The true secret of weight loss

It occurred to me this week that the start of my journey towards a healthier weight and lifestyle began the week I also decided that I would read DFW’s Infinite Jest.

While Wallace was a great writer, and his post-modern nod to James Joyce certainly exhibits qualities uncommon in most of what passes as popular, or even literary today, I doubt that it qualifies as a weight loss product. The book sure causes some people to whine like a three-year-old that doesn't get its own way however, mostly because it forces them to use their brains in a way that TV and video games never will.

The weight loss is probably mere coincidence, although one of the common threads running through the book is addiction, and Wallace goes to great detail outlining the steps towards recovery that the book’s characters go through at the fictional Ennet House, a drug and alcohol recovery house that figures prominently in the book. It also is a place where we meet Don Gately, one of the main characters (and possibly my favorite), a former thief and Demerol addict, and current counselor in residence at the house.

[Poorly reproduced graph of my own weight loss progress, sans NutriSystem and colon detox products]

Speaking of weight loss products, I’ve taken a great interest in the NutriSystem ad, where Dan Marino touts his 22 pound weight loss (only one more than my current 21 pounds lost) eating expensive, pre-packaged foods that keep you enslaved to the UPS man showing up at your door with more expensive, pre-packaged food. I also am enjoying those bizarre ads shouting and spouting that “the real reason reason you can't lose weight has nothing to do with will-power, over-eating, or the right diet! The reason you are fat and unhealthy is because you have disgusting plaque and a horrible little ‘critter’ living in your guts!”

They then show you these disgusting photos that will make you sick to your stomach and unable to ever eat again, unless maybe you have some pre-packaged NutriSystem food set before you.

The real reason that companies like NutriSystem, Jenny Craig, and bizarre detox products sell is because American are just plain stupid!

Meanwhile, I’m saving money, looking and feeling better, not to mention taking control of elements of my own life, which is empowering, in and of itself.

The importance of hitting goals

Life is way more than merely showing up, as in, "90 percent of life is...," or however the quote that's attributed to Woody Allen ultimately goes. Far too many people just show up, although in 2009, showing up could be a starting point.

At the risk of Words Matter turning into a self-help blog, I think there is something important about setting an attainable goal, one that you know might stretch you a bit, but ultimately, you think you can reach.

Take my weight. I know that according to a variety of body weight charts and my height (6'3"), five weeks ago, I was more than 50 pounds overweight. I have some issues with these charts and one's healthy weight, but I will allow that I was probably at least 35-40 pounds heavier than I should be. Instead of setting myself up for failure, I decided for an interim goal of shedding 20 pounds by August 1. I hit my goal yesterday. I am down 20 pounds, and feeling pretty damn good about my progress.

The same week I decided not to be fat, I also committed to reading David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest. I'm happy to report I'm on page 648, which on the reading schedule would allow me to slack off until about August 21 and still be on task.

It feels good to follow through on simple tasks, not to mention there are some health and psychic benefits to doing so. I'm biking regularly, eating foods that are better for me, and committing to a book like Infinite Jest forces me to read, instead of watching TV, or mindlessly surfing the web.

Some ancillary benefits of all of this; I feel re-energized on the writing front. Not only am I feeling more engaged with my blogging, but I've been working on some essays that ultimately will find their way to some sort of compilation/book type thingy.

Well, time to heat up my hot water for my instant oatmeal, and get ready for work.

Whither my queue?

I’ve been a Netflix customer for several years. Like many aging boomers (actually, I’m a Gen Jones, but that was the subject of another post), it’s so much easier to stay in, tune out, and watch a movie, rather than drive to the local indie movie house.

Like so many other things in my life, I’m questioning former patterns of activity, and truly embracing re-invention. Now, when I give my Re-invention 101 talk to people looking to move their lives forward, it is going to be filled with real-life, not a bunch of theoretical poppycock like so many others out there, sharing ideas and awareness, but lacking in action.

Netflix pissed me off. I should have known when the strange Sci-Fi flick arrived in my postal box that something was amiss.

While I’m known to plug a bunch of random movies into my queue on a whim, or a brief reference from God knows where, this movie wasn’t anything I’d ever want to rent. When I logged on to my Netflix account, I discovered that my queue had been wiped out. Fuck! Months of random additions and effort to track down other movies by directors of movies I had previously enjoyed. Working from other recommendations by writers, musicians, friends, and various other film buffs—gone!!!

I know what you’re thinking—it must have been some technological glitch. That’s just it—I’m sick of technology letting me down once again, just like it always does. Netflix overpromises, and continually under-delivers.

Well Netflix, you’ll have to find someone else to be your bitch, because you just lost this one. I’m sick of being pushed towards downloading movies and I wonder if you didn’t clear my queue on purpose, because I don’t download.

From now on, it’s Videoport, or the public library for my movie rentals. And places like Frontier, where Mary and I saw the amazing documentary, The Way We Get By, about three seasoned Mainers, who have been greeting troops coming and going through Bangor International Airport for the past six years. Directed by a Mainer, Aron Gaudet, it’s a film worth seeking out and seeing.

Beyond having my queue wiped out, I don’t how often I had to employ my own tricks to have a Netflix DVD play that stopped mid-scene in my player. They also tend to be lacking indie films that tend to lack national distribution, so many strong independent movies by cutting-edge directors are impossible to score.

Indie stores, like Videoport, tend to care about things like customer service. They cultivate relationships with their customers, like not charging late fees if you happen to get a movie back Monday afternoon, if you can’t hit the drop box first thing in the morning because Mary’s sales appointments take her someplace other than downtown Portland. They also make recommendations for films based upon other rentals, and more times than not, it’s a winner.

I’d be interested in the video rental horror stories of others, whether with Netflix, or corporate chains like Blockbuster.

Green Day grows up

When I opened my WSJ last week and saw the three members of Green Day staring back at me, I was incredulous. How does a former punk band, with a penchant for juvenilia end up gracing the pages of the pinnacle of establishment journalism? Maybe their journey from 924 Gilman Street to gracing the business bible of men in expensive suits is in fact a meditation on the reality that the American dream is still alive and well.

Reflecting on where Green Day’s beginnings are rooted (see Jello Biafra incident), the band’s ascension is dripping with irony. The easy route with the boys from Berkeley would be to lob the label “sellout,” as so many have already done. To do so would be walking the well-worn path of many who have turned on bands and artists that have progressed from humble beginnings and the rigors of paying their dues, to eventually taking the rock world by storm.

So, how does a band with punk roots transition from having a fixation with scatalogical references for album names (Dookie and Kerplunk) and masturbation (the song “Longview”), end up being a band that critics laud, and mainstream audiences line up to buy their music and attend their shows? Further, it begs the question, as it does with any band that ascend from obscurity and a niche market to respectability and mass consumption, did Green Day betray their beginnings to reach their current popularity?

Rather than taking the clichéd route and label the band sellouts, it might be more instructive to recognize the natural development of a talented songwriter, like Billie Joe Armstrong, and the ongoing evolution of a band, as it hones its chops and artistic vision. While there will always be those that insist on keeping any band as their own personal secret, the nature of playing music for a living demands that you sell records, draw people to your shows, and have the ability to push swag. This is probably even more the reality now, than ever before, despite the ongoing falsity that claims that the internet makes it easier for bands to break out than ever before. The internet actually makes it much more likely that a talented band or artist gets screwed, as their music can be downloaded, passed around, and the artist receives little, or nothing in return. Having talent helps, but getting breaks, and ultimately, selling out major venues is what allows a musician to finally receive something back for their own artistic contribution.

Back in 1994, Dookie was in heavy rotation in the Baumer household. At the time, 11-year-old Mark had discovered the seduction that bands like Green Day offered pre-adolescents. Mark, who owned Dookie on cassette, frequently cajoled me into popping the tape into the cassette deck of the Camry wagon I owned at the time, as I drove Mark to yet another baseball game. While Green Day was tame by my own indie rock standards of the time, I could appreciate the melodic nature of the music. They were still a band that I typecast as lacking the sophistication necessary to warrant much more than my passing interest, however.

Fast forward a decade and when “American Idiot” burst forth on modern rock stations like WCYY, I noted that Billie Joe, Mike, and Tré Cool had grown up. In fact, the anthemic tune could have been America’s soundtrack in 2004, capturing the angst and frustration many felt post 9-11, considering four more years of theocratic rule, from a pseudo despot with a challenged intellect. The transition from singing about autoeroticism to commentary on the culture, Green Day had clearly come through a maturation process as individuals and as a band.

