Pete Townshend got into the Halloween spirit Monday, calling iTunes a "digital vampire."
Not only does Pete think the (legal) digital download giant sucks, but apparently our Rock Legend thinks we fans are thieves as well.
"Why can't music lovers just pay for music rather than steal it?" he asked during a lecture in London.
Geez, Pete. If I send you a $20 bill, would you give me a break from the near-constant playlist of Who songs on car commercials and crime shows?
Seriously, I love The Who. I was privileged enough to see them live a couple of times before John Entwistle died. Watched Pete windmill and listened to Roger Daltrey sing the impossible while I stared at his Adonis-like profile.
Unfortunately, Pete has become a Republican of the rock world: He gots his, but he desperately needs to stay relevant. Without some incendiary sound byte, would anyone pay attention to his delivery of the "first John Peel Lecture?" Doubtful.
Pete has written some amazing songs, true. But he needs to check that monster ego and remember that every chord he ever played, every note he ever matched to a lyric, has been played many times before. He didn't invent music and he wouldn't exist as a Rock Legend if it weren't for his supporters, whom he now accuses of stealing his music.
In time, every song Pete Townshend ever wrote will exist in the public domain. It would be a shame if his incredible musical legacy were tainted by his disdain for iTunes and, evidently, his fans.
I support songwriters, and I believe in copyright laws and protection of intellectual property. What I don't support is the uber-wealthy elite's compulsion to own all that is beautiful.
Music belongs to everyone, Pete. Your attitude is what really sucks.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Saturday, October 15, 2011
The stuff of poetry
My husband's story of how the for-no-reason gift came about was nearly as delightful as the gift itself.
"I ducked into the bookstore on the square," he said. "You know, the one with all the vintage books? I scanned the shelf and it just jumped out at me."
"It" is a 1931 copy of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass. (He also scored a tiny volume of 20th century American poetry, publication year 1944.)
We're not big gifts people, he and I. Maybe we convinced ourselves of that in leaner times, or maybe it was the impersonal nature of a few of his gifts. Either way, it was easier to say I didn't want anything than to pretend pearls -- even a very beautiful strand -- were the very thing a tee-shirt-wearing, socially retarded, at-home homeschooling mom like me always wanted, all my life.
Like many a couple before us, we are in transition. To draw on the vernacular, it's time to make it or break it.
So, we're making it.
It's clumsy and awkward sometimes and angry and sullen sometimes, and always, always we're in survival mode. But there are flashes of brilliance.
Enter my husband, with Walt Whitman and a story to boot.
I greatly enjoy the earthy writings of Whitman, Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson. I read Leaves of Grass aloud to my unborn firstborn, then joked when he arrived five weeks prematurely that he just couldn't wait to see the world about which Whitman so beautifully wrote.
That $11 worth of dusty books could be a fearsome weapon against the enemies of our family -- apathy, inattention, distraction, fear, anger, ignorance -- is a mind-blowing concept. That Our Hero's spontaneous few minutes of effort on his wife's behalf could banish all uneasiness about Our Heroine's place in the heart of her Forever-Love, a miracle.
Now that's the stuff of poetry!
My husband "took the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference." (Frost) My husband "knows my face." (Tolkein) He remembers, and sees her in "all that we can be, not what we are." (John Denver)
"That music always round me, unceasing, unbeginning, yet long untaught I did not hear,
But now the chorus I hear and am elated..." (Whitman)
"I ducked into the bookstore on the square," he said. "You know, the one with all the vintage books? I scanned the shelf and it just jumped out at me."
"It" is a 1931 copy of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass. (He also scored a tiny volume of 20th century American poetry, publication year 1944.)
We're not big gifts people, he and I. Maybe we convinced ourselves of that in leaner times, or maybe it was the impersonal nature of a few of his gifts. Either way, it was easier to say I didn't want anything than to pretend pearls -- even a very beautiful strand -- were the very thing a tee-shirt-wearing, socially retarded, at-home homeschooling mom like me always wanted, all my life.
Like many a couple before us, we are in transition. To draw on the vernacular, it's time to make it or break it.
So, we're making it.
