Fat Man and Little Boy

On August 6 and August 9, 1945, at Truman's order, the United States dropped nuclear bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, respectively.

As many as two-hundred and forty-six thousand people died as a result: soldiers, civilians, men, women, children and little babies.

It's one thing to grow up knowing this happened -- that it effectively ended the World War II; to bubble in the right answers about it on the history tests...but to really think about it...

How can I offer any comment?

During the Korean War (in which our soldiers were equipped with battered and rusty rifles from the previous war), General MacArthur proposed dropping nuclear bombs on North Korea in order to end the spread of Communism and to achieve the objective of the campaign. He was removed from command by Truman.

Why?

I never have trouble sleeping, but when naked, bone-melting horror presents itself, the nights are very long.

"The world is beautiful, but has a disease called man." ~ Nietzche

No Job Too Small

While I am on record (in pieces I could link to but am too lazy) as someone who believes that the individual human heart changes from day-to-day and from decade-to-decade and that one of the biggest mistakes made by your average human is to think that there is a permanent state -- that one thing -- which will bring about constant happiness, I must say that I have narrowed down my own contentment to the necessity for one surprising ingredient: the accomplishment of a mundane task per day.

We arteests are supposed to be driven by wine and a passion that rockets like fiery brushstrokes -- red comets of molten jois de vivre -- slashed across the starry canvass of life. We (if the movies are right) would rather burn out than fade away; we choke to death upon our own vomit in Parisian bathtubs (with those little lion’s claw feet) with dog-eared copies of Rimbaud clinging wetly, melancholically, to our soapy breasts; we’re inspired by pain and loss; we stand at the bows of doomed cruise ships and declare ourselves kings of the world; we die young and live for sensations of the mind and of the body…

But I’ll be damned if I don’t feel pretty darned inspired after I empty the dish washer.

In the end, a day without writing a song or a post or a chapter is just about equally as bad as a day without vacuuming the rug. And I do find that the mundane tasks often lead to the more profound: an evening of puttering in the studio, wrapping cords and dusting, often turns itself into a tune. 

I shouldn't be surprised -- it is all quite Taoist, isn't it? I used to criticize my neighbors who seemed to take such pleasure in grooming their lawns. Now I get it. I mean, I'll never be that guy, but I get it -- as long as something profound follows up the weed-wacking.

A Plane Above the Hurting

I'm writing this at ten in the morning on Monday, which is rare for me. I'm usually done and posted by the day before. But I spent Saturday and Sunday in a state of drug-induced befuddlement.

I wish I had a good rock-star, hotel-wrecking, naked-people-everywhere story, but I don't. In my case, it comes down to a kidney stone.

I thought I had hurt my back on Saturday. I told my wife, the nurse, about this. She looked at my posture and read my random grunts and laughed a short laugh. "No, you have a kidney stone."

Sure enough...

Who's the Fat Guy Wearing My Hat?

I have no doubt that obese people know that they are obese. When one is obese, one finds it hard to breathe or to put on one’s own shoes. One doesn’t fit into roller-coaster seats – that sort of thing. But, sometimes, I look at chubby people and I wonder if they know they are chubby.

The reason I wonder this is because I know I have a pretty inaccurate concept of how I look, at times. Apparently, I have a lean mind. In my head, I look a particular way. But, sometimes, I will catch a glimpse of myself in a convenience store video monitor or I will see my reflection in a display case and I will wonder, for a moment, when the hell I put on those extra pounds. Who’s the fat guy wearing my hat?

I am in the socially fortunate but medically unfortunate position of being perceived favorably when I gain weight. People routinely ask me if I have been lifting weights when I put on a few. So, you can see how I sort of get lead into a leaner perception of myself than is, strictly speaking, accurate.

From "Wackiki Wabbit," Warner Bros, 1943

Even when I am at my thinnest, I’m always fighting a battle. I keep myself under control, but my “fightin’ weight” is about twenty pounds below where I am now. So, I empathize with those struggling with their blubberosity; I’ve been doing it for years.

But, the other day, I was in a store and I saw a chubby guy. He was decked-out stylishly. He carried himself with a swagger. His hair, not unlike some werewolves in London, was perfect. For some reason, I almost asked him if he knows he is chubby. I resisted, ever the consummate gentledude.

Something Different: Invocation

About a year ago, I released my CD, Hats and Rabbits, which I announced here, and the links to buy it have been up on the right, ever since.  Some of you have bought the CD or downloaded it, and I greatly appreciate it.

In the midst of my responsibilities and duties, progress is slow in the area of actually promoting my work. Finally, I have gotten around to putting my songs in a format through which I can share them. I thought I would do two things, today: 1) Share a song from the CD with you, along with a short explication and, 2) offer it for free, if you should like it, as a humble thank-you for always coming back to this dive bar of a blog.

You know, I’m caught in this…place. I hate show-biz and wannabe stars. (I even spend breaks on band gigs in my car or with a friend or my wife instead of schmoozing, like a proper rock star.) Music is just another way for me to express myself. Expressing myself is what drives me, daily. I know I’m not going to be a star and I am not looking for anyone to tell me what a musical wonder I am -- I just want to share this as another blog post, if a musical one. If you decide to get the CD, that’s great, but I can tell you there is no hope of it making me rich. My payment is that people listen. That’s enough.