Hark. It is on the horizon. The time has come again for the feeding of my nerdish soul.
So comes the advent of the Motor City Comic Con with the sweet smell of spring, and with it comes the sweet smell of ancient papers covered with ink so fair. But must I convince you of the joys of this occasion? Is your heart far from it?
O, hear ye, faint of heart: The millions of expressions of cultural joys, innocence, angst and confusion that have been manifested through the arts with simple line drawings, colors and captions.
Will Chewbacca be there?
We knowest not. But the man beneath the fur is a fine gentleman we do hope to meet again.
Will Mary-Ann be there?
Yea, verily, she shall. But Ginger abstains. (Would you believe that Ginger’s real name was not Tina Louis? It was actually Tatiana Josivovna Chernova Blacker. Seriously.)
Will the most unique of the Batmans be there?
Yea. Adam West will grace us with his presence and humor. And yet of Robin we knoweth not.
In days of yore we have met with Lou Ferrigno, Louis Gossett Jr., the Ghoul (who is, in truth, a kind and gentle soul), the mysterious, yet kind, Doug Jones, as well as those who have trekked the stars and fought the wars of the star. We have met with great artists such as Bernie Wrightson and lived to tell the tale. Humbled. We have seen on display first editions of our popular cultural history – men of superness, spiderness, hulkiness, and women of wonder and catishness – worth much gold and silver. I myself have gathered the withered pages of famous monsters and enjoyed them forthwith.
If you do not understand the attraction of these sundry pleasantries, you will not be judged by me. I will only hold out hope that someday you will understand this language of the heart which is driven by imagination.
Until that day, I weep for you. With pity.
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Ode to Motherings
Signify offers the following, unearthed from subterranean vaults found in the hills of Ireland, just north of Dublin, during an excavation in search of meaning, translated from the Gaelic, and presented here without revision for your perusal and disregard. Hence...
Great motherings
I do declare
Have helped me through
Such great despair
So though I’ve never
Given birth
I know a mom
Is of great worth
I love my wife
She is a mother
No, not mine
I have another
But whatever
Mother mothers
The mothered know
They want no others
And so this day
Comes once a year
To give our thanks
To mother dear
With poems dismal
Verse abysmal
Flowers, cards
And such regards
I know you know
We love you mom
But, still, I say
Have a wonderful day
Anon...
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
Great motherings
I do declare
Have helped me through
Such great despair
So though I’ve never
Given birth
I know a mom
Is of great worth
I love my wife
She is a mother
No, not mine
I have another
But whatever
Mother mothers
The mothered know
They want no others
And so this day
Comes once a year
To give our thanks
To mother dear
With poems dismal
Verse abysmal
Flowers, cards
And such regards
I know you know
We love you mom
But, still, I say
Have a wonderful day
Anon...
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Green Army Men
When I was little, the Avon lady called, which means she came by our house to sell my mom some Avon products. My mom seemed to like the Avon lady, and I’m sure she would have loved to order all kinds of things, but it was relatively expensive. So she’d usually have a nice chat with the Avon lady and buy something small.
One time when the Avon lady was over, I became interested in the little catalogue they used. I have no idea why. But I somehow ended up standing at the table looking through the little catalogue while they talked and, low and behold, there were toys in there. What were toys doing in there?! They weren’t fancy, but it opened up a whole new world. Avon selling toys. It meant that anything is possible!
Not really.
But there were some green army men in there. If I remember right, they also had little farm animals and cowboys and such. They were in sets and they had lots of pieces. I was amazed to find them in there so I showed my mom. Can you believe it mom! Toys in the Avon book! She looked at it and then she looked at me and said something I’ll never forget. She said...
“I can see how a little boy would like to have that.”
I remember feeling kind of warm when she said it. How could she see? How could she know? It was a mystery. But I trusted her. After all, she bought a set for me. And I got to wait in wonderful anticipation for it to arrive. It seemed to take forever. But I vaguely remember playing with it in the back yard, in the dirt. And I did NOT use antibacterial soap when I was finished. Regular soap worked just fine.
