A Boy And His Bass

A MENAGERIE OF INSTRUMENTS

For the past couple years, I've had a not-so-secret longing. Like a guilty porn addict, I've been stealing glances at websites, lingering around the edges of eBay auctions, all the while knowing that I shouldn't.

I wanted a bass guitar.

In high school I was in a rock band (for more on that take a look at my last post), and I played bass guitar. When I went off to college, I stopped playing. For a time, I had my bass and rig in my apartment bedroom, and would occasionally plug up at low volumes and play with myself. But, as the last line implies, that wasn't enough, so I let it go.

I sold off my gear to my friend Brian (the rhythm guitarist for our band who switched to bass to play in a college punk trio), and that was the last of it.

Interestingly enough, in the intervening years (fifteen to be exact), I hadn't really longed to play again. Sure, I missed it, but I'd found lots of other things to occupy my time (mainly drinking). Then, a few years ago, I found myself on Musician's Friend dreaming about buying a really nice bass, one light-years better than my old fret-buzzing Washburn.

When I let my wife in on this re-ignited passion, I think she was at first amused. We talked about it, and out of that talk, I changed my mind. It went something like this:

Music is good.

Musical instruments are great to have.

Guitar players are sexy.

A bass guitar, while sexy when played in a band, isn't very practical.

Acoustic guitars are more practical because you don't need amps.

If I buy an acoustic guitar, I can learn to play that and be sexy.

So, my lusting after bass guitars turned to lusting after acoustic guitars. About a year and a half ago, I bought a beautiful (and beautifully priced) Takamine acoustic-electric guitar. My justification for the purchase was that it was the best of both worlds. If I got better, and needed to plug up, I could.

I went out to the Guitar Center in Greensboro and played a bunch of instruments—some clearly out of my price range, some clearly junk. I settled on the Takamine because it seduced me with its looks and electronics. It has a built-in tuner, which is nice since my ear is not perfect. It's good, mind you, but not perfect. (I can tell, "Hey, you're not in tune." But I have trouble dialing it in to perfection.)

And for about a week, I was sexy.

What I neglected to account for, though, that I couldn't really play. I knew three chords (G, C, E) and that was it. What I don't think I understood at the time was that learning to play (beyond Ramones songs), and learning to play complete songs, is hard and takes lots of practice.

See, I knew that. But I didn't let myself believe it because I wanted my toy. And, in my defense, I was a bass player. I certainly wasn't the best, but I wasn't bad. After playing in a band for several years, I'd acquired a knack for picking up songs and playing along with relative ease.

This is not the case with my acoustic. I'll say again, I've learned quite a bit in a year, but I'm still not above amateur farting around.

And amateur farting around is not that sexy.

Interestingly enough, the guitar didn't satisfy all that longing. I chalk that up to the fact that it takes real work and isn't just an easy toy. Cooking is good stress relief for me because I'm good at it, and it comes naturally. Music does not come as naturally...

It wasn't long before I was looking again.

This time?

Wait for it.

A Ukulele.

Yes, I started cruising eBay for ukuleles. I don't know why, but something about the instrument appealed to me. Maybe it was the ease it represented (only four strings!), or maybe it was the sound. Again, in my defense, it was mostly the sound. There's something very soothing about the tinkling, nylon-string sound of a ukulele.

So, for my birthday last year, I became convinced that I needed a ukulele. I bought one off of eBay. It was new and came with a little gig bag. I loved it immensely for many months. My wife even bought me a tuner for Christmas. I imagined myself sitting in my office at work, feet propped up on the desk, ukulele in hand, playing "Somewhere (Over The Rainbow)."

I still play it—and I was right, it is a bit easier to play—but like the guitar, mastering full length songs takes time and effort that I haven't invested.

And so…

I started looking at bass guitars again.

Then the wife and I went to Finland. My good friend Michael put me to work setting up band equipment for the reception. We did sound checks—wherein I got behind the drum kit and we played a few tunes. Then, at the reception proper, I "stole" the bride and ransomed her off for a performance of "Sweet Child O Mine." I jumped over on bass and Michael and I, several sheets to the wind, played what was the humorous highlight of the evening. I was congratulated by many a Fin that evening… and of course the wife saw me with bass in hand—and playing like I knew how—and I knew that a bass guitar would be in my not-too-distant-future.

