James Rising

Tuesday Review: Phil Ochs: There But for Fortune
2010 NR 97 minutes

Another 60’s icon that my brother turned me on to. When I was in radio we called it the “Music of your older brothers record collection.” It’s a viable format even today.

The song that hooked me on Ochs was his take on the classic Poe Poem “The Bells”.

I LOVED the repetition and especially liked way he sang “the tintinnabulation of the bells”. Tintinnabulation! What a great word.

Kenneth Bowser credited as director, producer and writer of the documentary does a straightforward job of rounding up Ochs’ contemporaries and stays out of the way of the story. If I have a complaint it’s that the later, troubled years of Ochs are glossed over in the film.

Phil Ochs had the misfortune of being a protest singer at the same time that Bob Dylan’s career was flourishing. It would have to be some talent to overshadow Dylan and Phil was not up to the task, something that seemed to haunt him his entire life. Really, who could have taken on Dylan?

Ochs chose to remain true to the protest genre even when others in the folk field had moved on. He never stopped trying to poke a stick in the eye of the powers that be and in the end he paid for it. He was convinced that the FBI was watching him, tapping his phone and it later turned out that he was right,

Kenneth Bowser got great interviews with Joan Baez, Tom Hayden (!), for some reason Sean Penn and a very interesting (to me, at least) one with Jac Holzman, the then president of Elektra records for whom Ochs recorded much of his material.

Commercial success eluded Ochs and he eventually succumbed to mental illness, from all reports quite severe.

He hung himself in 1976. He was 35.

I often scan the classifieds. Looking for misspelled words and sometimes a bargain or two. But just noticed something that points to economic distress more than anything I can imagine. Counted 13 Harley’s for sale.

That’s a lot of broken dreams, don’t you think?

You see this on a sign. If you are like me (and Lord knows I hope not) you think about it.

Evacuate I get. Run, run, run away.

Been there. Done that many times. Even at some points where it might have made better sense for me to stay put.

But safety? How do you know? How can you be sure?

Can you input “Safety” on a GPS and it will find a destination for you?

And what if I have a different idea about what is safe?

And safe from one threat may not be safe from another.

Signs are not always so helpful. At least to me.

“Smoking or non-smoking?” A phrase that will soon be heard as often as “I need a new buggy whip.” Or “Honey the dinosaurs are tearing up the garden again.” I for one am glad to see smoking butted out of most places. It’s true I was a smoker. A pretty good smoker at that. A pack a day on good days (or bad days depending on your point of view) and sometimes quite a bit more than that. So, like most ex-smokers I now hate the smell of tobacco being burned worse than I hate death. Now, if I understand it correctly, the law prohibits smoking at restaurants that serve alcohol if a percentage of their total sales are derived from selling food. So if you don’t sell many eats, patrons can puff away. I have heard some refer to this as the “Dive bar” exemption.

Quite a few questions have been raised as to how this is being regulated. Who checks the receipts to make sure the law is being complied with? In the “dive bars” I have been in (and I have been in a few) there are typically quite a few salty snacks available presumably to increase beverage consumption.
Not to mention pickled pigs feet. I was once at such a bar where a wager was made between a local and an out of towner about the consumption of one of those pink fetus like objects in the big glass jar. If I remember correctly (there were mature beverages being consumed) the figure was $50. Of course the local got the money and the pigs’ foot. (feet?) But my point is would the $50 clams count towards the smoking restriction now a days? Just a thought.

There are still two problems with smoking that need to be cleared up. Smokers are now prohibited in a lot of places from smoking right outside the door. But they have just moved a few feet further. There still is a steel grey cloud to wade through and piles of stinky butts. It’s just in a different place.

And the biggest problem? People still throw burning cigarette butts out of car windows. It’s obnoxious and dangerous. I read a book once where the hero was a guy who was Mr. Environment to the point that he developed this device to punish smokers who discharged from the car. He would pick up the butts, load it in this thing and catch up with the person. He would get them to roll down the window and fire the butt back into the car. Extreme? Yeah, I guess. But many times I wish I had the sack to do just that.