It's clumsy and awkward sometimes and angry and sullen sometimes, and always, always we're in survival mode. But there are flashes of brilliance.
Enter my husband, with Walt Whitman and a story to boot.
I greatly enjoy the earthy writings of Whitman, Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson. I read Leaves of Grass aloud to my unborn firstborn, then joked when he arrived five weeks prematurely that he just couldn't wait to see the world about which Whitman so beautifully wrote.
That $11 worth of dusty books could be a fearsome weapon against the enemies of our family -- apathy, inattention, distraction, fear, anger, ignorance -- is a mind-blowing concept. That Our Hero's spontaneous few minutes of effort on his wife's behalf could banish all uneasiness about Our Heroine's place in the heart of her Forever-Love, a miracle.
Now that's the stuff of poetry!
My husband "took the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference." (Frost) My husband "knows my face." (Tolkein) He remembers, and sees her in "all that we can be, not what we are." (John Denver)
"That music always round me, unceasing, unbeginning, yet long untaught I did not hear,
But now the chorus I hear and am elated..." (Whitman)
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Come up to the lab and see what's on the slab
I enjoy "The Rocky Horror Picture Show."
I've seen it a couple of times in movie houses and a couple of times at home, and I own the DVD. I confess, the only audience-participation line I know is "Eddie, get your ass off the table!" and I'm not exactly sure where to yell it. I don't want to dress as Magenta for Halloween and as much as I like Tim Curry, his performance in lingerie disturbs me, primarily because he's so much prettier than I.
Still, it's a lot of fun.
As a not-at-all avid play-goer, I was looking forward to my town's fall community theater production of RHPS, thinking I may actually be persuaded to get off my behind and do one of those things that sounds fun, for once.
And then a video of the R-rated production's rehearsal made its way into the hands of the city manager, then the mayor. All politics aside, this man claims to know this town well enough to shut down the play, presumably to protect us from ourselves.
At last count, more than 600 people had "liked" a Facebook page supporting the production. Perhaps, mere weeks before its scheduled opening, RHPS can find another local venue. Perhaps not.
I am neither callow nor retarded. I do not need one more person who never has met me but claims to know me -- because I fit a particular demographic, perhaps? -- using his perceived political, religious, financial, educational or moral superiority to make my entertainment choices for me.
"The whole principle [of censorship] is wrong. It's like demanding that grown men live on skim milk because the baby can't have steak." (Robert Heinlein, The Man Who Sold the Moon)
Rock on, Rocky Horror!
I've seen it a couple of times in movie houses and a couple of times at home, and I own the DVD. I confess, the only audience-participation line I know is "Eddie, get your ass off the table!" and I'm not exactly sure where to yell it. I don't want to dress as Magenta for Halloween and as much as I like Tim Curry, his performance in lingerie disturbs me, primarily because he's so much prettier than I.
Still, it's a lot of fun.
As a not-at-all avid play-goer, I was looking forward to my town's fall community theater production of RHPS, thinking I may actually be persuaded to get off my behind and do one of those things that sounds fun, for once.
And then a video of the R-rated production's rehearsal made its way into the hands of the city manager, then the mayor. All politics aside, this man claims to know this town well enough to shut down the play, presumably to protect us from ourselves.
At last count, more than 600 people had "liked" a Facebook page supporting the production. Perhaps, mere weeks before its scheduled opening, RHPS can find another local venue. Perhaps not.
I am neither callow nor retarded. I do not need one more person who never has met me but claims to know me -- because I fit a particular demographic, perhaps? -- using his perceived political, religious, financial, educational or moral superiority to make my entertainment choices for me.
"The whole principle [of censorship] is wrong. It's like demanding that grown men live on skim milk because the baby can't have steak." (Robert Heinlein, The Man Who Sold the Moon)
Rock on, Rocky Horror!
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Someday....
Someday, you will decide that loving another person completely means giving up any hope of being loved in return. You will understand your worth is in your capacity to love that other person, not in whether or how much s/he loves you. Your choice will be to love without condition or expectation, and that choice will be yours alone.
In that moment, finally, you and God will be at peace with one another.
