A peek at my creative process (Yes, I have one!)

Notes for future ideas.

I don't know about you, but I sometimes have a tough time remembering things. I have to write them down or else I'll forget. So I'm always scribbling little notes to myself on any piece of paper handy -- envelopes, junk mail, Post-Its, etc. Here, for future historians, is one such note. It's probably illegible to you, so I'll transcribe it.

• Always Sunny - B Boys/Girl Talk: This was the basis for my recent post, "There's a fine line between breakdown and breakthrough."
• On Atheism: This was the basis for the post entitled "No Voices in the Sky."
• Fat Nerds: Sorry for the bluntness of the language, but this is the seed for a potential article in which I discuss my theory that many so-called "nerds" have weight issues because jocks intimidated them as children and made them associate exercise with bullying. I have dealt with weight issues myself, incidentally.
• Beard/No Beard: Another potential article. Quite simple, really. I might be gingerly entering the dating scene soon, and I wanted to solicit women's opinions on whether I look better with or without facial hair. I'm currently clean-shaven, but I've done the whole beard thing, too.
• The Ward: Before the experience gradually fades from my memory, I thought I should write an article about what it's like to be in a psych ward. I want to record it for posterity's sake so that I can read it later.
• White Album/NOTLD: This is actually something I want to do for the Mail Order Zombie podcast. Since the Beatles' White Album and George Romero's Night of the Living Dead both came out in 1968, I want to do an audio piece which combines the two. This is super-ambitious and complicated, so it may have to wait. I want it to be good.
• (in the margin) Sheep/Manger: For the Christmas season, I am planning to write a short story for this blog revolving around the Nativity. It will involve sheep and the manger.

There you have it: some genuine Wayne Kotke ephemera! Hope you enjoyed it!

Forget the Flying Spaghetti Monster. Let's talk about the Lava Monster.

A terrifying creature made of lava

Atheists and those who believe in evolution often use an absurd fictional deity called the Flying Spaghetti Monster (or FSM) to underscore their basic point about the absurdity of religion and its creation myths. While I wish these people well, the FSM is of almost no use to me as a metaphor or allegory and has had very little impact on my beliefs, religious or otherwise.

I am much more concerned about the Lava Monster. Let me explain.

I want you to picture, reader, a village built in the shadow of a large and terrifying volcano. Within this volcano dwells an enormous, terrifying creature made of hot molten rock. At any time he desires, this Lava Monster can demolish the village in whole or in part. In fact, he has done so on several occasions, and his powers seem to be without end. Summoning the awesome forces of nature at his disposal, the temperamental and unpredictable beast can create or destroy at will, however he sees fit. The villagers are well aware of the Lava Monster's existence, and the majority of them live in fear of the creature and seek to appease him by holding ceremonies in his honor and following an arcane and complicated set of traditions supposedly "approved" by the Lava Monster. The worshipers of the Lava Monster feel they know his wishes because he has directly communicated these wishes to them in no uncertain terms. The motivation of the villagers is simple: they don't want to be incinerated by rivers of hot molten lava.

Got all that? Good. Now I want to ask you a few basic questions:

1. How likely is it that there would be widespread disagreement among the villagers about the Lava Monster's wishes? 
2. If the Monster had very particular desires and could easily communicate them, why would he allow the confusion to persist, especially when that confusion has led to deadly sectarian violence among the villagers?
3. Would it be possible to live as a non-believer in this village? How?
4. Would there be any need for the villagers to advertise or proselytize on behalf of the Monster? How could you possibly forget him, when the evidence of his power is all around you?
5. Assuming you do know the will of the all-powerful Lava Monster and carry out his wishes, what is the moral basis for your behavior? Why would you feel morally superior to someone who disobeyed the Monster's commands?