But I'm a bad boy. Something else caught my eye in Finland. One of Michael's friends had a cajon—a plywood box with strings that sounds like a drum kit—and I became enamored of it.

See, I haven't mentioned the fact that I also have a drum set. Back in 1987, my parents—against their better judgment—bought me a drum set for my birthday (Ludwig Rockers that still sound good when dialed in). I've always loved playing drums—and like all musicians, fancy myself awesome on the skins. (Playing drums is the musical equivalent of kicking someone's ass. All men are quite convinced that they can kick everyone's ass, no matter size or agility. This is part of the guy code. Playing drums is the same. Every musician and/or wanna-be musician thinks he's John Bonham.)

But there's an impracticality to drumming that can't be avoided. They're too damn loud. So unless you've got a dedicated practice space where your neighbors won't call the cops, they are useless. My wife and I live in a townhouse. At one point, I had my kit set up in the garage, but since it's attached to my neighbor's garage, I never felt comfortable rocking out.

But a cajon… A cajon can be played inside the house with little fear of waking the neighbors.

So a couple months ago, I put my bass desires on hold yet again, and bought a cajon.

My wife was not happy. (Actually, she was okay with the cajon itself. It was the expensive case that pushed her over the edge!)

This lovely little toy came in handy when my friend Clark came over to jam. Several hours later, I felt invigorated by the joy of jamming. We banged out (the wife singing) a rockin' version of "Kokomo" and had a great time.

The next day my back was killing me. Hunched over on a wooden box for several hours is not good for a thirtysomething back. Actually, I was in pain for more than a week…

So here we are now. My birthday was little more than a week ago. And I wanted a bass guitar. Putting it off has only resulted in the acquiring of a menagerie of instruments. (In the back of my mind, I'm building a play room for our children, a place where they can explore music freely…)

For months now, I've been drooling over postings on eBay, drooling and hoping. Then it got worse: I started low-level bidding. You know that game, right? You bid and bid, driving prices up so someone else doesn't get a good deal-- all the while hoping that "oops!" you become the high bidder and accidentally win? Twice I did that-- and in the last minutes, I got out bid.

Well, the third time was the charm and I had to explain to the wife that I hadn't meant to, but...

THE DANGERS OF EBAY

On a Sunday night several weeks ago, my wife went to bed without me. She was too tired to stay up, and I had a loaf of bread baking in the oven. I tucked her in, kissed her forehead, and went back down stairs to wait for the bread.

Waiting for the bread just so happened to coincide with the end of an auction on a bass guitar.

Now, as I mentioned above, I'd been outbid before. And this time, as much as I wanted this particular bass, I was really hoping to be outbid again. It just wasn't the right time.

The bread finished baking, and I had about fifteen minutes to go on the auction.

Then it happened. I won.

The mixture of fear and excitement was enough to cause a spiral of events:

1. I couldn't sleep—and when I did finally fall asleep, I dreamed about bass guitars.

2. My anxiety at breaking the news to my wife spilled over into my day, and I was a nervous wreck all day.

3. Actually, that anxiety and guilt bubbled for an entire week—all heightened by the fact that my PayPal account was giving me a hard time.

4. By the time all was settled, my week was pretty much shot.

5. It just so happened that my birthday was at the end of that week.

Happy Birthday to me.

I'd gotten word on Wednesday that the bass had shipped. I didn't expect it to get here until Saturday or Monday. No big deal. The wife and I went over to my mom's Friday night for dinner and cake, and while we were there, my wife whispered to me that the bass had arrived (anything big and expensive gets shipped to her dad's shop so that the package doesn't disappear off our front stoop). I was all set to bolt ass out of my mom's to go get it.

I decided to be patient.

My wife made me blueberry pancakes for my birthday breakfast (hands down, the best part of the day!). We went out and did some shopping. All the while I was trying to be patient. I couldn't stop thinking about the bass. Oh, the bass. The bass that I'd never actually seen in person. I had no way of knowing yet if I'd gotten my money's worth. Finally, we went out to her dad's around 6:00 pm. At this point, I was freakin' bustin' at my seams.

