We've lost our chance for a happy ending

Like many people today, I was shocked by the sudden death of Michael Jackson.

I was getting on to the on ramp to Highway 169 North when my niece and I were shocked by a radio announcement. "...TMZ is reporting that Michael Jackson has died. He was taken..." The next half-hour was spent on the phone, trying to confirm that it was true. After all, TMZ being what it is, I held on to the possibility that it wasn't true. I had my reasons.

Michael Jackson was the closest thing to a fallen god that our pop culture will likely produce. For much of his life time, everything he touched turned to gold, as the Pop King Midas hit after hit. He influenced an entire generation with records like "Off the Wall" and the immortal "Thriller." Until the late 1980s, he was unstoppable. Afterwards, the eccentricities and controversies overshadowed his tremendous talent and influence. In time, he became a sad punchline, an easy laugh to make at the expense of a many who in many ways remained a child.

In my mind, Michael Jackson's death denies us what I think many of us wanted for him: a happy ending. After so many false starts, so many missed concert dates and unmet expectations, we wanted that shining moment where we could look at him again as many of us saw him during the 1983 Motown special that revealed his out-of-this-world moonwalk for the first time. We all wanted to see this tortured and eccentric man remind us why we all believed in him in the first place - and I, for one, believed that he could do it.

He simply seemed to have the ability to make magic from absolute nothingness, to take a tragic and lonely childhood and and use it as fuel in a successful quest to make the world love him. I will remember him for that as much as anything else.

Dance, consumer, dance!

In order to combat the scourge of Internet piracy, the music industry bravely went after the source of the problem: a 32-year-old mother of four from Brainerd.
According to an article from the Pioneer Press, “a federal jury ruled Thursday that Jammie Thomas-Rasset willfully violated the copyrights on 24 songs, and the jury awarded recording companies $1.92 million, or $80,000 per song.” It seems that the sins of millions, perhaps billions, of Internet-savvy techsters have been placed on this one woman’s head, and I don’t think that’s fair. There’s simply no way someone like that can pay nearly $2 million for 24 songs they shared on Kazaa (a file sharing service). It seems doubly cruel that the recording industry would target someone like this, who they know probably can’t afford to saddle up the same legal team they can. It’s a message to the rest of us: don’t download music. Or we’ll screw you up, too.
For years, I think the recording industry has missed the point of downloading. I don’t think it kills music; I think it expands taste. Chances are, and I’ve seen surveys that say this, that people will buy more of an artist’s work once they are exposed to them. With computer-generated play lists dominating most Top-40 stations these days, or seeming to, anyway, as I hear the same six songs over and over again, where is one to hear new music? Not there. Not on MTV or VH1 either, which have seriously gone down the tubes over the past decade (as if I thought that were even possible in the early 1990s). In a corporate-controlled environment, where artists are sucked up and disposed of like so much cocaine or pixie sticks, there has to be an alternative, and for a while, downloading offered that alternative.
This case reminds me of what happened to the Dead Kennedys in the 1980s, when they were sued for a poster contained in their album “Frankenchrist.” They were brought to trial on obscenity charges (eventually dropped), and raked over the coals for what conservative elements in Washington and parent groups saw as an out of control art format that was rotting their children’s brains. Notice what was targeted: a small punk band, on its own independent label. A little guy, charged with the sins of others who could have put up a far stronger fight.
When I was about 17, I found a record at my local Goodwill that contained an insert message on it saying that home taping was killing music. I didn’t believe that ever happened, and I don’t believe it will ever happen with Internet music. I think part of why this happened in the first place is that it was simply easier to click a mouse and get a product rather than actually go through the hassle of finding a physical copy. If you set up a proper Internet music store, like iTunes, people will pay. I wish the music industry would spend more time trying to do this, rather than sue people who can’t afford to pay as a warning to the rest of us to keep our downloading queues clear.

My unabiding love for....Wierd Al

I have a confession to make: I really enjoy listening to Weird Al. SHHHH!! Don’t TELL anyone!

