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We Are Not All Howard Beale Now

March 22, 2013 16 Comments

You must understand I am capable of galvanic rage.

That is probably news to most, if not all of my readers and friends. I’m not talking about cutting remarks on message boards after midnight, either. I mean real, bad, spittle-flecked rage. There are very few things that truly matter to me, but they matter to me a great deal. And I am very slow to anger, but there is no end to it when it’s unleashed.

I don’t act like that on the Intertunnel, and I try not to act like that off it, either, but I fail often enough. Many people are very blase on the Intertunnel, although they have very strong opinions. Often it is because they are shielded from real privation. They won’t miss any meals if X passes the Y law. Many bloggers have sinecures, and while it doesn’t always make them mellow, it does make them sort of ambivalent about the things that they rail about. I’ve observed outrage as a kind of hobby for decades now. It’s tiresome to me. The professional doesn’t listen to amateurs. Robespierre wouldn’t read Andrew Sullivan.

I live at the edge of the economic map, and several other maps, including the actual map. We’re cutting edge cave people here. People tell me that my life seems odd and occasionally wonderful to them. It seems that way to me, too, although it is too demanding on my wife and children to suit me. But I would not trade our life for cable TV. But if the DJIA or Congress sneezes, we get pneumonia.

I’d make an excellent Savonarola. I could build a pulpit and rail from it with the best of them. I’d give you the finger while you burned me in the Piazza della Signoria, too, because I’m an Irishman as well as an Italian. But I can’t bring myself to do it. I must not rage. I’m tired of manifestos everywhere.

My god, everything is a manifesto. You can read any innocuous news story on Yahoo and there are 3000 comments after it and 2500 of them are manifestos and the other 500 are plain screeds. Every gathering, real or virtual, is a pretext to launch into a description of the New World Order everyone’s going to install right after they’re made God-Emperor by acclamation, by virtue of the excellent manifesto they left in the comments after a story on The Frisky about this year’s bikini styles. Everyone so desperately wants to be Howard Beale. I really sort of am Howard Beale. I don’t want to be Howard Beale. I certainly don’t want to watch amateurs try their hand at it. I’m a pro. Born to the purple — prose.

I put my children on the Intertunnel. A thing fraught with peril. But they are the product of the best of my self, and my wife’s best efforts. They are a very long prayer released into the ether. One does not pray as if God is a vending machine; put a wish in the slot, and out comes the candy. You offer it up for its own sake.

My sons’ video showed up in so many places I’m afraid to start naming them because I’ll forget some and offer an unstudied insult to those omitted. I swear I saw them everywhere these last few days — almost.

Nowhere where bad people are. Nowhere where Howard Beale reigns. I saw them in places where decent, hard-working, put-upon people congregate. I saw them where  people recognize something of the potential in persons not given over to the depravity of the general culture. People who know the difference between civilization and barbarism. People that value effort. Like progress. Think about the future.

I saw all the supportive and pleasant things that were said. The encouragement offered. The attention paid to two little boys who doggedly try despite obscurity and hardship. People reached in their pockets to help them, to support them, to let them know that there is more than a world of Howard Beales outside their practice room. I’m immensely grateful for it, but so much more than that. You’ve restored my faith in my fellow man, which I must admit was running on fumes. Thank you all, from the bottom of my heart.

There are nice people everywhere, if you will but look. I’m glad we did.

Double-Take Five

March 18, 2013 26 Comments

Hmmm. What’s a father to say about this one?

I’m not exactly sure where it came from. My children have heard Take Five a million times in our house, of course. We’re catholic in our tastes, and Brubeck is a staple in the audio stable of anyone that’s not a barbarian. But this is not our –my wife and I, I mean –idea.

It’s the kids’ idea to play it. We homeschool the kids. Well, my wife homeschools the kids, and I try not to mess it up too badly. Take a big bite, and keep chewing, we counsel them. This seems more than a big bite to me. I’ve watched it dozens of times already. I find it kind of astonishing. But better than that –I find it entertaining. I’ll put this version of Take Five on my mp3 player and erase the original, and never look back.

The Heir is doing all the heavy lifting. He is playing three parts on the recording. He has learned to play the bass fairly well, even though he only recently started messing around with it. He tried to cajole a handful of his friends to play along with him, but they all fall out almost immediately. He decided to do it himself. With the help of my readers, he’s able to record multiple tracks now, and makes the most of it. It’s a tiny little thing, his multitrack. But it works. He recorded the rhythm guitar part along with his brother, in one take, and then added the bass, and then the melody and the solo. His little brother never misses, so he gets to go back to playing Minecraft right away.

I know him, the Spare Heir. He’s thinking of playing Minecraft the whole time he’s playing Take Five. I’m certain of that, because I remarked to him, after the last cymbal strike decayed into hiss and the recorder was turned off, that I thought he played really well, and he looked at me funny and immediately started in with: My Minecraft mod has such-and-such and so-and-so in it and blah, blah, blah…

Honestly, I don’t know how he does it. He’s still only nine. I can’t play Take Five properly on the drums. There is no one in Oxford County, Maine, that can, probably. It’s in odd meter: 5/4. If you’re unfamiliar with that term, watch it again and count the beats as the measures go by. You’re probably used to doing that. 1 2 3 4, you go. Count 1 2 3 4 5 for this song. It’s how the song got its name, of course. The saxophone player in Brubeck’s band, Paul Desmond wrote the song, which was mightily overlooked when Brubeck passed away a short time ago. Everyone assumed Brubeck had written it.