We got over to her dad's and chatted for a bit. Then her dad went and got the package.

Now, at this point I wasn't planning on opening the package there. Because I wasn't sure if I'd gotten a lemon, I didn't want to have to smile pretty and look happy if it wasn't what I'd hoped for. But we talked a bit more. Remarked on the hack-job of packaging. I was getting impatient. Someone-- don't know who-- suggested opening it. So I thought, "All right."

My wife's father gets a knife and I start trying to open it. I didn't want to just jab into it-- didn't want to scratch anything. Anyway, I finally get the tape off and open up the bottom flaps (the guy I bought it from had "built" a box out of two separate boxes; I opened the body end first).

The first thing I see is a two-by-four.

A freakin' two-by-four with an orange spray-painted end. Then I see a little plastic guitar.

A couple boards and a plastic guitar.

I almost shat myself. As soon as I saw that two-by-four, I thought-- and said out loud-- "I've been had." I thought back to the last message the seller sent me. In it, he gave me a link to his MySpace page. I'd been there and saw an announcement that said something like "I'm off to Vegas!" I'd also checked on Friday to see if he had any other auctions going-- and he didn't. Nothing.

So there I was, on my birthday, staring at an eBay scam.

I didn't begin to suspect the truth until I looked up and saw that my wife's dad wasn't in the room.

He came back in carrying my bubble-wrapped bass with a sign hanging on it (which was actually the cut-out front of a gift-bag that read "You're a Rock Star!").

My father-in-law had opened up the package, slid out the bass and popped in the pieces of wood and the plastic toy guitar, then taped it back up. Later, he said he never would have tried it had the package not looked so slapped together-- he never would have been able to pass it off if it hadn't been so obviously "home packaged."

So I got two guitars last weekend. A bass and a little toy guitar. That puts me at four.

Man, I got punked.

An Instrumental Lesson

It was good, though. I can honestly say that I've never had that level of a prank pulled on me. The wife says this means that I am now truly part of the family. I have to admit, this is the kind of thing that my father would never have done. My father was not a gift giver or a prankster. He was the kind of guy who was funny as a result of his inherent goofiness. His laughter-- when genuine-- was amazing. I like to think I inherited that from him. Rearranging the lyrics of songs to reflect a base, scatological humor? That was my father's brand of humor. Planning and executing prank that push the boundaries of what is funny? That was not my father's style.

My father was a fan of Jon Belushi, not Andy Kaufman.

It was more than that, too. I grew up in a home where I got (pretty much) everything I ever wanted. All I had to do was justify my need (want). I got really good at doing that. Even now, I find myself devising and scheming (often subconsciously) to make what I want a reality. My justifications are like political rhetoric: Need front loaded on a network of ideas and contrivances susceptible to too much scrutiny—only that scrutiny usually comes after the fact, when the war has already started.

And so I'm a bad gift receiver. I admit that now. (I am sorry, dear.) I get what I want because I usually get things for myself (or engineer schemes of acquisition). I work hard to make it happen—regardless of the consequences. With my parents it became easy. Even now, my mother has trouble giving me gifts because of the precedents we've both set.

This makes it hard to surprise me (in giving, that is).

I'm going to have to get better at this. I don't want my kids to lose the value of gifting—both giving and receiving.

And that's what ultimately made me decide that I was thankful for the trick. I am ascribing a hint of O. Henry-ness to my father-in-law's ruse. He may not have meant to teach me a lesson (those are the best kind; surprised by knowledge), but I learned one.

There was true catharsis in that two-by-four.

I actually thought about walking over and hugging the man. I didn't, but I thought about it.

And now I'm done. I'm done with buying instruments (for awhile, at least).

Now I just need to engineer a scheme to get an amp…

Twenty-Five Albums For Twenty-Five Years #19

This morning I was reading a combined review of Replacements re-releases, and decided it was time to return to my Twenty-Five Albums For Twenty-Five Years project. My last installment, #20, was posted almost a year ago. It’s high time for another. And this time, it’s the Replacements.

