I was stationed with the 7405th Ops Squadron at Rhein-Mein AB in Germany in the late 1980s. This song, ‘Roxanne’ by the Police came out in 1978. The movie was featured in ‘Beverly Hills Cops’ with Eddie Murphy and Nick Nolte in 1984. Yet, here we were seeking it at a fundraiser five years later.
We had an charity unit, the Tipplers. Joining the Tipplers cost five dollars. The Tipplers subsidized purchases that were then sold to members at cost. This things included our squadron coins and memorabilia, and the squadron wine. But this organization was mainly about charity. We supported an orphanage in Spain and another one in Germany. We also supported the annual Marine toy drive for Christmas and a few other charities throughout the year.
I was the Tipplers secretary for a few years, an elected position, at was so at this particular event. Several organizations on base had donated money, time and material to build a booth that could be used for these things. Setting up the booth on a cold sunny morning in the Main Exchange parking lot, we were grilling hamburgers and cheeseburgers and selling them to people entering and leaving the exchange.
I have a habit of singing to myself. On that morning, as I manned the service counter and awaited customers, I began singing ‘Roxanne’.
Except I was doing it like Eddie Murphy’s character in BHC, slightly loud and off key.
And my unit decided to sing along with me.
I laugh even looking back at it. Bunch of people in jeans, jackets and hats, trying to keep warm, grilling burgers and selling them, singing ‘Roxanne’.
Writing is about learning what you like to read and then learning what you like to write and then writing what you like to read. That’s my opinion. Naturally.
So today’s Things That Probably Only Interest Me (T2POIM) is about our local temperature. Arriving home yesterday just past five in the pre-evening (or post-afternoon), I checked the temps. Thirty-seven F. Sweet.
We’ve had days of colder weather that we’re used to. I’m not bragging that ours was cold because I know my sisters were out shopping in twelve degree weather. We never went that low.
That’s the thing, however. We usually don’t go low on temps. A few times per winter finds temps in the low twenties and high teens, which is what we’ve been experiencing. As our homes aren’t built to endure that, we need to attend matters like the furnace, pipes and cats to ensure nothing freezes on us.
Thirty-seven yesterday pre-evening marked the first time that we were over freezing that late in the day. I skated through some relief with a mental cry that the worse was over. But I kept watching the temp. Six: thirty-seven. Seven: thirty-seven. Eight: thirty-seven.
Midnight: thirty-seven.
By now, I believed my weather station was kaput. But local online stations showed the same temperature. So…I went to bed.
Three: thirty-seven.
Six: thirty-seven.
Seven: thirty-seven.
Eight: thirty-seven.
I went to Southern Oregon University’s online weather station. It’s physically situated several hundred feet lower in elevation and in a field where either sun or fog often envelops it. Its temp was but one degree below our temp. Pulling up their graphs, I saw the same results I’d noticed at home: the temperature hadn’t changed since five PM yesterday.
By ten, our temperature had finally climbed to thirty-eight. But it struck me as astonishing, that through a winter night and past sunrise, the temperature remained the same. Of course, seeing the thick cloud cover and then the rain, I knew a warm front had moved in.
It’s interesting. I’m sure, though, seeing an unchanging temperature over fifteen hours remains a T2POIM.
This choice for theme music, ‘Road to Hell’, has been around for a while. It’s hard to find a good recording of it online. A good recording is important; the song begins with the sounds of rain on a car and the sweep of wiper blades across the windshield.
The song’s sentiments, that we’re on a the road to hell, are reflected by various people and organizations. No matter the issues, politics or religions, who wins or who loses, someone will declare, this is the road to hell. Funny enough, every time I think of the road to hell, I think of a book by one of my favorite authors, Roger Zelazny, and ‘Damnation Alley’, which wasn’t a terrific novel. It’s appropriate to think of Zelazny and Rea together on a day like this, when surreal is the ‘word of the year’.
Back to the music, Chris Rea, ‘Road to Hell’, 1989. The song was originally listed as Parts I and II. Part I is like an essay with accompanying instruments:
Stood still on the highway
I saw a woman
by the side of the road
With a face I knew like my own
reflected
in my window.
Part II of Chris’ lyrics begins, “Well, I’m standing by a river, but the water doesn’t flow. It boils with every poison you can think of.” Too frequently, here in America, we’re encountering poisoned rivers and drinking supplies. Flint, Michigan leaps to mind, but a small city not far from my town has been enduring several months of boil and do not drink orders for their water supplies. Googling for such news turns up multiple more examples.