From that moment until you cease to operate your own mind, you will give up any conscious claim on your soul. You will not be damaged by the people or things of this world, so your world will expand. You will hear God's voice in angry music and in the rustle of autumn leaves. You will see God's beauty in tattoo ink and in a pink and purple sunset.
You will initiate 100 conversations, send 1,000 cards, bake 10,000 birthday cupcakes and dry 1,000,000,000 tears, yet your own struggles may be singular and silent. But you will not choose fear while you are alone and hurting; you will choose power, and love, and a strong mind. You will choose to accept responsibility for your mistakes and, sometimes, for others' mistakes as well. You will choose to sacrifice your pride, and in so doing, you will experience grace as you learn to forgive and to accept forgiveness.
Occasionally, God may allow you the privilege of seeing others through His eyes. In those moments, you will choose not to be confused or frustrated or repulsed or enraged by the way they act or write or look or talk or think. Instead, you will choose to see how completely He loves others -- not just the ones who love Him back, but also the ones who pretend to, and the ones who wish they knew how.
The choice to love someone else completely may mean never experiencing that kind of love yourself. It might rob you of everything you are or want to be, but the Bible says there is no greater love than to lay down your life for someone else.
By choosing that greatest love, you also choose to become who you were born to be.
Someday.
In that moment, finally, you and God will be at peace with one another.
From that moment until you cease to operate your own mind, you will give up any conscious claim on your soul. You will not be damaged by the people or things of this world, so your world will expand. You will hear God's voice in angry music and in the rustle of autumn leaves. You will see God's beauty in tattoo ink and in a pink and purple sunset.
You will initiate 100 conversations, send 1,000 cards, bake 10,000 birthday cupcakes and dry 1,000,000,000 tears, yet your own struggles may be singular and silent. But you will not choose fear while you are alone and hurting; you will choose power, and love, and a strong mind. You will choose to accept responsibility for your mistakes and, sometimes, for others' mistakes as well. You will choose to sacrifice your pride, and in so doing, you will experience grace as you learn to forgive and to accept forgiveness.
Occasionally, God may allow you the privilege of seeing others through His eyes. In those moments, you will choose not to be confused or frustrated or repulsed or enraged by the way they act or write or look or talk or think. Instead, you will choose to see how completely He loves others -- not just the ones who love Him back, but also the ones who pretend to, and the ones who wish they knew how.
The choice to love someone else completely may mean never experiencing that kind of love yourself. It might rob you of everything you are or want to be, but the Bible says there is no greater love than to lay down your life for someone else.
By choosing that greatest love, you also choose to become who you were born to be.
Someday.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
The church of the abandoned
*POST DELETED*
My attempt on this blog to deal with some issues that were brought to my attention has hurt and embarrassed people I respect. I sincerely apologize for what easily could be construed as a personal attack against any of you or against your heartfelt work to bring young people to Christ. To quote one of you, "That's not what I'm about." --RRL
My attempt on this blog to deal with some issues that were brought to my attention has hurt and embarrassed people I respect. I sincerely apologize for what easily could be construed as a personal attack against any of you or against your heartfelt work to bring young people to Christ. To quote one of you, "That's not what I'm about." --RRL
Friday, July 15, 2011
Good night, sweet prince...
Hamlet goes to his well-deserved eternal peace, presumably, with Horatio's parting words in his ear: "Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."
They were the first words that came to mind when my brother died, and again when I read of a particular young Marine's death.
Before he became one of the proud, the few, he was a young homeschooled boy whose mother and I frequented the same educational forum. I often read her excellent and useful personal blog for inspiration as well. I poured out my sadness over the bullying of my then-7-year-old on the forum, and was surprised and touched when her teenage son reached out to my Squirt in an open letter.
Squirt treasured that letter, and when the time came for Big Boy to enter college, returned the favor. In Squirt's letter, he reminded Big Boy how much it his words had meant to him and wished him luck. Both Big Boy and his mother responded; it was their turn to be touched and teary-eyed.
Obviously, it has been some time since I visited the blog. Big Boy died last November and I read of his death just today.