(For the back story: Twenty-Five Albums For Twenty-Five Years #25-23, #22, #21, #20)

19. Don’t Tell A Soul – The Replacements

As Mark Richardson mentions in his recent Pitchfork review, “For many, Don't Tell a Soul, with its slick production-- saxophones and violins were one thing, but synths?-- and generally muted tone spelled the end of the Replacements as we knew them.” This was not the case for me. Don’t Tell a Soul was my introduction to the Replacements.

Talent Show

It goes something like this. My brother played guitar. When he was in high school, he had band—he had the ripped up, bleached out jeans and Jon Bon Jovi perm. He had a purple guitar and a big ass guitar rig. His band, our last name, played a mixture of Rush-like prog and Ozzy-like metal. And for one shiny-but-embarrassing moment (for all of us), I was the lead singer. Somewhere at my mother’s house is a rapidly deteriorating VHS tape of our performance at the city fair’s Battle of the Bands. On this tape, you can hear a pre-pubescent me wailing away Ozzy (hitting the high notes but off-tempo), and slaughtering the lyrics to “Sweet Home Alabama.”

It’s safe to say we didn’t win.

Anyway, my brother graduated and went to college. He cut his hair and pretty much stopped playing.

Recognizing that my balls dropping and my inability to keep time would be the end of my singing career, I slid over to bass guitar and got a band of my own.

We had a complicated mythology which involved in-fighting and a change in line up. I was friends with (this is code for “in the Boy Scouts with”) our original drummer, and he was casual friends with two guys who played guitar (Brian and Michael). Somehow or other, we all wound up in my garage. From this meeting of minds, Fifth Wheel was born.

We had no clear vision and, aside from our lead guitarist (Michael), no real talent. Our furtive attempts to coalesce into some identifiable, cohesive sound were the epitome of lame. Basically, our practice sessions amounted to loud, cacophonous farting around. Attempts to cover hits of the day were met with little success.

Despite our lack of talent, our furtive attempts landed us in a similar situation to my earlier Battle of the Bands fiasco: We tried out for—and made it into—our high school’s talent show.

Our pièce de résistance? Guns ‘n Roses “Rocket Queen.” Instrumental, of course.

Shortly after we tried out and got on the slate, our drummer informed us that he would be out of town for the event. Faced with no drummer, we pulled in our friend Jeff (who is now a Naval flight officer) to cover on skins.

There’s video tape of our talent show performance, too—though I don’t know where it is.

It wasn’t long after that performance that we lost our first drummer to a difference of opinion. He thought he was awesome. We disagreed. He later went on to found a rival band (which we mocked incessantly), and Jeff came on as our official drummer. Surprisingly enough, with Jeff on the throne, we managed to find some direction, and our practice sessions netted some actual results, actual gigs. Those gigs reflected the general spotty-ness of our career—from our one real gig at a local music club, to an afternoon show at a day care (there’s video tape of this one, too).

We had an occasional singer who was older, cooler, and in college. Ron was not really invested in us. He had his own aspirations—and those included playing guitar. Our rhythm guitarist, Brian, later followed Ron out to Western, picked up bass and helped found the Western Carolina trio Minus Us.

All in all, Fifth Wheel was a grand experiment in teen angst. I’m proud (if also slightly embarrassed) of that band—and I’m also eternally thankful that we “came of age” musically at the same time that Nirvana and Pearl Jam were redefining music. There’s something poetic about a bunch of teenagers who couldn’t get laid banging out “Smells Like Teen Spirit” in a garage.

I also find it deeply fascinating that Paul Westerberg managed to write some of the most authentic (at least in my experience) lines in rock music (from Don’t Tell A Soul’s “Talent Show”): "It's the biggest thing in my life, I guess/ Look at us, we're nervous wrecks/ Hey, we go on next."

I did that.

Drivn’ n’ Cryin’

This little story of a bad high school rock band does more than illustrate a high point from Don’t Tell A Soul. See, Fifth Wheel’s music may not have been all that great, but the band was the center of my social world for those two or three years before I went off to college. Up until that point, I’d been a competitive swimmer and a Boy Scout. Both of those things fell into the background when I started playing bass. They were replaced with some of the strongest friendships I’ve ever had. I would even go so far as to suggest that my ability to maintain strong friendships now is a direct result of the bonding that happened in my garage.