It does make one think, “Yeah, we’re on the road to hell.” Just in time for the holidays.
Back into the wayback machine for this choice – which puts in mind the fantasy, wouldn’t it be cool to have a wayback machine? “Yes, but the paradoxes, what you would do to time,” naysayers moan. Yeah, let’s suspend logic; suspend physics, quantum mechanics, all the thinking and all the relative theories. Just pretend you’re a child and play with ideas of all the time travel variations possible.
Here’s one.
Just about every house is getting one. It’s the hot holiday gift, and it’s on sale in dozens of places. You, disliking crowds and cold weather, and feeling bored, restless and wanting a change, surf the net and turn to Amazon to check out the offerings and read the reviews. They come up immediately: Wayback Machines. They’re priced at just under six hundred dollars. If you order today, sites claim, “Receive this by Christmas with Free Shipping!”
Okay, but six hundred eggs. Cards are already heavy with spending for the season for toys and clothes, dinners out. But you’re intrigued. You read.
“What’s included: computer interlink, two bracelets, headgear and software.” You skip into the specs and the system requirements, bringing up your system’s information and running a mental checklist.
You have the computer speed, the computer power, an approved OS, the USB ports, everything needed. Well, hell, you should, you blew a wad on this laptop just a year ago for your own special Christmas present because, WTF, you deserve it.
“This is not virtual reality,” a review says. “This the real thing. You are there.”
Yeah, you’ve read the ads, seen them on television during football and baseball games for half the year, talked about them at work while waiting for meetings to begin, swapped information with friends over wine and beer. You know what it’s supposed to be, what it can do.
So you order your Wayback Machine.
Three days later, it arrives. Boxes are in boxes. You’re usually so organized about opening and unpacking boxes, especially things like this, but you’ve become really excited about what it can do.
“Where the fuck is the quick start?” you ask, and it’s right there, the very first thing you pulled out after opening a box, a DVD. There are cables and the headgear, which looks like one of those half-helmets, the small console, the size of your first Roku, resembling a blue and black cigarette back, and the silver and black bracelets.
It’s a clean set-up and install. Breathlessly you power everything up, starting as the program booms, “Welcome,” even thought it’s a soft female voice. Lights are green. The program shows up on your laptop’s screen. You’re sweating and trembling. Well, the heat is running. It’s snowing outside. The wife, children and grandchildren are all out shopping. Then they’re eating somewhere and going ice-skating. You tell your phone to turn down the heat.
Snow falls more heavily outside past the windows. Inside, it’s just you. Your anticipation amazes you. You hope you won’t be disappointed. You put on the bracelets and headgear. The system checks you out. The Wayback program asks, “Do you want to sync with your Fitbit and smart phone?” Hell, yes.
Thirty seconds later, that is done. “Select a year from your life,” the program says.Feeding off a memory, a hope, a dream, you select 1964.
Then shoves now aside. It feels a little violent, more violent than the reviews said it would be like. Your pulse breaks out into something appropriate for finishing a hundred yard dash. Your body –
Oh, my god, you’re back in it, you’re ten years old ago. You’re so skinny. Jesus. It’s amazing how much you look like your grandson, Yuri.
Your young entity is reading a book. The pages swim into your understanding: ‘Stranger in a Strange Land’.
You tear your attention from the page. You’re back in your parents house, Jesus, a place they sold during their divorce in the mid-1970s, back in the wood-paneled game room, built from the finished basement downstairs. In the corner is your father’s bar, positioned back there where he can see the television or play pool. You’re on that leather sofa he and your mother bought for the room. You remember, “This is where the dog barfed,” a disgusting moment that will happen in another year. You won’t even have the dog for a few more months.
There’s the big console TV. Brand new, the huge Zenith can broadcast in color. Taking over your young self – he doesn’t seem to notice – you pick up the remote control, amused at the differences between the technology of your youth, when color TV was new, and the technology of your life, using a computer to come back here. How the fuck is that even possible? You want to explore but you begin carefully, by turning on the television.
There is a show on in black and white. OMG, it’s the Kinks. Jesus, are they still even alive?
Then, releasing everything but enjoyment of the moment, you’re ten and watching the Kinks in your basement in black and white. Everything old is young and new, and you are free to believe that you can change the world.
It’s an ordinary winter Sunday in an extraordinary year.
The statement causes a reflexive gaze across history at all the extraordinary years in recorded history. The statement requires adjustment to put me more accurately upon the spectrum of what I know and have experienced. I ‘know’ a sliver of American history and a granule of western history. I need to context ‘know’ because I ‘know’ what was often taught in books as fact and knowledge. Much was later revealed to be false or misleading, part of a paean to the victors who wrote or interpreted the history.
