tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-553298757631434822023-11-15T06:03:36.504-08:00ZERO STATIONThe blog of author Greg IppolitoGreg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.comBlogger89125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55329875763143482.post-64987167757832813932015-12-31T12:24:00.000-08:002016-01-01T10:21:09.098-08:00FAR ENOUGH AWAY FROM TROUBLE<br />
New Year’s Eve, 1983.<br />
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When I was twelve, my parents took my younger brother and me to Florida for Christmas, for what reason I can’t remember (not DisneyWorld). But, just a short time in, something got stirred up between them, and next thing we knew the car was turned around and heading north again, days early, without explanation, leaving Chris and me in the back seat silently wondering what the fuck.<br />
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For the better part of the day, I listened to Billy Joel’s <i>An Innocent Man</i> album on my Walkman and looked out the window at nothing but bleak winter sky along I-95. Six or seven hours in, the landscape started to change a bit. It was broken up, here and there, by those corny signs for South of the Border. (“Pedro’s Weather Forecast: Chili Today, Hot Tamale!”; “You Never Sausage a Place!”; “Pedro’s Fireworks! Does Yours?”) I wanted to go. As you kid you always wanted to go. Even if you’d been there and knew what a bore it was, you still wanted to stop for some reason. So Chris and I started pointing to the signs and making half-jokes. “Hey, Mom, Dad — we could reeeeally go for some cheeeeli!” After a few minutes of this, without a smile or a word, my dad took the exit.<br />
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We ate dinner somewhere—Mexican, if memory serves (or, perhaps that’s just the most obvious answer to write into the blank spot in my mind)—and my parents checked us into a ground-floor motel room not far from the huge Pedro welcome sign. By nine o’clock or so, they were out cold.<br />
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Chris and I sneaked out and by the light of the TV and headed back toward the shops. There was only one vendor still there, a big sweaty guy who was in the process of shutting down. He had a hodgepodge of junk: Pedro knickknacks, pecan rolls, maracas, and, of course, fireworks. Chris—only nine-years-old at the time—had the balls to ask the guy if we could buy some. He shrugged and gave us a handful of loose firecrackers, in a real “Here, go knock yourselves out” kind of way. We needed a light, so we pressed our luck for a Pedro lighter. He made us pay a buck for that.<br />
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Chris and I ran away from the main strip and found a little playground off in the distance. It was a nothing thing: just a stretch of dirt with three swings flanked by a slide. We were far enough away from trouble, we thought, so we lit those things up, one strand at a time, giggling and hitting each other in the arm as they pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-popped off.<br />
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When they were all gone, we just sat there on the dirt and looked around. It was dark and empty. It couldn’t have been later than ten o’clock, but there wasn’t a light on in a single motel room, and most of the lights on the commercial strip had gone out. Anything you could see was illuminated by some combination of the moon and the big Pedro sign by the highway. I thought about Dick Clark and all the people on Times Square right now. Then I thought about a New Year’s Eve we’d spent a couple of years back, at the home of my parents’ friends, Don and Pat. There were lots of kids there, and music and food and bouncy talk and laughing. At midnight, everyone hugged and kissed. We got hugged and kissed by people we didn’t even know. It surprised you to get that sudden warm feeling in your face and chest from total strangers ... and it equally surprised you how suddenly the feeling vanished, and how much you missed it when it did. <br />
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I made a shape in the dirt with my heel. Chris and I went back to the motel room and fell asleep. We were asleep when midnight came and everyone everywhere hugged and kissed. It was just as well.<br />
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Greg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55329875763143482.post-26853155581682026352013-01-23T10:59:00.001-08:002013-01-23T11:17:10.537-08:00Simple parenting advice: Keep em CloseFrom up in the stands, they all look virtually identical.
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I was at my daughter’s swim meet last Saturday, looking down at the masses of girls around the pool. A bunch of blue swimsuits here, a bunch of red ones over there. Every head covered in a black swim cap. You might be able to pick your kid out by the specific way she walks or by that thing she does with her hands. Or, if you squint, you can maybe make out your last name printed on her swim cap. But otherwise, really, it’s hard to tell one from another.
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Up close everything is different. The girls sit beside their parents. They talk about their races, ask for snack money. S. sits down next to me chewing a soft pretzel. Here I can see her full face: her freckled nose, her bright eyes that animate as she talks. From this short distance, I can also hear her sweet, musical voice through the crowd’s murmur; it has a lightness and bounce that still defies the weight of everything.
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Looking around, each of these girls appears as she truly is: a precious, one-of-a-kind being. And each unique girl you can see is illuminated by the arcane light of her parents — a fire that burns with the blind raging faith that your child is unlike any that’s even been, like any who ever will be. And, more importantly, that your child is a rare, special being who will — somehow, in some way yet to be realized — shine in this world, and be showered with recognition and praise for simply being the wonderful thing that she already is.
