Aw, Fuck It

Sometimes I get fired up to write about something but fizzle out when I realize there's no way I can transmit that spark to you, dear reader.

But today I'm putting the blame for that on you, because with regard to today's topic, if you don't jump on this train you're brain-dead, soul-dead and hereby banned from reading my shit.

Ok?

Queen. Don't know what drew me to them, but they've been nestled in the far reaches of my consciousness for a while. Right now, I'm deep into their catalog, listening to them every day. On the street on my iPod, in the house on the stereo, and often thinking "man I wish I was in Los Angeles driving with the top down cranking this song".

[And what did I read today? Sacha Baron Cohen's been tapped to play Freddie Mercury. Fuck yeah. Beyond the physical similarities, SBC's turn in Sweeney Todd showed me he's got what it takes to play a charismatic dandy with a flair for the dramatic.]

Sure, we all know the overexposed radio hits--Bohemian Rhapsody, Another One Bites The Dust, Crazy Little Thing Called Love, among several others--they're permanently seared into the synapses of anybody who grew up listening, willingly or not, to classic rock radio. Such songs quickly lost their potency when listened to in thin, compressed form on the radio, removed from their album context and sandwiched between Toyotathon commercials and far-less-thrilling 70's rock staples from bands with one-word names.

But make no mistake: Queen will still rock your stupid face off and make you ashamed for not having acknowledged the 8th wonder of the world that is Freddie Mercury's glorious, multi-octave, shape-shifting voice. For not thinking about Brian May when the short list of greatest guitarists becomes the topic at hand. May's fat, rich sound combines the raw buzz of down and dirty rock 'n' roll with the soaring, ringing-from-the-heavens cry that separates gods from mortals. Bassist John Deacon puts more sexy thumping melody into the mix than is healthy--Another One Bites The Dust, anyone? Yeah, that's but one arrow in his quiver.

[Let me hit you with an aside--something that always makes me shake my head and smile: a super-flaming gay dude fronted a band named Queen and sang the most cock-rocking one-two punch of a sporting anthem of all time. If I believed in God I'd say he had wicked sense of humor.]

Back to rocking your stupid face off. What are you listening to these days? Pfft, I don't care, 'cause it sucks and I know it's not putting a smile on your face. So let's get down to it. Where to start, where to stop?

[Well, the first mistake you'll make is that you don't use bit torrent to download entire discographies of bands you want to listen to. You pay for music? Sucker! Information wants to be free. Liberate that shit. But I digress.]

Their first few albums, while they are worth listening to, skew a bit toward that Zepplin-y, fairy tale-laden nonsense so prevalent in the early '70s. I suggest you begin with 1975's A Night At The Opera. This is where the theatrical bombast and pop craftsmanship meet up with the buzzsaw kickassness of the first few albums. From here, you're golden through 1980's The Game.  By golden, I mean near-total, top-to-bottom fun.

There's still more fun to be had with the albums from the '80s. 1982's Hot Space concludes with the Freddie Mercury-David Bowie classic "Under Pressure". Sure, you've heard it a million times. Sure, you've heard its signature bassline in that Vanilla Ice song. But forget all that.

Do me a favor.

Seriously.

You can disregard everything else here--just listen to this song. Loud. On repeat. With the lyrics in front of you. I humbly submit this as the greatest song of all time.  Take a moment and open your heart. Let the cynicism melt away. Allow yourself to feel goosebumps. Remember how great music can make you feel bigger and better. How it can make it seem like being a modern human doesn't have to suck so much. Does anybody bring it like this anymore?

Nope.

But one way or another I'm going to figure out why and set to making the world a place where people feel compelled to make music like that.
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Busting the Filibuster

The photo to the left is of Strom Thurmond, senator from South Carolina, in the midst of his infamous filibuster against the Civil Rights Act of 1957. For 24 hours and 18 minutes he bullshitted, at times resorting to reading his grandmother's biscuit recipe, in an attempt to derail the pending litigation. The attempt failed, but it illustrates what happens when a threatened filibuster actually occurs.

If the Founding Fathers had wanted the Senate to only be able to pass legislation with a super-majority of 60 votes, they would have (there are, in fact, several constitutional provisions that require a supermajority, e.g. overriding a presidential veto, which requires a 2/3 vote from both the House and Senate).

They could have, but they didn't. And I'm here to tell you that the filibuster is a boogeyman, a Boo Radley, not Oz but the sad man behind the curtain.

The Constitution does not require the Senate to include the filibuster or, more to the point today, the cloture rule (in its current form dating back to 1975) which allows the filibuster to be halted by a 3/5 vote. Per the Constitution, the Senate is free to create its own rules--in fact, it's free to amend its rules at the beginning of each new Congress (the 111th Congress will convene next January).

Many say that Senate Democrats would be foolish to abolish the cloture rule, or even just lower its vote requirement to a simple majority, because they would set themselves up to be hoisted on their own petard at some point in the future when they need to hold up some Republican legislation. The Senate rules even permit such a rule change with a simple majority vote. While that argument does make sense as far it goes, it ignores the current political atmosphere and the degree of damage done by the current legislative gridlock.

