Inkwell: Authors and Artists

    

Hey! When did I stop beating my wife?  There is no sport inkwell.vue, more's
the pity.  I think you would be a fine addition to the well, david, and you
are fun etc.!

however, you are a big ole sexist and if you join the well we're larn ya
gud.
  

    
Mr. Walley, you are good at making distinctions and categories. Midway
through TNB you differentiate between "rock stars" and "musicians:"

"There are rock stars and then there are musicians, and rarely do their two
worlds politically coincide except on stage or in the studio. Within this
pleasant prison fiction, rock stars are expected to champion political
causes because they're celebrities. Meanwhile, rhythm guitarists, bass
players, percussionists, or horn players, the worker bee foot soldiers on
whose backs the celebrities stand, the ones who support the rock gods and
superstars, are dismissed as virtual nonpersons. We want rock stars and
that's what we get, unfortunately. It's better like that, since most
musicians are a low-key lot and prefer to keep ou of the limelight. With
some exceptions, musicians tend to hold liberal or libertarian views if only
because they work under all sorts of conditions with all manner of people;
to get by to earn a living, they've got to get along. That's the reason
professional musicans tend to have "out" senses of humor, why, for instance,
David Letterman or Jay Leno, on their late night talk shows, direct all
their bad jokes to the band, because the guys have seen and hear it all
before. And it really is true. The band sees everything.

Unlike rock stars, musicians have simple needs: (1) they like to play their
music and (2) they like to get paid, though they'll play even if they don't
get paid. Unscrupulous club owners and managers have exploited this since
time immemorial: they know that dedicated musicians will endure the most
frightful working conditions just so long as they can express themselves
musically and be free for those 15, 45, or 75 minutes on stage. On the other
hand, though a rock band may think it's getting paid to musically tell it
like it is by its fans, once it signs on the dotted line, the record company
calls the tune, like it or not. Only in retrospect, after the band becomes
part of the music business for a while, does it start to realize just how
lucky it was when it was on the outside looking in."

Great stuff. Is it EVER possible for rock and roll to be politically sincere
and effective? Or is always filtered through the concerns of the business
world?
  

    
Asked and answered, Barry? It has to do more with how one deals with
fame and notoriety. At the same time I don't know whether being a "rock
start" is a career choice anymore. It's not like people get together
to form a rock and roll band to "say something" as much as tohave fun
for a bit, travel and see the world. YOu have to have a great deal of
commitment to want to be a musician, practice, practice, praactice---it
appears that peole who get into rock and roll bands want the flash,
but they don't want the work. But for me, music isn't exactly my life
though it still can be the soundtrack of my life.


anyway, Cynthia, I'm glad to be amusing you                       
  

    
actually, Cynthia, the "sport" I was thinking about is bear baiting,
which is as apt a metaphor as I cam come up with on my birthday.
Anyway, I'm intrigued as to why I'd make a great addition to this
community, surely you have available other forms of amusement, don't
you?
  

    

The passage quoted in <102> is right on the money.
  

    

David, none of the people responsible for this conference regard it as a
bear-pit, ferchrissakes.
  

    
That's a good thing to know :-))), but while we're on the subject, if
only briefly, this sexist pig vacuums, makes beds, dishes,(pots a
speciality!) takes out the garbage, cooks, does laundry too. I'd like
to know what sexist does that---I I get it, it's the attitude that goes
along with it---

no, I didn't *think* is was a bear baiting pit, anyway, it's nice that
you agree with me, David, about what Barry posted from TNB---when I
was working in the business, musicians I used to interview always used
to ask me what instrument I played. I said "Selectric II" and they
laughed.
  

    
David, the very fact that you think it's noteworthy that you do those things
can be implied to think that it's not really your job.

In any event, what some people here appear to be pointing out is some sexism
in your attitudes as posted here, not your facility with household chores.
If the reaction is simply going to be "Am not!" it's not really worth my
time to explain my perspective; other people may feel it's a better use of
their time, and certainly <plum> could do so more entertainingly than I.
  

    
Not even gonna get into chores and like that...   but meanwhile 
I'm reading...  Looking at the part of the book About WALMART music...

and the censorship inherent in the marketplace brings up some questions 
about how music is marketed online.  Is this a great flowering 
for alternative labels, or will we see monopolies
arise here too?  I'm thinkingo of all those Amazon and small bookseller
discussions, too, of course.
  