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The girls finish their snacks and head back down to the pool. There, they fall back in with each other — slipping seamlessly into uniformed herds, indiscernable throngs. From this long-view, you can see their real future. Cars in traffic. Bodies in cubicles. Shoppers in line. Gravestones in rows.
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<i>Keep her close</i>, I tell myself. <i>Try to remember to keep her close</i>.
Greg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55329875763143482.post-11219113829018119852012-08-23T08:20:00.001-07:002012-08-23T08:20:30.674-07:00Consumerism in AmericaI caught this lecture the other night at the <a href="http://www.tedxphoenixville.com/">TED x Phoenixville event</a>. Author and social critic James Kunstler goes off on how uninspired architecture and half-assed city and suburban planning have blighted our culture.
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Kunstler delivers an impassioned plea here. But he also raises a powerful question about consumerism in America, if only slightly indirectly: <i>Have the words “consumer” and “person” become synonymous in our culture?</i>
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Consider...
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When Saturday morning comes and you pour that first cup of coffee and start thinking about “what to do” with your day, are you really wondering “what to buy”? Think beyond just straight-up shopping; consider any activity where spending money is integral (e.g., browsing at Ikea, going to the movies, stopping off at Panera for a bite, etc.). How much of your leisure activity is truly purchase-free? A friend recently half-joked that he probably spends more time shopping in book stores than he does actually reading. But there’s an uncomfortable, expansive truth in that statement.
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For many of us, a lot of the time, “doing” and “buying” are one and the same. We exist in a culture where consuming goods is just <i>what we do</i> — an automated behavior that we don’t even question because it comes so naturally. If this is indeed the case, what does it imply about this culture of ours? And, by extension, what does that imply about us as people?
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In what do we truly find meaning?
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Greg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55329875763143482.post-61617141883224701292012-05-24T08:46:00.000-07:002012-05-24T08:58:42.277-07:00Deep Cuts, Vol. 3When we comb our memories to recall the great bands of the ‘90s, why don’t the Cranberries (a-hem)...linger?
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Their debut album was tremendous. Their second album — which could have been ironically called “Everybody Else Is Doing Grunge, So Why Can’t We?” — was spotty, but had some moments. And then their third album produced a wealth of great tunes, including this one here: an alt ‘60s doo-wop tune with an Irish yodel and an evo twist. Two-and-a-half great albums released during one of the most explosive eras of killer music P.E. (Post-Elvis)? That’s more than Counting Crows can say.
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Granted, looking back through the prism of prescribed history, just about everything you need to know about ‘90s music falls into one of four categories: Grunge, Hip-Hop, Alanis Morissette and Radiohead. But there were a handful of artists outside those buckets who mattered. R.E.M. Pavement. Tori Amos. Dave Matthews (I know, I know). Weezer (yeah, yeah). Beck, for Chrissake. PJ Fucking Harvey. And, yes, the Cranberries.Greg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55329875763143482.post-44709141665623163192012-04-26T09:07:00.001-07:002013-01-17T13:35:48.976-08:00Deep Cuts, Vol. 2I read somewhere — but I have no idea where, so take it with a grain — that Radiohead was commissioned to write this song for the <i>Romeo + Juliet</i> soundtrack (Leo DiCaprio version). “Exit Music” wound up being so different than anything they’re done before that it shifted the very direction and tone for what would become their next album: the incomparable <i>OK Computer</i>.<br/><br/>
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Few people think of this song first when they think of <i>Computer</i> — what, with the sonic awesomeness of “Paranoid Android,” “Airbag,” “Let Down,” “Karma Police” and so forth — but the tune is just outstanding. Unassuming at first, the languid progression creeps along with a dark, hypnotic energy, before launching into an explosive the final quarter. (I’ve heard this song approximately 1,237 times, yet the <i>ting-ting</i> of Phil’s ride cymbal, in the seconds before he goes full into it, still sends cold adrenaline down my back.)
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But beyond its importance to <i>Computer</i> — arguably one of the greatest albums of all time — this song doubles as an almost ideal theme song for <i>Romeo + Juliet</i>. Shakespeare’s masterpiece, after all, is not a love story; rather, it’s a story of two kids rebelling against their own fast-approaching adulthood. They want no parts of the world their parents represent, and their attraction, and immediate bond, is driven by that shared (unspoken) existential woe. They rather die than become their parents, and they wind up doing just that. “We hope your rules and wisdom choke you” sounds like it coulda come from a modern-day diary of Romeo’s or Juliet’s.
