Some of us are drawn to the ocean...

Karaoke and Cover Bands

I'm a snob sometimes. At least about some things. I'm less of a beer snob than I once was. I've actually enjoyed Coors Light. Well... "enjoyed" may be too strong a word. I've tolerated Coors Light. On those rare occasions when having any beer was better than having no beer at all, I've cracked open a can and consumed every horrendous drop.

Of course, it had to be done in ninety seconds or less. Allowing it to warm up by more than a few degrees before you finish it reminds you that you are drinking something that, at room temperature, tastes like the runoff from a chicken coop.

I've mostly gotten over the beer snobbery, partly because there have been times when a "lesser" beer has been offered to me, and, beggars can't be choosers, right?

But I'm still a snob about karaoke and cover bands. I'm not a fan.

The problem with karaoke is that most people can't sing. In fact, many people shouldn't sing. EVER. Three cocktails doesn't make it better. Neither does five. If, when sober, your singing voice sounds like kittens being stabbed to death with a dull pencil, I can assure you, being drunk doesn't solve the problem.

People tell me that it's just a fun thing to do when you're out with friends. Get up and sing. And have fun living out a momentary fantasy of being a musician. Why is it that no one wants to live out a fantasy of being a mime?

Once, while sitting at the Stained Glass Pub in Silver Spring, Maryland, an acquaintance of mine who worked there saw me wincing at the sound of the weekly Wednesday karaoke in the room next door. After a few minutes, he walked over to me, appearing very serious. He looked left and right before he leaned to speak in my ear.

"Outside of the NSA and the CIA," he whispered, "I'm one of the very few who know that karaoke is long-term, covert payback for Hiroshima and Nagasaki."

I laughed hysterically.

For the most part, I dislike cover bands too. For those of you who don't know, a "cover band" is a group of musicians that performs songs written by other musicians. We've all seen the fifty-somethings who spend their Friday nights pretending they are Mick Jagger or Van Morrison.

I'll admit, there are some cover bands that have honed their technical skills to a fairly high level. And there are some who play cover gigs just to make a few bucks, meet chicks, and get free booze while working behind the scene to craft their own material. That's great. But most of them are just guys who dream about being Bono or Eric Clapton while scurrying to keep up with the orders in the Taco Bell drive-thru. Ok, maybe that was a bit harsh. Maybe.

The bottom line with karaoke and cover bands is that, in both cases, it's merely copying something that someone else has already done. And coming up with those ideas in the first place is the really hard part. Especially those ideas that are so catchy and memorable that others want to imitate them for decades afterward.

Part of my karaoke and cover band snobbery stems from a simple, long-time appreciation of great music. I was one of those that would buy a record and sit and listen to it from start to finish while reading the liner notes. I spent many thousands of hours listening and absorbing.

And some of my snobbery comes from the time I spent working in radio, concert promotion and artist management, particularly from the years that I spent booking local shows for so many aspiring young bands. Hundreds of them. And I listened to many hundreds more demos that were sent to me along the way. Some of them were really, truly good. And most of those bands will never get to play a venue bigger than a dark, smoky club. If they're lucky, maybe it will have a few lights and a decent PA system.

The music industry often ignores real talent in favor of something they can package and sell with ease. But that's an entirely different story. Just believe me, there are many gifted people making really good original music that most of us never hear.

The remaining portion of my karaoke and cover band snobbery comes from a life spent going to concerts - watching live music played by incredibly skilled and talented artists - both for personal reasons when I was younger and for professional reasons later on. When you've seen some really amazing performances, and heard songs done by the artists who wrote them and made them famous, it's hard to pretend anything less than that is really worth hearing.

The drunk lady sitting at the end of the bar can't cut it. Even with some nice, slick backing tracks. And the aging rock-star-wannabe doesn't cut it either. I have news for you. You're not Robert Plant. Not even close.

I thought of this the other day, when I was outside at the tiki bar of one of my favorite hang-outs. A cover band was playing, but I was sitting through it because I was chatting with a friend. We were having a long discussion about this very subject - karaoke and cover bands - when the band started playing "Walk This Way."

Continuing his effort to get me to admit that the band was decent, he said, "See? This is pretty good, right?"

I shook my head to let him know he was fighting a losing battle, and said, "Dude, I've seen Aerosmith do it."