Thing is, memories of the toy itself are gone. Lost in the haze. But my mom’s simple moment of empathy will never be lost to me. And now I’d like to have empathy with my kids. I want to understand them. So I try to remember what it’s like to be a kid. To struggle as a child. To want and not be able to reach. To have to rely on someone else for things whether I like it or not. Sometimes I get down on my knees and look around the house to see it from my youngest daughter’s perspective. I find that praying from that position is helpful too.
I think part of this is that I don’t want my kids to lose their trust in me. I know they’ll lose some of it as they become more and more aware of my limitations. But I hope that by remembering what it was like, by remembering how it feels, I can find a way to relate to them, to be honest with them and, hopefully, understand them a little. That way I can help them try to get through the madness of youth without becoming completely overwhelmed by pain or sorrow or loss.
I can dream, can’t I?
Matthew 18:2-4
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
One time when the Avon lady was over, I became interested in the little catalogue they used. I have no idea why. But I somehow ended up standing at the table looking through the little catalogue while they talked and, low and behold, there were toys in there. What were toys doing in there?! They weren’t fancy, but it opened up a whole new world. Avon selling toys. It meant that anything is possible!
Not really.
But there were some green army men in there. If I remember right, they also had little farm animals and cowboys and such. They were in sets and they had lots of pieces. I was amazed to find them in there so I showed my mom. Can you believe it mom! Toys in the Avon book! She looked at it and then she looked at me and said something I’ll never forget. She said...
“I can see how a little boy would like to have that.”
I remember feeling kind of warm when she said it. How could she see? How could she know? It was a mystery. But I trusted her. After all, she bought a set for me. And I got to wait in wonderful anticipation for it to arrive. It seemed to take forever. But I vaguely remember playing with it in the back yard, in the dirt. And I did NOT use antibacterial soap when I was finished. Regular soap worked just fine.
Thing is, memories of the toy itself are gone. Lost in the haze. But my mom’s simple moment of empathy will never be lost to me. And now I’d like to have empathy with my kids. I want to understand them. So I try to remember what it’s like to be a kid. To struggle as a child. To want and not be able to reach. To have to rely on someone else for things whether I like it or not. Sometimes I get down on my knees and look around the house to see it from my youngest daughter’s perspective. I find that praying from that position is helpful too.
I think part of this is that I don’t want my kids to lose their trust in me. I know they’ll lose some of it as they become more and more aware of my limitations. But I hope that by remembering what it was like, by remembering how it feels, I can find a way to relate to them, to be honest with them and, hopefully, understand them a little. That way I can help them try to get through the madness of youth without becoming completely overwhelmed by pain or sorrow or loss.
I can dream, can’t I?
Matthew 18:2-4
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Nothing's On
“The radio makes hideous sounds.”
They say Bob Dylan said that. And I can relate. Though some would accuse Dylan of hypocrisy because they don’t like his voice.
Finding a radio station playing music that is interesting is hard. And I do mean interesting. There’s lots of stuff on the radio that sounds okay – good even – from a sonic standpoint. Some of it’s pretty catchy, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But it’s all become so predictable and people seem to want it that way. Nothing new about that either. And I’m not saying I could do any better – probably not – but, still, sometimes you hunger for something a little more . . . interesting.
There is even a predictability in the unpredictable. You kind of know where some off beat band is going to take the music because you know where they aren’t going to go. They’re just too hip to move in certain directions, which limits how they might surprise you.
When it comes to music, I like predictable too sometimes. I like a good pop song. And when someone does something retro effectively it can be great as well. But it’s all a bit done already and it wears thin fast.
I can just see record industry producers scratching their heads, saying, “Where do we go from here?” Is Justin Bieber the future of pop music? What if he is?