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I imagine Billy Shakes would agree.Greg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55329875763143482.post-50092323898274436532012-03-23T14:03:00.004-07:002012-03-23T14:18:13.471-07:00Deep Cuts, Vol. 1I’m trying a new thing here. Basically, any time I dust off an old CD and run into a song that kicks ass -- but got lost in history as an unrecognized, un-talked-about “deep cut” -- I’m gonna post it here for fun. <br /><br />Maybe you’ll find something great you never knew existed. Or maybe you’ll be reminded of something long-gone and have one of those, “Oh, right, I forgot all about that tune -- awesome!” moments. Either way. <br /><br />As Eddie Murphy’s Buckwheat used to say: “Take a whisten.”<br /><br /><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/nDxNcaS-yck" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Greg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55329875763143482.post-24167662518547943852011-10-19T10:40:00.000-07:002011-10-19T10:45:28.842-07:00On Chuck Palahniuk<a href="http://libwww.freelibrary.org/authorevents/index.cfm?DiaryDate2={ts%20%272011-10-29%2000%3A00%3A00%27}&DiaryDate={ts%20%272011http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif-10-01%2000%3A00%3A00%27}&type=2">Chuck Palahniuk will be selling and signing</a> his new novel, <span style="font-style:italic;">Damned</span>, at the Free Library of Philadelphia (Central Branch) on October 29th at 2:00 pm.<br /><br />Some authors may take you to dark places with a delicate and sympathetic hand. Other authors drag you there and shove your face in their perceived, juvenile sense of “truth.” Chuck Palahniuk is the latter type.<br /><br />First rule of Chuck Palahniuk: do yourself a favor and skip reading Chuck Palahniuk.Greg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55329875763143482.post-35530446301930642712011-03-29T08:01:00.000-07:002011-03-29T08:46:03.446-07:00Dee HowardIn the narrow hallway behind the chapel, someone had set out coffee and pastries. After the service, we gathered there, in small circles mostly, and started talking about Dee.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qiL22-grjoU/TZH2MfechGI/AAAAAAAAAOY/p6man73kr2w/s1600/dee.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qiL22-grjoU/TZH2MfechGI/AAAAAAAAAOY/p6man73kr2w/s320/dee.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589519307011556450" /></a><br /><br />After a while, the sad talk gave way to remembrance of some of the funny things Dee had said or done. M. and I remembered/laughed at how appalled she was to find out that the CEO of WHYY/PBS makes $500K a year. “But that’s a fraction of what the average CEO makes,” I’d said. “And he’s running a major affiliate in a top-five market.” No matter. Dee was pissed.<br /><br />Thinking back on who Dee was, that reaction really wasn’t funny at all. It made complete sense. Her thinking probably went something like this (and forgive me, Dee, for presuming to speak for you; but what choice do I have?): “Bringing important, enlightening information to people — without the taint of commercialism — is a reward in itself. PBS shouldn’t need half-a-million dollars to get an eager, capable person to do it.” <br /><br />Of all the Dee stories I could be telling, I’m not sure this is the right one. But it taps into a big part of who Dee was. She had an unwavering sense of Justice, which is hard to find in this world. (Not “justice” as most of us conceive it — e.g., a guy breaks into your house, a judge punishes him — a desperate attempt to bring balance to, and control over, the universe’s inherent chaos.) Dee’s sense of Justice was about more than mere fairness; it was an extension of a pure vision, however nebulous, of what the world <em>should</em> be.<br /><br />As I left the church Saturday morning and drove off, I thought about the difference between rare people like Dee and everyone else. I would always tell Dee to stop obsessing over her political blogs, to stop worrying so much. “What can you do?” I’d say. When something unjust happens, you endure a moment of sadness and then quickly let it go. <em>What can you do?</em> The world is what it is. But no, Dee wouldn’t have it. Wouldn’t have a world that insisted on showing itself as different — worse — that it should be, than it could be.<br /><br />George Bernard Shaw once wrote: “The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man.” Dee was unreasonable. Her frustration and anger were unreasonable. But if it weren’t for people like her, the world would be weighed down with nothing but ineffectual dopes like me who just accept things as they are. Dee Howard, in her not-so-small way, pushed the human race forward. She pushed the world closer to the way it should be.<br /><br />Jesus Christ on toast points, I’m gonna miss that gal.<br /><br />G.<br /><br />P.S. It’s worth mentioning that Dee detested Shaw. She once wrote: “With everything [he] writes, you can hear him congratulating himself. The minute I didn’t have to read any more of his plays for a survey course, I cheered.” Now <em>that’s</em> funny.Greg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55329875763143482.post-65424004452696142742011-03-24T05:56:00.000-07:002011-03-24T05:58:02.817-07:00Let England ShakeBeen really digging <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Let-England-Shake-PJ-Harvey/dp/B004GHYCKW/ref=sr_1_1?s=music&ie=UTF8&qid=1300971270&sr=1-1">the new PJ Harvey</a>. When I take a moment to think about it, she strikes me as one of the criminally under-regarded artists of Generation X.