Not only do I still keep in touch with my former band mates, but my wife and I flew to Finland this summer to take part in our lead guitarist’s wedding.

Anyway, my junior year in high school was marked both by being in a band and taking a television production class at the Weaver Center in Greensboro. Somehow, my friend Brian caught wind of the television production class and we managed to get enrolled in it. The result was that we carpooled out to Weaver at the end of each school day. Driving back and forth to Weaver with Brian, we talked mostly about girls, but we also listened to a lot of music. Since Brian was a year older than me, he fancied himself the worldlier in regards to music.

I should probably interject: I was fattened on Rush, Ozzy, and Styx. I had inherited my musical tastes from my parents and my older brother. This was all counter to the tastes of Michael and Brian, who were big fans of The Monkees and The Beatles, and only later branched out into harder stuff. We were all enamored with Guns ‘n Roses, of course, but there was always a sense that my tastes were bad because I’d taken part in the big hair metal extravagancies of the late eighties—a travesty along the lines of being a Reagan Republican in a Clinton jazz band.

I credit Brian for introducing me to Drivn’ n’ Cryin’ and The Replacements.

This is where Don’t Tell A Soul comes in. I don’t remember where he got it—though I suspect he heard “I’ll Be You” on WUAG, UNC-G’s radio station. All I remember is that he had a tape copy of the album and he played it for me on the way to Weaver one afternoon. I didn’t like it immediately, but I was forced to borrow the tape.

I mentioned that I was a swimmer. I was no Michael Phelps (clearly), but I was still practicing regularly. And when I got my license (and my brother’s car, since he was away at college), I started driving myself the half hour to and from practice. I did a lot of driving and a lot of (cryin’) listening.

Driving back and forth from Weaver, and from swim practice, I fell in love with Don’t Tell A Soul. Later, I discovered the whole Replacements back catalog (and even found that Please To Meet Me is my favorite Replacements album), but Don’t Tell A Soul stands at the front of my list of albums where my musical tastes began to change.

ROCK 'N' ROLL GHOST

Later, much later, Michael of Fifth Wheel and Finland fame sent me a copy of Nina Persson's A Camp. It's a great little album that's never been released (I think) in the states. Anyway, near the end of the collection is a cover of "Rock 'n' Roll Ghost." It's a slow, sultry version of the already slow, melancholic track from Don't Tell A Soul. I've always been wary of covers (as much as I love Luna, I'm not a big fan of their lackadaisical version of "Sweet Child O Mine"), but this one's spot on. And it reminded me of the highlights—of what I love most about Don't Tell A Soul.

As you can probably gather from what I've already written, I was a reforming head banger who's only "slow music" likes were power ballads a la "Mama, I’m Comin' Home." Don't Tell A Soul was like nothing I'd ever really liked before. That "generally muted tone" that Mark Richardson mentions in his review was new to me. And the more I listened, the more I liked it. I would argue that Don't Tell A Soul opened me up to later enjoy Luna and The Sundays. It also allowed me to look back on the eighties and admit that I actually liked (sonically speaking) the other side of the musical spectrum—the side that my staunch head-banger youth railed vehemently against. I could allow myself to enjoy "Safety Dance" and "Come On Eileen."

But it's more than that, I guess. Otherwise, I wouldn't have found myself so enthralled with the rest of the Replacements catalog. And I guess this is what really bears mentioning: Yes, Don't Tell A Soul was a departure (from my own tastes as much as the band's storied past), but it was steeped in what made the Replacements great even from day one: great songwriting.

Richardson notes this—that "the hearts of good songs" are "beating beneath the plastic exterior" of their production. And, despite the change in line up, the heart of the Replacements is still their—because Westerberg is still there.

Now, one need only look at Paul's solo career to see that the Replacements were certainly more than him—but his greatest gift is, and always was, a knack for great songwriting—both riff-writing and lyric writing. And despite the typically professed failings of Don't Tell A Soul, the songs are damn good. I'll admit that I, too, have real problems with "I Won't" and "Anywhere's Better Than Here," but all in all the good outweighs the bad.