While American Idiot showed the band’s ongoing evolution, particularly the rock opera elements and what’s become a signature track, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams,” it also showed the band teetering on the precipice of remaining relevant, or becoming just another reminder of how far punk had fallen from its late 70s/early 80s perch, taking the temperature of suburban America.

With the latest record, 21st Century Breakdown, the band seems to have decided the rock opera format suits them just fine. Musically, they seem to be stuck in limbo between three-chord sensibilities and the DIY ethic they originally wore on their sleeves, and bombastic classic-rock. The ballads, frankly, are a bit too over the top for my tastes. Still, the band is capable of raging with the best of them.

Given that originally, Green Day appeared to be one or two album flash in the pan punk panderers, the fact that they’re still cranking out meaningful music long after all of their peers have faded away is a testament to the trio’s artistic fortitude.

Fellow travelers

I recently blogged about my lifestyle change, and the consequent positive improvements (weight loss, increased physical activity, and increase in energy level) in my own health.

With any goal of weight loss, it's important to maintain an awareness of what you are eating, and particularly the nutritional content of the foods you are putting into your body. While trying to get calorie figures for a BLT sandwich, on wheat, I ran across the blog of a gentleman named Tyler, who is on his own personal health journey.

Back in January, 2009, Tyler weighed 344 pounds. Since then, he has lost 102+ pounds and his through his blog, he's been detailing his progress and dispensing with observations, tips, and advice that comes from his own experiences. One tip is that diet/exercise programs set you up for failure. Real change comes when you adopt a healthy lifestyle. He also lists his personal food log, with calorie counts. He's eating foods that are not abnormal, or living on bacon and cheese (ala Atkins), or even regulating his eating patterns by the cycles of the moon. I think this is important because once again, its about lifestyle, not dieting.

I've also come up with a bromide that I believe has multiple applications. Awareness, to be meaningful, must translate into action. Tyler is an example of awareness translating into action. Way to go, Tyler!

Is it easy to change direction and begin swimming upstream? I'm not sure "easy" is what any of us should be aiming for. Easy allowed my weight to balloon to the highest it's ever been. Easy was eating a large dinner, and then, two hours later, having a 500 calorie snack on top of a 3,500-4,000 calorie day. Easy is what made me dread seeing photos of myself, with my developing double chin, and protruding gut.

My new routine does require some effort. I track my calories, which means reading labels, compiling data at FitDay.com, which helps me with my efforts. It also means packing a healthy lunch every day (foregoing fast food, and convenience store sandwiches and other empty calories), limiting myself to one beer most evenings, no snacking, eating dinner at the table, not eating in front of the television, and getting out on my bike a minimum of four times per week (plus some treadmill work in the morning).

Here are some of the benefits from my minimal efforts. I'm down 16.5 pounds since June 23. One of the nice perks from this is that my dress shirts for work, as well as my slacks, and some of my other clothes fit much better, and aren't too snug. Even better, I feel better about myself and it enhances my self-confidence, and the way that I carry myself, which are attributes that translate into a better focus for me in my work, as well as my writing (not to mention my relationships).

Movies and marriage

I’m writing much of this early Sunday morning, after getting in late, returning from the Maine Independent Film Festival (MIFF), in Waterville. Mary and I drove north (a trek I now make weekly, or more often in my job) to see two late day movies showing as part of this year’s festival, the 12th straight year that Waterville transforms from sleepy Mid-Maine community, into something much more common of larger, more urban locales.

Last year was our first time attending, when we saw the festival’s closing film, the wonderfully quirky, Skills Like These, which debuted in Waterville.

Saturday, we arrived a bit early for our 6:15 movie, with plans to walk around downtown. As has been common for much of the summer thus far, an alternate activity was required because of steady rain. Instead, we stopped by the Elm City Plaza and JC Penney, as I needed a few items for work, namely short-sleeve dress shirts.

The Elm City Plaza is typical of many of the strip malls/shopping centers erected during the economic development boom of the 1960s/70s. This was about the time that Maine’s downtowns were vacated, and shopping was dispensed from the pedestrian-friendly, densely packed city centers (in Portland, Bangor, Lewiston, and Waterville), sprawling outward to multi-lane ribbons of asphalt on the outskirts of town.

As strip malls go, at least Elm City has some interesting diversions beyond JC Penney and K-Mart (although, the Big K has become a “go to” place to find some reasonably-priced casual clothing for me), like the large and well-stocked Mr. Paperback, as well as Maine’s musical oasis for all things recorded, BullMooose. Unfortunately, both Waterville exits of I-95 could be included in any critique of sprawl development—gray, lacking in personality, and the antithesis of what Shannon Haines and the folks at Waterville Main Street are trying to promote—a vibrant downtown core of locally-owned businesses. Haines, by the way, also serves as MIFF’s director.

Movies have always been an important intersection in my relationship with Mary. This was actually our anniversary weekend, with MIFF being part of our celebration of 27 years together. While Friday night found us in the Old Port in downtown Portland, experiencing an incredible dinner at The Grill Room, late afternoon Waterville was an entirely different experience—kind of retro, replete with Camaros and clothing styles and hairstyles reminding us of the mid-1980s.

Our opening cinematic choice found us at the Railroad Square Cinema, a place we’ve seen some outstanding movies in the past. The first movie, a French film, 35 Shots of Rum, was directed by noted director, Clair Denis. Denis is considered by many to be one of the world’s top working directors. This film was focused on the story of a Paris family, a black single father (Lionel, played by Alex Descas), and his bi-racial daughter (Joséphine, played by Mati Diop).

[Mati Diop and Alex Descas in 35 Shots of Rum]

35 Shots of Rum is a movie about parents and their children, and the conflict that comes from relinquishing what you spend much of your early life putting in place. Lionel recognizes that the day is coming when his daughter must (and should) assert her independence, and the consequent tension this engenders.

Unlike most Hollywood films, this one intimates subtleties, rather than hitting you between the eyes with literalness.

One thing that struck me about Denis’ film was her depiction of working class people and minorities, which some critics have commented on, particularly in her positive depiction of blacks in French film, which apparently isn’t always the case.

The working class aspect of the film that interested me was the ordinariness of the lives of the characters. Work, and Lionel’s occupation as a train driver, is something often missing in American film, especially the realities of its everyday sameness. Regardless of the work that most of us in the middle or even working classes perform, there is ubiquitous daily dullness and an element that attempts to crush any creativity, or originality connected with work. As much as I strive to maintain a life devoted to intellectual pursuits, and my writing outside of working hours, the 8 to 5 part of my day intrudes on all other aspects. Furthermore, most of the people that I come into contact with in my daily work routine have no understanding of the movies I watch, the books I read, and almost never connect with my writing, whether its books I’ve written, or my regular blogging that I do for work, or personal edification.

For Mary and I, our time away from work allows us to reestablish some kind of personal connection, as so much of the Monday through Friday humdrum pushes us apart, even though work allows us to pay our bills, keep a roof over our head, and drive vehicles that don’t require regular visits to the garage to keep going.

Between movies, I was jonesing for a cup of coffee, so we walked the half mile into downtown, to grab a coffee at Jorgensen’s, a local coffee emporium. Unfortunately, the shop had closed at 6:00 pm, on a Saturday night. As much as I have been critical of big box stores, and chain establishments, this incident illustrates why people forego local shops, and hit up the large corporate outlets—they know they’ll have what they want, when they want it, and often at a price much lower than the local establishment. I don’t plan on visiting Wal-Mart anytime in the near future, but the pickings in downtown Waterville were slim to none for us. As a result, we walked back up the pedestrian-unfriendly Main Street, and hit up the local convenience mart across Main Street from Railroad Square for my cup of joe to fuel me for the 9:00 pm movie, Cloud 9 (Wolke Neun), a German film, directed by Andreas Dresen.

[Ursula Werner and Hosrt Westphal in Cloud 9]

This film was another one that was attractive when reading through the MIFF list of films. A rare movie that deals with aging, sex between people in their 60s and 70s, and the fallout that accompanies Inge (Ursula Weiner), a part-time seamstress when she meets and falls in love with an older man, 76-year-old Karl (Horst Westphal).

Another foreign film that cuts through so much of the mythology and inability to tackle the issues of real life that is characteristic of much of standard Hollywood fare.

Once more, MIFF provided two movie lovers with some provocative filmmaking, and a reason to leave the house and drive an hour to do so.

Hyping Clay Buchholz

Clay Buchholz dazzled Boston baseball fans in 2007 when he pitched a no-hitter in only his second major league start. Since then, the Red Sox right-hander has been searching for the late season consistency he exhibited (3-1, 1.59 ERA in 3 starts), and with it, the opportunity to pitch again in the big leagues.