<br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="420" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/64C6Ih4QlrE" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Greg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55329875763143482.post-14564058090310819922010-09-07T08:52:00.000-07:002010-09-08T06:40:23.783-07:00“1952 Vincent Black Lightning”: Lyrics That Tell Us What We’re Not<strong><em>> An examination of Richard Thompson’s “1952 Vincent Black Lightning” lyrics, and what they tell us about ourselves</em></strong><br /><br />Here’s a deceptively simple question: What makes “1952 Vincent Black Lightning” such an incredible song?<br /><br />My relationship with Richard Thompson’s most-popular tune has always been an uneasy one. I love it, but I don’t know why. On a passive listen, it seems like a fairly vapid, melodramatic love ballad. In a word, it’s <em>cheesy</em>. Yet I can’t listen to it without the risk of my chin quivering. <br /><br />For years, without having devoted much thought to the matter, I offhandedly assumed its old-world Irish vibe just gave it a romanticism that resonated with me (yes, Richard Thompson is British; but the song <em>feels</em> Irish). Half the blood in me can be traced back to Ireland...but I need go back only as far as the late ‘70s to tap memories of drunken relatives singing “Danny Boy” or “Harrigan” or some such folk song. Anytime I hear a Celtic-sounding guitar or the flitty drone of bagpipes, I well up by reflex. Mix in lyrics about star-crossed lovers and a young man’s death, and you have an effective recipe for drawing the melancholy out of me — whether the art snob in me likes it or not.<br /><br />But the song is much, <em>much</em> more than that.<br /><br /><object width="420" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/PgxbCnqCyKA?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/PgxbCnqCyKA?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="420" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />For those of you who don’t know the song or its tale, I’ll give you the synopsis: <br /><br />Girl (Red Molly) meets Boy (James) when she notices his cool motorcycle (a 1952 Vincent Black Lightning) > Some unspoken courtship happens > Boy proposes marriage to Girl, but discloses to her in earnest: “I’m a dangerous man / for I fought with the law since I was 17, / I robbed many a man to get my Vincent machine. / Now I’m 21 years, I might make 22, / and I don’t mind dying but for the love of you.” > They marry > Boy gets shot during a robbery > On his deathbed, Boy sums up his existence: “In my opinion, there’s nothing in this world / beats a 52 Vincent and a red-headed girl” > Boy dies, but not before handing the keys to his prized motorcycle to Girl/Wife.<br /><br />On the surface, it’s a ridiculously simple story that’s fraught with dubious morality. James is an unyielding criminal, for one thing. If he robbed for some known purpose — like food or rent, or even a certain desperately wanted motorcycle — that would be one thing. But none of these are the case. At the start of the song, James already <em>has</em> his motorcycle. And by the second verse, he has his girl, too. These are the only two things that matter to him. So why, if he truly loved Red Molly, would he not change his ways so that they could have a life together?<br /><br />Because his one-dimensional existence is exactly what she loves about him. And by extension, it’s what we love about him, too — because he’s everything we are not. <br /><br />James is a sort of Nietzschian Übermensch (“Superman”). He has no fear of pain or death. He has no kids to worry for. He never stresses over money. He suffers no regret. And he certainly doesn’t envy someone else’s possibly greener grass. <br /><br /><em>James is who he is.</em><br /><br />Now, I understand how underwhelming that sounds. So what, right? Each one of us is who he is, right? Wrong. We are all, each of us, someone else. And none of us really knows who.<br /><br />The renowned documentary filmmaker Errol Morris was once asked about the interview process. Specifically, he was asked why he believed people were willing to open up and speak honestly to a camera. “I’m not sure we truly have privledged access to our own minds,” he said. “I don’t think we have any idea who we are...we’re engaged in a constant battle to figure out who we are.” The interview process, he believes, is a means by which some portion of that access may be granted. Like meditation or counseling, it’s a process of isolating yourself from the outside world — and the nonstop bombardment of stimuli it projects — to let the white noise fade...and then listen to what’s left. The truth. <br /><br />But even for those of us who can get there, personal truths are only glimpsed in moments: the profound dream, the Freudian slip, the breakthrough on your analyst’s couch.