I used to say that three people most influenced my sense of (and love for) language: George Carlin, Tom Waits, and Paul Westerberg. That list has grown since, but those three still stand there at the front. First came Carlin (for more about Carlin: The King Is Dead) and later came Waits. But in the middle, in those teen angst years when I was fumbling toward some sense of self as a social being and as a writer, I learned from Westerberg the art of humility in humor and pain, the art of dismantling a phrase not as Carlin had for laughs but for a deeper truth, the truth that caused cliché in the first place. Where Waits painted another picture—other warped and weary worlds built of hobos and cigarette smoke—Westerberg painted an existence that was very much like my own (except for the boozing and Midwest cold, of course).

PLEASE TO MEET ME

I'll add this last bit because I'm probably not going to have room for more than one Replacements album in my twenty-five. In the end, Don't Tell A Soul means more to my musical history than Please To Meet Me does—even if it isn't the better album.

And I guess I should explain that. Looking back at my other choices so far, there is a sense of sonic resonance, of completeness and cohesiveness. On a good album, a band's or artist's expression is summed up within the confines of the chosen songs, which collectively represent a theme, an idea or ideas closely matched. While Please To Meet Me is a solid album with few missteps, it doesn't gel like Don't Tell A Soul does. Hands down, "Can't Hardly Wait" and "Alex Chilton" are my favorite Replacements songs, but the landscape that starts with "Talent Show" and ends with "Darling One" is one more completely realized. Whether by intention or accident, Don't Tell A Soul represents a specific moment in musical time—both for me and for the music world—and as such, means more to me.

One last thing (a sad note): I bought my CD copy of Please To Meet Me used at B.B.'s Compact Discs in Greensboro. B.B.'s was a classic haunt of my high school years. Kids without much to do and little money, we would drive out to B.B.'s and listen to music. The great thing about B.B.'s was that you could listen to any CD in the store. All you had to do was wait for an open player.

I discovered a lot of new sounds in that store—though, sadly, I never really bought much there. (I do have a couple of Tom Waits Bootlegs that I got there—back when you could still get those kinds of things at certain record stores…)

Earlier this year, B.B.'s closed its doors. There's a possibility that it may open again (somewhere else in town and likely at a reduced size), but having seen all my favorite music stores drop like flies in the last decade, I'm not all that hopeful.

But back in 1993, I lucked upon a used copy of Please To Meet Me (I'd already worn my copy of a copy out at that point).

I still have the receipt for it.

Dirt In The Ground

(I have not had time to finish part two of my previous blog. In the meantime, here's something else...)

I was a seventeen year old college freshman in 1992. I turned eighteen two months before the '92 election. At that time, I was, despite my protestations to the contrary, a typical college freshman. Yes, my parents embarrassed me. And yes, I was trying to be as unlike them as possible—except when it came to my political inclinations. For those, I trusted my father implicitly. My father was goofy as hell, but he was smart and paid attention to the world around him.

He was a fiscal conservative. He was one of the most liberal men I knew in his personal and spiritual ideologies, but when it came to money, he was a republican through and through.When good old Ross Perot came on the scene that year with his big money slant, my father (and by extension, my mother) was hooked. He was optimistic about the future, about the future of his money.I registered to vote as soon as I turned eighteen. I went down to the polls on Election Day and pulled those levers-- mostly at random, of course.

For the big ticket, I voted Perot.A funny thing happened later that night. As was usually the case, I had my dorm room door open. Music streamed through my hi-fi set-up (my Sony Discman running through the auxiliary input of an old Commodore 64 monitor that I was using as a television), and I was at my desk entrenched in a game of Mine Sweeper on my cobbled together computer, complete with amber screen monitor.

Then, I heard it. Shouting and whooping. I don't remember what this kid's name was, but I do remember that he was tall, had long dark hair, and was an asshole. The kind of guy that surely got a lot of action because he was semi-attractive and mean.

And there he was, stomping down the hall, yelling "Bush sucks! Clinton rules!"

Now, when I've recounted this story in the past, I've conflated my epiphanies. I usually tell people that in that moment, I realized that I had no business voting because it was little more than a football game to me—as it apparently was to those around me. I vowed never to vote again unless I was more prepared, more informed.

