Three Short Films About Brian Carrol

-subtitled- humor me before I have to go.





THEME:



I had the urge earlier today to look up an old friend of mine whom I haven't thought about in quite a while, but has always made me feel better: Mr. (Fred) Rogers. I'm serious.



I've reached an age now where I can honestly start giving "back in the day speeches", as in:



"When I was your age there was no instant gratification when it came to our entertainment. Television shows weren't on any sort of recorded medium (i.e. DVD's), so if you missed an episode, you missed it FOREVER, unless you were lucky enough to catch it in syndication, and even then it was almost impossible because your only point of reference was the half-assed TV guide that came with the Sunday paper, and you needed the damn enigma code machine to deceiver it."



Those who are amazed by that statement will really love this- even if you had cable (we eventually did) you still only had about 40 channels (which in truth, even today, is more than you really need). What I'm saying is television had a very passive role in my early life. I mean, I watched it, but didn't take much from it. Case in point, the only thing I legitimately remember watching, next to a few assorted G.I. Joe and Transformer's episodes, is PBS and a few shows on Nickelodeon. This was when Nickelodeon first aired and consisted of mostly of old British TV shows and a couple newer things thrown in*. I don't know what you would call it now. Tween bullshit. I can vividly remember watching Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood, so something about it must have stuck with me-something that hardly any of those other shows had*.

Which is why I got to Googling the late Mr. Rogers today. Inside of my normally cynical self, there lurks an optimist. I am the old walking cliche of someone who hopes that everything will turn out alright, but knows better. Somehow, though, when I found this quote on some random website years ago it echoed with me-and this was a time when I was far more of an angry, jaded, sexist, and bitter person. It echos with me still:



I'm proud of you for the times you've said 'yes' when all it meant was extra work for you and seemingly helpful to only somebody else. I'm proud of you for the times you've said 'no' when all it seemed to mean was a loss of pleasure yet eventually supported the growth of somebody else and yourself. I'm proud of you for the times you came in second, or third, or fourth, but what you did was the best you had ever done. I'm proud of you for standing for something you believed in- something that wasn't particularly popular but something which assured the rights of someone less fortunate than you. I'm proud of you for anything you can think of that allows you to feel proud of yourself. --Fred Rogers





FIRST VARIATION:



I, like several people I guess, used to be obsessed with my personal level of "realness". This related mostly to the degree to which I would or would not compromise myself for my strongly held ideals of the time. The sixties were alive and well inside my little slice of the universe, at least as far as I was concerned. I wasn't going to take any office job, or any other job for that matter, which cramped my endless style. I was going to keep doing what I had to do until my band made it out of Erie. Anyway, to make a long story slightly less long I added this quote to my manifesto of words to live by:



Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real." "Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit. "Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt." "Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?" "It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.-- by Margery Williams, from The Velveteen Rabbit --



I still love this quote but for totally different reasons I won't go into here. I just wanted to share it with you. The last sentence still makes me a bit misty. Also, as an interesting side note: While I was looking this up to put it in this blog entry I read that several people use this quote in their wedding vows. I can't imagine why. I'm not being sarcastic.



SECOND VARIATION:



This last one will be short. It's the opening theme song from a show I can remember LOVING as a child. I actually remember watching it with my grandfather once when I stayed home sick from school, and how much we both enjoyed it. The show was called "The World of David the Gnome" and I'm including it because I think my subconscious loves this intro more than my conscious mind does. I don't know if it's the guy's voice, the fantastic (adj. form of fantasy) nature of the show, or just the nostalgia factor, but EVERY time that my life has gotten so seemingly out of control that the proverbial pot is about to boil over I'll have a dream where this song plays and it always brings me back.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NF7HEJrz6pU

Usually when I wake up I'm slightly teary-eyed. Don't say I never told you anything useful.

Thoughts on the Millenium

I was sitting in a cafeteria at Edinboro University when 9/11 happened. I was eating a bagel. I remember thinking, "I can't believe this is happening". I don't mean that in the sense that most everyone else does-I'm too cynical to be thinking some lame shit like: "How can this, the greatest country in the world, be the target of such a heinous attack. Surely some godless heathens are to blame." No, what happened was actually a long time coming. (*NOTE* This is not an anti-American statement in any way, so I don't want to get any letters, e-mails, phone calls, telegrams, smoke signals, singing valentines or memos about it.) What struck me that day was the finality of it - that the World Trade Center wasn't going to be there anymore, and that (as they were first estimating a death toll around 30,000 or something) this was going to affect EVERYONE, myself included, of a personal level in some way. Anyone would agree that this was the definitive beginning to the George W. Bush presidency and what would lay the ground work for almost everything that administration did over the next seven years.