I don't know how long the Lava Monster has gestated in my imagination. Maybe since childhood. I do know, though, that whenever I think of an omnipotent God, my mind inevitably returns to the story of the Lava Monster. It is that fifth issue which particularly troubles me. If God is real and omnipotent, then obeying his wishes is merely common sense and has nothing whatsoever to do with morality. There's nothing righteous or lofty about giving a bully your lunch money or carrying out your boss's orders at work. You do it to preserve yourself, which is something we all do every day. I don't touch hot stoves, for instance, but that's because I don't want to burn my hand. If you choose to touch hot stoves and repeatedly incur severe burns as result, that may make you foolish but it does not make you immoral.

Virginia Woolf

Have you ever read the Old Testament? You should. In my amateur estimation, it's the work of literature which has most affected the course of human history and led to the civilization we now know. Professional historians may disagree. In any event, the main character in this multi-book saga -- for the Bible is truly a collection of books, like The Hunger Games or the Harry Potter series -- is an all-powerful deity named God, and he is a complex and ambiguous character at best. "I read the Book of Job last night," observed Virginia Woolf, referring to one of the works which make up what we call the Bible. "I don't think God comes well out of it." She is astute in this observation. The character of God, as he is portrayed in the Old Testament, is temperamental, insecure, jealous, vengeful, and capable of incredible violence. In brief, even if God were real, you might not want him running the universe. You'd probably want someone a little calmer and more rational at the helm.

Again, I do not claim to have any answers. I don't know how the universe functions, but I'm sure there are underpaid scientists working on the problem now. I hope they're getting enough sleep at night. If we are lucky, we have five senses with which to take in information and one brain with which to process that information. And that's all we'll ever have. Think about everything and everyone you have ever known. Remember every experience of your past, both major and minor. Everything you can recall about them was conveyed to you by your senses and processed by your brain. Your brain and sense organs are imperfect, yet we must rely upon them. I'll never truly know what it's like to be you. You'll never truly know what it's like to be me. We're all just guessing. What frightens me are the people who are certain they know how it all works. I can cope with uncertainty, but certainty scares me.

This post was not meant to settle anything but rather to raise questions and provoke discussion. Have at it. And don't touch hot stoves. You'll burn yourself. That I think we can all agree on.

No voices in the sky: On my atheism

 Is the sky just the sky?

"Some people say the sky is just the sky, but I say why? Why deny the obvious child?" - Paul Simon ("The Obvious Child")

I am an atheist.

I say that with neither pride nor shame. I don't feel like I've "won" something by declaring my atheism or that I'm "smarter" than you are if you're religious. I don't feel like I've moved on to some more advanced level of thought by giving up a belief in an omniscient, omnipotent creator. I will not quote The God Delusion at you. Relax. Everything's fine. I'm not about to get all Richard Dawkins on your ass. And I'm not going to link to a Ricky Gervais or David Cross monologue either. Yes, I've heard what Gervais and Cross have to say about religion, and I've found humor in their words. But there is more than a touch of "I know better" smugness to these comedians, and that's a trait I'm trying to avoid.

A factory producing atheists.

I come by my atheism naturally, having been raised Catholic. I think the Catholic Church might be the greatest manufacturer of atheists the world has ever known. Have you ever sat through one of our masses? It amuses me that some people think of the Catholics as a weird, mysterious cult with bizarre beliefs and sinister rituals. In truth, an hour spent in a Catholic church on a Sunday will likely be one of the most boring experiences of your life. I should know. I attended them for over twenty years. Once you've gone to, let's say, a year of Catholic masses, you've heard everything the church has to say. The rest is just repetition. Years and years and years of repetition. 

It's been a decade since I was a practicing (though non-believing) Catholic, and I can still recite some of those prayers. The same few readings from the Bible are trotted out again and again. These readings represent a tiny fraction of that book; the rest simply goes uncovered. As a kid bored out of his mind in church and wishing the ceiling would cave in just for variety's sake, I wondered why we never got to hear about David and Goliath or Cain slaying Abel or even about Noah's ark. Later, thanks to Ken's Guide to the Bible by Ken Smith, I learned there was all kinds of juicy stuff in the Good Book: sex, violence, and just general weirdness. You'd never guess that from attending mass. 