War is hell.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Colin Hay redux
My quest to hear what Colin Hay has to say about my life had some cool twists. Awesome venue: No clumsy-pawed security, so no Tampax-dropping flashbacks. And the opening act, Chris Trapper, may be a stranger to me, but he had some things to say about my life as well. Who knew?
Some things Colin Hay had to say about my life I will keep to myself. They are small things, but they are mine own. His show was a turning point. Things changed because of it. I changed because of it. And I don't just mean having the image of a pot-smoking, TV-watching goat permanently burned into my brain.
I also don't mean wondering what perverse force of nature draws several hundred pairs of eyes simultaneously to the crotch of the man who's just said he had prostate cancer. I don't actually think prostate cancer survivors have glow-in-the-dark junk, but we were all definitely checking for something.
Much changed last night, but some things, regrettably, have not changed. Inside my five-foot-zero body lives The Hulk, and nobody likes me when I'm angry. Somehow, I became trapped between my hunky husband and four inches of door frame as the Variety gave birth to many hundred humans at once. It was enough to make Mother Mary give Baby Jesus a little shake, I tell you.
Ribs slowly separated from cartilage as I was squeaking out words like excuse me, I'm down here, don't step on me, make room please, does anyone know if the trampled kids at the Who show were able to have open-casket funerals? No one seemed to hear, so I opened my mouth and loosed my inner Hulk.
"Get the FUCK out of my way!" I bellowed, and started throwing elbows, clearing a path. True, the throwing of elbows may have deprived a few fellers of post-show fun with their old ladies, but I was free to take my place in line to meet Colin Hay and that was the important thing.
I felt no guilt, because Colin Hay had something new to say about my life last night, even before I claimed my place in line. During his show, he looked deep into my eyes as I listened solemnly, taking each and every word to heart:
"Becky," he said to me from the stage, his fuggin halo barely visible in the stage lights.
"Becky, sometimes it's absolutely necessary that you cuss like a drunk Navy midshipman with flaming toilet tissue stuck to his backside. I know what's been shoved down your throat your entire life, but trust me: God will love you anyway. You must be heard, so sometimes you must use shocking words in a loud voice. What you have to say is that important."
That's the way I remember it, anyway. A small thing, but a thing mine own.
Some things Colin Hay had to say about my life I will keep to myself. They are small things, but they are mine own. His show was a turning point. Things changed because of it. I changed because of it. And I don't just mean having the image of a pot-smoking, TV-watching goat permanently burned into my brain.
I also don't mean wondering what perverse force of nature draws several hundred pairs of eyes simultaneously to the crotch of the man who's just said he had prostate cancer. I don't actually think prostate cancer survivors have glow-in-the-dark junk, but we were all definitely checking for something.
Much changed last night, but some things, regrettably, have not changed. Inside my five-foot-zero body lives The Hulk, and nobody likes me when I'm angry. Somehow, I became trapped between my hunky husband and four inches of door frame as the Variety gave birth to many hundred humans at once. It was enough to make Mother Mary give Baby Jesus a little shake, I tell you.
Ribs slowly separated from cartilage as I was squeaking out words like excuse me, I'm down here, don't step on me, make room please, does anyone know if the trampled kids at the Who show were able to have open-casket funerals? No one seemed to hear, so I opened my mouth and loosed my inner Hulk.
"Get the FUCK out of my way!" I bellowed, and started throwing elbows, clearing a path. True, the throwing of elbows may have deprived a few fellers of post-show fun with their old ladies, but I was free to take my place in line to meet Colin Hay and that was the important thing.
I felt no guilt, because Colin Hay had something new to say about my life last night, even before I claimed my place in line. During his show, he looked deep into my eyes as I listened solemnly, taking each and every word to heart:
"Becky," he said to me from the stage, his fuggin halo barely visible in the stage lights.
"Becky, sometimes it's absolutely necessary that you cuss like a drunk Navy midshipman with flaming toilet tissue stuck to his backside. I know what's been shoved down your throat your entire life, but trust me: God will love you anyway. You must be heard, so sometimes you must use shocking words in a loud voice. What you have to say is that important."
That's the way I remember it, anyway. A small thing, but a thing mine own.
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