Sunday Wrap:

That's a wrap

Monday 9/12/11

Rant D’Jour Yard Sales Redux

Blog Post Ivory and Montgomery glands

Tuesday 9/13/11

Rant D’Jour Drugstores and so much more…

Blog Post Tuesday Review: The Adjustment Bureau

Wednesday

Rant D’Jour Grocery Store or meat market

Blog Post WEEKENDER Column – They come in trees

Thursday

Rant D’Jour Ever get stuck behind a wide load?

Blog Post Radio DaZe- The end at WLNH, the beginnings of WHYN

Friday

Rant D’Jour Words count, or how to get to 450 words

Blog Post Picture This: Go in peace. Mass Confession.

Saturday

Rant D’Jour Speed Kills

Blog Post Aggregate Saturday

Aggregate Saturday:

No Bloomsburg fair this year. Bummer.
–
Completely spun out, I am. Late NASCAR Night. Just finished two VERY intense projects.

One- a 48 page narration for a client. Lots of technical words. Very dry stuff. Took me lots of time.
Two-a secret audio cleaning project. Taking an existing recording and drawing out from it background information (people speaking) and enhancing same. Can’t go into it but I will let you know more when the verdict is in.
Hows that for cryptic?
–
Can’t believe I won’t get a “Top O’ the Beef” this year. Bummer.
–
The year is winding down. I should really have turned up the thermostat last night. Long-suffering wife had the electric blanket on. Somehow it seems like I can keep Fall (and Winter) at bay a bit longer if I don’t twist that thermostat to the right. Pool cover is on. Leaves are falling but I still wear shorts.
–
The good potato pancakes in in the stand by the dog show. Coors orange juice. The great roasted peanuts. Bummer.
–
I totally redid the secret project this morning after working on it till late last night. It just didn’t sound right to me and I found out that I had made a mistake in mixdown. Not that I am any LESS tired now but I knew it last night while I was trying to sleep. My subconscious has quality control. Who knew?
–
Sammy’s cheese-steaks. A truly unique taste. Gross’s french fries which are not. Did I mention Coors orange juice? Bummer.
–
I suppose my Cholesterol and blood sugar is glad there is no fair. But I think it’s no fair.

Bummer.

I used to drive fast. Very fast. I was the type of guy who had the latest radar detector and knew how to use it. Along with consistently exceeding posted limits I was an extremely careless driver. I had a friend ride with me once and when he got out he characterized my driving skills as comparable to “Mr. Toads Wild Ride.” And not in a good way.

Everyone thinks they are good at two things. Driving and sex. I have empirical evidence that I am not good at one. I used to crash. I got enough moving violation fines to buy a Ferrari. I speak of all of this in the past tense because now the radar detector has been replaced with a GPS unit. I am more interested in getting where I want to go then how fast I get there. What changed? Possibly years of reading stories in the newspaper and seeing mangled cars on TV.

Probably the real turning point was when my son twisted up a car, tore it all to pieces as Brooks and Dunn would say, and how he managed to live for sure God only knows.

So now I go slow. Sometimes slower than the posted limits. This drives drivers behind me into red faced, eye popping, frothing, spitting paroxysms of road rage. I couldn’t give a bowel movement less. Here is some news, speedracers. If you go 75 miles per hour in a 65 mile per hour zone you save just over a minute every ten miles. 75 in a 55? About 3:00 minutes.

Let’s look at this another way. Most NEPA commutes average 10 minutes. Most side roads are posted 35 miles per hour If you drive 35 you will get there in 15 minutes. Go 55 MPH and you will get there in 11 minutes. Do you think the four minutes is really worth it? The moving violation for 55 in a 35 is around $135. That’s 33 bucks per minute. Setting the alarm clock a little earlier sounding good?

But the real cost? I point to the newspaper the other day. In three pages there were stories of a horrific hit and run leaving a body so badly mangled it was hard to ID it. A 16 year old hit a tree and died. An 18 year hit an old lady and killed her. And someone hit a school crossing guard who ended up in the hospital. Now I am not saying speed factored into these accidents. I am not trying to blame anyone as I am not privy to all the circumstances.