The pitcher Sox fans watched in 2008 (2-9, 6.75 ERA in 15 starts) looked lost on the mound. His command was gone, but more importantly, so was the confidence and swagger that made him look like a can't miss front of the rotation pitcher, in 2007.

Last night, Buchholz pitched decently when rewarded with a spot start, after an impressive first half at AAA Pawtucket (7-2, 2.36 ERA in 16 starts). I say "decent" because his 5 2/3 innings, 4 hits, one run, with 3 walks and 3 Ks doesn't even qualify as a quality start. Yet, reading the write ups in The Globe and at MLB.com, this inconsistent big league pitcher is now "major league ready" on the basis of a start that showed flashes of the 2007 Buchholz, but also demonstrated to me that his command wasn't as sharp as I was looking for, as evidenced by 100+ pitches by the middle of the sixth. On that basis, color me unimpressed.

The stuff he had last night might make him tough against AAA hitters (which is basically what Toronto's lineup was after the five spot in the order), but put that same stuff up against a more patient club with tough outs 1-9 (think Yankees and TB Rays), and I'm not so sure the baseball scribes (hacks?) would be lauding last night's performance.

Unlike most of RSN this morning, I'm still not sold on Buchholz. I think that arm-wise, he's got real major league talent, like many pitchers with 90+ stuff. What concerns me about CB is what beats in his chest and the location of the gray matter north of that big league arm. What I saw again last night was a pitcher that, if given enough rope (a regular rotation spot), will end up hanging himself again.

Right now, Buchholz has value that could be packaged in a deal before the deadline that might bring in a veteran starter that's proven, and maybe a quality middle infielder. What might be even better is Epstein and Co. putting together something bigger and entering the Roy Halladay sweepstakes.

Finding a healthy weight

It’s common for the American male, particularly former athletes, to gain weight and “go to seed” when they hit 40.

At 47, I’m about a decade into my downhill deterioration. Actually, my real weight gain began when I was in my mid-30s, just after I stopped playing semi-pro baseball. My playing weight gradually began creeping upwards, first five pounds, then 10, and before I knew it, I was a good 25 pounds above my “fighting” weight.

One thing I’ve gotten pretty good at over the years is embracing some weird diet, which always produced rapid shedding pounds—kind of like instant dieting gratification. I’ve done time under the care of the good Dr. Atkins and other variations on the low-carb theme. I’d lose 25 and even 30 pounds over several months, only to see the scale creep upward again a year or 18 months later.

About a month ago, I climbed on the scale and saw my weight approaching my all time high for me and thought, “I’ve got to do something about this.” My clothes felt tight, and I could catch a look at myself in windows or mirrors and I didn’t think I looked that great. In fact, the last time I was interviewed on television for my job, I said to my wife when we watched the clip, “look at that fat load,” the fat load being me.

I decided to start by determining what my caloric intake should be just to maintain my weight, without gaining anymore poundage. I located a formula online. Afterwards, I determined what amount of calories I’d need to reduce that intake to begin losing weight. Losing weight isn’t rocket science, really. It’s simply burning more calories than you consume. In America, land of junk food, huge portions, and shoveling food into our faces while watching television, that’s often easier to recognize than it is to carry out.

During this period of inquiry three weeks ago, I happened upon a great website developed by FitDay™. Their free site lets me track my food intake, while keeping a journal, as well at tracking my fitness activities, and even my moods.

For me, coming to an awareness of just how much I was eating was the key. Even though I had been biking regularly since May, I was still consuming more calories most days than I was burning off. Once I recognized this important equation and began making adjustments, I’ve started taking weight off, to the tune of 15 pounds over the past three weeks.

While the number of pounds I’ve lost in a short period is more than most weight loss sites (including FitDay™) recommend, for me, I’m receiving a sufficient number of calories, even with the reduction I’ve factored into my daily allotment.

My goal is to get down about 20-25 pounds by the fall, and if my first three weeks are an indication, it will certainly be possible.

Given that my weight has see-sawed back and forth over the past decade, what feels different this time is that I’m not on some strange cheese, pepperoni, and egg diet, or eating foods to match the ebb and flow of the tides. I’m eating healthy foods, in moderation, with variety factored in, plus I’ve introduced regular periods of activities like biking and walking on the treadmill (on rainy days).

What feels remarkably different this time is that my energy level is high, as I’m biking at least four times per week, about an hour or more per ride. Additionally, I’m not hungry all the time.

Only time will tell if this new routine is sustainable. I’m encouraged three weeks in, however.

Random thoughts headed into ASB

All 30 major league teams head into their final series this weekend before most of the players get a welcome break from the daily grind of MLB.

The All-Star break, or “the break” in baseball vernacular, signifies a stoppage in activity in the summer’s 162-game drumbeat. For 66 players, supposedly the best in the game as certified by the fans (which right there makes it suspect), they’ll head to St. Louis and be part of what has become more media circus than game, with the actual All Star tilt becoming secondary to things like the Home Run Derby, media day, and many other activities brought to you by your favorite corporate sponsor.

The All-Star Break is often viewed by those not selected, as a chance to get away from the routine that consumes players’ lives for eight months of the year. It allows them to return home, particularly for players with families that may not live close to where they are stationed for the summer. Given that free agency has turned most players into well-compensated mercenaries with a glove and bat, it isn’t always the case that families move to this year’s city of choice, particularly if they have children in school.

It’s all part of the makeup of America’s pastime, in the early days of the 21st century.

***
Listening to last night’s Red Sox game, announcer Joe Castiglione mentioned between pitches that the Sox hurler on the hill, Brad Penny, “is headed home to Oklahoma during ‘The Break’ to visit family.”

The All-Star break provides a symbolic split in the 162-game campaign, if not an exactly even split between first and second halves of the season. A player, like a David Ortiz, who has struggled much of the first half (although he’s looked more like the “old” Ortiz of late inning fame, of late) can often redeem his season with a big second half. In fact, for those stat freaks out there, a group I’m happy to claim an affinity with, one can get a sense of what a players final stats will be. For instance, Albert Pujols, sitting on 31 homers with three more games before the All-Star game, has a legitimate chance to break the coveted 60-homer plateau.

Speaking of Ortiz, how about his recent rebirth at the plate? While I had some real concerns about one of the game’s good people, I wasn’t ready to kick him to the curb like so many fair weather fans that seem to make up a significant portion of the front runners that comprise RSN in 2009. Along with talk radio blowhards insisting that the Red Sox had to go out and get a left-handed bat, Ortiz had become a major topic on sports call-in shows, particularly when he had one home run at the end of May.

June saw him start to swat some big flies and after homering in back-to-back games the past two nights, his 11 home runs and 44 RBI (although his .224 BA is still well below his career average) are respectable enough and given a solid second half, will surpass Big Papi’s power numbers from last year (23, 89).

***
With his smallish frame, moppy hair, and boyish appearance, the Giants Tim Lincecum looks like he should be playing lead guitar in an emo band. Instead, he’s one of baseball’s top pitchers, and may qualify as having the “dirtiest” of stuff on the mound.

Last night, Lincecum toyed with a no-hitter, taking one into the seventh, before Tony Gwynne’s leadoff single ended the bid. Before the Padres were able to string together an offensive spurt knocking Lincecum from the game, the hard-throwing righty extended his scoreless streak to 29 innings, the third longest in the team’s history since moving to the west coast in 1958. Gaylord Perry owns the two longest streaks, 40 in 1967 and 39 in '70.

Lincecum, known as “the freak,” for his ability to throw in the high 90s, despite being a mere 5’11”, and weighing only 170 pounds, averages better than a strikeout an inning over his career, including 140 in his 129 innings thus far, in 2009.

I’m a late follower of Lincecum, partly due to his pitching primarily on the west coast. He caught my eye with a couple of double digit strikeout games back in April, and I’ve been following his starts on MLB.com since.

Look for him to the NL starter on Tuesday night. Unfortunately, given the current one inning and out protocol (versus at least three innings in recent memory) for pitchers, including the starters, America will only get a glimpse of the “kid next door.”

***
Boston’s Tim Wakefield becomes the first knuckleballer to be selected for an All-Star game since the Texas Rangers’ Charlie Hough pitched in the 1986 contest. At 42, Wakefield is making his very first All-Star appearance, in his 17th season in the major leagues.

Anybody that follows the game and knows anything about Wakefield’s career can’t be anything but thrilled for him.