<br /><br />I remember the night I first heard “1952 Vincent Black Lightning.” I was sitting at the bar in the Khyber, alone, waiting for my friend T. My memory of this stands out for two reasons. First, upon hearing this song I’d never heard before, I had the distinct suspicion I’d known it all my life. The feeling was comforting and strange at the same time. <br /><br />The second thing I remember continues to embarrass me to this day.<br /><br />T. was late. The opening band was about to go on. More and more hipsters were floating into the place and congregating in little groups. My self-consciousness started to build. I felt like a pariah sitting there by myself. (The brunette by the jukebox with the tarantula tattoo, is she giggling to her friend about <em>me</em>?) I couldn’t take it. So I looked down the far end of the bar, as if I saw someone I knew down there, and pitched my eyes up as if to say, “Hey!” I even lifted my glass and air-toasted the invisible man. It was pathetic. I couldn’t simply sit there, my pure lone self, and wait for my friend. No. To avoid the secret mocking of strangers (which probably wasn’t even happening), I had to act like someone else — a cooler, more-social version of myself, a version who ran into random friends wherever I went. <br /><br />Erroll Morris argues that we can’t truly know ourselves. But the harsher reality is, we can’t even be true to who we <em>think</em> we are. That alternate version of Greg I adopted at the Khyber: <em>I did that for strangers</em>. And I’m certainly not alone; we’ve all done something like this, and not just under the tension of an uncomforable social situation. We pull out different versions of ourselves in different day-to-day contexts. Which you are you when you’re with your boss? Your father? Your priest? Your most-successful friend?<br /><br />The first Noble Truth of Buddhism is: <em>Life is suffering</em>. The second is: <em>The origin of suffering is attachment</em>. Maybe the complexities of existence can be reduced to those two simple statements. Each of us has attachments. We’re attached to what we love, what we fear, what we find inspiring, what we find boring, what we feel is right, what we feel is wrong, and on and on.<br /><br />James is the opposite of us. He does <em>not</em> suffer, even after a shotgun blast to his chest. For James has managed to do what we, as well-rounded real-life humans, cannot: he’s avoided all the trappings and obligations and existential weights of the world (save for two: his motorcycle and his red-headed girl). He even owns his own unique vision of death: “angels and ariels in leather and chrome / swooping down from Heaven to carry [him] home” — as if it’s almost charming to him; you can picture him smiling as the lights go out.<br /><br />The richest irony is that, only through attachment can we connect with James. Through our attachment to song and lyrics — to the mysterious art of music — we can embody his perfectly reductive and enviable soul, if only for a short time. For the 4:43 we’re listening to this song (or the 5:16 of the live track above), we vicariously exist as James does: with complete, unbridled freedom.<br /><br />Kris Kristopherson wrote, and Janis Joplin famously sang, that “freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose.” And that’s the difference, right there. We <em>always</em> have something to lose — some attachment we’re desperate to hold on to. We love “1952 Vincent Black Lightning” not because of its romanticism or its melancholy. We love it because we love the impossible idea of what James is: a way we’ll never be.<br /><br />G.<br /><br />http://gregippolito.net/Greg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55329875763143482.post-56868115987402678722010-08-30T08:52:00.000-07:002010-08-30T08:57:53.557-07:00On Liberal Arts Education<strong>“If a nation expects to be ignorant and free in a state of civilization, it expects what never was and never will be.”</strong><br />- Thomas Jefferson<br /><br />Make sure you’re in a serious mood before you click “PLAY.”<br /><br /><!--copy and paste--><object width="446" height="326"><param name="movie" value="http://video.ted.com/assets/player/swf/EmbedPlayer.swf"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"/><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><param name="bgColor" value="#ffffff"></param> <param name="flashvars" value="vu=http://video.ted.com/talks/dynamic/LizColeman_2009-medium.flv&su=http://images.ted.com/images/ted/tedindex/embed-posters/LizColeman-2009.embed_thumbnail.jpg&vw=432&vh=240&ap=0&ti=558&introDuration=15330&adDuration=4000&postAdDuration=830&adKeys=talk=liz_coleman_s_call_to_reinvent_liberal_arts_education;year=2009;theme=how_we_learn;theme=bold_predictions_stern_warnings;theme=the_creative_spark;theme=speaking_at_ted2009;event=TED2009;&preAdTag=tconf.ted/embed;tile=1;sz=512x288;" /><embed src="http://video.ted.com/assets/player/swf/EmbedPlayer.swf" pluginspace="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" bgColor="#ffffff" width="446" height="326" allowFullScreen="true" allowScriptAccess="always" flashvars="vu=http://video.ted.com/talks/dynamic/LizColeman_2009-medium.flv&su=http://images.ted.com/images/ted/tedindex/embed-posters/LizColeman-2009.embed_thumbnail.jpg&vw=432&vh=240&ap=0&ti=558&introDuration=15330&adDuration=4000&postAdDuration=830&adKeys=talk=liz_coleman_s_call_to_reinvent_liberal_arts_education;year=2009;theme=how_we_learn;theme=bold_predictions_stern_warnings;theme=the_creative_spark;theme=speaking_at_ted2009;event=TED2009;"></embed></object><br /><br />G.