But I can say without any fear of retribution that speed kills.

Picture this: Go in peace. Next!

Confess

The Pope visits and so many people have so many sins to confess that they have to resort to “Mass Production”.

Mass Production…

I kill me.

Many people ask me how I get the ideas for these alleged columns. The other question I sometimes get is how I manage to write one every week. At the risk of exposing how the sausage is made I will give you a peek into the exciting world of big time tabloid newspaper column writing. This week, like so many weeks, I have no firm idea of what I am going to do until I sit down at the computer. I will bang out a few sentences to get warmed up. Then I will check the most important device in column writing. The word count. One hundred and five. Goal is four hundred and fifty.

Hmmm…what now? Beverage break. Now with a cup steaming beside me ideas will surely come, right? Nope. I know. I’ll surf the internet for inspiration. Why do we call it surfing, anyway? I’ll google that. Back in a minute.

Well the short answer seems to be that someone called changing the TV channels with a remote “Channel Surfing” and the term was sort of borrowed for the internet. I found ten people who take credit for this. One hundred ninety five words in case you are wondering. This week is the one where we set the clocks back an hour. I could write something about that. Nah. Been there done that.

Bitch about having to rake my leaves? Well, truth be told I haven’t raked them this year. The excuse being that I am waiting for all of them to leave the tree. Waiting for the leaves to leave. Get it? Heh. I love the English language. I mean how you can use a word to mean different things. I am not a mean man but the end justifies the means. And the mean count is three hundred and four.

Home stretch. Speaking of home stretch I could write about the World Series. I suggested as much to the long suffering wife. “Shouldn’t you wait until it’s over next week?” she asked. But I could write it like I did for the election, where I was so vague that either side could have been the winner. I got the patent pending “look.” No sale.

Sometimes I just sit and think. Other times I just sit. Sometimes the columns just write themselves. Then there are times like this where they have to be dragged kicking and screaming out of wherever they come from.

Four hundred and thirty nine. If I was a horse I could smell the barn. Sprint for the finish line. Last lap. Checkered flag. Victory lane. Four hundred and thirty eight.

Close enough for government work. (443)

They say “timing is everything” and if they (whoever they are) mean bad timing I go to the head of the class. I have been cursed for my entire life with being just a minute too late, arriving right after the good part or worse yet, being right on time for the bad part. Mostly the latter.

Let me give you some examples. I am driving along, making good time, digging on the radio and loving life. I hit a stop light. I am the first person at the light. Now comes the bad timing part. Turning onto the highway in front of me just as the light changes is a WIDE LOAD. It looks like a bulldozer with a gland problem on a flatbed truck the size of the Market Street Bridge. It is moving fast, for a glacier. There is no chance of passing. I am stuck behind this behemoth for the foreseeable future. But wait. It’s turning! It runs a red light but makes a turn off the highway.

I am free, free at last. But no. To my richest horror an even larger WIDE LOAD turns onto the highway and I am once more traveling at a snails pace. If I didn’t think I would be found terminally paranoid (you know, you aren’t paranoid if people are REALLY out to get you) I would say that the operators of this heavy equipment slow motion parade are in cahoots with each other. That they communicate with each other to make sure they are in MY way. Nah. Couldn’t be.

Right?

But back to my bad timing. How about the time I asked for a raise and my boss just looked at me and said, “I’ll have an answer for you tomorrow.” Of course that would be the day I got fired. Or the many times I choose the shortest line at the bank only to have the person in front of me do a transaction that would confuse Einstein. Slowly. Or when I am grocery shopping and the item I want is behind a sumo wrestler sized person who apparently is really into reading labels. Slowly.

If there are two waitresses in a crowded restaurant one will be Mother Teresa. I will get the other one. The one who is manic depressive, off her meds and hates men. Fortune cookies? You pick one and I will get the one that says: “You will inherit a large sum of money at the moment of your death” or worse. Late for work? That’s when the battery goes dead.

If it wasn’t for bad timing, I wouldn’t have any timing at all.