Acid Logic

Note: I wrote this to read on stage at the Short Attention Span Storytelling Hour - a monthly event organized by the Writers of Central Florida or Thereabouts.


I’ve done drugs.

Not just once or twice. Lots of times. And lots of different ones.

Years ago, I tried various things – never any injectables, of course - but mostly found myself smoking pot. And we’re not talking about the Bill Clinton method of smoking pot. Oh no. I inhaled. Sometimes with great enthusiasm. Like a drowning man who’s suddenly bobbed to the surface.

The problem with pot was, for me, at least, it wasn’t a very social drug. I spent many thousands of hours high and listening to records. You know… vinyl LP’s. Sometimes with friends, but frequently by myself.

Did I benefit from it? I’d have to say yes. I currently work for a creative audio company writing and producing radio commercials and jingles. Before that, I worked in various roles in the radio and music businesses, and as a manager and consultant for rock bands. A substantial knowledge of rock, and an intuitive understanding of music structure – through years of exposure - certainly helped.

I eventually settled on alcohol as my drug of choice. As much as I was drawn to being in a marijuana-induced fog and listening to Pink Floyd, I was overtaken by other urges... like… the desire for female companionship. And alcohol was definitely better-suited to my social aspirations.

But there was a brief period of time - about a year - when I experimented with LSD. And, I think my life is better as a result.

Lysergic acid diethylamide – commonly called LSD – is a powerful hallucinogen. We called it acid. And taking acid was called “tripping.” Because it certainly was a journey.

Let me read part of an official description of its effects…

“Users experience radiant colors, objects and surfaces appearing to ripple or ‘breathe’, an altered sense of time, crawling geometric patterns overlaying walls and other objects, morphing objects, a sense that one's thoughts are spiraling into themselves, and loss of a sense of identity or ego.”

I have another way to describe it: temporary insanity.

There were times you weren’t sure you would ever come down. And other times you were simply incapable of thinking in linear fashion. There were just too many distractions. Some of them in the outside world. Some of them in your head.

I should also mention that, when we were tripping, we didn’t especially enjoy being around people who weren’t - unless we knew them well. We called them “real’ people – as in, “Oh man, we can’t go over there, there’s real people” - which just goes to show how disconnected from reality we could become.

But acid definitely produced moments of magic, no matter how unlikely they seemed.

Back when I was at the University of Florida, a friend and I drove to Orlando to see a concert at what was then the Tangerine Bowl. Incidentally, it was one of the better shows I’ve ever seen – Eric Burden and the Animals, the Fixx, and the Police. My friend was in a fraternity, and somehow we ended up with a car-full of sorority girls. I don’t recall how many.

The show was in October, just before Halloween. This is how I know… Because, when we got home, late at night, I saw that my friend, Chuck, was trying out his costume – a long, black robe, emblazoned with silver crescent moons and white stars… a tall, pointy, black hat… and a curved, gold shepherd’s staff. As we pulled up, he was standing… perfectly still… in the middle of this cone-shaped, yellow haze from the streetlight shining down in front of our house.

Bear in mind, this was back in the days before cell phones, and it was very late – probably three in the morning. And he would’ve had no idea when we’d be arriving. But… there he was.

I wondered what the heck was going on, and I began to suspect … that he was tripping.

As the cackling sorority girls started spilling out of the car, Chuck confirmed my suspicion when he came over to me and said, “Brian, I’m trippin’. Get these fucken’ people away from me.”

This episode demonstrates what I call “acid logic.” – because there’s no other suitable way to describe it. It’s something that makes no sense at all, normally, but, when you’re tripping, seems perfectly logical. Chuck had decided it would be a good idea to dress up - in a wizard suit - and stand - by himself - under a streetlight - in the middle of the night – just to see what it felt like.

Later, we figured out he’d probably spent two or three hours… just… standing there…

I enjoy it every time I picture that image. It’s a magic memory that will never leave me.

On another occasion, there was a roomful of us tripping at a friend’s house, and we were listening to an album by the progressive rock band “Yes” called “Close to the Edge.” A FANTASTIC album. Back in those days, in addition to the tone arm that held the needle as it moved across the record, many turntables had a pick-up arm that would shut it off when the album side finished playing. But if you didn’t put the pick-up arm in place, the album would repeat… pretty much… forever.