Back in 1994, on a trip to Niagara Falls, we stopped at Pilot Stadium in Buffalo, New York, to catch a AAA game between the Buffalo Bisons and the Nashville Sounds. Pitching that August night, with a record of 5-13, was a 27-year-old Tim Wakefield, in the minors, trying to regain his touch and find a way back to the bigs.

He would, as the Red Sox signed him in 1995, and he’s been as reliable as a favorite pair of shoes ever since. Whatever the Sox have asked him to do, Wakefield has delivered.

Continuing to defy the laws of physics, as well as stave off the ravages that come with age in a game for the younger set, Wakefield has set a career best of 11 wins at the All-Star break, warranting his selection by AL manager Joe Maddon.

But Maddon said Wakefield's selection was in part due to the career body of work from a pitcher who is his generation's master of the game's most vexing pitch.

"I just felt that getting him on the team was the right thing to do," Maddon said.

Only Hall of Famer Satchel Paige was older when he was named an All-Star for the first time — for the 1952 game held the day after his 46th birthday — but Paige wasn't eligible until he was 42, when he came to big leagues in 1948, the year after Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier in Major League Baseball.

I’ve lost interest in the All-Star format the past few seasons, but I may just stay with this year’s game, if only to see Wakefield match his floater up against the NL’s best.

Interdependence Day

I was 14 when America celebrated its Bicentennial in 1976. That was 33 years ago and the country I live in has changed dramatically.

My first book (still available, here and here) tried to capture aspects of small town life, using baseball as the vehicle to represent community life as it existed for a period of three decades, between the close of WWII, and up until the Bicentennial. In the "culture of the immediate" that we live in, 30 years is ancient history, and I'm personally aware of how irrelevant history has become.

When I write about the changes that I see, I'm moving beyond the theoretical. It's also much more than just a nostalgic longing for the past. It represents a 60 year study that's significantly more involved than probably 95 percent of living Americans have ever undertaken. Basically, I know a little about what I'm talking about.

What concerns me is how 95 percent of the U.S. population is oblivious to clear warning signs and red flags that are much more complex than what right-wing talk radio reveals, as well as most of what passes for "liberal" opinion on the events of the day. To be quite blunt, who the fuck cares that a freak like Michael Jackson is dead? To answer my own crass rhetorical question, a good chunk of America, entranced by pop culture, that's who.

Despite the wealth of information, and the plethora of well-written articles available via the interwebs, most Americans are woefully deficient when it comes to possessing the sophistication necessary to process this information objectively.

Two cases in point that are worth reflecting on in lieu of the subject of true independence (interdependence) that is merely symbolic on this July 4.

Morris Berman, at his intellectually informative blog, Dark Ages America, has a recent post about tribal consciousness. What I found pertinent in this longish post is the part of how information, particularly the "accepted" kind is transmitted. Berman delves into meme theory, and also, Mannheim's paradox, and how information is transmitted. His somewhat depressing, but I think, realistic view is that society is not evolving in a rational manner, but in a tribal way. As always at Berman's site, don't neglect reading down through the comments as Berman engages personally with his readers, which is why I keep coming back.

Another writer that I continue to respect and have mentioned several times before, is Chris Hedges, who posts regularly at Truthdig.

He discusses that merely knowing truth isn't enough to change the outcome of the game, as it is currently rigged. He begins his June 29th piece with this opening paragraph:

The ability of the corporate state to pacify the country by extending credit and providing cheap manufactured goods to the masses is gone. The pernicious idea that democracy lies in the choice between competing brands and the freedom to accumulate vast sums of personal wealth at the expense of others has collapsed. The conflation of freedom with the free market has been exposed as a sham. The travails of the poor are rapidly becoming the travails of the middle class, especially as unemployment insurance runs out and people get a taste of Bill Clinton’s draconian welfare reform. And class warfare, once buried under the happy illusion that we were all going to enter an age of prosperity with unfettered capitalism, is returning with a vengeance.

Like Berman, Hedges recognizes that our current world is one where the "irrational has become the rational," as Kafka once pointed out.

That's a problem, and one that doesn't have a simple solution.

If this was a radio show, I'd close out today's broadcast with the Grateful Dead's "US Blues."

Summer Reading-Infinite Jest

So I’ve set out on a summer reading journey, tackling David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest, all 981 pages, an additional 388 footnotes, which tacks on 96 more pages. Not the kind of reading assignment one tackles frivolously. Staying power is required.

One of the readers at Infinite Summer, the focal point of a community read highlighting Wallace’s most famous, and oft talked about work, described it as being "claustrophobic."

I'm 227 pages in and I think I've reached a point where I'm not turning back. Because of that, I'll be sparse here at Words Matter. I did post my first in what will probably be one of a few posts about the experience of reading a book like Infinite Jest, a rarity in today's digital world. You can find it over at Write in Maine.

Looking for an exit ramp

A few weeks ago, my son told me that he’s adopted a new morning routine, one that involves putting pen to paper rather than booting up his laptop. Since he’s on the south side of age 30 (an arbitrary demarcation of trustworthiness), I admit that I immediately snapped to attention.

He told me that his rationale for writing, sans computer, was his recognition that technology was negatively impacting his productivity as a writer. He reasoned that since he awoke at 4:30 am (a full 2 ½ hours prior to his work departure), this was early enough an hour to be moving his writing forward, yet he was keenly aware that time was being wasted. Astutely, he saw that it was technology’s lure via the web—its information (neither good, nor bad) preening, beckoning him in the dark, a mouse click, or a few key strokes away, all he had to do was depart from his writing task at hand and it could be his—was a supreme waster of his time to write.

When he told me this, something resonated with me. Eureka!! My own morning writing routine, one that I’ve maintained for more than five years, had been co-opted by web surfing for information. Given that I have an hour for writing pursuits in the morning before I have to depart for the office, I had begun filling it with peeks at box scores via MLB.com, reading a couple of well-written literary blogs, and before I knew it, my hour for writing had been reduced to 15 minutes, or less. When I did the quick calculation, it was apparent that I was pissing away writing time to the tune of 2-3 hours per week, and a more significant portion of monthly writing time. Since I require a day job to stay ensconced in necessary materials (i.e. food and shelter), I recognized something had to go if I have any aspirations of continuing to produce a book every year, or two.

Returning to methods that have served mankind well pre-internet is no earth-shattering revelation. Much like television, the digital elements of the internet lure you in, casting a stupor, dulling your senses and more often than not, dispatch the writing muse off to visit some other more worthy soul.

Writers and thinkers more astute than me have recognized technology’s deadening qualities, recognizing it as a killer of creativity. Names like Wendell Berry, Neil Postman and Jacques Ellul have all written eloquently and voluminously on the topic. No less an “authority” than Michael Lewis weighed in on the subject way back in 2001 with his book, Next: The Future Just Happened, in which he closes the book with a chapter titled, “The Unabomber Had A Point.”

Rather than heed these warnings, and the cautionary caveats of other like-minded people, lazy non-intellectuals immediately get their hackles up when their beloved technology is challenged. Interestingly, they don’t even know why they’re so put out when technology and the internet come under attack, just that it holds a pseudo-religious sway over their undernourished worldviews.

Men and women that have long ago gone soft mentally, forsaking the heavy lifting of the mind, don’t bat an eye in lobbing ad hominem attacks at men (and women) who put forth strong intellectual arguments against a blind embrace of technology.

While I wouldn’t put my son in the same league with these intellectual giants, at the same time, he’s no lightweight when it comes to considering life’s thorny questions. Likewise, he’s far from being a neo-Luddite, a common refrain hurled at thinkers like Postman, and in particular, Berry. Without an axe to grind, Mark recognizes that an aspiring writer has regular demands made upon his time from living life, and that there are a finite number of hours available each day, period. For him, it’s all about the productivity factor.

On the other hand, for the past decade, or longer, I’ve listened to all the claims made about technology, and in particular, the information super highway. All of these promises and purported benefits have begun to ring hollow.

When I first hung a right and took the onramp and merged amidst the world wide web, it was akin to standing on a vast ridge, overlooking a wide-open frontier, as far as my eye (and imagination) could see. The vista seemed fraught with positives and great promise. Limitless access to information seemed too good to be true (remember the adage, “if it seems too good to be true…).

Since I’ve always been someone that was (and remains) hungry to learn and continue to push back against my own intellectual limits, the internet (interwebs?) seemed like a perfect new development. Instead, 10 years on, I’m now attuned to my own laziness, or maybe, an ease with taking liberties with shortcuts. All of this crept in, like a thief in the night, with my laziness masquerading as intellectual curiosity.