At any rate, the big one learned to play the saxophone part on the guitar, and they tried it out. The little feller played what was essentially the correct drumbeat by ear. Sat down and did it. I sat down after him, a little curious, and tried it myself. I sounded like I had some sort of affliction, and was falling down the stairs while playing the drums. I jerked around like a fish on a line for a while, then gave up. I mentioned to the boy that what he was playing would be more effective if he opened his hi-hat on the second beat and closed it crisply on the third, to make it sizzle. He immediately added that to what he was playing, further confounding me. It’s very prominent on their recording if you look for it. That’s the limit of my input into the playing.

Yesterday was special. I promised my wife, and the kids, that for the first time in three years, I’d take a day off. A real day off. No furniture. No writing. I’ve promised that in the past, many times, and always failed. I wrote everything the day before, and didn’t bang my thumb or anything in the woodshop. I volunteered to be their key grip.

We took the furniture out of the dining room, and lugged their stuff in there, and we set up two ladders. Between the ladders, we laid two, eight-foot two-by-fours. We got the two-by-fours from the dump. We took a skateboard, and clamped a video camera to it with two spring clamps from the woodshop. Then I rolled the skateboard back and forth while the kids played. We moved the ladders this way and that for the different shots. We didn’t bother filming the bass playing. My wife was out all day on a mission of mercy, and we boys re-enacted The Cat In The Hat, tearing the house asunder while Mom’s away, and putting it all back, and doing all the dishes before she got home.

It was, in every way but one, the best day of my life.

(There’s a Paypal button in the right column if you want to help us buy the kids a better skateboard for the dolly shots)

[Update: Holy cow, many thanks to Stephen L. for his generous bang on the tipjar!]

[Up-Update: Many thanks to (Sloop) Jon B. in Cholerahdi for helping the kids out!]

[More Up To Date: Many thanks to Philip B. from Yucca Val-E!]

[The continuing saga of Updates: Thanks a ton to Nathan A. with an M.O. from MO.]

[In this episode of As The 45 Turns, we send a metric carload of thanks to Bruce W. from CO for his very generous body-slam of the Paypal button. Stay away from the Donner Pass, Bruce; the world needs you]

[Cutting-edge Update: Many thanks go out to Kathleen M. from New Milford, which is obviously a much better place than Old Milford, because Kathleen M. lives in New Milford]

[Rocky Update: Why are people in Colorado so nice, and nice to us? It’s a wonderful mystery. Thanks, Mark M. from Leadville for your very generous Paypal button workout]

[More Up-To-Date Update: Muchas gracias to Tanis E. for supporting the boys. Very generous! Why are people in Texas so kind, and kind to us? We don’t know, but we’re grateful for it.]

[Update: Maine edition: Tom C. from Bridgton sends along a generous and neighborly show of support. Many thanks!]

[Lone Star Update: Holy cow, Texas has adopted my children. Many thanks to Linda L. from League City. You’re a peach!]

[Empire State Uppadate: Arthur R. from Bellport is a pleasant and generous fellow, and we’re grateful for it. Many thanks!]

[Up, Up, and Awaydate: I’m speechless. Well-wishes and support keeps coming. Impresario Dave R. from California is continually generous and helpful. Many thanks! ]

[More, More, Moredate: Lee P. from the Keystone State is a generous supporter. Many thanks!]

[California, Somemoredate: Long time reader and commenter and Interfriend Lorraine, who I do not like — I adore her — ladles money and good wishes on the boys, and me too. My life is better with Lorraine in it. Many thanks!]

[Week Later Update: Our grateful thanks go out to Peter H. from the North Star State for his generous help and support!]

[So Very Up Update: Many thanks to Signe from Coasta Meysee for supporting the boys!]

A Born Lever Puller

March 11, 2013 16 Comments

I must admit I look forward to these videos overmuch. The boys do them entirely by themselves now. Sometimes I hear them being made, and get a good idea of what the finished product might sound like while it’s still an unthrown pot. Other times, I’m working in the shop with everything humming and banging, and I get it sprung on me the same way you do. I have to remind myself not to meddle. It’s deuced difficult. I got out of bed this morning, eager to open my browser and see this video for the first time. The Heir compiled it last night, after he and his brother recorded it yesterday afternoon. I do believe a stranger could be entertained by them.

