn Mandarin Chinese while listening to Bach fugues and eating free range organic watercress sandwiches and drinking only water collected from terne metal gutters from French cathedrals, while waiting for your violin lessons to start.

While wearing a helmet.

I’m not THE BEST PARENT EVAR. My children get three squares a day, and can read and write after a fashion, and their peers don’t point and giggle after they walk by, and other parents ask their children: “Why don’t you invite that Sullivan boy over, he’s nice and polite.” They sleep all night in their beds untroubled by adult cares. We don’t watch slasher movies together. They go outdoors occasionally. They won’t get mumps or whooping cough because they have THE BEST PARENT EVAR who won’t let them be immunized because immunization leads to being average! Like everybody else!

NO WIRE HANGARS!

Sorry, I was channeling a bit. My kids are not extraordinary. You know, like Michael Jackson or The Olsen Wraiths…oops I meant Twins, or Paris Hilton or River Phoenix or Screech or Danny Bonaduce or Gary Coleman or … well, you get the picture.

Anyway, I’d like to set your mind at ease. Take the Sippican Cottage Parenting test. Don’t worry, it’s Pass/Fail. Watch the following video. If it doesn’t look like you and your children, then you’re probably fine.

How’d you do? I thought so.

I wonder how many kids that woman had before she started the act.