So, how do you combat it, short of canceling cable and internet, or going off the grid?

For me, I’ve tried to remember what life was like before I had the internet at my fingertips. How did I gather information? Print was the primary method; books, newspapers, and other publications. Obviously, the local library was a resource.

I’m not going to get all pious (and hypocritical) on my readers and tell you that I no longer use technology because you know how untruthful that would be, given that I’m still blogging an all.

What I am doing this summer, however, is decreasing my time mindlessly surfing for information. I’ve cut down on my participation with social media. I’m reading books, including this one. I’m also back to listening to baseball via the radio mainly, which allows me to read or write, and not be a slave to the constant flux of digital images in the evening.

I'll continue to post to my blog (s), but probably not daily. When I have something to share that has involved some thought and effort at setting it down first, on pen and paper, then I'll labor a bit and form it into something semi-intelligent, and then post it. I'm learning that it's is better to ruminate first, rather than immediately regurgitate. These posts will be a bit longer, and most likely an essay, or something resembling one.

Where will all of this take me? I’m not sure, but eventually, I hope that my increased writing productivity means that another book will materialize in the future.

Fathers and sons

I don’t really know the history about how we ended up with Father’s Day. I could go to Wikipedia and cut and paste it into my post, but since I’m writing my first drafts by hand, on a legal pad, trying to minimize time wasted on the web, I don’t have this option. Furthermore, of late, I’m attempting to do as many things as possible with a pre-internet mentality.

For me, the father/son relationship has often been a tenuous one. I’ve spent portions of 47 years loving, but not liking my father, and trying to avoid duplicating his mistakes. That’s not to say that my father didn’t have positive traits that he passed on to me, because he certainly did. It’s just that my dad and I were so different.

Every father/son struggles with the generational divide. Whether it’s music, fashion, drugs, religion, or even political ideology, there are always pitfalls bound to cause friction in the father/son dynamic.

Before I became a father myself, I was clueless about understanding that dynamic. When my own son was born, I gained a new perspective. I was now standing in my father’s shoes. It wasn’t a perfect solution, and I didn’t suddenly start spending every weekend doing projects with my dad, but I now began cutting him slack for the first time.

When Mark was born, my wife and I were living in Indiana, 1,500 miles from our parents. Mary’s parents came out to visit us three times during the four years we were marooned in the middle of the county. Because of my father’s aversion to flight, my parents never made it out.

I’ve gotten better in later years, finding some common ground that I can cover with my dad. We still can’t talk about politics, religion, nationalized healthcare, guns, sustainable development and many others things. I’m learning to steer clear of these.

I don’t like to admit it, but I’m much like my dad in many ways, however. I have a short fuse. I lack patience with people who don’t see the world in the exact way that I do. I am capable of being a “bull” about getting any project done, which has allowed me to will two books to completion.

When I was younger, and my baseball career was on an arc upward, my father would squat in the backyard and stab at fastballs I flung towards him, as I worked on aspects of my delivery and mechanics. He rarely missed one of my baseball games from the age of nine, up through high school, when I was the local pitching phenom, destined for great things at the University of Maine.

Alas, shoulder woes derailed bigger and better baseball dreams for me, and my father. I still remember (and it causes me pain) coming off the mound at Deering Oaks in Portland, after a particularly awful performance the fall of my freshman year at UMO, and knowing that I didn’t want to do this anymore. I sat on the grass between games with my parents, not interested in my mother’s sandwiches, and saying that I was thinking of quitting. My often stoic father was near tears, trying to will me onward, thinking that it was just a matter of mechanics that we could once again work out in the backyard. No amount of explanation would convince him that it was part physical (my shoulder was shot), but more the lack of desire that I once had to try to throw a baseball past an opposition hitter.

From there, our relationship became fractured, as marriage and religious choices created a chasm that I no longer was willing to cross.

Indiana and fundamentalist Xianity imposed necessary distance between us. Since they wouldn’t fly, and driving didn’t occur to them, I didn’t see my father and mother for two years. We’d visit once, mid-exile, when both our parents paid for plane tickets bringing us back east for two weeks.

Back in Maine, I got another glimpse of my dad’s emotional side when we deplaned in Portland, and he saw his grandson for the first time.

****

Mark facilitated a thaw in our father/son détente.

It wasn’t the equivalent to a two-state solution, but at least it deescalated some of our heated rhetoric from the past. Upon returning to Indiana, I attempted to write semi-regularly to my father (and mother).

The Bible has a passage where it states that “the father’s sins are visited upon the sons.” My own parenting style incorporated elements of my father’s, with patience not always being one of my own virtues.

Spending as much time bonding with my son when he was small was something that was generationally different between my father and I. I was also six years younger as a new parent than my father was.

Just like my own dad, however, when Mark got older, I was there to play catch with him, coach Little League, drive him to hockey, and bond with him via sports, much like my own father and I did.

And like my own dad, I also set the bar quite high with expectations, and even said things that I now look back on with deep regret, for I know how it made me feel when my father was tough on me for an 0 for 4 night at the plate when I was 11, or 12. I also put unrealistic pressure on Mark to be perfect.

Mark’s own mother was more of a buffer. Unlike my own mom, who knew little about baseball and would often duplicate my father’s disappointment when I fell short of perfection in baseball (and many other things), Mary was more sanguine in her post-game assessments, providing Mark with a hedge from my dark moods.

Mark is now 25, and lives 3,000 miles away. I’m amazed that given his less than perfect father, he has become an amazing young man (after being pretty amazing during each successive stage of his development).

While we shared and continue to share a bond through sports, we also connect on a number of other levels, including books, and developing our respective writing crafts. Six weeks ago, I got to attend a major book event, the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books, when I visited him in California. Our Saturday, walking amongst booths filled with small press books, and new fiction showed me that our bond is much stronger than shared baseball experiences.

This morning, I got a call from Mark at 5:30 am, west coast time. He’d been up all night working, he said. He just wanted to call to wish me “happy Father’s Day,” and we talked about sports, life, and the wine tasting Mary and I are headed to later today.

His call was all I needed to know that while I wasn’t the perfect father, I had been good enough, just like my own dad.

Army of hate?

There have been on-going reports about neo-Nazi recruitment of Iraqi War vets, and members of various right-wing hate groups swelling the ranks of the U.S. military, including the security bulletin issued by the Dept. of Homeland Security. That one caused the right-wing noise machine to go batshit.

Now Matt Kennard at Salon comes out with this (via Orcinus):

Since the launch of the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, the U.S. military has struggled to recruit and reenlist troops. As the conflicts have dragged on, the military has loosened regulations, issuing "moral waivers" in many cases, allowing even those with criminal records to join up. Veterans suffering post-traumatic stress disorder have been ordered back to the Middle East for second and third tours of duty.

The lax regulations have also opened the military's doors to neo-Nazis, white supremacists and gang members — with drastic consequences. Some neo-Nazis have been charged with crimes inside the military, and others have been linked to recruitment efforts for the white right. A recent Department of Homeland Security report, "Rightwing Extremism: Current Economic and Political Climate Fueling Resurgence in Radicalization and Recruitment," stated: "The willingness of a small percentage of military personnel to join extremist groups during the 1990s because they were disgruntled, disillusioned, or suffering from the psychological effects of war is being replicated today." Many white supremacists join the Army to secure
training for, as they see it, a future domestic race war. Others claim to be shooting Iraqis not to pursue the military's strategic goals but because killing "hajjis" is their duty as white militants.

Soldiers' associations with extremist groups, and their racist actions, contravene a host of military statutes instituted in the past three decades. But during the "war on terror," U.S. armed forces have turned a blind eye on their own regulations. A 2005 Department of Defense report states, "Effectively, the military has a 'don't
ask, don't tell' policy pertaining to extremism. If individuals can perform satisfactorily, without making their extremist opinions overt … they are likely to be able to complete their contracts."

I'm not doubting any of these reports. In fact, I was of the opinion that because we are currently engaged in conflict in Iraq and Afghanistan that military recruiters would be experiencing difficulty with meeting their recruitment quotas.

Several weeks ago, I had the opportunity to have a long conversation with a recruiter for the National Guard. I asked him that question, and I was surprised by his answer.

He told me the exact opposite of my assumption--he could be increasingly selective in his choices of candidates. Given the economic downturn, and his branch's generous tuition program for college, he was getting a better class of recruit than ever before. He told me that the "typical" recuit from the past--the kid that underachieved, tending to get poor grades, and not have much in the manner of successful outcomes up to that point--was getting bypassed by the best and the brightest, seeing the Guard as a positive option for them.

