The Clock, The Calendar And A Few Good Tunes: A New Year's Concoction
Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock ...
(Train whistle and rumbling in the distance)
Tick, tock, tick, tock ...
(Ding ... random phone notification. Whatever could it be?)
Tick, tock ...
Can you hear it? It's the sound of your life passing; it's the sound of my life passing. It's this clock on the wall letting me know how much time I have left to spend on any particular thing before time directs my attention elsewhere. It is a consistent reminder - second by waning second - that this day will soon be a distant memory in yet another tomorrow.
And then another X is scratched into the calendar, until another calendar passes its expiration date and melts into oblivion. I am told this is something we humans refer to as "life."
Tick, tock, tick, tock ...
The sound can elicit as much comfort as dread, steadily coaxing us throughout our journeys or hastily forcing us through the days, weeks, months ...
Years.
(Hurry! You have to be there by 3, you know. The cows need picked, the kids need watered, the plants need their diapers changed. And don't you dare be late to serve. One more time and you're fired.)
Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock ...
What's this, 2022? What the hell happened to 2021, or 2020 for that matter? The bones of calendars past are stacking up, filling the closets and boneyards of us all. No matter the stockpile, we always find room for one more.
Until we don't. And then what? It matters not, and there is no time to waste on such rhetoric when time's a' wastin'. The laundry needs folded ...
Oh, wait. This isn't laundry day. So what day is this, actually? I thought this was Saturday ... it sure felt like Wednesday, or Monday. I swear. It's not.
Tick, tock, tick, tock ...
(Come on! You said you would be there by 3. Tardiness is intolerable. Get it done, whatever it is. You ... are ... failing!)
What kind of treachery is this? Are we not aware of our own mortality? Do we not understand that we are supposed to live like there is no tomorrow? Is this even possible under the oppressive rule of the right here, right now?
Tick, tock ...
Does anyone else feel this awkward sensation of not being able to remember the past year? Because I do. I can recall certain occasions and instances that I experienced. I know I was there; I know I did that. I think so, anyway. But I'm talking about the overall awareness of the year at large as a whole. Did it really happen, or was it all a dream?
That's a silly question. Of course it happened. The calendar told me so, as did the clock.
Tick, tock, tick ... tock. Do you hear it?
(Editor's note: It has been just a hair shy of a week since I wrote that segment. The purpose was to write another piece using random songs to steer my thoughts wherever they may roam, but I got on a tilt. And then what was just going to be a setup for where I was really going turned out to be where I really went. All rambling on and on about the clock and calendar and such with two shots of mindfulness and a slice of lunacy. Truth be told, I kind of got lost. And I ran out of ... time.)
So upon revisiting it, I will continue. Because life is nothing more than a series of thoughts, actions, reactions and individual perceptions regarding all of the above.
What did that mean or have to do with anything? Nothing, which means it's time to start the music and shift gears ... before I run out of time.
Tick ...
Cinderella - Back Home Again
I was so thrilled when I landed my very first job in the summer between my sophomore and junior years of high school. While I wasn't a stranger to mowing, stacking wood and whatever other shit kids do in exchange for some spending cash, this was official.
I was about to earn my very own taxpayer card. I was going to be in the "club."
My new career as a dishwasher was about to take me places I had never been before, in a car I was going to be buying if this here thing took wings. It was a magical time, stuffed full of possibilities as sweet as cinnamon on toast.
Crrrrunch.
I filled out the application, demanding nothing less than minimum wage for my toil and services. And when asked to provide letters of recommendation, I responded with gusto, securing a testimonial from my pastor and another from the mother of a longtime family friend.
Yes, I had come to the interview with my guns loaded - this restaurant was not allowed to pass up such a fine catch from the pond of the never-before-employed. Not only had my pastor gushed - with the approval of God, no less - about what a fine specimen I was in both character and moral cut, my friend's mom was kind enough to say I had never "snubbed anyone." Why she chose to write those words, why I remember them or why they're even in question is not the point. No, the point is to appreciate kindness in all of its many forms.
And I do. It was very nice of them both to write such nice things about a trite lad like me. It really was.
Was it overkill for the situation and more than they were asking for? Most likely, based on the bemused grin slithering across the restaurant manager's rosy, rotund puss upon reading them. But then again, I didn't know the situation before it became the situation. That was the situation, that situation being ...
I was hired.