We could take a swing at our Christmas practices, beginning with the time of year that we celebrate and the pagan rituals we practice, processes adopted to encourage people to be Christians. Or we can take a deep dive into how Jesus is often portrayed as a blue-eyed white man with brown hair compared to the image of a dark-haired brown man forensic scientists put forth early last year.
‘For those accustomed to traditional Sunday school portraits of Jesus, the sculpture of the dark and swarthy Middle Eastern man that emerges from Neave’s laboratory is a reminder of the roots of their faith. “The fact that he probably looked a great deal more like a darker-skinned Semite than westerners are used to seeing him pictured is a reminder of his universality,” says Charles D. Hackett, director of Episcopal studies at the Candler School of Theology in Atlanta. “And [it is] a reminder of our tendency to sinfully appropriate him in the service of our cultural values.”
‘Neave emphasizes that his re-creation is simply that of an adult man who lived in the same place and at the same time as Jesus. As might well be expected, not everyone agrees.’
~ Mike Fillon, ‘The Real Face of Jesus’, Popular Mechanics, January 23rd, 2015
It all leaves me a little ‘Unsteady’. The song is a repetition of many of the same words but I like it. Hold onto me and sing along with the X Ambassadors’ song from 2015.
At least it’s more recent than most of my theme music.
I’m an organic writer. Writing the scenes I don’t think belong is critical to the process. I glimpse pieces at a time. You know the analogy: writing is like driving on an unfamiliar road through the woods at night. You only glimpse the turns as you come upon them. In other words, I don’t always consciously know on one level what’s going to come, but deeper level seems to see and understand what’s happening. It;s my guide, my muse. Besides all of that, I need to write to understand what I think.
Writing the scenes I don’t expect is absolutely necessary to all of this.
Last week, I wrote a scene that both surprised and amazed me. NOT because I’m the best writer ever or because it’s the greatest piece of prose a human has ever written (nope and, uh, NOPE), but because I never planned on writing it at all.
In fact, the moment the idea wedged its way into my head, I immediately tried to reject it.
I was watching ‘Wild Boys’ on Hulu last night. I don’t pay the extra for commercial-free viewing. Since I don’t have cable and watch little OTA, I’m curious about what’s being presented via commercials. I like seeing how the styles change, and enjoy mocking their messages.
Trivago was a big advertiser. Do you know of them? Trivago.com is another travel booking site. They begin by noting that the average American views seven travel sites before making their reservations. This is, they claim, because prices vary so greatly.
That is advertising bullshit.
After seeing the commercial five or six times, I decided to prove it this morning.
I’m not doing anything scientific or deeply insightful. I simply used Trivago, Travelocity, Expedia, Coast Hotels and Priceline to compare prices. My dates would be January 17th-19th, one room, no children, two adults. I would check one of my preferred hotels when staying in Portland, Oregon, the Benson Hotel. The Benson Hotel is a Coast Hotel, and that’s why it was included.
Did the prices vary widely, as Trivago claimed?
Hell, no. All of them quoted $152 per night.
Hotels.com: $152.
Hotwire.com: $152.
That’s what I expected. I’ve traveled for years. I’ve listened to the spiels through the years and I’ve tried every travel site. I’ve risked the auctions of Hotwire and Priceline. What I’ve learned is that there are not great deals; the prices are all the same. If anything, I think I could make a case that the travel site industry is colluding to price fix. I might be able to sue them for fraud for their claims.
While checking Travelzoo.com’s pricing, I saw their hot deal for the Mark Spencer: $134 a night on my travel dates. Hurry! they said. This sells out fast.
So I went to Hotels.com. Their special deal is the Mark Spencer: $134 a night on my travel dates. Eleven hours was left on this ‘Daily Deal’, which was twenty-five percent off.
Well, let’s look at the Mark Spencer on Priceline: $149.
Damn. That throws my theory out the window.
I went to the Mark Spencer Hotel site and discovered they would charge me $140. Then I circled back around to the Trivago.com site, to see what they presented me for the Mark Spencer.
Their deals, from Expedia.com, CheapTickets.com, and Hotels.com, showed $140. Booking.com offered a room for $149 through Trivago. Odd, then, that Trivago didn’t manage to find and offer the great deal that Hotels.com and Travelzoo offered.
What I’m curious about is whether I’m an exception, and whether others have noticed these things. Because, frankly, I’m tired of the Trivago ad selling their myth.