Even the homily, the portion of the service in which the priest gets to divert from the text and speak directly to the congregation, is apt to be boring. As a Catholic kid, you hope that at least the priest will throw in a few good jokes along with the message. Some priests are genuinely funny, engaging speakers, but many are dull and rambling. And then there's the music! Oh, dear lord, the music in a Catholic mass is the worst, most dispiriting stuff you've ever heard in your life. Every song becomes a dirge. It blew my mind to learn that other religions had "catchy" music. Much of what we know today as rock and R&B music, after all, has its roots in the church. When I hear a gospel group like the Soul Stirrers, it makes me want to believe.

It's important for you to know that we were a Catholic family, but it was Catholicism with a small c. I know there are some horror stories out there, but I didn't experience any of that. I was never molested by priests or beaten by nuns. I only ever attended one year of Catholic school -- kindergarten -- and my memories of it are positive. We had a young, pretty teacher, Miss Smith, and my strongest memory is that she once played us "Another One Bites the Dust" by Queen because it was the Detroit Lions' theme song that year (1980). Isn't that weird? The first time I ever heard Freddie Mercury was in Catholic school. You can't make this stuff up, folks. My older sister got as far as second grade in that institution, and she grew up to be healthy, normal, and well-adjusted. After that, we both attended public school.

Who's down with CCD?

Catholic kids who don't go to Catholic school are expected to attend something called CCD (Confraternity of Christian Doctrine). It's basically "Catholic night school," and you go once a week. Now this I truly hated. I just felt it was pointless and juvenile, and eventually I refused to attend. With great reluctance, my parents agreed to this. It was literally the only argument we ever had about religion. My parents were admirably open-minded about all of it. They had pretty left-leaning political views and thus disagreed with many of the Church's policies. 

Truth be told, religion hardly ever came up as a topic of discussion in our household. We attended the services both on Sundays and on holy days, and we observed Lent, but that's pretty much it. We didn't pray before meals, and there were no crucifixes or images of Jesus on our walls. My mother inherited the religion from her mother, who was from a family of Sicilian immigrants. My father was raised without religion but converted to Catholicism in order to marry my mother. To this day, twenty years after her death, he still attends the masses out of loyalty to her. 

I personally attended the masses with him until 2001 when I moved to Illinois and started living independently. Since then, I've been a full-on atheist. The only time I ever set foot in a church is when my community band plays a concert in one. Some of the buildings are magnificent, by the way, and have terrific acoustics. The church I attended for 20 years, though, was just a utilitarian, barn-like structure. You'd probably call it ugly.

But we're avoiding the bigger issue. Did I ever believe? I don't know. Maybe a little when I was very young. In fact, when I was about 8 or 9, the topic of God actually did come up in a discussion with other neighborhood kids, and one boy said something dismissive like, "Everyone knows God is just some imaginary fairy in the sky." I remember getting briefly defensive about it, but it didn't last. By the time I was an adolescent, I was a confirmed non-believer. I attended the services strictly out of obedience to my parents. My sister, somehow, managed to talk her way out of them, and I was envious of her for that. Ironically, she went through the Sacrament of Confirmation, and I didn't. I did get First Communion in, though.

God: A class act all the way!

Here's the bottom line: I think it's much more likely that we created God than the other way around. I think as human beings, we hate and fear what we don't understand. We couldn't deal with a universe that we could not comprehend, so we came up with a creation myth to explain it away. We've been elaborating on that myth for centuries and arguing (sometimes with deadly consequences) over the specifics. 

In a way, it gives us some freedom. The bigger issues of life are all sorted out in our minds, so we can focus on living day to day. Religion handles the big stuff, while we cope with the details. And it works! Some of the happiest, best-adjusted people I know are religious, while I am neurotic and insecure. It did not surprise me to learn that atheists are, in general, better-informed about religion than the average, God-fearing citizen. It's because atheists think about this stuff a lot, while believers simply accept and move on with their lives. There are many times when I wish I could join them. And I will admit that in moments of extreme fear and anxiety, I pray. Still to this day, I have the nervous tic of making the sign of the cross when I experience relief.