Thing is, when was the last time you were really pleasantly surprised by some music? When was the last time you heard something that sounded truly special in some way, like you just knew it was going to be a classic? Or unique, but not for the sake of being unique? Or just good because it was creative and well done and had something thoughtful to say without being overly pretentious or cryptic?
The music world is becoming like cable TV. A million channels and nothing’s on.
Psalm 33:3
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
They say Bob Dylan said that. And I can relate. Though some would accuse Dylan of hypocrisy because they don’t like his voice.
Finding a radio station playing music that is interesting is hard. And I do mean interesting. There’s lots of stuff on the radio that sounds okay – good even – from a sonic standpoint. Some of it’s pretty catchy, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But it’s all become so predictable and people seem to want it that way. Nothing new about that either. And I’m not saying I could do any better – probably not – but, still, sometimes you hunger for something a little more . . . interesting.
There is even a predictability in the unpredictable. You kind of know where some off beat band is going to take the music because you know where they aren’t going to go. They’re just too hip to move in certain directions, which limits how they might surprise you.
When it comes to music, I like predictable too sometimes. I like a good pop song. And when someone does something retro effectively it can be great as well. But it’s all a bit done already and it wears thin fast.
I can just see record industry producers scratching their heads, saying, “Where do we go from here?” Is Justin Bieber the future of pop music? What if he is?
Thing is, when was the last time you were really pleasantly surprised by some music? When was the last time you heard something that sounded truly special in some way, like you just knew it was going to be a classic? Or unique, but not for the sake of being unique? Or just good because it was creative and well done and had something thoughtful to say without being overly pretentious or cryptic?
The music world is becoming like cable TV. A million channels and nothing’s on.
Psalm 33:3
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
The Same . . . Only Different
It's bizarre. My kids all have the same birth parents - moi and the better half - but they are totally different. Sure, they look a little bit alike, but they act like they were raised on different planets. Perhaps in different universes. And the thing is, I did not make them that way.
What I mean to say is, I haven’t raised them all that differently. Frankly I don’t have the time or the energy to treat them each as unique and special individuals. But they turn out to be unique and special individuals anyway. They seem to manage it without my controlling it, and that’s fine with me.
But you see these unaccountable differences all the time, from day one. When it’s time to eat we toss the same food in front of them all, but they don’t eat the same food. Toss down a plate with some chicken, broccoli and a slice of bread and kid C will eat the broccoli, kid A will eat the slice of bread and kid B will eat the chicken. They specialize in their own diversity with no help from myself or the better half. We simply try to keep up with the vagaries of their immaturity, which we personally find pretty challenging. We’re late bloomers, so the definition of our current lifestyle is “tired.”
One of my kids is a total people person. Like her mom. It’s all about relationships. She doesn’t like animated movies much because there aren’t any real people in them and that’s pretty much all she cares about. She likes to be with friends all the time. ALL the time. And she like to write stories about people. She’s a storyteller. And a computer whiz.
One of my other kids is a self contained unit. She loves playing with other kids, but she can go solo for hours at a time, fiddling away with toys and dolls and blocks. She likes watching musical movies, but she could watch static, it’s all the same to her, just as long as she can play with her dolls while she watches the show.
My other kid is a scientist. She mixes anything she can find (that isn’t locked down) up in bowls to see what it will do or what it will smell like. She likes to play teacher and she’s a good artist. She likes animated movies, old sci-fi movies and movies with animals in them, pretty much anything, as long as her sisters don’t touch her while she’s watching it. No touchee touchee.
I’m telling you: I have nothing to do with any of this. I did not create or plan their differences. They came out of my wife looking and behaving totally different. And yet they all have one amazing thing in common.
They are astonishingly beautiful.
Genesis 4:20-21
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
What I mean to say is, I haven’t raised them all that differently. Frankly I don’t have the time or the energy to treat them each as unique and special individuals. But they turn out to be unique and special individuals anyway. They seem to manage it without my controlling it, and that’s fine with me.
