James Rising

I must admit I don’t follow politics. As a matter of fact I don’t follow very much of what the world considers the latest breaking news. Unless it’s along the lines of “ NORTHEAST PENNSYLVANIA BRACES FOR TSUNAMI” I don’t pay it much heed. My interests lie somewhere in between news of the forthcoming apocalypse and “News of the Weird”, off beat and quirky stuff. Man bites dog, dog sprouts wings.

But the latest news cycle coverage of the story of pathetic Rep. Anthony Weiner D-NY ,and his Internet escapades has caught my eye. Mostly because he tweeted his hairless six pack abs and his wiener stuffed BVD’s to young ladies and didn’t, apparently, get a bite. Or anything else for that matter. Then the man who represents 654,360 folks in Queens and Brooklyn LIED his behind off about it. I am going to try and do this without any “dick jokes”

I have taught a class about using computers for a few years at L.C.C.C. and one of the most important points that I try to make to my students is that nothing done on the Internet or for that matter on a computer is private. Everything leaves a trail, is traceable and can and will come back to haunt you, most likely at the worst possible time. Ask any pedophile in jail for downloading his fix via “Limewire” or whatever. Or now ask Rep. Anthony Weiner D-NY.

Several interesting things about this whole deal. Mr. Weiner (I will not, shall not, stoop to making any ‘wiener’ jokes. Besides it’s spelled different. ) works for New York, the same state that gave us “Client 9” otherwise known as whore-loving Eliott Spitzer. At least Eliott had the decency to come clean, so to speak. Possibly there is something in the water in NY?

Mr. Weiner is married, at least until she wises up, to Huma Abedin, a longtime personal aide of Hillary Clinton and the ceremony was officiated by none other than “I Did Not, Have, Sexual, Relations, with THAT Woman” Bill Clinton his ownself. Is it just me? Or is reality getting too weird to handle?

Mr. Weiner has steadfastly refused to resign. He knows that this story will blow over, so to speak, and people will forget and forgive. The next news cycle will find something else to blather about. I am betting you haven’t seen the end of Mr. Weiner. Although apparently several million have.

See? No dick jokes!

The Rant D’Jour. A girl. A rose. And rejection.

I do the grocery shopping now. Have been for almost the past year. I don’t mind and actually kind of…more

-30-

I do the grocery shopping now. Have been for almost the past year. I don’t mind and actually kind of enjoy it. The other day I had filled my basket with my order and headed to the check-out to cash out and be on my way.

The long suffering wife has taught me to look over the checkers very carefully. You need one who looks like they won’t put up too much of a fight over coupons you are using. You also have to balance that need with the size of the person/persons order in front of you.

I chose carefully this day, The girl behind the register was very cute, blond, well put together and there were only two others in front of me. An older gent who was nearly done, or so it appeared and a 20 something guy with just a few items, one of which was a small bouquet of flowers. Aww, something to give his girl, or his Mom. The old guy was having a real problem. Something to do with writing his check. The cute checkout girl was very solicitous to him. I had picked right! Pretty and nice. A combo that doesn’t happen very often. The younger guy in front of me was getting impatient.
You could tell.

Finally the senior citizen cleared out and as I began to load my order on the belt the young guy struck up a conversation with the checker. I didn’t hear all of it but I did catch the end. “These are for you” he said, proffering the small bouquet of flowers. “Wow” I thought, what a cheesy pick-up technique.

The cute check out girl looked at them like they were a dead rat and said “Oh I can’t take those. My boyfriend will have a fit.” I didn’t hear the pick up artists reply but the checker said “Do you still want them?” Pick up boy said “Yes” and scurried out.

I turned to the cute checker and asked “Do you often get flowers?” She looked at me and I could tell she was sizing me up. She decided I was old and no threat (when did this happen to me?) so she said “That’s the third time he’s done that. Can’t take a hint. And I don’t even HAVE a boyfriend.”

I already had more information than Mr. Pick up and I wasn’t even in the game! Being a pretty woman in a public place is hard sometimes I suspect.

I bet this sort of thing goes on all the time probably not three times in a row like our bouquet bearer but often enough. “He might be a stalker” I said.