All of this demonstrates to me that once more, buyers beware.
Everything’s so blurry
And everyone’s so fake
And everybody’s empty
And everything is so messed up
Pre-occupied without you
I cannot live at all
My whole world surrounds you
I stumble then I crawl
You could be my someone
You could be my scene
You know that I’ll protect you
From all of the obscene
I wonder what you’re doing
Imagine where you are
There’s oceans in between us
But that’s not very far
~ ‘Blurry’, by Puddle of Mudd, 2001
I have a good life when you consider everything but it sometimes still gets all blurry about how good things — and how bad it could be. ‘Blurry’, though, is about emotions. Emotions care little about a situation logic, something often forgotten during passionate discussions and angry debates.
‘Blurry’ also show us that emotions can help us overcome ‘logic’:
There’s oceans in between us
But that’s not very far
I might be adding layers and insights. They’re clearly writing about love and a tumultuous relationship. I see more. That’s the point of art, including literature and music, isn’t it? The composer, writer and artist are drawing their vision. Their vision, though, remains unique to them because it must be shared with others through the filters the viewer brings upon the scene. And these individual, personalized interpretations of words and intentions can make it all seem very ‘Blurry’.
Hope this all comes out properly. It’s relatively colder than usual outside (17 F). Google Chrome apparently has some problems when it’s cold.
These days are like and unlike other days. Days are like people and snowflakes, so similar on quick glances and shallows assessments but unique under study.
These days are wearying, grinds with the same sense of repetition and routine found in many livelihoods. That it is my choice mitigates some of my complaints but add some bitter flavoring in acknowledgement, this is the culmination of my efforts, dreams, thoughts, planning and decisions. Passing people working in the thirty-two degree sunshine, I know I have it fortunate but I still complain. Complaining seems to be my essence but I’m solidly stolid and stoic in my demeanor. Yes, I readily smile to address the world and otherwise seem affable. Under this is a worn and brittle sense that I’m hanging on. I don’t know what I’m hanging on to, for or why; I sense that’s pretty normal and a large part of our standard quest to learn why we’re here.
These days of wars, lies and misinformation are actually much like many days of other eras. There is always contention between classes, nations, parties and individuals about humanity’s course and about what should be done, with more and less callousness extended toward the general human condition, and more and less need for some to be powerful, wealthy and worshiped. These days, we’re not really sure what’s going to happen next but these days aren’t much different from other days. Our children are no longer practicing duck and cover at school so they can survive nuclear, biological and chemical attacks as so many children did in the 1950s in America. We have that going for us, these days, although the weapons and capabilities remain, ready for release when orders are given, codes are verified and buttons are pressed.
These days I take a deep breath and mount the stairs to the coffee shop. I find a table and set up shop. Order my drink and banter with the baristas. I collect story points and scenes in my mind, bringing up the things I thought in bed last night, in the shower, and during the drive and the walk today. Scenes gain momentum in my consciousness.
These days, I question myself, is this how others write? Bob Mustin offered a series of posts about Bob Dylan’s Nobel Prize. In the series conclusion today, Mustin included the text of Dylan’s speech and a video of the US Ambassador to Sweden making the speech. Bob Dylan thought about and expressed what such an honor means, but more, Dylan wrote about his early hopes and expectations. He just wanted someone to hear him and get enough reward to do more of the same. As Dylan does and did, he gathers insights and neatly sums them up: that’s all we want, to find what we want to do and gain enough reward and recognition to carry on. Everything else is an unexpected benefit.
It’s a good grounding reminder. We don’t know what the future will bring. We can expend energy projecting and forecasting, striving to understand every nuance of nature and events to ensure we’re as prepared as possible, but we just don’t know what will come. We don’t know what dreams will be fulfilled, nor where we’ll fail. We can only decide to try and press on.
These days, it’s helpful as encouragement to keep going. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time. You never know what will come of it.
Decided to do something more recent and upbeat. The mental jukebox came up with Bruno Mars, ‘Just the Way You Are’. Hey, it’s only six years ago it was released. That’s like yesterday in beer years.
This is a good song for walking around and singing. In fact, I witnessed just an episode about two weeks ago. I was walking. Another guy approached from the other direction. I could tell he was singing but couldn’t yet make it out. It was clear he was budded up. And then, crossing the street, he sang loudly, in a pretty close approximation of the right key:
And when you smile The whole world stops and stares for a while ‘Cause, girl, you’re amazing Just the way you are.
I smiled to myself, impressed that he was so willing to sing aloud.
Michael Seidel, writer 