Now… if you’re not familiar with “Close to the Edge,” the title song takes up the entire first side. Somehow, someone put the album on, and we LOVED it! It’s great music for the acid-infused brain. But… whoever it was… forgot to push the pick-up arm into place. And, eventually, we realized we’d been listening to the same thing… for a LONG time.

Under normal circumstances, it’s hard enough to get five people in one room to agree on what music they want to hear. But… drop a little LSD into the mix, and it’s virtually impossible.

Each time Close to the Edge… got… close to the end, we’d begin a discussion about what album should be next. We all agreed we wanted to hear something that was just as good – which is difficult, because classic Yes is phenomenal.

We’d throw out some ideas… then lose our train of thought. The album would end. And then start over. Twenty-five minutes later…. Same thing.

I remember having several solid options. Thick as a Brick by Jethro Tull… Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band by the Beatles… The Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys by Traffic… All of them good choices, but, because we were tripping, we were simply unable to make such an important decision.

The album would end. And then start over. Twenty-five minutes later…. Same thing.

I’m not sure how many times in a row we listened to it, but, finally, I offered a solution. I said, “Let’s listen to something shitty so we won’t mind not hearing it again.“

That, ladies and gentlemen, is acid logic.

Let’s listen to something shitty so we won’t mind not hearing it again.

I have no idea if we ever chose another record. We spent half an hour laughing hysterically, and then quite some time after that trying to decide if what I had said was somehow profound… or just idiotic.

It made perfect sense to me at the time…

Those silly, but magical moments took on this significance in your memory – simply because they were so different – and so affected by the influence of this crazy chemical.

With acid, your mind worked in interesting ways. You could contemplate things… great and small… with equal fervor. Your mind could soar into beautiful places where you could visualize world peace, and be comforted by the harmony evident in all things natural.

Or, you could spend hours captivated by the texture of the carpet.

This pattern of going from the mundane to the monumental, and back, was particularly true for me, the one time I…. and this is a bit embarrassing… but… this was true the one time I had a bowel movement while I was tripping.

At first, I was horrified by the idea that my body could manufacture something so foul and frightening. My whole mood shifted to something that was completely contrary to the way I’d been feeling just before I wandered into the john. But, slowly, I began to see it as a process of creation. Proper. Pure. Almost… divine. I was amazed that my body had taken this… matter, and transformed it into this… other matter. And, knowing something about the laws of physics, I realized that this matter would exist forever, in one form or another. Possibly in some remote corner of the universe. And that it might grow and expand. I thought it MUST have cosmic significance.

But nobody seemed impressed when I went running out to tell them I was pretty sure I had just crapped a new galaxy.

Such is acid logic.

So, you might ask, how did I benefit from this madness? How is my life is better as a result?

First of all, although I have never and would never recommend LSD to anyone… we had a blast.

But, at this point, I should share another brief portion of an official description of its effects… Cuz this is fascinating…

“The drug sometimes leads to disintegration or restructuring of the user's historical personality, and creates a mental state that some users report allows them to have more choice regarding the nature of their own personality.”

That’s wild, right?

There’s a period of time after you trip – a day or two – when you’re trying to piece together who you were before. And there is this opportunity – if you embrace it - to at least think about becoming more like the person you want to be, rather than the person you are.

It’s possible that therein lies the reason some people have bad experiences with the drug, because, during that period of self-analysis, they discover that they are - in fact - assholes.

But I believe I learned to be open to new ways of thinking. To realize, that, in many cases, there is no absolute right or wrong. There just… IS.

 I learned that it’s important to maintain some perspective. When you can contemplate things – great and small – you realize that, while our existence is important to us, and, possibly, a few people around us, we really are just a tiny speck on a pebble spinning through the heavens. So we shouldn’t take ourselves too seriously.

I learned to try to enjoy the moment – every moment - as difficult as that sometimes seems. Because we really, truly never know for sure if it will be our last.

I learned that I have strengths. And I became willing to admit I have weakness.

I learned that I can be profound. And idiotic. Sometimes… simultaneously.

And, I thought a lot about love. True love. How lucky we are to have it within us to give. And to experience it, when given to us by others. Because it’s… amazing.

I had a breakthrough when I stopped trying to understand it. Because, what IS love, if not acid logic? Sometimes it makes no sense at all… But it’s magic when it happens.