<br /><br />http://gregippolito.net/Greg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55329875763143482.post-10642521588023734492010-08-16T07:59:00.001-07:002011-01-21T06:02:15.587-08:00Marguerite NantonIn loving memory of a truly one-of-a-kind lady — shown here in 2007, spellbinding my then four-year-old daughter, S. Regretfully, this is the only photo I have of Marguerite.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_1zd1ELsSQzg/TGlSbhNHAAI/AAAAAAAAANo/3NOJNviuWbc/s1600/marguarite_10-30-07.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 251px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_1zd1ELsSQzg/TGlSbhNHAAI/AAAAAAAAANo/3NOJNviuWbc/s320/marguarite_10-30-07.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506022652160442370" /></a><br /><br />G.<br /><br />http://gregippolito.net/Greg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55329875763143482.post-42528876344710578902010-08-09T08:24:00.000-07:002010-08-09T08:29:03.153-07:00Thought of the Day<strong>“I think over again my small adventures,<br />My fears, those small ones that seemed so big,<br />For all the vital things I had to get and reach.<br /><br />And yet there is only one great thing,<br />The only thing:<br /><br />To live to see the great day that dawns,<br />And the light that fills the world."</strong><br /><br />- Anonymous Inuit (Native American) saying<br /><br /><br />(And yes, I got this from <em>TrueBlood</em>.)<br /><br />G.<br /><br />http://gregippolito.net/Greg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55329875763143482.post-54933645935019277862010-08-02T06:51:00.000-07:002010-08-02T06:55:02.695-07:00BlackbirdBack in June, President Obama presented Paul McCartney with The Library of Congress Gershwin Prize for Popular Song. The night featured loads of incredible musicians doing their renditions of McCartney songs.<br /><br />This may have been my favorite: Herbie Hancock and Corinne Bailey Rae taking on “Blackbird”:<br /><br /><object width="420" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/4LV2s2oX24M&hl=en_US&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/4LV2s2oX24M&hl=en_US&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="420" height="385"></embed></object><br />[video]<br /><br />-G<br /><br />http://gregippolito.net/Greg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55329875763143482.post-78326303631011270312010-07-26T06:58:00.000-07:002010-07-26T07:10:19.652-07:00The MagusFor no particular reason, some great morning reading: an excerpt from the opening chapter of John Fowles' <em>The Magus</em> (one of my all-time favorites):<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_1zd1ELsSQzg/TE2XEFZr4rI/AAAAAAAAANI/C6enO6VAl3w/s1600/magus_1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 155px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_1zd1ELsSQzg/TE2XEFZr4rI/AAAAAAAAANI/C6enO6VAl3w/s400/magus_1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498216816514425522" /></a><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_1zd1ELsSQzg/TE2W_ppwdTI/AAAAAAAAANA/gc9eJ6qzSUM/s1600/magus_2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 377px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_1zd1ELsSQzg/TE2W_ppwdTI/AAAAAAAAANA/gc9eJ6qzSUM/s400/magus_2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498216740346164530" /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_1zd1ELsSQzg/TE2W7bfGdkI/AAAAAAAAAM4/Woer_zkJHmQ/s1600/magus_3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 357px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_1zd1ELsSQzg/TE2W7bfGdkI/AAAAAAAAAM4/Woer_zkJHmQ/s400/magus_3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498216667823896130" /></a><br /><br />http://gregippolito.net/Greg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55329875763143482.post-55377043769728389112010-07-19T11:17:00.001-07:002010-07-19T11:24:15.870-07:00XPoNential Music Fest 2010Postmortem:<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_1zd1ELsSQzg/TESW1ME8PGI/AAAAAAAAAMA/ICHsPcASjMg/s1600/xpn.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 47px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_1zd1ELsSQzg/TESW1ME8PGI/AAAAAAAAAMA/ICHsPcASjMg/s320/xpn.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495683285818031202" /></a><br /><br />Great time yesterday at the XPoNential. I was with my 7-year-old daughter, so I kept my rockin to a minimum. Did catch Dr. Dog’s set, which was excellent...<br /><br /><object width="420" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/AvpypRxhXH8&hl=en_US&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/AvpypRxhXH8&hl=en_US&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="420" height="385"></embed></object><br />[video]<br /><br />XPN did a terrific job with the event: the Children’s Garden was a blast, the merchants provided a wide variety of food and drink, and the layout (as always) was easy to walk and fan- and family-friendly. And the people there — the volunteers, the vendors, the attendees — were incredibly, wonderfully human; everyone was watching out for his/her fellow concertgoer in the potentially dangerous heat. <br /><br />Oh, and the music was fantastic, too. <br /><br />If you missed it this year, keep it on your radar for July 2011.