There is clearly more to be said on this issue, and this is far from the last word. If there is sufficient interest among my readers, we can discuss why I feel there is no moral basis for worshiping an omnipotent deity. But I think I've said enough for now. I'll leave you with the lyrics to "No Voices in the Sky" by Motorhead. The song was written by lead singer Lemmy Kilmister, an avowed atheist.

Nobody gives a damn about anybody else

Think everyone should feel the way they feel themselves
Rich men think that happiness is a million dollar bills
So how come half of them O.D. on sleeping pills?
Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, you all know what I mean
What's the use of a cry for help, if no one hears the screams
No one hears the screams

No voices in the sky, confusion blinds the eye
Can't take it with you when you die
No voices in the sky

The ones who dedicate the flags to make you brave
They also consecrate the headstone on your grave
Ritual remembrance when no one knows your name
Don't help a single widow learn to fight the pain

Politicians kissing babies for good luck
T.V. preachers sell salvation for a buck
You don't need no golden cross, to tell you wrong from right
The world's worst murderers were those who saw the light

There's a fine line between breakdown and breakthrough

A scene from last night's episode of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia

Did you catch It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia last night?

The Marx Brothers: Terrible people

I did, and I might have laughed harder than anyone in America at it. For the uninitiated, the show revolves around "the gang," a group of five horrible human beings who somehow remain friends. The main characters are bratty, unduly confident siblings Dennis and Dee Reynolds; their stepfather, Frank, a lecherous lowlife; and two other companions: musclebound lunkhead Mac and twitchy neurotic Charlie, easily the show's most complex character. In each episode, the members of "the gang" make reckless, terrible life choices and end up hurting themselves, each other, and innocent bystanders. The characters are largely defined by their negative traits, including vanity, stupidity, and selfishness. 

Without being too pretentious, I see Sunny as the modern-day equivalent of the Marx Brothers, because those classic comedians of the 1930s also portrayed deeply flawed, often aggravating individuals who treated each other badly and yet maintained a curious camaraderie. These people are loyal and disloyal simultaneously. Like the Marx Brothers,  the members of "the gang" on Sunny never learn anything from their experiences. They simply act upon their instincts, consequences be damned, for their own amusement and ours.

Like most episodes of the series, last night's installment of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia had a self-explanatory title: "The Gang Gets Analyzed." That's exactly what happens in it. The entire episode takes place in the office of Dee's therapist, beautifully played by guest star Kerri Kenney-Silver of The State and Reno 911. The office depicted on the show was very much like the one I visit each week, right down to the soothing artwork and the various knickknacks, and the demeanor of Kenney-Silver's character was very much like that of my own therapist. This was incredible serendipity: one of my favorite shows was depicting events currently unfolding in my own life!

Of course, Sunny turned the entire experience into a grotesque farce. The plot had Dee inviting her four companions along with her to therapy so that the therapist could settle a petty dispute: who should wash the dishes from one of the gang's recent dinners? Frank had actually brought the dishes with him and dumped them on the floor of the stunned, yet admirably composed therapist's office. Kenney-Silver then proceeded to analyze "the gang" one by one. Inadvertently, each one ended up revealing a great deal to this woman. Mac is gullible and delusional. Dee is a liar. Dennis is egotistical and condescending. Frank has deep psychological scars from his past. And Charlie? Well, Charlie carries a dead pigeon around with him, which may offer some clue to his mental and emotional state. 

As per usual for Sunny, nothing is "solved" during the episode. The characters reveal themselves at their worst and then just carry on with their lives. I like that a lot. Too many TV shows offer trite homilies and facile speeches to their viewers. Sunny is just about venting negativity and letting that negativity stand, untouched and unfixed.