So, who to believe? I didn't think the National Guard recruiter was trying to blow smoke up my ass, but maybe he was doing exactly that, as an attempt to counter the reports coming out about our service organizations. Or, maybe his experience as a Guard recruiter was entirely different than the other branches.

Either way, it is somewhat troubling if our military has become a training ground for militias and other hate groups. It is also problematic if the only options for college grads with increasing college debt is to do a tour, or two in a battle zone.

Finishing what you start

I read with interest John Schlegel's article for MLB.com, about the uptick in complete games this year in the majors.

In this era of sub-100 pitch counts, and managers babying over-priced arms, it seems counterintuitive to put much money on the complete game ever making a comeback. But Schlegel indicates that complete games are up again this year, which shows upward movement on the trend line that began last season.

According to Schlegel, complete games in the major leagues hit their low point in 2007, with 114 total. Last year, the number rose to 136. If this year's pace is maintained, pitchers could challenge the 170 mark.

I have always found it odd to treat the human arm like a tube of toothpaste, thinking that there are a finite number of "squeezes" in that tube.

Back when Nolan Ryan and other pitchers of his era were routinely throwing 140-150 pitches per start, and completing their games, going every fourth day, I might add, fewer pitches broke down. This may have had something to do with the mindset and toughness of the pitchers of that era. They didn't expect, and never received the kind of kid-glove treatment today's young pitchers receive.

Roy Halladay of the Blue Jays has the complete game mindset, as does young Zack Greinke, of the Kansas City Royals. Greinke has five and Halladay three, leading the parade. Other pitchers have been getting into the groove of the complete game of late also, like Jered Weaver of the Angels, who has two this year, having never thrown one before this season.

Speaking of Ryan, he's back with the Texas Rangers, serving as president for the club. In this capacity, he's been quite outspoken against pitch counts for the team's pitchers. It's early yet, but the Rangers pitching has been as consistent as any Texas staff in quite some time. In fact, it's probably been 30 years since the club ran out consistent starters, going back to 1977, when the rotation consisted of Doyle Alexander, the ageless Gaylord Perry, Bert Blyleven, and Len Barker. Roger Moret, former Yankee killer was also on their roster.

I heard Sox manager Terry Francona, on the Dale & Holley Show the other day. The conversation was about John Lester and the amount of innings he logged last year and concerns Sox management might have for him this year. Basically, the issue was pitch counts.

Francona, to his credit, is less concerned with specific pitch counts, as he is with Lester and other pitchers, "staying within their delivery," especially when they get deep in the game, or approach the 100-pitch threshold. I took this to mean that Francona was referring to what old-schoolers used to refer to as mechanics.

Francona is right. If a pitcher begins straying from his delivery and is obviously laboring, given the strength of the Sox bullpen, then by all means get them out of there, before they get hurt, or blow up the game.

On the flipside, if Lester, Beckett, or even Wakefield are dealing through seven, don't be afraid to bring them out in the 8th inning. Francona, to his credit has done that of late. Lester's recent complete game is a testament to the soundness of that strategy.

On the subject of Lester; has there been a more dominant pitcher in baseball of late? His last three starts have shown that with his stuff, when it's right, is untouchable. Three straight double-digit strikeout totals over his recent starts, which by the way is the first time it's been done in Red Sox history by a southpaw.

Now that Lester and Beckett are pointed in the right direction, it would be nice if the grossly over-compensated Dice-K could give us more than five innings per start.

Losing my religion; LN Pt III

A few final thoughts on Larry Norman

Along the way, I lost track of Larry Norman. Several moves disconnected me from his mailing list (which I signed up for that night in Palatine), and the newsletters from Solid Rock stopped coming. His tapes disappeared as the world moved from tape decks, to CD players, and beyond.

In 2001, I made one last attempt to reconcile with the Church. The world, post-9-11 made many of us stop and consider what we were doing, and reflect on what was important. Later, some of us would forget, or disavow the decisions we made out of fear, or confusion.

Mary and I started attending a local church, with a contemporary focus, particularly in its music. The Vineyard fellowships, which ironically got their start back in the mid-1970s from the merge two small Bible studies, one of them meeting in Larry Norman’s home, in Los Angeles, had a congregation nearby. Drawn by the casual style of worship, and the praise music centered around a worship band, we started attending semi-regularly. It wasn’t long before we were encouraged (coerced?) into a small group Bible study.

During this time, I reconnected with Norman’s music via his website. Twenty years is a long time to try to catch up with, but I found out that during much of this period, particularly the past 10 years, Norman had dealt with an array of medical problems that had beset the Christian rock legend, particularly issues with his heart. This prolific songwriter’s output had dropped to a trickle, and he rarely performed live, any longer.

It was sad reading about how this pioneer and spiritual giant was now struggling with his health, and had experienced a couple of life-threatening episodes during this period of time. Compounding the problem, Norman lacked health insurance, which prevented him from receiving adequate healthcare. It was ironic that the man who had penned songs like “The Great American Novel,” lambasting America’s leaders for “starving their children” to go to the moon, was now a victim of that very same systemic abuse, ground down by our failed system of healthcare. Worse, charlatans like Joel Osteen, with his prosperity gospel focused on riches, and James Dobson, who found a way to make Jesus into a pro-war Republican, with his gospel promoting American exceptionalism, lived like kings.

Both Mary and I weren’t long, even for a contemporary style congregation, like the Vineyard. For all its talk about openness, and a new approach to Jesus, it was similar to the fundamentalism I had run from, nearly 20 years prior.

One Sunday morning, the Vineyard pastor, Ralph Grover, stood up and tried to twist scripture, using pretzel logic, advocating for George Bush, Republicanism, and making a case for the war in Iraq being a “just war.”

We both looked at each other as if to say, “we tried,” and we knew that this would be our last Sunday at the Vineyard, and probably at any church.

As I work through this essay on Larry Norman, I realize that his music is one of the last vestiges remaining from my failed spiritual journey, a journey that often brought pain, frustration, and plenty of disappointment. Interestingly, over the past two weeks, as I listened to Norman’s music again, I didn’t find his spirituality grating, like much of what I witness from the church, and particularly, the dark nooks and crannies of right-wing religion.

All of us are flawed human beings. Xians might attribute this to the problem of sin. The psychology community uses dysfunction to characterize human shortcomings. Whatever our lack of perfection, or self actualization might be attributed to, it is evident that none of us measure up, much of the time. While humans can be compassionate, moved to deeds of heroic proportion, they also are capable of depravity, and savage cruelty.

Yet, much of conservative Xianity tries to maintain the veneer of perfection, and leaders that are righteous and holy in ways that commoners are incapable of. That wasn’t the message I heard coming from Larry Norman.

A documentary, Fallen Angel has surfaced that portrays Norman in a less than favorable light. I’ve followed some of the back and forth that’s taken place, including comments made by Norman’s brother, Charles.

None of this changes my thoughts on Norman, his music, and what he stood for during his lifetime. What is does, however, is demonstrate the danger of putting anyone on a pedestal, hoping that their music, their writing, or their advice can usurp individual responsibiliy for our own lives.

The Orange County News ran an article on the film and the ensuing controversy, last October.

It is too bad that Norman wasn't alive to answer the charges that at this point come down to he said, she said, with Larry forever silent, now that he's left this planet.

****

When Norman passed away in early 2008, the mainstream press lined up to lionize him as "the father of Christian rock." The Christian press did much of the same, even though it virtually ignored everything he ever sang and wrote while he was alive.

Now that Larry's passed on to some other place (he always said his next stop would be Heaven), we'll never know the truth behind the stories that filmmaker David Di Sabitino dredged up about Norman. As I wrote earlier, none of this matters personally to me at this point.

Here's the skinny on Norman for me, in 2009.

He was a prophetic individual, and an immensely talented singer, songwriter, and before his health issues--a powerful preacher, with a personal compassion for fellow human beings.

Norman's outspoken nature, and particularly his willingness to point out the serious flaws endemic in much of American evangelicalism in the 1970s, calling the church back from its embrace of the Nixonian Republicanism of the time, in my opinion, was the major reason why so much abuse got heaped upon the man and his music (as well as his appearance) by the church, and so-called believers in Jesus.

When Norman penned a song like "The Great American Novel," he was condemning America's neglect of its poor, while simultaneously waging war in Vietnam, and racing the Soviets to the moon.

A recent listen to Norman found that song (and surprisingly, most of Norman's catalog I have on hand) sounding as relevant to 2009, as it was, when released back in 1974. Thirty-five years have done little to chance the corruption of politicians, or changed their focus on things that do little to help the day-to-day lives of most Americans.