<br /><br />-G<br /><br />http://gregippolito.net/Greg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55329875763143482.post-65200478423704344162010-07-12T08:01:00.000-07:002010-07-12T08:03:43.385-07:00Rod SerlingHappy Monday. Enjoy this: Mike Wallace interviewing Rod Serling in 1959, just before premier episode of <em>The Twilight Zone</em>.<br /><br /><object width="420" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/77SEuyeQAAg&hl=en_US&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/77SEuyeQAAg&hl=en_US&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="420" height="385"></embed></object><br />[video]<br /><br />-G<br /><br />http://gregippolito.net/Greg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55329875763143482.post-18369706326835052812010-06-14T08:28:00.000-07:002010-06-14T08:31:17.534-07:00The more things change…“This song goes out to the Exxon corporation.”<br />- Michael Stipe, in regard to the Exxon Valdez disaster, 1989<br /><br /><object width="450" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/H-LAnnu09tk&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/H-LAnnu09tk&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="450" height="385"></embed></object><br />[video]<br /><br />-G<br /><br />http://gregippolito.net/Greg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55329875763143482.post-32620493248222725062010-06-01T08:18:00.000-07:002010-06-01T08:23:57.572-07:00Stroke of InsightIf you haven’t yet heard about Jill Bolte Taylor — and her book, <em>My Stroke of Insight</em> — lucky you: now you have.<br /><br /><!--copy and paste--><object width="396" height="326"><param name="movie" value="http://video.ted.com/assets/player/swf/EmbedPlayer.swf"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"/><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><param name="bgColor" value="#ffffff"></param> <param name="flashvars" value="vu=http://video.ted.com/talks/dynamic/JillBolteTaylor_2008-medium.flv&su=http://images.ted.com/images/ted/tedindex/embed-posters/JillBolteTaylor-2008.embed_thumbnail.jpg&vw=432&vh=240&ap=0&ti=229&introDuration=16500&adDuration=4000&postAdDuration=2000&adKeys=talk=jill_bolte_taylor_s_powerful_stroke_of_insight;year=2008;theme=master_storytellers;theme=medicine_without_borders;theme=how_the_mind_works;theme=top_10_tedtalks;event=TED2008;&preAdTag=tconf.ted/embed;tile=1;sz=512x288;" /><embed src="http://video.ted.com/assets/player/swf/EmbedPlayer.swf" pluginspace="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" bgColor="#ffffff" width="396" height="326" allowFullScreen="true" allowScriptAccess="always" flashvars="vu=http://video.ted.com/talks/dynamic/JillBolteTaylor_2008-medium.flv&su=http://images.ted.com/images/ted/tedindex/embed-posters/JillBolteTaylor-2008.embed_thumbnail.jpg&vw=432&vh=240&ap=0&ti=229&introDuration=16500&adDuration=4000&postAdDuration=2000&adKeys=talk=jill_bolte_taylor_s_powerful_stroke_of_insight;year=2008;theme=master_storytellers;theme=medicine_without_borders;theme=how_the_mind_works;theme=top_10_tedtalks;event=TED2008;"></embed></object><br />[video]<br /><br />-G<br /><br />http://gregippolito.net/Greg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55329875763143482.post-34698163863881860882010-05-24T08:20:00.000-07:002010-05-24T11:48:18.486-07:00wild life rifle fireMy friend and colleague Paul Siegell has a new book out: <em>wild life rifle fire</em>.<br /><br />If you’ve never heard of Paul or his work, both are truly out there. “Poet” doesn’t accurately categorize him. Paul’s work is a strange amalgam of poetry, word play and visual art.<br /><br />I won’t waste your time trying to describe it. You have to <a href="http://www.amazon.com/wild-life-rifle-fire-Siegell/dp/0980602564/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1274715019&sr=1-3">experience it for yourself</a>. For a quick taste, check this out:<br /><br /><object width="400" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/vuFI2H2fWjs&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/vuFI2H2fWjs&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="400" height="344"></embed></object><br />[video]<br /><br />http://gregippolito.net/Greg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55329875763143482.post-5213413692688697312010-05-17T07:25:00.000-07:002010-05-18T06:17:45.272-07:00SHS Reunion, Class of 1989Went to my high-school reunion this past Saturday night (SHS Class of ’89). It’s been almost 21 years since graduation, and almost as long since I’ve been back home (my parents divorced and my mom sold the house during my first year of college, alas).<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_1zd1ELsSQzg/S_KS3cVguSI/AAAAAAAAALA/TXy_U70ZGJ4/s1600/medford.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_1zd1ELsSQzg/S_KS3cVguSI/AAAAAAAAALA/TXy_U70ZGJ4/s320/medford.