Her eyes flew wide open and she said “You think?” I don’t know why I did it, but as I started to walk away I said to her “I just saw him put the flowers on your car.” Just another day at the grocery store.

The first time I spoke words on a radio station was from my friend’s basement.

This deserves some explanation.

Jeff Goldfield and I became buddies because he was a guitar player in a band and I hung around. I was sort of a roadie and sort of a groupie. The band broke up but Jeff and I continued and during Junior High and High School I would say we were “BFF” as the kids say now.

Oddly enough we lost touch in my senior year in High School when I moved to another town but ended up going to the same college without knowing until we met at registration. Life is weird.

When we were in Junior High (Lyman C. Hunt Junior High –imagine what we called it) Jeff had a neighbor who was an engineer at IBM. As I think back on it now I never met the guy. But he built a small AM transmitter that was frequency agile (could be tuned to any frequency) and put out either 100 milliwatts (legal) or 10 watts (not so much legal) and used a simple dipole antenna. We built a little studio in Jeff’s basement.

Jeff’s Fender “Tremolux” amp head served as our audio console. As I recall, and forgive me but this is 40 some years ago, we used the four inputs for microphone, tape recorder (maybe two) and maybe two turntables. This involved some juggling of inputs.

We of course knew not of ‘cueing’ or any of the finer technical points. We didn’t know what we didn’t know. So we just went on blindly as “WGLR”. Goldfield/Rising radio. Jeff’s name came first. It was his basement.

My “show’ was the “SS 396” show – named for a car I lusted after. We played what 45’s we had but mostly used the tape recorders for songs we lifted off the local radio stations. We became quite adept at fading in and out of the tapes to avoid the DJ’s and jingles from the other stations.

One station (WDOT-which would later figure importantly in my life) had an exclusive on a few tunes and would a layer a “WDOT Exclusive” liner over the instrumental part a few times. We would, not knowing anything about editing, just play the songs (Valerie by the Monkees was one) and do our fade thing.

I don’t recall a lot about what announcing we did. I do know that Jeff, ever the entrepreneur, struck a deal with a local Mom and Pop store to give us snacks and soda for mentions. My first radio trade!

Announcing was fraught with danger. Nothing was grounded properly and if you touched the wrong thing and the microphone at the same time you would get 110 volts AC, usually on the lips.

At ten watts we could talk from his basement to Mallets Bay. I knew this because my family had a camp there and I could hear the station. Where we went in other directions we never knew. We were 13 year olds with bikes and limited other means of transportation.

Our broadcast schedule was erratic to say the least. After school sometimes. Weekends when Jeff wasn’t doing something else or being punished. It didn’t last long and I can’t remember for sure but I think it all ended when the IBM guy took back the transmitter.

It set the hook in me deep. It took years before I would actually talk on a “real” radio station but I knew in my heart that I had found something that would be a big part of my life. I didn’t have any idea how big.

The Rant D’Jour has to do with P.T. Barnum. Not really. But he is mentioned.

P.T. Barnum once said that whole deal about suckers born and those born to take them. He would be delighted with….more

-30-

P.T. Barnum once said that whole deal about suckers born and those born to take them. He would be delighted with this one.

How about water with intention? Yup, pay a little extra and you will have some H@2 Ommm. You know . Omm…like the Moody Blues used to sing. Om is a sacred syllable that is considered to be the greatest of all the mantras. The labels on the bottle tell you what the intentions are.

Love and Perfect Health are on the shelves now and Will Power, Properity and Gratitude will be out of the research and development soon.

How do they do this? First of all, and you could have guessed it, the company that is marketing this is from Los Angeles.

They have a very relaxed website at http://www.h2omwater.com/

According to the website for H2OM everything in the universe contains a vibrational resonance or frequency. There are several distinctive energetic frequencies that are infused in each bottle of H2Om. They employ the power of intention through words, thought, music and human interaction.

So, shifting out of new age speak back into rant speak, if you print the intention on the label, in several different languages, play some new age music while you bottle the stuff and, most important if you “think it while you drink it” (Trademark 2006) you will get the benefit of the intentions. Of course the new age lawyers get their two cents in as well. The website includes this little disclaimer: “This product is not designed to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease. However, we do believe in the power of intention, and that anything is possible. Please email us with your H2Om water experiences and miracles.”