The orientation was like traveling into an alternate reality, I say. For that very same manager whose demeanor had, just mere days ago, been one hinting at a fellow rife with joy and felicity now appeared stressed and broken. His morning was going to consist of laying down the law for yet another batch of ignorant high school kids, and his once-smirking puss now bore that angst.
Or maybe he had a recent fight with his cheating wife, or his terminally ill dog pissed on his new bowling shoes, or he got his member caught in the zipper while standing half-naked, half-awake and fully barefoot at the morning commode.
Isn't it fun to go places without even moving?
Much to my shock and awe, and several of the other young hopefuls I noticed absorbing this bold introduction to our presents and futures, this manager ...
Hold up. Can we go ahead and give this guy a name? Because referring to him as "the manager," "this manager," or "that manager" isn't cutting it. It will be an alias; protecting the innocent is paramount. Let's call him ...
Merle.
Merle proceeded to school us on the lay of the land, leaving no stone unturned as to what our individual duties would consist of within the collective fabric of teamwork. This restaurant needed to run like a machine, and it was up to us young whippersnappers to be the cylinders. Stealing a glance around the tables, I could sense an eagerness to get started among my new peers.
And fear ... the fear was palpable. Merle was laying it on pretty thick in a pot-bellied attempt to let us fools know who was in charge, which was working like a spell. We were mesmerized. We were now in Merle's world.
Imagine our relief when Merle's human side emerged, informing us all about the company's policy that allowed employees to get a drink any time they needed one. I could tell his intent was to ease us out of the shells that his prior curtness had driven us into. This man was capable of playing both good cop and bad - a formidable force, indeed.
"Look, we're not a chain gang around here," he spoke from twisted lips partially hidden underneath a grizzled 'stache. "Everyone gets thirsty; even I get thirsty."
"Holy smokes," we internally, inaudibly gasped in unison. This was getting real now. This man was mortal, just like the rest of us.
The gleam of realism only escalated as our attentions were directed toward the clipboard designated for requesting time off. This, we were instructed, was where we were to list any days or nights we were out of commission due to other commitments - birthdays, death days, good days, bad days, dog days and the like.
"That doesn't mean I want 10 people requesting time off to go to the Ban Jobi concert," Merle snarled.
Ban Jobi? I knew there had recently been a Bon Jovi concert. But who was this Ban Jobi? Why was I in the dark on this? The stifled snickering from covered mouths evidenced that no one else in that room but Merle had ever heard of Ban Jobi, either.
The Cinderella song that started this whole trip was one I listened to on the way to my first day on the job, which turned out to be my last. What a disaster that turned out to be. I wore dress shoes to a dishwashing job, forcing me to learn how to glide across a greasy kitchen floor with the newfound grace of a figure skater.
Holding a stack of fragile plates. How would you guess that went? I'll spare you the details, as doing otherwise would only serve to frustrate you somehow. Plus, I need to move on.
Anyway, it didn't matter and doesn't matter. I had another job the very next week, one that worked out very well to where I didn't end up disappointing my pastor nor my old friend's mom.
And I still don't snub anyone.
Tick, tock, tick, tock ...
Ozzy Osbourne - The Ultimate Sin
Some of life's most inexplicable riddles are also the most entertaining.
For instance, as much as I enjoyed hair metal in its heyday and still appreciate it to this day, the psychology behind it can be baffling to someone who doesn't understand. It was a phenomenon that steamrolled across the 80's music world like a raging earthmover, encouraging rock musicians - from established professionals to starry-eyed upstarts - to jump on a radical bandwagon.
Yes, the 80's ... a time when androgyny reigned supreme to create an ambiguous culture of ratty hair and rocking riffs.
Male musicians from all walks of life were united, if only through a desire to be the best looking women they could possibly be while trying to rise to the top of the hair heap. "Men's men" lost their minds, ridiculing the way these guys looked, the way they played, posed, pouted, etc.
"I hate that band. They look like a bunch of girls. They suck," was the general consensus from the He-Man gallery, typically adding for bad measure, "They're probably even gay."
People completely and hopelessly out of the know, beyond all doubt, because these guys got women by the truckload. In the 80's, there was also an entire subculture of females who absolutely went clinical over men who were prettier than they were.
Ironical, in a way. Don't you think?
This image sold hundreds of millions of records for just as many bands. It sold out countless tours for nearly a decade, from clubs to stadiums. And it also became a trendy cross for some cusp superstars to bear.
Like Ozzy, who likely found himself in a very profound position when told he would need to wash his hair once in a while so the stylist could tease it into a mound of relevancy.