Today, I sat in another cafeteria and watched the definitive end to that administration as Barrack HUSSEIN Obama was sworn in as the 44th President.

Audacity of Hope indeed.

Simon Says...

Did you know that the song “The 12 Days of Christmas” is a coded message used to teach Catholic children about the bible during the Anglican Reformation in England? According to one website:

“Catholics in England during the period 1558 to 1829 were prohibited by law to practice their faith either in public or private. It was illegal to be Catholic until Parliament finally emancipated Catholics in England in 1829[…] The 12 Days of Christmas is in a sense an allegory. Each of the items in the song represents something significant to the teachings of the Catholic faith. The hidden meaning of each gift was designed to help Catholic children learn their faith. The better acquainted one is with the Bible, the more these interpretations have significance.”

It then lists the different days and what they mean:

1 Partridge in a pear tree = Jesus Christ2 Turtle Doves = The Old and New Testaments3 French Hens = Faith, Hope and Charity4 Calling Birds = the Four Gospels and/or the Four Evangelists 5 Golden Rings = The first Five Books of the Old Testament, the 'Pentateuch' which contain the law condemning us of our sins.6 Geese A-laying = the six days of creation7 Swans A-swimming = the gifts of the Holy Spirit: Prophesy, Serving, Teaching, Exhortation, Contribution, Leadership, and Mercy.8 Maids A-milking = the eight beatitudes9 Ladies Dancing = the nine Fruits of the Spirit10 Lords A-leaping = the Ten Commandments11 Pipers Piping = the eleven faithful apostles12 Drummers Drumming = the twelve points of doctrine in the Apostle's Creed

Isn’t that interesting?

No, it’s not.

Because it’s completely fucking wrong. And nothing about it makes any sense. I could go into great detail outlining why this whole idea is so completely batshit crazy, but most of what I say would be cribbed from the excellent Snopes article on this very subject. And here it is -

http://www.snopes.com/holidays/christmas/12days.asp

Go ahead and read it. I’ll wait…..Done? Welcome back. Did you like that? Wasn’t the final sentence just the best thing you’ve ever read? If you didn’t read it, basically it says that the song was likely a memory game people played in the days when the ball and cup game was the pinnacle of entertainment. One person named a gift (“A partridge in a pear tree”), and the next person added to it before repeating the previous gifts (“Two turtle doves/and a partridge in a pear tree”), and on around the circle adding more and more until people couldn’t keep it going anymore. Just like Simon. Aren’t I clever?
Anyway, by now I’ve taken up about 10 minutes of your time, and I’m sure you’re wondering why. Well, I’ve been hearing this particular myth for some years now, and I’m truthful enough to say that the first time I heard it, I sort of believed it. I mean, that song must be about something, and it’s in our nature as humans to seek out the origins of things. Case closed. And I didn’t think about it again AT ALL for a couple years.
Then, one boring day, I happened upon the article listed above and my eyebrows raised, I put the information into the part of my mind where I keep useless factoids, and once again I didn’t think about it again. But I’ll be damned (no pun intended) if the following Christmas this story didn’t spring up like a bloody pox. I must have had to sit through five or six different people rattling off this claptrap, their voices the very definition of matter-of-fact as enthralled audiences nodded along with self satisfied shit eating grins on their faces*. And you may not be able to infer from my typical blog posts, but I’m actually not the type of person who likes correcting people to their faces, especially in public. There’s rarely any point to it. So I let it go, hoping that one day they would figure out the truth (and quietly hoping that a far bigger asshole than me who KNEW the truth would get the satisfaction of telling them.)
Basically though, for me it all comes down to two things – First, stop telling me how hard it is to be a Christian and trying to illustrate your point with ridiculous tales like this. Nobody cares, least of all me, and I will kick you in your crotch regardless of your gender. And second, if you’re going to devote your life to something (like a religious faith) at least have the decency to do the fucking research. Every year people piss and moan about how commercial Christmas is, and how we need to put Christ back into it. And if you believe that, good. Good for you. Don’t stop believing in something. Just make sure that something isn’t some shit somebody made up.



*Note: This sentence contains WAAAAYYYYYY too much description. But I just really want you to understand. Forgive me.

Hold me closer...

Ok, this is a post I've been meaning to do for a while so bear with me and strap in; it's gonna be a long one.