So let’s consider the possibility here. You put words on the bottle, you play music while you fill’er up and you think great thoughts while you guzzle.

So if I make up a bottle that says “Neighbor be gone” and I play “Hit The Road Jack” while filling it and when I drink it I think “please let him move the outer rings of Saturn”, it’ll all come true?

I’ll take a case of that and the case marked “Untold riches”. That’s the one bottled with the song “For the Love of Money” blasting near the faucet.

WEEKENDER

Wednesday-the actual column you can read in this weeks WEEKENDER. It’s in the paper before the ads for the Asian rub joints and the chicks with dicks.

Opened the pool yesterday.

Who would think four words could bring such pain and misery into your life? The Rising ranch came with a pool. It wasn’t why we made the choice but it didn’t hurt either. On those few summer days when the weather is right it is indeed a joy.
The rest of the time it is an obligation. A Chinese curse, when you save someone’s life and are then responsible for them.

Vacuum me, clean me, chlorinate me, skim me. It’s me, me, me with the pool.

I have help to close the pool. But in the spring I go it alone.

The pool cover protects the pool from leaves and such falling into it over the cold months. These end up in the pool anyway in the process of removing it.

The cover weighs four tons. This is, of course, only an estimate. Give or take several tons. There is a science, a methodology to removing the cover. The guy who closes the pool every year patiently explains it to me. You fold the ends to the middle and pull it off. When he does it it’s like a magician’s trick, the one where the tablecloth is removed and all the dishes stay in place. When I do it all the leaves get in the pool. Then the cover fills up with water which is heavier than guilt.

Trying to pull the water filled cover out of the pool by myself is like watching Sisyphus. I pull on one side, the other slides in the pool. I rush to that side and heave and the rest goes for a swim. Eventually I get the damn thing out and lie panting beside it.

The water is a disturbing shade of green. It is so cloudy that the Loch Ness monster could be in its depths. All the leaves from the cover are floating merrily on the surface.

The pump must be reassembled and started. This process takes hours of sweating, searching, trips back and forth to the house for more tools after I drop them into the murky depths of Lake Rising.

Finally the pump pumps.

Now the cleanup can begin.

It takes a day to do it which is why I am trying to type this without moving any part of my body. Because all parts of my body hurt.

What do we do in summer in NEPA? We swim on that day.

-30-
Reach Jim at contact@jamesrising.com Even more rants are on his blog, updated every day at jamesrising.com

The Rant D’Jour is a rumination on diet food.

I think I have discovered why diet foods don’t work. When the concept of diet food…more

-30-

I think I have discovered why diet foods don’t work.

When the concept of diet food was first introduced back in the days when fat dinosaurs roamed the earth the stuff was pretty yucky. I remember a diet bread called Hollywood that basically tasted like sawdust. You would lose weight because you couldn’t eat the crap.

That’s an important point. We will come back to that.

Not so long ago there were the chips that had some kind of stuff that was supposed to make the fat in them indigestible. Except that what they really ended up doing was to turn you into the Rockateer. Sometimes when you least expected it if you know what I mean. Not to get too far into this but one of the phrases associated with these chips was anal leakage. ‘Nuff said.

So the problem with diet foods is this. If they truly are diet foods you should eat less of them, right? That certainly was true with the sawdust bread. But what good was that to the guys who were selling the bread? So now in this time of modern technology can’t the scientists who work on such things come up with low calorie, low fat, low carbohydrate foods that actually taste good?

And there you have the problem in a nutshell, so to speak.

If the stuff tastes good you’ll eat more of it, right? The food manufacturers will of course be delighted. But if you eat more of it you won’t lose any weight. Hmmm.

And so we have the paradox that is modern weight loss. If you like it, don’t eat it. If it tastes good spit it out. If it’s good for you it must therefore taste bad. Or maybe there is another solution.

I was watching the TV the other night when Al Roker the weatherman from NBC was on talking about his weight problems. Al, you may or may not know, weighed 350 pounds at one time. He had the stomach staple operation done and lost 150 pounds. But now he is gaining it back. And his solution? He has been losing weight on a program where he eats every three hours.