But you see these unaccountable differences all the time, from day one. When it’s time to eat we toss the same food in front of them all, but they don’t eat the same food. Toss down a plate with some chicken, broccoli and a slice of bread and kid C will eat the broccoli, kid A will eat the slice of bread and kid B will eat the chicken. They specialize in their own diversity with no help from myself or the better half. We simply try to keep up with the vagaries of their immaturity, which we personally find pretty challenging. We’re late bloomers, so the definition of our current lifestyle is “tired.”
One of my kids is a total people person. Like her mom. It’s all about relationships. She doesn’t like animated movies much because there aren’t any real people in them and that’s pretty much all she cares about. She likes to be with friends all the time. ALL the time. And she like to write stories about people. She’s a storyteller. And a computer whiz.
One of my other kids is a self contained unit. She loves playing with other kids, but she can go solo for hours at a time, fiddling away with toys and dolls and blocks. She likes watching musical movies, but she could watch static, it’s all the same to her, just as long as she can play with her dolls while she watches the show.
My other kid is a scientist. She mixes anything she can find (that isn’t locked down) up in bowls to see what it will do or what it will smell like. She likes to play teacher and she’s a good artist. She likes animated movies, old sci-fi movies and movies with animals in them, pretty much anything, as long as her sisters don’t touch her while she’s watching it. No touchee touchee.
I’m telling you: I have nothing to do with any of this. I did not create or plan their differences. They came out of my wife looking and behaving totally different. And yet they all have one amazing thing in common.
They are astonishingly beautiful.
Genesis 4:20-21
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
Saturday, April 24, 2010
The Work of Art
There are at least two basic theories about creativity that you hear articulated in different ways by different people.
Theory #1: One theory is that a person creates something out of nothing. Sort of – poof – and they have some new idea or some new song or some new thing. They feel that what they have come up with came out of nowhere.
Theory #2: And then there is the theory that a person creates something out of a kajillion things that they can’t even necessarily understand. The mind is full of puzzle pieces that life has tossed in there, and somehow the mind or the spirit or both begin putting the pieces together until the picture starts to make sense.
I am a theory #2 person. To my way of thinking, only God is a theory #1 person. So I go with #2, and the reason is that I can sense the puzzle pieces floating around within me and in the world. I can sense when they are starting to connect. My job is to do things to help them connect. In my mind, that is the “work” of an artist. To develop the skills that enable you to bring about these connections.
If I’m right about this, it suggests that if you want to be “creative” and you’re waiting for some sudden flash of insight from out of nowhere, you’re not likely to create very much. And if you want to be creative, but you don’t train yourself to do the work necessary to put the pieces together, then I don’t think you’ll produce much either.
Art is not for sissies.
Being creative means developing skills. It’s about craft. Songs, poems, stories, needlepoint, paintings, relationships, cars – whatever – the created thing has to be crafted in one way or another. Albert Einstein did not wake up one morning with the theory of Relativity bouncing around in his head. He agonized over it for a long, long time. He found pieces of the puzzle in the work of other scientists, which he added to other pieces he observed in everyday life. He had to develop his math skills because it wasn’t his strong suit, and he knew he’d need to get the math right to present the theory. He pressed pieces thinking they would fit, but they didn’t, so he had to keep looking. Finally, he managed to put it together. He didn’t create a law of nature. He painted it into his mind and into the minds of other people. Well. A few people. The rest of us just scratch our heads.
But the point is the same. Every work of art takes work. You have to do the work. To my way of thinking, that includes your stories, your paintings, your children, your spouse, your church, your songs, your movies, your theories on life and death, your work, your play . . . everything.
Life is an art.
Colossians 3:23-24
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
Theory #1: One theory is that a person creates something out of nothing. Sort of – poof – and they have some new idea or some new song or some new thing. They feel that what they have come up with came out of nowhere.