    

Happy birthday David from a fellow Pisces!!
  

    
Sharon: i'm really not sure the drift of all of this is; I do know
that it's fairily unproductive to keep flogging this horse; suficed to
say, I've alwyas done my share (and more); women and women and men are
men, and it's the differences between the two species which makes this
world so interesting and keeps people on their toes. As for "it' not my
job" kind of thinking, it's always been my job. I odn't imply nuthin';
you're the one who's implying implications. I'm really not that
evolved or devious, I just come out and say what's on my mind, thank
you---

meanwhile Gail is moving right along, seems she's now reading "Bopxers
or Briefs: Poilitics in the Post-Elvis Age" and I think she's got it,
asking the questions that I had hped readers would mull over. There's
always going to be "alternative" until it becomes "mainstream" then
something else takes its place, but yes, I think you've got it.

Thanks for the salutations Castle on this day of days. Never thought
I'd make it this long, thought that I woudlnt survive 29---
  

    
If you think it's unproductive, I won't waste your time and mine any
further.
  

    


I'm concerned because I always thought it was "Who put the bop in the bop-
she-bop-she-bop," and now I'm doubting myself.  Next thing you know, I'll
find out it wasn't "Ting, tang, walla walla bing bang."

But seriously, is it really the BOMP, and not the BOP?
  

    
Definitely BOMP!
  

    
it was probably "bop", but it could just as well have been "bomp",
although I think that "bomp" is, in some circles correct. And thank you
David for nudging that one in---

as for sharon, really I dont mean to be dismissive, but I'm really not
interested in pursuing your drift. And yes, I do think it's
"unproductive" because it gets talked and talked and talked about and
it's been talked about since Adam and Eve, and will continue to be
talked about until the last syllable of recorded time. I worry when men
and women STOP talking about this.
  

    

Not into drift -- never mind the media conf.
  

    

Oh fuck.  I'm gonna get into it.  Yes, I am.  Just for a second.  David.
Don't you dare get resentful, I'm keeping it light.

Your parable bothered me.  It seemed to me not a parody of cliches, but a
story with a moral, which is that successful women who ignore their children
will get their comeuppance.  But!  One of the things you took for granted in
this parable was that it was the mother who should stay home for the child,
the father wasn't even mentioned.  By doing this you were presupposing all
sorts of things and those things are so important to me that I can't just
let them slide by.  This does not mean that I am not charmed by your
thoughts on many other things, but please keep an open mind about all things
in these gender communications.

I had an assistant a couple of years ago named Glen.  He was a smart and
darling fellow, 23 years old.  Here's what he wanted to be when he grew up:
A rock star.  In fact he once said, "If I can't be a rock star I don't know
what I'll do."  Naturally I worried about him.  Yes, he was a musician, but
that didn't count to him.

Glen subsequently died by driving insanely on his motorcycle.  It was and is
still so heartbreaking.  I think he was having a teenage nervous breakdown
and it is just so awful.
  

    
That's so sad.
  

    
Jez, Synchia, getta grip, how's talking about keeping it light?

OK, whatever you say. I getcha, but I 'wasn't' making a statement
about the mother staying home, I was just twisting the thing around. So
would it be funny or 'ier if the man is getting the pickle from not
being mister mom? I should write one about that, and if you keep
bugging me, I probably will, but not right now.

CAROL:
 just for the hallibut, I have gone out ordered and in my hot litlle
hands is YOUR book, and now I understand what your'e responding to in
TNB. I was another take on the music business, the eastcoast acifhead
scene, there was that, what was hapening in Berkeley, in LA, Austin,
and other  ports in the storm. We should get together and jaw about
that stuff because as cuolturalhistory, it needs to be put in its
niche, given its due instead of always being winked at, ---like no one
inhales anymore.
  