The church, on the other hand, still hasn't heeded Jesus' call to "feed the poor," nor has it moved away from embracing right-wing values, at least in significant portions of its evangelical quadrant.

The focus of our military has changed, however. We no longer find our enemies living in Vietnam, and the surrounding jungles of that region. Now, our enemies are Islamic, and living in caves in the Middle East (at least according to men named Beck and Limbaugh, who have the approval of many Xian leaders, continuing to beat the drums of war in 2009, just like they did in 1974).

Space, the final frontier, doesn't warrant the attention that it did 30 years ago, although Reagan and some of his acolytes still think a space shield would be a groovy thing.

No, today's politicians regard perpetual tax cuts to the wealthiest among us as more important than universal healthcare. In fact, for most conservative Xians, the policies of conservative politicians trump the teaching of Jesus, every time.

Our current president, flawed in his own unique way, claims to be a follower of Jesus. Like Norman before him, he faces attacks from the very same church, mainly because his values don't meet the purview of the zealots on the right end of the political (and religious) spectrum. Some go so far as advocating murder, in the name of preserving human life.

As a musician from San Francisco once sang, "What a long strange trip its been," and I'd echo, continues to be.

Pearl Jam sucks ass

I once owned the soundtrack for Singles, on cassette. Pearl Jam contributed two songs to the movie soundtrack, and band members Eddie Vedder, Jeff Ament, and Stone Gossard made cameos, members of a fictitious grunge band, including Singles star, Matt Dillon. The band was called Citizen Dick. What many people don’t know is that the band had yet to hit it big prior to their movie appearance, and in fact still were known by their original name, Mookie Blaylock, their original name, named after the former NBA point guard. Pearl Jam’s members were all huge basketball fans.

In the early 90s, after Nirvana’s Nevermind blew things up for alt-rock, it changed the post-punk music context forever. Camps formed in the indie rock world, and bands like Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, and others, were now considered “sell outs” by the indie rock “purists.”
The heavier grunge sound would be coveted, sought out by major label A & R people, and a feeding frenzy ensued to sign the next Nirvana, spawning a host of lesser-talented sound-alikes, filling the airwaves of alternative radio stations.

At the time, I was doing a weekly radio slot at the low-power FM college station, WBOR (Bowdoin College). I was one of the handful of community members that they allowed slots for. I took a great deal of pride in my indie rock credibility, always trying to make sure my show was true to indie rock’s non-commercial values.

The DJ community at ‘BOR, made up mainly of fans of small label, indie rock, looked down their noses at bands like Pearl Jam, considering them to be sellouts. It never seemed to matter whether the band had at one time been relevant for ‘BOR’s playlist. Once they crossed an arbitrary threshold of popularity, there was no going back. They had become persona non grata to the Bowdoinanistas.

I’ve been thinking back to this mid-1990s period this week, mainly because Portland’s WCYY has been running through their top 1,000 songs, based upon listener’s votes. It’s been a great ride all week. So many of the songs I haven’t heard for years. Some of them have been quite evocative, bringing back memories (some great, some not so special) from a period of time that was much different than where I’m at right now.

It’s been awhile since I’ve spent this much time listening to radio of any kind, particularly alternative rock.

I’ve enjoyed listening to Robin Ivy’s morning drive time slot, and her Zodiac Zone. It brings back memories to the halcyon days of high school, almost 30 years ago, when the Cosmic Muffin was holding zodiac court, on WBLM, back when it was a freeform giant.

Mark Curdo, the station’s evening DJ is a hoot. His passion and knowledge of music is apparent. He’s the closest thing that ‘CYY has to the former indie rock freaks that made ‘BOR great in 94-95.

A musician friend of mine hates Pearl Jam. He sees them as the embodiment of all things that are wrong with music—corporate, mega-stars, and as he frequently says, “sellouts.” I wonder if he’s not feeling the same kind of jealousy I sometimes feel when I scan other blogs, and see 20 and 30 comments about topics that I don’t think are terribly deep, or particularly well-written. It’s probably partly driven by jealousy, and partly fueled by a sense of why them, and not me?

BTW, Pearl Jam has been making frequent appearances throughout the top 1,000.

Keeping the faith; LN Part II

The Night I Met Larry Norman

During the winter of 1985-1986, my charade as a Bible school student was finished. Three semesters of fundamentalist Baptist legalism was all I could take. Just shy of my 24th birthday, I was stranded in the middle of the country, another Hyles-Anderson washout, with a wife and young son.

Stuck in the middle of the country, 1,500 miles from our extended families, my wife and I were struggling to remain connected to any kind of organized practice of faith.

During that time, the only spiritual lifeline at all for me was my own personal study of the Bible. No longer tethered to the wooden, literal dictates of Hyles-Anderson College, which tried to regulate all aspects student life, I now was free to read the scriptures for myself. It was surprising how that freedom opened me up to seeing new things that I’d never considered before. In addition to my time studying the Bible, I also was beginning to read again, something I had no time for when my life was classes from 8:00 am to 1:00, dinner with Mary and Mark, and then off to work in Chicago. Saturdays were taken up with soul-winning, and then Sunday was church in the morning, time for lunch, study time, and then back to church in the evening. Not exactly a schedule that allowed much time to think, or consider much beyond the world of Jack Hyles.

Now that I was no longer in school, I felt like I had a life again. During that time, I was free again to listen to my own choice of music on my commutes to and from work. Most of what was playing in my tape deck was secular, as I was tired of the kind of musical drivel that passed for Christian music at Hyles-Anderson. The was also mixing in some contemporary Christian rock, including Larry Norman.

I don’t recall the exact circumstances, but I learned that Norman was going to be playing at a church in Palatine, Illinois, on a Saturday night in January. I really wanted to see him live, but given the distance—Palatine was about 100 miles northwest of where we were living, in Hobart, Indiana—and the fact that both of my cars were undependable at best, the trip seemed risky to make the trek in the dead of winter.

Mary knew I wanted to go, and she encouraged me to attend the show. Plus, it was my long weekend from my job at Westville Correctional Center, where I was working as a med tech.

I spent Saturday morning going over my ’68 Impala—I checked the tire pressure, made sure my oil was topped off, and had a spare quart on hand. The Impala burned a quart of oil per week, but I was fond of her land yacht qualities on the highway, which is why I chose to take her on my journey, instead of my 1974 Plymouth Scamp.

Saturday night was bitterly cold as I hopped in my Impala and headed to Palatine. I had several Larry Norman cassettes for the ride, and my directions in tow.

The non-descript church in Palatine was one of those contemporary styles, with the cookie-cutter design, surrounded by a sea of asphalt. There were just a few cars parked near the entrance, signifying I was an early arrival.

The mercury was hovering near zero, too cold to sit in my car until more people showed up. Gathering my courage, I headed across the lot and entered the main foyer. I was greeted by a young girl, probably from the church’s youth group. Sweet, and wearing a perpetual smile, she welcomed me to “Palatine Bible Church” (I honestly can’t remember the name of the church, but it was one of those generic non-denominational church names that were just becoming popular). A gracious hostess, she directed me to a table with freshly brewed coffee, and donuts and pastries, with the charge of “make yourself at home.”

Filling a cup with coffee, I was interested to see what was happening in the auditorium, as I could hear the muffled sounds of amplified music leaking into the lobby. I asked if I could head into the auditorium and she said, “sure.”

Cup in hand, I made my way into the darkened auditorium, and sat in the back. I saw Larry Norman and band down front, swathed in stage lighting, working their way through “Why Should the Devil Have All The Good Music?” as part of the band’s sound check.

Alone in the dark, I got my own personal pre-concert lasting about 20 minutes. Norman looked just as I’d seen him on tape cases, album covers (I had once owned several of Norman’s records before unloading my vinyl as part of my fundamentalist purging of the “devil’s music”), and PR photos. Weathered, with a soulful face, and his signature long blond hair—yes, that was Larry Norman down front, on stage, and I was there to see it!

He seemed to be having a good time, long before the show started. He joked with the band members, made some suggestions between stops, and brought a genuine warmth and genuineness to the practice set that I’d again witness later, when he poured his heart and energy into that night’s performance.

When I ventured back out into the light of the church entranceway, people had begun arriving. There was now merchandise, more food, and a mix of mainly young fans, and a smattering of older fans.

The show was phenomenal. Norman’s band, the Young Lions, were tight, with a punk rock look—spiked hair and a Mohawk were on parade—and all about 15 to 20 years younger than Norman, who was pushing 40 at that time.