Irrational Fears

As I am discussing with a friend the inevitable beach excursion that will occur at some point this weekend, the subject of sharks arises. Some people are so afraid of sharks that they won't even venture into the ocean. Others go in, but are too apprehensive and fearful to really enjoy themselves.

I think about sharks when I am in the ocean - which is often. I am in no way inclined to be reckless or oblivious, but, ultimately, the dread of shark attacks is one of those irrational fears that we need to put aside to really enjoy our time in the water.

I thought of this not long ago when, while on one of my many long strolls down the beach, I was stopped by a New Jersey man who looked truly miserable. He had deep red streaks on his shoulders, outlining what would have been the edge of the wifebeater he had apparently worn the day before - evidence that he was not a dilligent sunscreener - and he was engaged in some serious hand-wringing. Why he chose me, of all people, I have no idea. But I was the lucky one.

He looked around as if he wanted to be sure others could not hear. I was suddenly afraid I was about to be burdened with some great secret he had resisted sharing for years - the nuclear launch codes for an isolated missile silo in North Dakota where he had been stationed in the 70's - or some such thing.

But, after finally ascertaining that no passers-by were in range, he tipped his head to indicate the surf rolling toward us as the subject of his concern, and asked, "Are there... are there sharks in there?"

Now, for those of you who don't know me, I am not one who takes great pleasure in making people feel stupid, at least not without provocation, but it was all I could do to keep from laughing in his face.

My reply was as logical and serious as I could make it, given the circumstances.  "Umm... it's the ocean.  There are sharks everywhere."

His reaction told me that my answer was probably the one he had expected, but not the one he had hoped for, as if I were a doctor giving him test results that confirmed a tragic preliminary diagnosis.

Sensing blood, I moved in for the kill.

"Every time you go in the ocean, there is at least one but probably several sharks that know you are there.  They have a truly remarkable sense of smell, and can detect movement hundreds of yards away."

He looked at me and then at the ocean. Then he looked at me and back at the ocean again. And I seriously thought I was going to have to find him some tissues. Here was a man who was sizzling hot and uncomfortably sunburned, and who wanted nothing more than reassurance that he could swim without being maimed, and it was just his luck that he decided to ask me.

At this point, I realized I had passed beyond the world of sadistic playfulness and into the realm of downright cruelty. What I said was, of course, true, but I decided to add some calming details to the discussion.

"Think how many times people have been in the ocean and sharks were there. Some of those people may have known there were sharks around, but probably most of them didn't. Either way, nothing at all happens almost all the time."

I could tell he was trying to digest this logic, but those irrational fears gnawed at him like a school of starving sharks.

Finally, I said, "Look at it this way, statistically-speaking, your drive to the beach was far more dangerous than swimming in the ocean. And you probably weren't too worried in your car."

To this, he nodded in acknowledgment.

Looking for one last morsel of rationality, he asked, "Do you swim here?"

I have to admit, there is some small, twisted, diabolical part of me that wanted to say, "No. Are you kidding? This place is loaded with sharks."

But I looked at the strips of his otherwise pale skin that were now crimson, and saw the perspiration gathering on his forehead and pouring down his face. If ever there was a man badly in need of a refreshing dip in the ocean, this was him.

With a sincere smile on my face, and with the most pleasant, Mister Rogers tone of voice I could manage, I replied, "All the time."

We chatted a bit longer, and, despite his irrational fears, he turned out to be quite pleasant and interesting. Finally, I walked on. And he waded into the waves. As far as I know, he emerged a short while later, considerably cooler, and with all his limbs intact.

When the topic of shark attacks came up this morning, I decided to check it out. I found one source, on a website called vagabondish.com, in which the writer decided to compare what he called "rather bizarre ways to die" in an attempt to confirm that the idea of any given person becoming shark food was really not something with which we should be overly concerned. While the shark attack numbers are global, he found some figures for the United States in 2003 that showed the following:

Cause of Death                                           Total #       
Shark Attack                                                4  (57 total attacks)
Contact with Hot Tap Water                         26
Lightning                                                     47
Contact with hornets, wasps, bees               66

Assuming this information is correct, a human is much more likely to die from contact with hot tap water or an encounter with a stinging insect than from a shark attack. And I found some other figures from 2003 that told me my New Jersey man was better off taking a swim than suffering in the heat. As it turned out, 273 people died that year from excessive exposure to the sun or high temperatures. Also, I was right when I told him his trip to the beach was much more perilous - 44,757 people died in car accidents in 2003.