    
Cynthia; sorry for your loss, that is a sad story; just multiply his
condition to the rest of society
  

    
        Talk to Me      
        Once upon a time there was a woman who was married to a 
hard-working dependable guy who, she insisted, never talked to her.
Oh, he was attentive enough, well-spoken, and good in bed which, after
a decade of marriage and a few kids, was saying something. Rarely if
ever did he have "night out with the boys", or make her a football
widow during playoff season. He was also a world-class putterer and
do-it-yourself-er who maintained their cars, things men were always
good at.  
        At first when they just had each other, life was orderly, he worked
downtown, she freelanced out of the house as a design consultant, and
they talked about everything all of the time. Like most other couples,
they slept in on weekends (or when he called in sick to work), went to
the movies and dinner, and vacationed. Their first child, a girl,
significantly altered this cozy relationship, hers more than his. 
        When he was around, he was curious, helpful and even did the night
shift when asked. Before she crashed for the night, she'd fill him in
on The Latest Developments. Tradition was observed when it came to
diapers: ie. she did them since she was at home --- it was her girl,
she knew more about them than he did. It's not that he didn't try, it's
just that he made such a borscht and a shambles out of it that she was
forced to step in when she couldn't stand watching him fumble any
longer. Assuming that it was through genetic ineptitude not
unfamiliarity, she stopped asking him altogether while secretly
resenting him, wondering why things were like that.  
        As her girl grew into a toddler, the woman's energy level along
with her attention span declined from the sheer exhaustion of keeping
baby out of mischief, her major activity since the business was on hold
until she came out the other side of Babyland. Their evenings together
gradually grew strained, being less of an inter- connected
conversation and more like a series of reports. In time, he stopped
asking how her day was because he'd know just by looking at her, and
rather than have her re-live it in excruciating detail, sought to
divert her with office gossip just to make her laugh. Of course she was
bushed and stressed out by the end of the day, he'd be too if he was
in her place. 
        For her part, since he didn't ask, she assumed that he no longer
seemed as interested in her or her world; and who else could she bitch
to?  Thinking better of it, not wanting to bring him down when he
seemed so up and positive, she let him prattle on while she silently
fumed inside. How could he be bored with their child? Was he losing
interest in their lives together? Why didn't he say anything? 
        And because she didn't say anything to the contrary, he assumed
everything was UNDER CONTROL. He would have cooked dinner since he knew
how, but she preferred to do that herself as a matter of honor. Of
course he'd wait, there were other more important priorities in her
life now. Still he did his chores, maintained the cars and the house
while she was nagged by the feeling that he didn't care. Maybe he
intuit it, eventually catch on and get with the program such as it had
become she'd dream.
        Their second child, a boy, was less of a shock to her system because
now she had a good one in place. Her husband seemed to take more of an
interest and was marginally better with diapers too. When they were
perchance alone at night, she no longer thought of sharing details of
the children with him, and of course he didn't ask thinking that if
there was anything out of the extraordinary, she'd tell him. Finally
when both children were in pre-K and she had more time to herself to
think about working again, she brooded, meditating on his apparent
ineptitude and indifference. 
        Introspectively overloaded and over the top in more ways than one,
instead of telling her husband any of this, she confided to her
therapist at $40 dollars an hour. She was now well into the process of
poisoning her sex life, having convinced herself that his "oblivious"
nature extended from his children to her, though none of this had
actually been confirmed. In subsequent sessions she revealed elaborate
fantasy scenarios of her husband collapsing under the strain of the
obligations, and how the children would live in squalor and discord
without her around. Afterwards at home, she'd maintain a stiff upper
lip when he asked why she seemed to stressed of late though behind her
cool fascade she was actively speculating on who of her friends her
husband was checking out when she was put out to pasture.  
        The marriage would have gone south had not fortune intervened in the
guise of an emergency in her family which required her presence, alone,
for a weekend. After exhausting the possibilities of alternate care
including Rent-A-Nanny, Housekeepers-'r-Us, relatives or the like, she
reluctantly prepped her husband with a ten page single-spaced ukase
including relevant phone numbers and medical information. With a heavy
heart she boarded her plane for her mother's, and while buckling in
thought it would be a modern miracle if she returned home and they
weren't all dead. Oh the house would be standing and the cars would be
runing, but everything inside would be a wipe, and I'll bet that
Clarisse (her nemesis, the likely Candidate, Mrs. Perfect) will have
put in an appearance by then, and that's IT for me. Her mood nose-dived
further when her departure was delayed for two hours because of icing