I recently found a copy of the 1985 Weird Al album “Dare to be Stupid” at the library, and I can’t remember that last time a simple library find brought me so much joy. Unlike many of the CDs I find at the library, which are “important” or “groundbreaking” (like Bob Dylan’s “Blonde on Blonde”), I actually enjoy listening to this CD. It doesn’t claim to be important, or memorable. It’s simply silly for silly’s sake, which I think we can all use a good dose of these days.
Even when he isn't funny, Weird Al is still funny. He's been entertaining 13-year-olds for nearly thirty years now, which is no mean feat, given how fickle that particular demographic can be. He's like the old Chevy pickup of the music business: he may not be the most flashy thing to come along down the highway, but he's reliable, well-made, and will get you from point A to point B with minimal fuss. His lyrics are well written, and the backing band always spot on. Yes, I've given this thought.
Listening to this album brings me back to the days of riding the bus sophomore year, when my friend Paul Victorey and I would share a pair of headphones to listen to his extensive Weird Al collection. There we’d be, tittering away at something no one else could hear, having a ball in the most socially humiliating way possible. These memories make me smile, because it’s the calm before the storm that was my junior year, when I traded Weird Al for anti-depressants, and I didn’t ride the bus with Paul anymore. For these brief, shining moments, I felt like a child, light and free – free to indulge in a song like “One More Minute” (sample lyric: “I’d rather jump naked onto a huge pile of thumbtacks/ Stick my nostrils together with crazy glue/ I’d dive headfirst into a pool of double-edged razor blades/ Then spend one more minute with you”).
Those aren’t the only Weird Al memories I’ve got. During the summer of 1992, my cousin John Michael and I practically wore out his copy of the Weird Al album with the parody of Nirvana’s “Nevermind” on it. We’d set up a boom box by the tree swing at the summer cottage our families rented for a week, and sing along to every word. At age 12, there’s not much more than you can ask for than Weird Al, a Hi-C or two, and a tree swing. Bliss.
I am fortunate to have married a Weird Al fan. Karla and I actually saw him at the Minnesota State Fair in 2007, and he put on a hell of a show. Even when a song might not have been as funny as it was 20 years ago, he poured his heart and soul into it, even going so far as to don a fat suit for the song “Fat” and dancing with a chorus of Imperial Storm troopers for his Star Wars-inspired take on Don McLean’s “American Pie.” He never stopped moving the entire time he was on stage, and he never stopped giving his audience what they wanted. It was a really great show.
So yes, if you drive by a green car blaring “I Want a New Duck,” it’s probably me. But I can guarantee you that there’s more fun in doing that than there is talking about John Coltrane’s “Giant Steps,” Patti Smith’s “Horses,” or other pompous critic-rock. There needs to be silliness in a world that takes itself too seriously 99 percent of the time, and Weird Al is the doctor to administer the cure.

Pulling the trigger

When I pulled the trigger, it was like unleashing a power I’d never known.
The .223 round tore through the center portion of the target’s head faster than my eye could ever hope to track it. I lowered the AR-56 so the barrel pointed at the ground, and smiled. There, on the Eagan Police Department’s firing range, I’d just lost my firearm virginity. A co-worker of mine had asked me to tag along to shoot some video footage of firearms training, and I gladly went along. After watching him and a few other people pop off rounds from Glocks, I eagerly jumped at the chance when one of the instructors asked who wanted to shoot a carbine.

Amazingly enough, the trainer let me take a few shots at a human-torso shaped target on a far wall. He went over the operations of the rifle, loading it and pointing out the functions of the rifle’s laser sight on the top of the receiver. My head was drowning under a torrent of realizations: “It’s push-button death;” “It’s the complete opposite of sex yet, just as enjoyable, with an obvious starting, middle and end;” “This is what separates us from the animals,” etc.
After my instruction was complete, I buried the butt-end of the rifle into my right shoulder, and lifted the rest of it to face the target on the wall. My arms shook - partly from tension. I’d never fired a gun before, and I was really sensitive to noise. I’d always hid in the car during fireworks as a kid. Why the hell was I lighting the equivalent to several of them going off inches from my ear? Oh well - too late now.
I lined up the red dot on the center mass of the target, and pulled the trigger. The recoil was less than expected, and the noise was more thunder-sounding than anything else. In that instant, I realized the power of a firearm - not only in terms of the destruction it can wreak, but in how it can resonate with the human mind. For that split second, I was literally a god of thunder, capable of snuffing life with the mere twitch of a finger. My heart skipped a beat when I’d heard the empty casing hit the ground. I’d fired my first gun, and found the experience intensely satisfying.
I managed to beg another set of shots off of another instructor, who clearly hadn’t seen that I’d just shot up another target further down the range. I felt like a chubby kid asking for seconds on ice cream, but how many times would I ever have this chance again? That time, I fired three shots - two went through the target’s “head,” and the other went through the torso.
Guns are more than tools. Guns are the ultimate personification of personal power projection, the ability to push an idea, be it “I wish your government were more like mine” or “I was bullied as a teenager and you are all going to pay for it because you happen to be at my school/the mall/church/fill-in-the-blank.”

With great power comes great responsibility, but none of that was really on my mind as I walked away from the firing range. What was on my mind was the obvious metaphor of the human-shaped target on the wall. Guns have no other purpose, justified or not, than to kill or at best maim/wound. In my glee at hitting the target’s head twice in a row, I’d forgotten what it really represented - and it bothered me. What in particular about it bothered me? I think it was the thought, “Hey, that was easy.”