But I'd like to suggest that the failure here isn't the cloture rule, or even the ability of the opposition to argue indefinitely. The failure is in the will of the Democratic party leadership. A common refrain these days, to be sure, but I haven't seen the following advice bandied about:

CALL THEIR MOTHERFUCKING BLUFF!!!

That's right. Let those Republican senators get up there and actually perform the act. Racist southern senators did it in 1964 for 75 hours before caving. How long do you think they'd last under the scrutiny of today's 24 hour news cycle? In the superheated crucible of an actual filibuster, Republican falsehoods wouldn't have an entire month to spread like weeds as they did last August while Congress was out of session and the tone was set for the upcoming debate. Rather, those lies could be countered immediately and in force, exposing them for what they are--straws grasped at by obstructionists unwilling to make concessions.

Of course I understand that the purpose of the filibuster is to empower the minority and force the majority to negotiate. If the minority holds up the legislation it can take that opportunity to show the majority that a large part of the electorate is on its side, and that the majority would be unfair or unwise to neglect its concerns.

That's the idea anyway. But after last August's Palin-spawned "death panel" bullshit, when one of the opposition senators you've chosen to work with for the express purpose of reaching a bipartisan result starts parroting that same "death panel" bullshit, when another opposition senator is calling for the defeat of health care legislation to be your Waterloo, the signs were clear that lies in service of obstruction and political gain were all the minority had to offer.

To call the Republican bluff all the Democrats have to do is sit through a few days of rambling stupidity and lies, while waiting for the Republicans to shoot themselves in the foot and cave. Right when they're on the ropes, Mr. Obama swoops in to cash in the chips he's saved by staying out of the health care fray and delivers his patented soaring rhetoric peppered with well-reasoned breakdowns of the Republican fear-mongering.

The Democrats and Mr. Obama win the day, and with it a place in history.

A boy can dream, can't he?
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Who Are We?

As Americans--be you born here, naturalized, holding a green card, or somewhere on the margins trying to make your way in--what binds us? What forces are at work that serve to forge an American identity?

Are these forces now different than they once were? Do these forces produce different results than they once did?

Where does "American character" reside? In our institutions? Within individuals? As an abstract concept only observed from a distance? How has it changed over time? Has it changed?

Such questions would appear to belong atop an exam and seem to be an exercise and nothing more. But I can't shake the feeling that questions like these need to enter the public discourse one way or another. Failing to seriously address these questions will leave us vulnerable to forces--internal and external--that will shape us in ways we can't anticipate and leave us wishing that we had.

Can such questions be slipped into movies and television shows? Into speeches by politicians and into the mouths of celebrities? Asked by foreigners traveling among us? Asked by foreigners when we travel among them? Asked and answered by op-ed columnists and comedians? By the crazy and the sane, the sober and the inebriated, the pious and profane?

Explicitly phrased as questions, not as statements shot-through with answers implied and question marks slapped on. With assumptions laid bare, awaiting confirmation, denial or further questions. Things believed to be fundamental thoroughly examined. Purposes of institutions re-evaluated. Inertia stripped of its authority.

I'd like to see a massive civic discourse bubbling up from within. Perhaps I'm unable to see the form such self-analysis will take. Perhaps a dramatic decision or event must occur to precipitate this. Perhaps nothing can penetrate our self-absorption, denial and abnegation.

No matter. This reckoning awaits, regardless.
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Worth Reading (not this post, but the column I link to)

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/20/opinion/20rich.html

Not sure if you have to register to read this column, but it's worth the extra typing.

Ignore the "read more" link below.
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Rock And Roll Hall Of Lame

What a silly fucking concept. The concept itself is as self-aggrandizing as it is self-negating. "Ooh, look at all those paunchy, graying fools on stage trying to play 'Gloria' or some other golden oldie they all know. I'm so glad we paid $500 to see this. And I'm even more glad I can sit down and eat while the rocking and the rolling is going on."

Having said that (wink to all you CYE people), the 25th Anniversary concert (in NYC, not Cleveland, where the actual museum is) on HBO looks and sounds phenomenal in in HD. Having said that, this glittering, glow-basking- and back-patting-fest was kicked off by a speech from Tom Hanks--'cause nothing says rock and roll like Tom Motherfucking Hanks!!!

I'm sure the list of performers who, over those 25 years, have said "fuck off" to showing up for induction is short, but good for them. That list certainly doesn't contain Iggy Pop.  He might have rolled around in broken glass and shot prodigious amounts of heroin, but that wasn't gonna stop him from kickin' it with Madge and JT.

Finally, please note that it's the Rock AND Roll Hall of Fame. Not Rock 'n' Roll. Because--even more than Tom Hanks--nothing says rock AND roll like completely spelling things out. Because there's no way I could have enjoyed Art Garfunkel belting out "Bridge Over Troubled Water" without a very large image of a bridge.   There's no way I could understand Jimi Hendrix's awesomeness without some grizzled beef jerky-looking s.o.b. telling me they'd never heard anybody play like that cat, man.

Oh, before I combust, Jeff Beck sucks.
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