Of course, none of those other causes of death have rows of ridiculously sharp teeth or a reputation as a relentless predator that can chew you up and then swim away with a belch and a smile. Ok, I don't really know if sharks can belch. Or smile. But you know what I mean.

When you Google shark images, you have to go pages and pages before you find anything besides pictures of gigantic, menacing sharks terrorizing every creature that comes within reach. But sharks are really just amazing, efficient survivors who are probably in need of a good public relations firm.

According to the fossil record, sharks have been around for about 420 million years, which means they pre-date the dinosaurs. And, needless to say, they are still around long after dinosaurs went... well... the way of the dinosaur. Despite what we think, they are not gluttonous carnivores. They eat only about 5% of their body weight every 40 to 80 hours. According to the website sharks.org, if humans ate like sharks, you would only have one meal every two or three days.

The New Jersey man was probably right in one regard, shark attacks are more likely to happen in Florida than in any other place on the globe. For the sake of consistency, let's look at 2003.  According to the International Shark Attack File maintained by the Museum of Natural History at the University of Florida, there were 57 shark attacks worldwide (only four of them fatal), but 30 of them were in Florida.

While this might seem alarming, there is an obvious relationship between the location and the number of human encounters with sharks. Here is where I would like to point out the difference between those in academia and people like me. The official, scientific explanation is a "high rate of aquatic recreational utilization." Whereas I would call it "a lot of freakin' people in the water." Sharks and humans are in the same place at the same time in Florida more than just about anywhere else.

I would like to note that, during my internet research, I frequently ran across numbers of shark attacks listed as "unprovoked." Although I saw no statistics on "provoked" shark attacks, there is certainly the implication that at least some of the victims deserved it. But I'll leave that story for another time.

For now, as I return to the conversation with my friend about our plans for the weekend, I think we may scrap the idea of going to the beach. I'd love to catch some waves, but, after reading this, I am afraid to drive.

Fragments

After a long evening of exploring downtown D.C. on foot, I stopped to get a cold beer at an old place called Harry’s. I stood at the bar next to a girl who introduced herself as Cheryl, and who seemed a little too loud and a tad too intoxicated. I thought it might be time for the bartender to cut her off or for her friends to take her home.

Then I began hearing fragments of their conversation, and, when I appeared interested, she turned to me. There were a few moments of the usual small talk, and then the bartender placed a fresh cocktail in front of her, courtesy of one of her companions. She was unsteady on her feet, and, as she pulled the drink toward her, a bit splashed on the bar.

Looking at me, she grinned, lifted her glass in a familiar gesture and chirped, "It’s my twenty-fifth birthday!"

Now it all made sense. Chuckling, I tapped my glass against hers and, feigning concern, said, "I hope you make it to twenty-six."

She sipped and put the glass down in front of her. I could tell, at that moment, a thought had entered her mind, one that was familiar but nonetheless unpleasant. I watched as the expression on her face changed, and a haze descended over her eyes, giving the impression that she was looking at something far away, but seeing nothing.

Without facing me, she leaned and whispered, "My mom died on my birthday."

I don't think her hard-drinking friends had any idea. I guess she just wanted to tell… someone. I was the lucky one. I wondered how long ago it had been, and thought how awful that must be. Before I could say anything, her eyes brightened again. The silence hadn’t been long enough to be awkward.

"Aren’t you going to wish me happy birthday?" Loud, drunk Cheryl had returned just as suddenly as she had departed.

"Happy birthday," I said as I smiled and nodded at her, and took a big swig from my mug.

One of her friends grabbed her and pulled her away down the bar. Someone had bought a round of shots.

Left alone, I drank a silent toast. Birthdays are sometimes bittersweet, Cheryl. Yours will always be so.

Cheers.

Orlando - The Manhole Capitol of the World

I live in Orlando, Florida. It's an okay place. I mean, it's not Paris, but then again, it's not Ft. Stockton, Texas either. It's pretty centrally located. But Florida is a big state, so that doesn't necessarily mean it's convenient. Key West is 425 miles south. And if you want to meander up to the Panhandle, Pensacola is 451 miles to the north, and then west. Key West is cool in a funky sort of way. And Pensacola sounds like something you could mix with rum. So I guess that's good.