All Day by Girl Talk

Meanwhile, I had something of an emotional breakthrough yesterday. In brief, I can feel sadness again! For me, that's remarkable. I've spent the last few weeks not feeling much of anything. It was so gratifying to have an actual strong emotion after such a long period of evenness. And it was the damnedest thing which brought it on, too. I was running to the commuter train station from my office in downtown Chicago. It was a few minutes after 5:00, and I'd just worked a very long, stressful shift. 

I decided I needed a little music to pep me up, so I listened to my iPod as I ran. The song which came up was a track called "Jump on Stage" by Girl Talk, which is the pseudonym of a DJ named Gregg Gillis who creates long, elaborate audio collages by combining snippets of various pop, rock, hip-hop and soul records in a number of unorthodox ways. It is not uncommon, for instance, for Gillis to mix the vocals of a song from one genre with the musical backing of a song from a completely different genre. "Jump on Stage" is a track from his most recent album, 2010's  All Day, and for a few glorious moments, Gillis combines the vocals from "Hey Ladies" by the Beastie Boys with the music from Iggy Pop's "Lust for Life." 

As you probably know, one of the Beasties, Adam Yauch, died of cancer earlier this year. But in the sample from "Jump on Stage," he sounds young and vibrant and alive again, even though all he really says is "hey." Add to this the fact that "Lust for Life," which Pop co-wrote with David Bowie, is about the singer's recovery from heroin addiction. I can't exactly explain why, but the combination of these two songs -- both jubilant, by the way -- had a seismic emotional impact on me. By the time I reached the train, I had tears in my eyes. I thought about trying to fight it, but then said to myself, "Fuck it. Just let it out." It was great to be so sad. Paradoxically, my desire to live was incredibly strong at that moment.

Then, as will happen in a city the size of Chicago, a man dressed like Indiana Jones boarded the train and somehow snapped me back to reality. This was not a costume. You could tell it was his regular, everyday look. I immediately stopped crying and spent the rest of the 40-minute train ride in contemplative silence. If you're curious, here is the track which provoked such a strong response from me. The relevant portion begins at roughly the 5:18 mark.


HEALTH NEWS & NOTES: For those who live with depression and anxiety, sleep can be an issue. Cheap over-the-counter sleep aids usually work for me, but these are relatively weak and may take a couple of hours to work. While I was in the behavioral health center, my doctor prescribed Restoril for me and told me to take it at my discretion as necessary. 

Let me tell you, this is some serious shit. Restoril will kick your ass. At least it did mine. I was used to taking sleep aids well before bedtime, and I thought I could do that with Restoril, too. But that drug has me sound asleep within an hour. The problem with this is that I might wake up fully rested at 2:00 in the morning, which screws up the rest of my day. So I'm trying to avoid using it unless the "nuclear option" is mandatory. 

Meanwhile, I'm a little concerned about my lack of physical exercise. I got a lot of exercise over the summer months, but this was almost entirely based around running and walking at a nearby park. When the temperatures dropped, my long walks stopped. I don't think it's coincidental that my depression spiked when the chilly weather arrived. I have to think of an alternate exercise routine. My psychiatrist just told me to join a gym, but I'm not really a "gym" guy. For one thing, I'm very self-conscious about my body and appearance. Plus, frankly, gyms cost money, and I'm a cheapskate. If you have suggestions in this regard, please leave them in the comments section.

An oh-so-important (really) update on my life and treatment

Why wouldn't I use the "Sesame Street News Flash" graphic?

That.... was an eventful day. Let me tell you all about it.

Yesterday, I had my first regular visit with a psychiatrist, whom I see once a month, and my second session with a therapist, whom I see once a week. Oh, and also I commuted back and forth to work by train. Work was so hectic that I was scrambling to finish tasks until the very last minute before having to make a mad dash for the train station. But I made it, readers. I made it. I guess I'll find out how well I did when I return to work and look at my inbox. If it's full of complaints, then I'll deal with them one at a time. (I hope it isn't.)