His guitar player opened the show with a couple of acoustic numbers. Then out came Norman and the crowd went crazy. A duet followed, and then it was time for Norman and Company to crank it up and rock out for Jesus.

I’ve been to many rock shows since, both smaller shows, as well as the arena rock variety. Norman’s show that night stands out as one of the top five I’ve ever attended.

The band rocked for over an hour, mining liberally Norman’s older and better-known material, with a newer song thrown in here and there. The band then broke for an intermission for snacks and for some of the smokers to “fire one up” outside in the parking lot.

Wandering about the lobby, I was shocked when I saw Norman come through the auditorium doors and greet some people he obviously knew. Rather than hide out backstage and chill, here was this Christian rock legend, interacting with his fans. This was not something I’d ever seen, as performers of a certain stature and level of popularity tend to distance themselves from the “little people.”

It wasn’t long before he made his way over to where I was standing. He walked over and said, “hi, I’m Larry Norman.” I told him a little about my background and he was very genuine when he told me that “many of us get burnt by the Church.” This was obviously true for him, as the Church had been shunning him and his music for almost two decades, at that time. We chatted a bit more, and he thanked me for coming.

What impressed me the most was how “real” he was in person. He obviously didn’t have to take the time to talk, and connect with people at his show. It was obvious to me that this was part of who he was.

After the break, Norman was back on stage, this time however, alone at the piano. For 30-40 minutes, he treated us to his quieter material, extensive in its own right. Between songs he talked, and ministered to the crowd. Both storyteller, and street preacher, rolled into one, Norman had a way of making you laugh, reflect, and look deeper into your life. He didn’t do this in the typical preachy, “I’m holy and your not” schtick common with most preachers in three-piece suits common to the Xianity I had come out from.

The show was already approaching the two-hour mark when Norman brought the Young Lions back onstage and they tore through a 45-minute set of material from Norman’s newest album, “Stop This Flight.”

Afterwards, standing in the lobby, towel draped around his neck, Norman shook hands, hugged friends, and posed for photos. He also spent time praying with some people, as his capacity to minister to others was evident to me, watching him interact with others.

The evening was a magical one for me, and something I have not forgotten.

Over the next 20 years, my own faith would fizzle, and was eventually usurped by doubt and skepticism, primarily because for every Larry Norman I’d encounter along life’s highways and byways, I’d find hundreds, if not thousands of so-called believers that had no pulse, warmth, or conviction of sincerity.

A Solid Rocker Leaves the Stage

[This is the first of several installments that are part of a lengthy essay I’ve written about Larry Norman, Christian musician, street preacher, and someone who influenced the way I saw the world at the time, and still helps define my current worldview.—JB]


A Solid Rocker Leaves the Stage

Larry Norman was a righteous rocker. He was a pioneer. Like others who come first and open up a brand new channel, the fruits and spoils of fame often end up in the laps of those who come after, and more times than not, pay little or any price, or make little in the way of sacrifice.

Norman passed away back in February 2008, an event that unfortunately slipped by me. I only recently found out about it, as I sorted through my CD collection, looking for music to assuage the grief of losing a dog that I loved dearly. I happened to grab Norman’s CD, “In Another Land,” to hear a couple of songs that had personal meaning to me, and seemed to connect with my sense of loss at that moment.

My own history with the “father of Contemporary Christian (Xian) Music,” has been varied. I first came to know his music back in 1981, right after I had become “born again,” to a new life in Jesus (or so I thought). A friend (and fellow believer) gave me some of his cassettes of a new kind of music I was unfamiliar with—Christian rock. There were a variety of artists I’d never heard of before—Phil Keaggy, Degarmo & Key—and some guy named Larry Norman.

Norman’s music spoke to me. It was raw, passionate, and his language was both familiar and strange to my ears. When he sang a song about the church (and society) being messed up (“The Great American Novel”), it made sense to me. As a new believer, I was aware of the cosmetic quality of faux kindness, and that measured piety that later would drive me away from the fold. I was also cynical about politics and the world around me. When he sang, “Why don’t you look into Jesus, he got the answer,” it made theological sense to me, at the time, and also seemed immediate, in a way that most church practices weren’t.

The life of Larry Norman never did fit the churches of his time (and probably not any other time). A child of the 1960s (actually, he was born in 1947), so technically, he was a teenager of the 60s, but let’s not quibble. Norman’s cred came from the streets and clubs, not the manicured suburban enclave characteristic of American Xianity, the kind that required you had to wear a three-piece suit, a fancy dress, and drive a certain kind of car, to attend.

His song, “Why Should the Devil Have All The Good Music,” Norman offers listeners an autobiographical sketch of how he was being treated at the time by so-called Xians that had issues with his long hair, his rock and roll, and his supposed “wicked” lifestyle that allowed him to interact with those who might never set foot inside their “perfect” sanctuaries (more often resembling mausoleums).

It’s hard to imagine in 2009 how controversial and polarizing Norman was for the church in the early 1970s, but he was. His flowing mane of long blond hair was one of the issues, and as a result, lies were circulated about Norman; that he was a “fallen Christian,” a homosexual, a tool of the devil, etc.

For those readers who don’t know the inner workings of the Church, all Christianity is viewed as basically the same, and the thought is that all Christians (or my preferred styling, of Xians) merge together into one big family. The reality is that if Xians are all part of “one big family,” then it is one really fucked up one. In fact, my experience with Xianity is that rather than “one big family,” Xians are more often than not, engaged in one big internecine battle of doctrine, practice, and shades thereof.

NPR ran a brief clip about Norman's death, with clips of a couple of songs, and some commentary from his brother, Charles.

Here is a tribute to Norman that was posted at YouTube.

[Coming soon; The night I met Larry Norman]

The mayor has left the manor

Bernie
Feb. 1995-May 2009

Bernie, our winsome Sheltie, who occasionally graced a blog post here at Words Matter, has gone whereever dogs go when they leave this mortal coil.

Since his stroke back in January, all of us knew he was on borrowed time, but like everything connected with Bernie, he put on his best face, and continued to provide joy for us on a daily basis. Unlike me, Bernie never had a bad day, or almost never. Saturday, and then Sunday, the day he died, he was obviously not himself. His usual morning perkiness was absent, and he didn't even bother to lift his head in our bedroom, when I got up early Saturday morning to write. Normally, he'd have followed me into my office across the hall, and slumped down behind my chair, where he could keep an eye on me.

[Bernie discovered how great couches and pillows were late in life]

My wife and I were crushed Sunday night when he expired in our dining room, dying with dignity, and minimal distress. Yesterday wasn't much better, and sitting here typing this post this morning finds my emotions still very close to the surface, and my eyes swimming with tears.

Anyone who has ever lost a close canine friend knows how hard it is to bid them "adieu." Bernie was unique, and we miss him terribly.

Mark, our son, put Bernie's passing and life into context, and brought a bit of joy to a day that was pretty joyless, and a challenge to get through. Here are some of his thoughts on man's best friend.

This morning has been tough. I read mom's email on the bus and was crying. The people around me must of thought I was going to blow up the bus or something.

I always knew it was going to be tough when Bernie passed, but I wasn't sure why. The past day or so I've been thinking it over. I think it comes down to dogs being anything you want them to be. They have needs, but these needs are minimal, and for most part they keep their agendas to themselves. Bernie was something different for everyone. Whoever came up with 'man's best friend' hit it right on the head. Bernie was everyone's best friend despite everyone having a different idea of what a best friend would look like. For mom he was her style, fashion, and cooking assistant. For Dad he was his best editor and walking partner. For me he was something of a silent baseball coach or brother who didn't know anything about baseball, but would put in hour after hour, despite not knowing what he was putting in work for. He never asked, "Why do you keep hitting the ball after I get it for you? Your advancement of the ball is a net worth of zero." Basically, the reason why he was so great was because he couldn't say 'No.' He's the friend that always wanted to hang out and do whatever you wanted to do. Sure, there were times when he'd try and sneak off and eat out of the compost or lie under the tree and rest and not chase the ball anymore, but if I hit the ball he'd go get it. Dogs in general are amazing in this sense because mostly they portray a blank slate with little opinion and it's almost up to whoever they're with to create the personality and voice for them in their own mind. And I think what's so special about this is that despite Bernie passing we each carry that personality of who he was to each of us in our own minds and he can live on.

I'm hoping to add a bit more context in the next day or two about Bernie, the loss of a dog, and one of my favorite books on the subject, over at Write in Maine. Look for it.