on the wings and she arrived at her mother's just after a freak
electrical storm had wiped out the phones. 
        When she finally got through it was The Witching Hour when the kids
were out of school and gnarly because they were hungry and tired. From
the ambient room noise it was obvious that all hell was breaking loose.
There, she thought grimly to herself, now he'll know what it's like.
However, rather than being frantic and crazed,  he was surprisingly
low-key and cheerful. She imagined him talking in a shambles of a
kitchen with a sink-full of dirty dishes and the laundry was strewn in
heaps around the house, but obviously he wasn't letting on how bad it
really was. Oh course things weren't running as smoothly without her
but for the most part he had it covered. He sounded rushed and harried,
but as everyone with young children knows, having a coherent
conversation at the Witching Hour was fruitless. Not to worry, after he
bedded the kids down, he'd call; she just couldn't wait.  
        Yes it was certainly an experience to deal with the kids full- time
though he hadn't run into anything untoward (she marveled at his sang
froid). Marnie's cold was better, she wasn't interested in what was
pre-prepared for dinner so he whipped up something which did the trick.
When he picked up Little Tommy from school, his first grade teacher
told him his son was less fidgety and had stopped being such a
buttinsky in class (that wasn't on the list she thought).  It also
appeared the boy was outgrowing his need to have his teddy eat real
food because " Teddy liked pretend much better". (How did he know
that?). And on he went, very completely, enthusiastically, and in
loving and knowing detail.
        She was waiting for the other shoe to fall since as the saying goes,
no good deed goes unpunished. Still she was astonished how it was
dropped thirty-five minutes later into his update. "Oh and your friend,
Clarisse came over to check in to see that everything was all right
(I'll bet, she did)," he announced casually. "She was overdressed for
the occasion and wearing this perfume that was deadly. You think her
husband goes for that? Anyway I gave her a quick cup of coffee and sent
her on her way. For some reason she seemed disappointed when I told
her that I had pick-up to do and lunches to make, but I said I'd call
her if I needed anything which I don't think I'll do. I don't know what
you see in her, dear, she's such an overbearing cow at times, don't
you think?" 
        She no longer had a clue what to think.
        "I'm thinking of taking the kids to a ball game Saturday and then
we'll have pizza later. I probably shouldn't subject them to my cooking
twice without some kind of respite, " he added in his charming
self-deprecating way and vowed to check in with her Saturday evening.
        After hanging up she was thoroughly confused if not demoralized now
that the careful systematic reasoning she'd developed in therapy began
to unravel before her very ears. She was overcome with a whole raft of
conflicting emotions as well as a  sinking feeling that perhaps she had
misjudged him. The anecdote about Clarisse was accurate and right on
the money she knew because he was a bad liar, a quality she'd all but
overlooked in her catalogue of his sins. That night she experienced the
first good sleep she'd had in what seemed like years, and in the
morning awoke refreshed and far more capable of dealing with whatever
shenanigans her mother had prepared especially for her. 
        That night they talked for what seemed like the first time since the
children had come into their lives, and she found herself falling in
love with him all over again.  "I'm just so amazed and delighted that
everything's all right at home, " she enthused.
        " Why shouldn't they be? They're my kids too, I live here, I have to
be a participant, don't I?"
        "But it's so funny that some of the things you told me I wasn't sure
you were even aware of."
        "It's all part of maintenance isn't it, only it's on what's inside
the house, not outside --- "
        " --- I mean I thought you weren't interested, you never said
anything to me--"
        "You never asked me. If you had, I would have told you, so I just
picked it up by myself."
        "But I never saw you." 
        "Well, I was lurking around, you were just too pre-occupied to notice
me. I'm a good lurker, you know."
        She admitted that he was and how intensely she missed him. 
        Still she couldn't kick the feeling of impending doom when she
arrived home the following afternoon. To her great relief, the
children greeted her enthusiastically; they were clean and well- turned
out while the house, save for the laundry room, a lost cause for even
her, was in good order. After dinner when the children were safely in
bed, she made love like she meant it, and told him so. The following
Monday after cutting her therapist loose, she asked her husband how
exactly he made that "surprise" that Marnie raved about. 
        Moral: Assume nothing; talk is much cheaper than therapy and          
twice as effective.
  

    
Is this another one that I'm supposed to find funny?
  

    
Unfortunately yes:-)))
  

    
Huh. Doesn't read like comedy to me, Sharon.  The other story was like a joke
that fell flat. I could disagree with the premise of this one or find it
unlikely, but it has a warm, wistful tone, not cold finger-pointing one, and
that makes it richer even though it doesn't play like a joke.  
  

    
Ah, well, so much for my finely honed appreciation and critque of humor.

(David's post slipped in ahead while I typed.)