Theory #2: And then there is the theory that a person creates something out of a kajillion things that they can’t even necessarily understand. The mind is full of puzzle pieces that life has tossed in there, and somehow the mind or the spirit or both begin putting the pieces together until the picture starts to make sense.
I am a theory #2 person. To my way of thinking, only God is a theory #1 person. So I go with #2, and the reason is that I can sense the puzzle pieces floating around within me and in the world. I can sense when they are starting to connect. My job is to do things to help them connect. In my mind, that is the “work” of an artist. To develop the skills that enable you to bring about these connections.
If I’m right about this, it suggests that if you want to be “creative” and you’re waiting for some sudden flash of insight from out of nowhere, you’re not likely to create very much. And if you want to be creative, but you don’t train yourself to do the work necessary to put the pieces together, then I don’t think you’ll produce much either.
Art is not for sissies.
Being creative means developing skills. It’s about craft. Songs, poems, stories, needlepoint, paintings, relationships, cars – whatever – the created thing has to be crafted in one way or another. Albert Einstein did not wake up one morning with the theory of Relativity bouncing around in his head. He agonized over it for a long, long time. He found pieces of the puzzle in the work of other scientists, which he added to other pieces he observed in everyday life. He had to develop his math skills because it wasn’t his strong suit, and he knew he’d need to get the math right to present the theory. He pressed pieces thinking they would fit, but they didn’t, so he had to keep looking. Finally, he managed to put it together. He didn’t create a law of nature. He painted it into his mind and into the minds of other people. Well. A few people. The rest of us just scratch our heads.
But the point is the same. Every work of art takes work. You have to do the work. To my way of thinking, that includes your stories, your paintings, your children, your spouse, your church, your songs, your movies, your theories on life and death, your work, your play . . . everything.
Life is an art.
Colossians 3:23-24
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Adventures With Rockabilly
Long time ago I was playing in a band, doing drums and vocals. It was a Rockabilly band and it was kind of fun. The success of the Stray Cats had made this stuff marketable again. I sang Little Sister by Elvis and a few other things and it was easy money. We never rehearsed. It was show up and play. We had a guitarist from New York who would have fascinated Mr. Spock, and a bass player who could have been in the Stray Cats.
Then there was the leader of the band. He was a nice guy, in his way, but he was a drunk. And I think it was all due to depression. He thought he was going to be a rock star, like so many other people, and it didn’t work out, which made him sad. You can crush my heart, baby, but don’t you crush my dreams.
One day this guy asked me if I would drive him around to take care of some business. He didn’t just book our band, he was also a booking agent, but he’d lost his driver’s license. So I said “yes,” thinking I could learn a little bit about the business side of music. And let me just say, I don’t recommend you go out of your way to do that. It is a dark and fearful place.
Anyway. We hit the road and, as we moved through the day, he drank more and more, becoming increasingly incoherent. Still, I was able to see him make deals, not only for our band, but for several pretty big name acts. He was trying to work something out for David Ruffin and Eddie Kendricks, but it wasn’t floating. He did set up a gig for Mitch Ryder at a large club. Weeks later, I drove him to that gig and met Mitch Ryder and his band. The drummer was called “Johnny.” He was on most of the early Mitch Ryder stuff. He said he also played drums on Edgar Winter’s Free Ride, which I thought was Chuck Ruff, and he played on Alice Cooper’s Welcome to My Nightmare, which makes sense since Alice is a Michigan guy like Mitch Ryder. Johnny was (is?) a very good drummer.
But, I digress. Back to the road trip.
This guy I was driving with progressively anesthetized himself with whiskey while I began to pity him and be angry with him at the same time. He was the kind of drunk/addict who would constantly take advantage of you in whatever ways he could get away with. But it didn’t bother me much. I’d been around a lot of people like that.