So the solution seems to be, eat more often. Somehow that seems like leaning forward into a punch.

I know that somewhere inside of me there is a guy the size of Mick Jagger. I also know I will never ever see him.

Andrew Gold, a pop wunderkind who had barely finished high school when Linda Ronstadt enlisted him to play in her backup band, and who later had a successful recording career of his own with hits like “Lonely Boy” and “Thank You for Being a Friend,” died on Friday at his home in Encino, Calif. He was 59.

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/06/07/arts/music/andrew-gold-singer-and-songwriter-dies-at-59.html RIP Andrew Gold

Tuesday Review

Genius Within: The Inner Life of Glenn Gould
2009 NR 113 minutes

Classical music as a genre is not real popular. This is a shame because it is such great music and can be much more satisfying and emotionally fulfilling than any other. It just takes a bit of ‘music appreciation’ for you to truly enjoy it. Classical music used to be a mainstay of FM radio. Shows hows old I am, that I remember that. Now the important bandwidth that used to be dedicated to Classical music stations is being devoured by the greedy radio industry and used for all sports stations and the like. Who says corporate radio doesn’t have a soul? It’s just very black.

Whew! Rant off.

Glen Gould is in the dictionary. His picture is right beside the words ‘misunderstood’ genius. But not for nothing did Gould cultivate that persona. He knew that controversy sells and he himself being controversial would sell. He certainly will never be pigeonholed into the ‘just another pianist’ category.

What the film brings out is that Gould probably began to believe in his quirks to the point where he couldn’t operate any other way. It derailed his performing career and didn’t do much for his life.

Much of the footage in this documentary is drawn from old interviews. It’s black and white stuff for the most part and stiff in the way that visual medium were back in those days, the 40’s, 50’s and 60’s. Men wore ties. Women wore hats. Everything was most civilized. But even through that veneer, Gould’s quirkiness came through loud and clear. Gould wore thick coats, scarfs and always gloves, even in the hottest weather. Gould hums and almost sings while performing.

Gould had to have his favorite chair and rug to play. They were transported to shows like a modern day guitarist would his prized Strats and Gibsons, only this was a ratty old broken down folding chair and a frayed, disgusting rug.

Tortured genius is box office gold but the only problem is that Gould began to believe it, live it, and let it rule his life. The feeling you get from the film is one of overwhelming sadness.

But the playing! Good god could the man play. Even with the archaic by today’s standards recording techniques (they used TAPE Recorders?) the virtuosity and skill and just plain nerve of his technique comes shining through, loud, clear and shimmering in its beauty. He was such a master and treated the instrument with an insanely different approach that is unnerving to watch but beautiful to listen to.

Directors Michèle Hozer (Shake Hands with the Devil: The Journey of Roméo Dallaire (2004) ) and Peter Raymont (A Promise to the Dead: The Exile Journey of Ariel Dorfman (documentary) (2007) ) pretty much stay out the way of the material and that is good.

There is a scene in the film where Gould and an uncredited technician work on editing one of the radio shows that Gould produced when he stopped touring. In the short sequence the driven perfectionism of Gould comes across clearly. The technician is beyond patient and contributes greatly to the finished product. In a perfect world I would have given my left one to be that guy.

If you would like to explore Gould’s music I would recommend starting here:

-30-

The Rant D’Jour is about oxymorons and the morons who love them.

Oxymoron’s. I love them. Sometimes they are meant to be serious and that’s what makes them all the more…more

-30-

Oxymoron’s.

I love them. Sometimes they are meant to be serious and that’s what makes them all the more lovable.

“Impotent rage” is a good one. Think about being so mad that you can’t…well you know what you can’t. Now that’s mad! How about the sign I saw at a flea market the other day. “New antiques arriving daily.” I knew there was a factory someplace. Probably the same place that makes “Authentic Reproductions.” Or that “Priceless junk.” You can bring them all home in a “new used car.” “Safe sex” gets me to laughing whenever I am in a bank. I know that I have been drunk but have I ever been “legally drunk?” I wonder at what point it becomes legal? Just before slurring your words?