If you asked me what my favorite movie was (and people often do), my answer would be a slightly evasive "It depends on my mood. There are so many." And that's true - at any given time it might be Seven Samurai (if I'm in an action movie phase), The Godfather (if I'm feeling drama), Malcolm X (because he's the coolest person ever) or Schindler's List (I have my reasons). But whatever my answer, there is always an asterix attached. One of these ---> *. Without a doubt my always and forever favorite movie is Almost Famous (in addition to one of the above). Every time I watch it I find it means more to me than the last time. Now, I'm not going to defend it as the best movie ever made; Cameron Crowe is really just John Hughes for the late nineties, and his movies are in much the same vein. But no film speaks to me more than this one, and here's why:

Most everyone who knows me understands that I've always been in bands since I was about 12 years old. I started playing out in bars and clubs a couple months after my 19th birthday, and I continue to do so to this day. The exact number of bands I've been in is a subjective question. If you count the numbers of different people that I've jammed with over the years with the intention of starting a band only to have it fall through after one or two practices, than...probably between 50 and 80. If, however, you only count the projects that got off the ground then I would have to say I've been in around five bands (two of which played out semi-professionally). I've been a musician since I was 12 and through my teen years and into my twenties that was all I wanted to be. The story of why that's no longer exactly true is a longer one and definitely for another day. But, during those years I focused on nothing else. I went through junior high, high school and some of college having never played any sports (save for one half-hearted year of football during which I never played), dated ANYONE or been a member of any type of activity. I just wanted to play in bands and, I hoped, be semi-successful at it. I could write an entire book about all of the ins and outs of this, and how and why it made me who I am for better and worse. Instead I'll move on.
Bands, you see, are alot like a bad relationship. Everyone goes into it thinking that it's the best thing ever. You'll have a couple practices where everything seems to gel, and everyone will be getting along so well. You'll know in the back of your mind that every previous band you've been in started in just this same fashion, and they all invariably ended up a mangled corpse of bruised egos, stupid ideas and frivolous anger. "This time, though, it's different" you'll tell yourself. "This is the ONE." And, to all appearances, it is. You'll master a few songs, put together some of your own, book some shows, and maybe even get some recognition. Things have never been better. Then slowly things start to crumble. People who were perfectly happy in the limelight will start to demand that their ideas be heard. Women will start coming around. And bit by bit everything ends up in the same public toilet as your last venture.
I was always left holding the bag in these situations because, and stay with me here, I had the purest motives.
"Bullshit" you say, and you're right to do so, but let me say this. I won't deny that it's nice to look out onto a sea of people and know that they came to see you (at least partly), or that it's nice to have praise heaped upon you, and it's certainly nice to get the attention of women you wouldn't even dream of talking to otherwise (and I must interject here that sex is almost NEVER a factor here. Don't let movies fool you into thinking that small local acts get more ass than a toilet seat. That's for the big guys.) But I was never in it for those reasons. I was in it because I LOVED music and how it allowed me to express myself. And that's the secret. If you do something for any other reason than it makes you truly happy you'll never stick with it. You'll elope with the first pretty face that comes your way. And everyone always did.
But I digress, and I fear that I've lost you, or at least that I've gone completely off topic. Forgive me for that, this is a sensitive subject for me. So I'll leave you with this one final thought.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Qn3tel9FWU

Watch it please and watch it all. If you somehow managed to get inside my head (no pun intended) this video would be playing in a constant loop. I guess I've said enough. I'll write more if it's seems warranted.

Thanks for reading.

Just for you

Since I haven't made any comments about it yet, I started my new job yesterday. It's a bit overwhelming to be working in a new place in a completely new field. Nevertheless, it's not the degree of culture shock I've had when starting other jobs in the past. Maybe because I'm finally old enough to realize that it's pointless to worry about most of the things people worry about when they go into a completely alien (and possibly hostile) environment. To give you an example of what that means, I refer to people liking you, wanting to be immediately good at the new job, worrying about how you look, ect... You get the point.

I'll post alot more about this soon I'm sure, but I worked 12 straight hours today with almost no rest. My face hurts, and I didn't even use it except to eat.