But back to the headshrinker thing...

A hugely under-reported issue in the health field is that many doctors and other medical professionals have their offices in nondescript professional buildings often nestled among a group of other nondescript professional buildings. Therefore, their offices can be damned tricky to find, and this is something which causes me stress. 

You know what else causes me stress? Driving to someplace new, especially if it's more than 20-25 minutes from my apartment. But my psychiatrist's office is in a community called Elgin, and it's maybe 40 minutes from where I live. Much of the drive time is spent on the expressways, which also number among my phobias. I rationally understand that our nation's highways were not deliberately designed as a baffling and cruel psychological experiment to torture me, Joe Blevins, personally. But it feels that way, you know? 

For you Illinois drivers in the audience, I took the 53 to the I-90 to get there. The I-90 is crawling with toll booths, which I hate and fear for multiple reasons. First I'm a cheapskate. Second, getting on and off the highway distracts me and makes me nervous. And third, I can't help but think of Sonny Corleone in The Godfather.

Bob Newhart he ain't.

But I got there and back, and now I'm "seeing a psychiatrist." I put that phrase in quotes because the experience is not at all like The Bob Newhart Show. I don't lie down on a couch and chat with him about my issues or anything. He's just an officious, distant medical professional with whom I spent about five minutes discussing my medications and the effect they were having on me. The good news is that I'm down from four meds to two. The Norvasc and Restoril have been benched, and he swapped out Wellbutrin for Celexa. Hopefully, this change will restore my libido. But, honestly, the whole "psychiatrist" experience is very impersonal. I spent most of the time filling out forms. Seeing a psychiatrist, in truth, is like seeing the Pope as he waves to a crowd from a balcony. My shrink's opening line to me was, "Do I know you?" I reminded him that, yes, we'd met a few weeks ago at the behavioral health center. I must have made a terrific impression on him.

The real "action" here takes place in therapy. Once a week, I meet with a woman in a nice, secluded and comfortable room, and I just vent about whatever's going on in my life. You can discuss a lot in an hour, and I talked through a number of issues, including my recent experience with the woman I call Helen. My therapist pointed out the obvious to me: a psych ward is maybe not the greatest place to pick up women. Whoops! Live and learn, right?

Before I leave you, I want to share a song which pretty much summarizes what it's like to see a therapist. It's called, appropriately enough, "Everything Reminds Me of My Therapist," and it's written and performed by Nancy Tucker.

On psychopharmacology and Walt Disney's "Dumbo"

Dumbo with both Timothy Q. Mouse and the magic feather in tow

We've all seen Dumbo, right? It's a 1941 Disney animated film in which a circus elephant is mocked and shunned for his oversize ears but eventually becomes a great star because those ears act as wings, making him the world's only "flying elephant." The late (and sorely missed) cartoon historian Donald J. Markstein adroitly compared this narrative to that of the song "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," in that both characters are ostracized for physical "deformities" but both eventually earn success for those very same deformities. Like Rudolph, who is redeemed by Santa Claus, Dumbo needs another character to make him recognize his own greatness. In this case, it is a fast-talking, uniform-wearing rodent named Timothy Q. Mouse, who convinces the elephant that it is a "magic feather" which allows the large creature to defy gravity. By the end of the movie, Dumbo has ditched the feather and is flying solo

Here's a relevant clip from the movie. Try your best to ignore the possibly-racist depiction of the crows in the film. I'm trying to make an analogy here.



Dumbo's famous magic feather has become a symbol over the ensuing decades for any crutch we think we require in order to succeed, when all along the success has been residing within ourselves. If an athlete has a pair of "lucky socks," for instance, that's one kind of magic feather.

This issue is on my mind because today's a big day for me. I'm attending both an appointment with my MD and a session with my therapist. The last couple of weeks since I've been home have been relatively incident-free. Work remains hectic and stressful -- and, yes, I was secretly freaking out about the election all the while -- but I've gotten through it with only a few minor crises of conscience. Not that the people around me have noticed, but I've been on my best behavior lately.