I came to those conclusions but not that night. That night I was simply struck by a simple revelation about the election: This is not a football game.

Later, I did begin to piece it all together. I didn't vote again until 2004. And even then, I will admit, I wasn't as informed as I should have been. I knew more than I did when I was eighteen, but only because I'd been listening to NPR (something my republican father loved and hated). I also knew that whatever I didn't know about John Kerry was balanced by what I did know about Bush.

All of this leads up to my current state of mind: Until now, I have never plastered any political stickers on my car. Until now, I'd never watched a political convention, nor listened to an entire speech given by any president, or presidential candidate.

My wife knew from the beginning that Obama was the right choice. For me, I wanted to play it safe. I wanted to make sure that I wasn't just voting like my wife. But I started to listen more attentively to Barack's words. My wife bought The Audacity of Hope and I read the first chapter (I keep meaning to read the rest of it) and thought, "Okay, this guy can write." I watched and listened. I paid more attention.

I watched Obama's acceptance speech. And you know what? You know why that whole Daily Show-Lion King bit is so funny?[1] Because it sums up how I felt, how I feel about Obama. Hope is a funny thing.

I remember being blown away by the openness of these lines, "These challenges are not all of government's making. But the failure to respond is a direct result of a broken politics in Washington and the failed policies of George W. Bush."[2]

It really was like Harry Potter saying "Voldermort." Obama named that which must not be named.

On that stage, Obama faced the darkness and confronted it.

And he didn't do it in a way that was mean-spirited, or sadly rote. What was so powerful about his speech was the fact that he faced the darkness and did not drag us down into fear as a result of it. In fact, I felt hopeful in that moment. That hope was reflected in his invocation of Dr. King: "'We cannot walk alone,' the preacher cried.' And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead. We cannot turn back.' America, we cannot turn back..."

This is optimistic realism. We're in a bad place. This is not all our fault, but we all have to work to fix it. Real work, hard work. But it can be done.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I heard about Sarah Palin the next morning. Pure pandering, pure (evil) genius. Imagine my horror listening to her speech. There was no hope in her words, only fear.[3] Only silly jokes and snide looks.

What's so bad about organizing communities?

And don't get me started about Giuliani. Here's the quote that made my ears bleed: "Because change is not a destination, just as hope is not a strategy." What does that even mean?!

Okay, so here it is: I am not passionate about politics and the world. I always just assumed that everything would work out fine around me and I could just go about my life without paying attention. That's the real moral of my little story. I'm too selfish (self-centered) to care that much about the fate of this nation.

Or at least I was.

This time around I do care. I have paid attention. And like some of my friends and colleagues, I too am being torn apart. I've been obsessed these past few weeks (after the elation of Obama's victory over Clinton, after the elation I felt from his speech was stomped on with arrogant ignorance by Sarah Palin, who delivered a speech she didn't even write)—obsessed with the possibility that we could be facing the biggest mistake this country has ever made. I hope and pray (and I don't pray much because I'm not sure exactly in what direction to pray) that the strategery clearly in-play at the moment will backfire. To some extent, it already has.

And so there it is.

I'll leave you with two quotes for those of us torn between optimism and pessimism:

"Hell's boiling over and heaven is full, / We're chained to the world and we've all got to pull."

- Tom Waits (from "Dirt In The Ground" on Bone Machine)

"This union may never be perfect, but generation after generation has shown that it can always be perfected."

- Barack Obama (from his "A More Perfect Union" speech)[4]

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NOTES:

[1] The Daily Show put together a bio film of Obama that figured him as Simba from The Lion King. Watch it here: He Completes Us.
[2] For the full transcription of Obama's speech, go here: Barack Obama's Acceptance Speech.
[3] Palin's speech can be found here: Governor Palin at the RNC. To test my musings, simply count up the words in her speech that have negative connotations. How many times does she mention 'war,' 'fear,' etc?
[4] Full transcript of a brilliant speech: A More Perfect Union.

One more thing! Here is an excellent article about Barack Obama's economic ideology. Read it here: How Obama Reconciles Dueling Views on Economy.