Many of the tourists who visit Florida come to, or at least through, Orlando. It's a busy place. Ongoing efforts in certain parts of the city have made it somewhat more visually appealing, but I recently noticed something that is now driving me nuts, and makes me believe the city should consider changing its official motto from "The City Beautiful" to "The Manhole Capitol of the World."

I took a picture at the intersection of Orange Ave and Washington Street in downtown Orlando. Although they are not all clearly visible in the photo, from where I was standing on the corner, there were eleven manhole covers visible. That only counts the regular man-sized manholes, not the smaller utility covers, water meter covers and whatever-the-hell-other covers that are all over the place in the Manhole Capitol of the World.

Manholes - and their covers - in principle and theory, are not objectionable. And, since civil engineering and urban planning are not my forte, I can only assume that many of them are truly and genuinely necessary to accomodate the energy, transportation, communication and sewage needs of a big city. But this is the part that really gets me; despite the achievements of modern technology and the ingenuity of the American worker, not one of the manhole covers is flush with the surface of the road.

Twice every weekday, on the way to and from work, I drive down the Federal highways numbered 17 and 92 - running concurrently - through Maitland and Winter Park, and into downtown Orlando. This portion of the road is not covered with asphalt. It is one of those old-school concrete roads with expansion joints (i.e. planned cracks) every fifteen feet or so. That, in itself, is bad enough. But, when you add in all the troughs, dips, splits, faults and crevices that occur through normal wear and tear, and combine those with the hundreds of manhole covers you encounter all along the route, driving down this stretch of road is about as comfortable as riding in a landing barge heading into Omaha Beach. Minus the bullets and artillery, of course. At least in most areas.

I'm willing to admit that the bulk of the manhole covers are only minor inconveniences, but some of them are bona fide hazards. It wouldn't surprise me to find out some day that those in charge of Orlando's roadways and their associated manhole covers spent years collecting generous bribes from the makers of automotive tires and shock absorbers.

If there is any benefit in having so many manhole covers, it's that it sometimes helps me forget about the thousands of ill-timed traffic lights that must be navigated if you hope to get anywhere in the Manhole Capitol of the World.

But I don't want to sound too bitter. It could be worse. I could live in Ft. Stockton.

The Form Letter

Recently, I was working with members of a professional organization to which I belong. As part of the "membership" committee, I was helping to compose a form letter to use as a way of "personally" contacting brand new members who have just paid their dues.

Even the friendliest of form letters can still sound like a form letter, so, if I am the sender, I like to spruce it up to fit my personality. While we were fiddling around with the proper wording, I concocted this:


Dear ____________

Thank you for joining the (city name here) chapter of the (organization name here). My name is B____________ W____________, and I have included my personal contact information in case you have any questions about the organization. Bear in mind that I often leave my phone uncharged and I rarely check my e-mail. So, you're pretty much on your own, but I thought I should at least pretend to extend this courtesy to you.

Now that we have your money, we're kind of hoping that we won't see you again until this time next year. Even then, if you'd prefer to just mail in a check, that would be great.

If you actually plan to get involved with the club and its events, congratulations! There's a good chance that you'll never see me at any of these functions because I mostly prefer to hide in the back and drink beer. I don't even emerge to get napkins when I'm sloppy with the appetizers. Good God, man, that's what sleeves are for.

At some point in this century, we'll have a brand new website that will tell you everything you need to know about the (city name here) chapter. In the meantime, I recommend BabesAtTheBeach.com. I mean, seriously, would you rather see information on our next guest speaker or would you rather see thongs?

If you'd like to become a member of one of our committees, let me know which one interests you, and I'll turf you off to the chairperson of that committee. That makes it even more likely that you will leave me alone at future events, and let me enjoy my beer and gobble appetizers in peace.

If you do happen to enter our next function during the few minutes that I am near the door, please say hello quickly and then be on your merry way. If I'm at the front of the room, it's only because I haven't yet located the bar. If you expect to exchange anything more than the briefest pleasantries, you'd better be buying.

Sincerely,



B____________ W____________




What do you think?