How much of that is due to me and how much is due to Xanax and Celexa? At what point do these pills become magic feathers? I guess we'll find out as time passes. Meanwhile, wish me luck on getting to these appointments on time and in one piece.
 

Grown-up musicians are weird (and not always in a good way)

These are the faces of community band. Study them well. (NOTE: This is not my band!)

Imagine a little kid, maybe 9 or 10, coming home from band practice all excited because he's able to play a vaguely recognizable rendition of "Frosty the Snowman" on the cornet. Adorable, right? 

Now imagine that same little kid grown into a balding, jowly 50-year-old man. Each week, he lugs his cornet case to a rehearsal space, probably a high school band room or some similarly utilitarian locale, to practice playing a much fancier rendition of "Frosty the Snowman" with 40 or 50 people like himself. Not so adorable anymore.

The Bizarro World

This, friends, is the world of community band. It is a world I have inhabited since the fall of 2003. Two months ago, I began my tenth season with a particular band located in a suburban community about half an hour from where I live. Each Monday night, I drive there for rehearsals. Occasionally, we perform public concerts in places like senior centers, nursing homes, churches, and the occasional school auditorium. 

The band is run as a "service" of the park district, and I pay $50 for the privilege of being in this organization. I'm the "Bizarro World" opposite of a professional musician: I have to pay in order to play. 

In addition to playing the euphonium for this outfit, I also serve as a member of the equipment crew. On concert days, I show up early at the high school we use for our rehearsals. Together with a handful of other volunteers, I load huge timpani drums (you know, kettle drums), gongs, instrument stands, chimes, marimbas, and sound equipment onto the back of a moving truck so that these items can be transported to the location of the concert. An "equipment move," as we call them, is actually four separate moves: get the stuff on the truck, then off the truck, then back on the truck, and finally back off the truck again. It is a physically demanding task sometimes, and I have endured numerous minor injuries over these last nine years.

Sousa: My taskmaster

I'm not sure why I do this. Stubbornness? Masochism? An abiding love of music? A desire to preserve something from my childhood? The answer is probably a combination of these factors. If nothing else, it's something which forces me to leave my apartment and interact with other human beings. I used to tell myself that the band was the only social thing I did, but in truth, I try to keep my interpersonal interactions to a minimum. If you knew community band people, you'd understand. 

Look, there are professional musicians who do what they do for money. And there are artists who have something to express and choose to do so through music. But what makes a person who is well past school age keep showing up week after week to plow through marches and medleys of showtunes? I mean, does anyone listen to the music of John Philip Sousa for recreation anymore? Did they ever? I certainly don't go home from a long day of work and crank up "The Washington Post March" to relax. I'm crazy but not that crazy.

Truth be told, these community band folks are often highly eccentric, but not necessarily in a loveable, endearing way. They can be pretentious, pompous, and prickly. They can be highly judgmental, especially towards someone who has mangled a solo during a concert. (I've mangled a few in my time and harbor a deep grudge against composer Gustav Holst for writing lengthy, exposed euphonium parts into his suites.) They argue over who gets solos or who sits next to whom. Some have such poor social skills that they make me look Hugh Hefner in comparison. At best, they are over-aged nerds who exchange terrible, corny jokes and lean in too close while they yammer on like Trekkies having a "Kirk versus Picard" debate. I have met a few well-adjusted people in my community band, but they are the exception rather than the rule. 

Then, there are the conductors. Some can be terrors, others are more mild, but they're all insane to one degree or another. Occasionally, you will see band teachers in movies who love music deeply and make playing music seem like great fun. The hell it is! It's a lot of damned work! 

As a neurotic person, it is sometimes difficult to be around other neurotic people. But I keep doing it, week after week. There is one definite perk: when the band truly coalesces and plays as a unified organism, the sound can be magnificent. Sometimes, I'll stop playing just to soak it in. There's no better seat in the house.