An interest best hidden away

The short e-mail from a friend of mine came with a cryptic title. “Thought you’d be interested” was a short message including only the phrase “Thank God for Life, eh?” The entire sentence was hyper-linked. As I ran my pointer over it and I saw the word “Hitler” at the end of the link, I sighed. I knew what this was. I knew, because earlier that morning I’d spend time looking at three recently released galleries of color photographs of Adolf Hitler.
To many people who know me, I’m that one friend of theirs who is interested, some would say obsessed, with Nazi Germany. I can’t even answer as to why, exactly. I saw say a documentary about the Third Reich as a small child, and the interested festered from there. I say, “festered,” because it’s not the sort of polite thing you talk about at parties. Not many people want to associate with someone who has read probably more than he should of about one of the least-loved (and very deservedly so) political regimes in recent memory. People don’t want to hear about how many errors I found in the uniforms on the DVD cover of “The Pianist.” They also do not want to hear about how I spent most of my time at the Chanhassen Dinner Theatre’s production of “The Producers” dissecting each of the uniforms to find the sum of their parts (answer: mostly Swedish).
Over the years, I’ve had many people ask me why I am intrigued, some would say obsessed, with Hitler and Nazi Germany. It’s certainly not because I agree with any of what it stands for, because I don’t. In fact, I can’t name any tenet of National Socialism apart from “Blame the Jews for everything.” I think a response to this friend of mine outlines the reasons for the intellectual malady pretty well.
“Simply put, the more I know, the less I know. Do you remember the book "The Phantom Tollbooth?" Well, as a historical figure, Hitler is like "Subtraction soup." The more you eat, the hungrier you are. The interesting thing about Hitler was that there were so many other ways he could have gone. He was an intelligent, creative and dynamic personality who ended up doing unspeakable things. It's just a naturally fascinating story. The guy tries to be an artist, fails, finds clarity in war, comes back and within 20 years goes from being homeless, literally homeless on the streets, to being one of the most powerful men in the world strictly through the force of his own will and personality.
It's hard not to write about it without sounding like I'm admiring him - and that's the double-edged sword of the whole thing. He's a conflicted, inordinately complex man who loved children (was often a complete fool around them) and couldn't stand harming animals but at the same time was capable of orchestrating mass murder on a scale previously unseen. You don't get much more complex than that.”
Ultimately, I know I’m not alone in this. I think this enigmatic quality about a mass murderer/failed painter exists in many people. I think the Life photos prove this. If they had put up photos of Mussolini, would anyone have cared? Or how about Stalin? Either would have been a complete waste of time on Life’s part – because Mussolini wasn’t as evil as Hitler, and Stalin was, well, just a jerk. That’s about as simple as I can put it. Hitler still fascinates and revolts us because, nearly 60 years later, there still isn’t any definitive answer to the question “Why?”

Nature vs. Nurture at 2:43 a.m.

What no one ever mentions about breaking a habit is that it usually breaks part of you.
I realized this the other night, at 2:37 a.m., when my daughter was up crying again for the third time in as many hours. My wife and I take turns usually, but this time, we both sat in bed, pretending to sleep and waiting for the other to make the next move. In the end, I woke up with a bundle of infant in my face. I guess, having actually fallen asleep while pretending to fall asleep, that I won the stalemate.
After blessing us with several months of quiet nights, I think my daughter has figured out that if she cries long enough at night, she’ll end up sleeping with Mommy and Daddy in the Nice Bed, with the dog to boot. This is where the “habit breaking” comes in. It’s one thing to quit smoking – it’s another thing to have a habit breaking that breaks your habit in the process. I can deal with nic fits, but listening to your child scream for you in the dead of night is heartbreaking. There’s a reason a baby’s cry is as effective as it is. It, unlike the parents that hear it, has evolved through the course of thousands of years to be as annoying and heart wrenching as possible. It’s brilliantly designed to provoke a response in those who hear it.
With her head now resting comfortably between us in a warm bed, Evelyn fell asleep right away, and didn’t make a peep for the rest of the night. Chalk it up to baby intelligence to figure out that by doing what comes naturally to them that they can make it work out to their advantage. The next night, Evelyn cried again at 1:30 a.m. or so, and Karla turned off the special anti-SIDS mattress (a glorified air hockey table with a sheet on it) that constantly blows cold air on her in an effort to combat the unthinkable. After that, she was quiet for most of the night. Even last night, the second in which the mattress was turned off, she was quiet for the most part.
Nature vs. Nurture. It’s usually an easy choice, except when its 2:43 a.m. and you’ve got to be at work in six hours.