The little feller is still only nine. He deserves ever so much less credit for his efforts than his big brother. Big brother has painstakingly learned everything you see here, on his own, mostly. The little feller is just a wonder. He can play the drums as unwaveringly as a professional adult can. This is not a father’s opinion. I played for money with lots of professional drummers. Maybe one or two of them were better than he is right now, in the only way that matters: the ability and willingness to play something suitable, steadily, while accompanying other people. When you see videos of really young drum phenoms on YouTube, they’re generally playing along by rote with a (bad)recording, not other humans. That’s data entry, not music. Not many of them, and even fewer of their parents, have much of an idea of them ever entertaining an audience by being musical. It’s just Can You Top This. Music is not weightlifting. The world’s gone crazy and The Gong Show has replaced Carnegie Hall. You’re supposed to be entertained, not impressed, anyway.

I do believe the little feller deserves to be called a musician. His big brother certainly does. Their father and mother are very proud of them.  There’s a PayPal tip jar in the right-hand column if you want to show them some love. But I’m warning you right now — no matter how much money you send them, I’m not buying them saxophones.

[Update: Barbara M. sent along a generous donation to buy saxophones for the kids. Oh Jayzuz, not saxophones. A saxophone is just a flute with emphysema, and I don’t like flutes either. But I love Barbara!]

[Upside-Update: Dave R, who dared the kids to start this whole thing, is very generous with his moolah and his suggestions and expertise. Many thanks! Kathleen M is relentlessly generous. Many thanks! Melissa K is amazingly generous and we’re very, very grateful for it. Many thanks to everyone that watches, and comments, and hits the tip jar]

[Once Upponna Update: Thanks to Sarah R. for helping the boys out! ]

It Does, Indeed, Sound Pretty Snazzy

March 10, 2013 7 Comments

My nine-year-old is unusual.

He does get up to things. He has a force field when he needs one. Look right at you and betrays no emotion if he feels like it. He goes and finds things. He makes things and I don’t know how he did it. I ask him how he did it, and … oops — force field. He’ll offer explanations of very complex behaviors as things like,”I just thought of it in my mind.” Oh.

I’m trying to work all the time, and so he is mostly like an asteroid that whizzes by. He’s my Van Allen Belt and suspenders. I hear his beeping, Dopplering past me. When I capture him and question him closely about anything, it’s always worth the effort.

There was music coming out of the dining room this morning. It’s the only warm room in the house in a shoulder season morning. He sits at a little desk and constructs universes with Minecraft and eats a muffin his mom made him. He’s fashioned a little soundtrack for himself that plays along in the background. I think it’s Spotify, but what the hell do I know? I found it amusing to hear Dave Brubeck come out of there, then The Mayor of Simpleton, of all things. Then something funky and greazy and infectious and sophisticated and adult and borderline decadent came percolating out of there. Jayzuz, son, what are you up to in there?

-What is that music you’re listening to?
-It’s the Italian Secret Service.
-Who told you about the Italian Secret Service?
-I was just looking around and it sounded kinda snazzy, so I saved it.
-Did you just say it sounded “snazzy”?
-Yes. Do you want to watch the fireworks display I put in my Minecraft build?
-No. I mean, yes. I mean, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I mean, sure. Where did you learn the word “snazzy?”
-I was just looking around…

Happy Ballantine’s Day

February 13, 2013 8 Comments

My nine-year-old gets up to stuff. He told the funniest joke I ever heard, at the dinner table the other night.

That wasn’t it. The joke, I mean. We’ve been reading Aesop’s Fables fairly regularly. I see the format has sunk in. I thought you might be hard up for a Valentine Card at the last minute, so you can print it out and give it to your beloved. It’s not really a Valentine’s Card, but you can’t afford to be fussy at this late date.

My son sneaks into my office when I’m working in the shop, and he uses the Photodraw utility. He doesn’t have it on his computer. He only has Paint, so Photodraw is like access to a supercomputer to him. But then again, Da Vinci smeared paint on a board with a paint brush made from squirrel-hair. You wanna know why the Mona Lisa is smiling?  She knows the most famous painting in the world is being executed using roadkill, so she couldn’t help smiling quietly to herself. Road kill on a stick isn’t exactly high tech. But then again, very few people are truly limited by their tools. They just find it convenient to blame them.

Oh yes; the joke. I used to think the funniest joke ever was:

Q: Why did the monkey fall out of the tree?
A: I don’t know. Why did the monkey fall out of the tree?
Q; Because it was dead.

That was even funnier than telling people about your dog that has no nose. But it’s not the funniest joke ever — not any more it isn’t. My son absolutely eclipsed the old one. Put it in the shade, as they say. Killed it.

Would you like me to tell it to you? I will, if you want me to. Give me some sort of sign here.

OK. Here goes:

We were eating dinner together. My wife says, “Hey, the Pope quit.” My older son says, “Being the Pope must make it hard to get a job doing anything else after you quit. I mean, what exactly does a Pope know how to do?” And then the little feller said, “Maybe he could get a job as a window washer.”

There was a pause. Maybe five or ten seconds by the clock. Then he held up his little hand, and waved it gently back and forth.

We’ll get the food off the walls in there eventually.

Nota Bene: Never fear, Sippican Cottage readers; I’ll beat that little turd like an orphan in a Dickens novel over his spelling mistakes.

Tag: The Spare Heir

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sippicancottage

A Man Who Has Nothing In Particular To Recommend Him Discusses All Sorts of Subjects at Random as Though He Knew Everything.

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