Why "Be My Baby" is probably my favorite song... and one of the saddest, too

Making up for his sins at home: Harvey Keitel in Mean Streets (1973)

"You don't make up for your sins in church. You do it in the streets. You do it at home. The rest is bullshit, and you know it."

- Martin Scorsese, Mean Streets

Martin Scorsese himself speaks those words, from off-screen, at the very beginning of Mean Streets, his grungy, heartfelt drama about small-time gangsters in a deeply Catholic Italian-American milieu. I quoted that speech last week during my stay at the behavioral health center while talking to a female patient (not the aforementioned Helen). She said she didn't feel like she could "fix" her problems from inside the hospital, and I told her about those opening words from the Scorsese film because I felt they were appropriate for the occasion. The entire opening sequence of Mean Streets is remarkable, and I want you to see it. Here, take a look:

In his book Ebert's Bigger Little Movie Glossary, critic Roger Ebert cites his own so-called "8MM Omen": "Films that start with old home movies are never about happy lives." And true to form, Mean Streets is not a cheerful, upbeat film. There are moments of humor and humanity in it, but in the larger sense, it is a tragedy. And what music does Scorsese use to set the tone for this downbeat film? "Be My Baby" by the Ronettes, a #2 hit from 1963. The song was co-written and produced by Phil Spector, who created the record along with the songwriting team of Jeff Barry and Ellie Greenwich, while the record's powerful lead vocal is supplied by Ronnie Bennett, who later married and divorced Phil Spector and is more commonly known today as Ronnie Spector. In short, there were a lot of talented people behind this record, but it somehow manages to be even greater than the sum of its parts.

"Be My Baby" is often used in romantic comedies, and Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys has called it one of the happiest records ever made, but I feel that there is a crushing sadness at the core of this song. Let's examine the lyrics of the first verse:

The night we met, I knew I needed you so.
And if I had the chance I'd never let you go.
So won't you say you love me? I'll make you so proud of me
We'll make 'em turn their heads every place we go.

You will note immediately that there is no indication that the man Ronnie is addressing even likes her, let alone loves her. She just met him and suddenly decided that she "needed" him. They're clearly not in a relationship. She wants "the chance" to grab onto him and never release him. She hasn't been given that opportunity yet. "So won't you say you love me?" is a particularly needy inquiry, and "I'll make you so proud of me" is like a child promising her parents that she'll be on her best behavior. "We'll make 'em turn their heads every place we go" indicates that the singer cares what other people think of her and may be using this relationship to get attention from passersby.

The oft-repeated chorus is simplicity itself. It's just variations on "be my baby," "be my little baby," and "be my baby now," with a "please" or a "darling" thrown in now and again. This is as emotionally direct as singing or songwriting gets. The woman is asking, in no uncertain terms, for a man to love her. She's not playing coy or hard to get. She's just letting herself be vulnerable and open to rejection.

There really is only one other verse. The rest of the song consists of repetitions of the chorus. But the lyrics of that second verse are worth examining, too:

I'll make you happy, baby. Just wait and see.
For every kiss you give me, I'll give you three.
Oh, since the day I saw you, I have been waiting for you.
You know I will adore you 'til eternity.

There is more than a hint of desperation here. The woman is promising the man everything. She is granting him the keys to the kingdom, so to speak. This is the kind of thing you might say to a photograph of someone you love when you're alone in your room, but if you actually spoke these words aloud to that person, he or she might think you were mentally disturbed. I think Ronnie is one step away from kidnapping this guy and chaining him up in her basement. Either that, or she'll buy one of those Japanese body pillows and fashion it into a facsimile of her dream man. 

It's interesting to note that in another Scorsese film, The King of Comedy, Sandra Bernhard's character does participate in the kidnapping of a talk show host played by Jerry Lewis and uses the opportunity to "seduce" him and serenade him. In all seriousness, "Be My Baby" is a song that hits me hard every time I hear it. And that's why it's probably my favorite recording of all time.