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472597978405452066" /></a><br /><br />It was deep dusk by the time I pulled onto Stokes Road and approached old Medford. A good number of things have changed, but a lot of it seemed frozen in time — the cedar-shingled houses, the sour smell of the lake, lightning bugs flashing in trees. Driving along, looking at these old houses, it struck me that our parents were around the age we are now when they were raising us here. They worked, stressed over money, self-doubted, and worried about the countless things that come with having children. And also like us, they had no idea what they were doing. <br /><br />But we never knew that. We woke up in those houses every morning, ate our breakfasts, got on our yellow buses…and whatever tensions and tangles we encountered out there in the jungles of childhood, we could always find solace in this notion of Home — in the sights and smells and sounds that were the fabric of this place (Medford / Tabernacle / Shamong). Nothing inherently special about it, except that it was ours…the one place in the great wide world that felt safe and right, the one place where we belonged.<br /><br />Yeah, you could say it was nice to be back.<br /><br />-G<br /><br />http://www.gregippolito.net/Greg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55329875763143482.post-21710863084117352032010-05-10T09:08:00.000-07:002010-05-10T09:13:30.808-07:00Stormy WeatherJazz great and all-around superb lady <a href="http://www.google.com/hostednews/ap/article/ALeqM5gPNfIO_9nDQNiS__QwMLjFujjcUAD9FJVPSO0">Lena Horne has died at age 92</a>.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_1zd1ELsSQzg/S-gv3-KeEtI/AAAAAAAAAKM/gVhS3y3wP14/s1600/lena_horne.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 215px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_1zd1ELsSQzg/S-gv3-KeEtI/AAAAAAAAAKM/gVhS3y3wP14/s320/lena_horne.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469674386067690194" /></a><br /><br />I heard a story years back, possibly apocryphal, that when Lena first started checking out the Harlem jazz clubs back in the early ‘30s, she was given an odd bit of encouragement from Billie Holiday (who was already a superstar in that context):<br /><br />The two had been introduced, and a new set about to begin. Billie suggested to young Lena that <em>she</em> get up there and do a song or two in the star’s place to kick it off. Lena protested, saying that she didn’t know how to sing the blues. Billie pushed back: “You got a man treats you bad? You got bills? You got kids? Get up there and sing the blues.” And so she did.<br /><br />Hilarious since, again, Lena was only about 16 at the time. But she wound up joining the mike chorus at the Cotton Club right after that.Greg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55329875763143482.post-23296158293690813192010-05-03T12:00:00.001-07:002010-05-03T12:04:53.585-07:00PilgrimFor your listening pleasure: “Pilgrim” by Steve Earle (w/the Del McCoury Band & Emmylou Harris on backing vocals). Just a great, great song.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/NAmBkQDAUh4&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/NAmBkQDAUh4&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br />[video]<br /><br />I never actually saw Steve Earle until I came across a photo a couple of years ago. Prior to that, having only heard that road-weary, campfire voice of his, I’d always visualized some vague version of the Marlboro Man. But then there it was: all this wistful, roadhouse wisdom pouring from a balding homunculus. <br /><br />The lesson, once again: Kickassitude comes in all forms.Greg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55329875763143482.post-13173509849518894112010-04-26T08:16:00.000-07:002010-04-26T08:18:28.132-07:00Quintessence of DustA quick nod to The Bard, born on this date in 1564.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_1zd1ELsSQzg/S9WudBqJGuI/AAAAAAAAAJ8/v0LlFAykEjY/s1600/william_shakespeare_statue_chicago.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_1zd1ELsSQzg/S9WudBqJGuI/AAAAAAAAAJ8/v0LlFAykEjY/s320/william_shakespeare_statue_chicago.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464465536568597218" /></a><br /><br />“What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason. How infinite in faculties. In form and moving, how express and admirable. In action, how like an angel. In apprehension, how like a god. The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me.”<br /><br />- from <em>Hamlet</em>, Act II, Scene 2<br /><br />http://gregippolito.net/Greg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55329875763143482.post-7633366165482321272010-04-19T08:04:00.000-07:002010-04-19T08:06:39.227-07:00OutstandingThis has been on YouTube for some time, but I just found out about it. Funniest thing I’ve seen in a while. It’s a montage of cheese-whiz David Caruso one-liners from <em>CSI: Miami</em>.<br /><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/_sarYH0z948&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/_sarYH0z948&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br />[video]<br /><br />The action of putting on his sunglasses before every line, followed by the Daltrey scream punctuating it, makes each clip ten-times funnier.<br /><br />http://gregippolito.net/Greg Ippolitohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08718375055075322071noreply@blogger.com0