And how can you be a “devout atheist?” Who do you pray to? Is it permissible to say “Thank God I’m an atheist?” Why is it when someone shares a sandwich with you they always take the “larger half?” How do they do that? Why don’t they just take the “whole piece?” And is it possible to have a “one hundred percent chance” of anything happening?

It’s probably some sort of character flaw on my part but whenever I see a traffic sign that says “watch children” I think about small watches. And I wonder what the pedophiles do when they see those signs?

Here’s one that needs no further explanation. A sheet in a long report that reads “This page intentionally left blank.” No it’s not. I read a blog the other day where the author was proud of his “unbiased opinion.” I guess if he was a movie reviewer he would call a film “unbelievably real.”

All this work is making me hungry. Do you know where I can get a “well done steak?” I mean one that isn’t overcooked of course. Never mind, I’ll just have some “grape nuts.”

Wait.. there isn’t any of either in here. And how am I supposed to tell the difference between “half dressed” and “half naked?” And why do they need a “dressing room” in a strip club? And although I am not a fan of any sport where the winner knocks his opponent out did they think really hard before that named it a “Boxing ring?” Maybe a few too many blows to the head there.

The other day I got my car repaired and before they started they offered me an “exact estimate.” I thought it was too good to be true but I was “cautiously optimistic.” But the best oxymoron is on my computer. To shut it down you click “start”.

With a LARGE debt to the later great George Carlin.

This probably will not seem like such a big deal to the generation that has worked on the Internet their whole lives.
I did my entire job yesterday from a chair in a busy Panera Bread restaurant.

Other than the fact that it was a cold as a witch’s mammary gland in a brass bra ( the AC was on ‘Armageddon’) and some paranoia about my laptop being heisted while I went to the pisser it was fine.

A little less convenient and a slower connection than at home but not bad at all. And the important thing? The job got done and no one but me was the wiser.

To me it’s amazing.

The regular work station set-up is below.

I use the two laptops to work on audio projects and the main system which has the two 22” screens is for the real job. I cover NASCAR for the SPEED Website. Internet is Wi-Fi via Comcast and is normally rock steady.
Yesterday 80 laps before the end of the race the Internet stopped responding. Rebooting the system and the modem gave no joy. A call to Comcast and lucky for me only a brief wait with the annoying music got me the answer I dreaded. “A local node outage” the very nice lady told me. ETA on a fix? No clue.

Laps are running down. I dragged the laptop to the studio (higher than the office) to try and snag a neighbor’s connection. No joy.

50 laps to go I jumped in the car. Closest connection I know of is in Kingston at the Bakeshop – but- are they open on Sunday? I cut my losses and took the longer but sure destination-Panera Bread near the Wyoming Valley Mall.

It was a hair raising trip. You wouldn’t have enjoyed it. I made the discovery that NO one on the radio carries the races. So I fled blindly down the road.

Screamed into the parking lot in a four wheel skid like I was getting a pit-stop. Raced for the front door. Uh-oh. A sign taped to the door. Please dear Buddha of the Internet, don’t let it say no Wi-Fi. No. They are closing at 7pm for some reason.

Grabbed a seat by a power outlet. I had booted the machine at home so it came up right off but I had a bit of trouble getting connected. YES! Finally. I peeped at NASCAR.com and…the race was over. Yikes.

But I got it all up within minutes. Probably almost as fast as normal. With my cell phone chiming as the emails came in and lots of people walking around stuffing their faces with stuff I updated a multimillion dollar web site on the free Wi-Fi at Panera Bread.

Things that could have gone wrong: I could have been stopped for exceeding posted speed limits. The Panera Bread could have been-closed-internetless-unable to process the VPN we use. I could have dropped the laptop in my haste.

But for the price of a Carmel Latte (20 ounce- $4.17) I did my job. I guess I could have even not bought anything but I was so grateful that I felt I had to.

Plus the scenery was a LOT more interesting and LIVE at the Panera bread.

The Rant D’Jour is about meat.

Hungry? How about a nice juicy steak with a side of exhaust fumes. But I am getting ahead…more

-30-