This guy had a minor brush with the big time. He’d been in a band that was famous in the late 60's, early 70's, but he wasn’t with them until the early 80's, doing a reunion tour thing, taking the place of someone who didn’t want to do it. He idolized Paul McCartney, and these guys knew Paul McCartney. They’d had a hit with a McCartney song in the early 70's. They were “friends” with Paul and the guy I was riding with had been in a band with them for a tour. It was almost like having met Paul himself, right?
Yes. I know it’s confusing, but that’s how it goes. And that was his brush with fame, which left him craving, like the addict he was, for . . . more. He wanted more.
I wonder about this guy sometimes. I wonder what happened to him. We talked a lot that day. We talked about life and spiritual things, but he made it clear he wasn’t really interested. He already knew what he wanted.
He was practically unconscious by the time I got him home. He mumbled something I couldn’t understand as he climbed out of the car and stumbled across his lawn, into his front door to an unfortunate wife and kids. And he still crosses my mind. I’d have no idea how to get hold of him, and he probably wouldn’t even know who I was if I did, but I wonder if he ever came out of that sadness. I wonder if he ever learned to be happy with who he was. Did he find peace, or did he die with his eyes on the wrong things?
Sometimes it’s hard to know what to do for people.
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
Then there was the leader of the band. He was a nice guy, in his way, but he was a drunk. And I think it was all due to depression. He thought he was going to be a rock star, like so many other people, and it didn’t work out, which made him sad. You can crush my heart, baby, but don’t you crush my dreams.
One day this guy asked me if I would drive him around to take care of some business. He didn’t just book our band, he was also a booking agent, but he’d lost his driver’s license. So I said “yes,” thinking I could learn a little bit about the business side of music. And let me just say, I don’t recommend you go out of your way to do that. It is a dark and fearful place.
Anyway. We hit the road and, as we moved through the day, he drank more and more, becoming increasingly incoherent. Still, I was able to see him make deals, not only for our band, but for several pretty big name acts. He was trying to work something out for David Ruffin and Eddie Kendricks, but it wasn’t floating. He did set up a gig for Mitch Ryder at a large club. Weeks later, I drove him to that gig and met Mitch Ryder and his band. The drummer was called “Johnny.” He was on most of the early Mitch Ryder stuff. He said he also played drums on Edgar Winter’s Free Ride, which I thought was Chuck Ruff, and he played on Alice Cooper’s Welcome to My Nightmare, which makes sense since Alice is a Michigan guy like Mitch Ryder. Johnny was (is?) a very good drummer.
But, I digress. Back to the road trip.
This guy I was driving with progressively anesthetized himself with whiskey while I began to pity him and be angry with him at the same time. He was the kind of drunk/addict who would constantly take advantage of you in whatever ways he could get away with. But it didn’t bother me much. I’d been around a lot of people like that.
This guy had a minor brush with the big time. He’d been in a band that was famous in the late 60's, early 70's, but he wasn’t with them until the early 80's, doing a reunion tour thing, taking the place of someone who didn’t want to do it. He idolized Paul McCartney, and these guys knew Paul McCartney. They’d had a hit with a McCartney song in the early 70's. They were “friends” with Paul and the guy I was riding with had been in a band with them for a tour. It was almost like having met Paul himself, right?
Yes. I know it’s confusing, but that’s how it goes. And that was his brush with fame, which left him craving, like the addict he was, for . . . more. He wanted more.
I wonder about this guy sometimes. I wonder what happened to him. We talked a lot that day. We talked about life and spiritual things, but he made it clear he wasn’t really interested. He already knew what he wanted.
He was practically unconscious by the time I got him home. He mumbled something I couldn’t understand as he climbed out of the car and stumbled across his lawn, into his front door to an unfortunate wife and kids. And he still crosses my mind. I’d have no idea how to get hold of him, and he probably wouldn’t even know who I was if I did, but I wonder if he ever came out of that sadness. I wonder if he ever learned to be happy with who he was. Did he find peace, or did he die with his eyes on the wrong things?
Sometimes it’s hard to know what to do for people.
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
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