Turtle, Swan

Because the road to our house
is a back road, meadowlands punctuated
by gravel quarry and lumberyard,
there are unexpected travelers
some nights on our way home from work.
Once, on the lawn of the Tool

and Die Company, a swan;
the word doesn't convey the shock
of the thing, white architecture
rippling like a pond's rain-pocked skin,
beak lifting to hiss at my approach.
Magisterial, set down in elegant authority,

he let us know exactly how close we might come.
After a week of long rains
that filled the marsh until it poured
across the road to make in low woods
a new heaven for toads,
a snapping turtle lumbered down the center

of the asphalt like an ambulatory helmet.
His long tail dragged, blunt head jutting out
of the lapidary prehistoric sleep of shell.
We'd have lifted him from the road
but thought he might bend his long neck back
to snap. I tried herding him; he rushed,

though we didn't think those blocky legs
could hurry-- then ambled back
to the center of the road, a target
for kids who'd delight in the crush
of something slow with the look
of primeval invulnerability. He turned

the blunt spear point of his jaws,
puffing his undermouth like a bullfrog,
and snapped at your shoe,
vising a beakful of-- thank God--
leather. You had to shake him loose. We left him
to his own devices, talked on the way home

of what must lead him to new marsh
or old home ground. The next day you saw,
one town over, remains of shell
in front of the little liquor store. I argued
it was too far from where we'd seen him,
too small to be his... though who could tell

what the day's heat might have taken
from his body. For days he became a stain,
a blotch that could have been merely
oil. I did not want to believe that
was what we saw alive in the firm center
of his authority and right

to walk the center of the road,
head up like a missionary moving certainly
into the country of his hopes.
In the movies in this small town
I stopped for popcorn while you went ahead
to claim seats. When I entered the cool dark

I saw straight couples everywhere,
no single silhouette who might be you.
I walked those two aisles too small
to lose anyone and thought of a book
I read in seventh grade, "Stranger Than Science,"
in which a man simply walked away,

at a picnic, and was,in the act of striding forward
to examine a flower, gone.
By the time the previews ended
I was nearly in tears-- then realized
the head of one-half the couple in the first row

was only your leather jacket propped in the seat
that would be mine. I don't think I remember
anything of the first half of the movie.
I don't know what happened to the swan. I read
every week of some man's lover showing
the first symptoms, the night sweat

or casual flu, and then the wasting begins
and the disappearance a day at a time.
I don't know what happened to the swan;
I don't know if the stain on the street
was our turtle or some other. I don't know
where these things we meet and know briefly,

as well as we can or they will let us,
go. I only know that I do not want you--
you with your white and muscular wings
that rise and ripple beneath or above me,
your magnificent neck, eyes the deep mottled autumnal colors
of polished tortoise-- I do not want you ever to die.

-Mark Doty

This is my favorite poem ever. It might be because I met Mark Doty once at a reading (and the preceding reception), and I heard him personally read it with the explanation that is was what it so obviously is - a poem about his lover dying of AIDS. It might be that I was so immediately impressed by him on a personal level: the fact that we shared the same affection for Tolstoy, but above that the simple fact that he was so approachable and interesting and fun.

Anyway, as for why I'm posting it: Despite the fact that I have a degree in Lit, I've never been a big poetry guy. I appreciate poetry, and I have read several poems that I've liked, but poetry hardly ever made its way into my daily life the way that straight up prose fiction did. Outside of the select few poems that have implanted themselves into the modern subconscious (Two roads diverged...yeah, see? Try and judge me now), what poems I liked were quickly forgotten. This poem is really the sole exception to that. Lines from it randomly pop into my head all the time. So Reason #1 was the fact that it's a fantastic poem. So read it.

"This is the worst kind of discrimination. The kind against me."
--Bender Bending Rodriguez

Reason #2 is like that quote: more depressing because it involves my life. I was watching some of "The Two Towers" on TV last night (aren't marathons great?) and I got to thinking about a friend of mine who used to LOVE the Lord of the Rings. We worked together and I don't know how many hours we must have spent talking about those books and movies. He eventually moved to another house, and eventually left the Center altogether. We lost touch, but I'd always hoped to run into him again. I still had a book he loaned me for one, but I missed the guy too. A couple months ago I heard an unconfirmed rumor that he'd suffered a massive stroke (he was, I think, 53 or 54) and they were going to take him off life support. I tried in vain to find out if this were true until I saw his obituary in the paper two days later. After my initial acceptance, I figured that at least I would be able to go see him one last time. I scanned to the bottom of the article to find where and when the funeral and/or showing would be when I happened upon the line, "burial will be private. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to the family" and then it had somebody's home address. Classy.

So Lord of the Rings brought me to my friend, which brought me to Turtle, Swan, which brought me to you.

T-minus 8 days...

...until I start my new job. Now here is a random video of a gecko dancing to 50 cent.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oCag3fkxlx8

I dare you to watch this and not laugh. I dare you.

And make sure your friends are there to see it.

You're welcome.

I swear I won't do this alot.