Now don't go thinking I'm ripping on the Prince of Darkness, because that is far from my intention. But even the most diehard Ozzy fan cannot deny the fact that he was never known for physical attractiveness and sparkly costumes. He was dirty, greasy, gritty and didn't care, and that's what his rabid fans appreciated about him.
Black Sabbath, biting the head off a dove, biting the head off a bat (speaking of rabid), pissing on the Alamo, ingesting a never-ending array of chemicals that would drop an elephant ... and, with the help of tremendous musicians, producers and a wife/manager that somehow kept his crazy ass alive and working, put out a lot of music that falls into the "iconic" category and will forever.
So flash back to 1986, right in the thick of this hair metal revolution. Ozzy's album The Ultimate Sin is released on February 22, which captured my imagination upon the first listen. Some didn't appreciate it, but I sure did, right from the opening drums hammering out the introduction to the album's ghostly title track.
But something had changed, dynamically. There was Ozzy, not an attractive man by physical definition, now looking like someone's crazy aunt on a bender. His hair was teased to the moon and resembled most of the girls' hairdos in my class at school. You know what I mean, super fluffy on top and around the face, but gradually loosening into a flow dipping just beneath the shoulders.
This wasn't a girl in my class, though. This was Ozzy goddamn Osbourne. Far be it from me to be too critical, because I have pictures floating around out there somewhere of myself looking like someone's hot sister. I know this. But something was amiss with Ozzy clumsily trying to pull off this dog-and-pony show ... it was weird to me.
I can imagine the conversation with management, the record label and Ozzy himself.
"I know this will make you feel, uh, different. But Ozzy, this is what the kids want, and they might feel you've lost a step and decide to stop buying your albums if you continue to look ... um, dirty. Sorry, we mean ... less than clean. We don't want that; you don't want that; Sharon doesn't want that. Do it for the kids, Ozzy. We've brought in Phyllis Diller's stylist to help with your look and Dolly Parton's wardrobe designer. You're in great hands ... trust us."
Ozzy reluctantly agrees between swigs of Jack.
But it was a sign of the glorious, glamorous times. It was necessary for the greater good and survival of a legend, regardless of the oddity. And the music was damn good.
Ozzy deserves to be cut much slack, especially now in what is most likely his final chapter along with many of my other musical heroes. Listening to this song brings me light, and I am forever grateful for it - blush, eyeliner, hairspray, glitter and all.
Even if it never fails to revive that image of someone's crazy aunt ... driving the crazy train.
Tick ...
Boston - More Than A Feeling
The classic image-inducing song, in my opinion. Easy, breezy, but far from cheesy.
Waking up, turning on some music to start the day. Maybe over a cup of coffee, if you're into that sort of thing.
My introduction to Boston came through my late aunt, who gave me a dubbed cassette tape with KISS on one side. And who do you think was on the other?
Yep, Boston.
Her intention in giving me the tape in the first place centered around my fascination with KISS, which had been burgeoning in me since I was in the second grade. It was at the ripe old age of seven or eight that an older cousin gave me nearly every album KISS had put out by that time, and I was instantly and hopelessly hooked. Each time I dropped the needle (yes, it was vinyl ... this was the middle slice of the 70's, after all), the energy shooting out of the grooves, up the needle and into my ears made my heart race in ways I had never felt before.
My aunt was privy to my new obsession, so she gave me this tape she had one day while taking me to McDonald's for a Filet-O-Fish and some of those classically delicious fries. I couldn't wait to listen to it, and I had hopes of devouring some new KISS tunes. Much to my dismay, it was the Destroyer album - one which was already in my collection that I knew by heart, front to back and inside-out.
So much for that.
But this Boston band on the flip-side, now that was something different. More Than A Feeling grabbed me by the face from the moment it started and it never let go. The vibe was soothing like a Valium, even when it ripped out of ballad gear and into rock speed. Furthermore, the lyrics painted a picture that even a kid looking forward to nothing more than KISS and a Filet-O-Fish could wrap his head around.
And the fish - it was scrumptious.
To this day, that song stirs memories from the dustiest corners of my mind, reminding me that there is still a kid in there that holds onto fascination and wonderment for dear life.
Because when that is gone, my friends, so are we. Just ask Brad Delp.
For those who know the name, you know. For those who don't, look him up.
This song lets me know everything is going to be all right. It is one of the few songs I know that can make time stand still long enough for me to see another light from another time, all while bridging the gap between then and now and making sense out of every last second I can and can't remember.
And then it's over.
Tock ...
