For Fred J. Glotz: A deceased man who thought he couldn't & was right

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Failure

By an for Fred J. Glotz

02/16/2011

Failure is an odd companion. In many ways failure (whether it is failure of parents expectations, your lover's or your own) is like the Gothic girl, the one with the torn black stockings and smudged eye liner) that you couldn't take home to your folks, but never-the-less stayed with you until the day before you were married. It never leaves your heart or you head. By the time you realize that failure is your constant companion, it is the bottom of the 8^th, you are three runs down and your realize you have not swung the bat yet.

Failure is neither female or male. It simply is. It shows up in it's most detrimental form possible: your mom, dad, your 8^th grade gym teacher, an old lover or yourself. Once it shows up, it doesn't change form until the next chance for failure comes along.

It has a voice. It is that consistent flat tone. It uses the same voice, same tone, same pace and pitch. Failure hums in your ear and drones, “You are a schmuck! (Camels of the world please forgive the comparison.) It says you are a disappointment. Failure says you are a disappointment to yourself. A drawback to the family gene pool. A letdown to your planet and a boil on the buttocks of the universe.

Pick any evil entity. Pick Satan. Satan loves failures like angels love the repentant believer. This is true, just too true. But, then again, the great writers of poetry, opera, books, Eric Carmen and even Aaron Barrett have used failure to fall into success. Failure means big bucks to some. Probably bucks for the evil entity too.

It is not failure that breaks you down. It is the exercise of getting up off the mat of the ring: time and time and time again! You get up until your legs break or you win the match.

From the view of the rest of the world, all failure's look, smell, dance and taste alike. Maybe all failure's are the same … in the same way that Hela Monster tastes like chicken.

From the view of the failures ourselves, every failure is different distinct from all others. It is we, not failure, brings us to the brink of recognizing ourselves falling down the dark rabbit hole as we experience ourselves climbing out.

So: what do we do?

Fight the never-ending good fight.

“Take comfort where you find it. Whatever gets you through.” – Rob Royer

You do what you need to to get by.

Being a failure means that you have the opportunity to push back against the prick of your own life. Your own karma.

So carry on. Carry back. Carry over. Carry though. Cary Fisher and even carry me back to old Virginny.

Carry your heart and sole to get you through 'til tomorrow morning.  

2 DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS

   It was two days before Christmas.  It was snowing: a wet, heavy snow.  The kind of snow that turns the roads to slush and then to ice.  I pulled into Barnes and Noble to find Val a last minute gift.  As I entered B&N the snow slowly turned to sleet.

   You know it takes at least 90 minutes to go through even a small B&N.  In this case, it was 2 hours 15 minutes.

   When I left, the slush had turned to snow.  The snow to sleet and the sleet to ice: about 1" of ice.  On the road.  On my windshield and on my car handle.  You know that my passenger-side car door has not worked for  well over a year and the only way into my beloved Buick is through the driver-side door.

   Well I got out to my car and pulled the door handle AND NOTHING HAPPENED.  Well here it is.  I am increasingly wet and icy and ... very cold.  Without thinking about the fact that ice is all over everything,  I give my door handle one more pull and with mighty moose muscle ... breaking the door handle off inside the door.

   I stood there in non-belief and stared at my hand that held my door handle.  At that I heard a small car horn and I looked up to see people with about 15 skis attached to the top of a rented KIA hatchback.  Very politely the (presumed) wife rolled down a window and said, "When that happens to us we pour hot water over the door."  I held my door handle up so that they could see the major problem.  She said,"Oh. sweety.  At least you will have one less problem."  I smiled.  Said thanks and watched the KIA slide up the hill sideways.

    Finally, I walked into a nearby Starbuck's for the first of 3 - 16 oz. cups of hot water.  Finally, I got the door unfrozen.  It was at this point I realized that I had about 20 minutes before the water I had poured to loosen the door and I did not have a plan to open the door.  My thoughts immediately went back to 8th grade when Mike Wilsey had shown me how to break into a car.  So I heated the trunk key with a borrowed cigarette lighter and found one of Marv's old screwdrivers.

   So here I was trying to remember the felony that Mike had shown me how to 40 years before when I became aware of blue and red lights whizzing around behind me ... and a cop standing behind me asking, "May I ask just what the hell you are doing sir?"
   "I'm breaking into my own car."
   "Sure you are."  I had just gotten off the shift from the photo I sent to you and didn't look like an upstanding middle aged pillar of society.
    "Your license and registration please."
   "Well here's my license and my registration is in the glove box  and I am getting really cold."
   "License and registration, now!"  and with that the door popped open.
   "How do you plan on starting this car?" 
   "With my key from the broken door on my car door than I broke off the handle to."  I showed him the blue door handle.
   "If you are a thief, you are the worst I have ever seen."

   Well at length the officer called for wants and warrants and the cop came back to the car smiling.  "Well this is one for the squad room.  Sorry for the hassle."

   He drove off and I wondered when my Dad left that screwdriver in my trunk:  seeing as he never saw my beloved Buick.

Seany

Sean.  I was at Rowland Hall today.  Wonderful school, people, etc.  I thought about the shocked and angry look on your face when I told you we were going to move to Missouri.  I regret moving you out of that school.  I thought I was doing the right thing.  Sorry 'bout that.
   Also ... not sure what I did to piss you off so much ... sorry 'bout that also.
-- Dad

Dogs Can't See Rainbow

There is little, in all the world, that puts the universe in its best and proper order, than falling asleep with your arms about the wonderful, warm, and willing love o'your heart.  

Dogs, as it turns, cannot see rainbows.  They are colour blind.  They cannot see colour and we cannot see deepest affection of our hearts.

As on a speeding train, where colours fly and roll together more quickly than Monet's last breath, love flies by and we never stop the train to look about ... and see the rainbow.

February 11, 1964 in Washington, D.C.

What a night! February 11, 1964 from the Washington, DC Coliseum .

“From Liverpool England! The most exciting band in rock and roll in the world! Capitol recording artists. Ladies and Gentlemen ... the Beatles!” With that four young men walked out, moved their own equipment around, plugged in, chatted with the cops by the stage and cranked up an electrically-charged concert before 7,000 (mostly female) screaming fans. With that I, a non-committal Beatles fan at best, was transfixed by this concert film. Grainy and with beautiful single track monophonic sound, this film is s joy to behold. (See www.apple.com/the-beatles.)

The first thing you notice about this show is the non-fained innocence of the band as they set about doing their own 'roadie' work as if they were back at the Cavern singing for free beers. Next you notice that the show was in-the-round. The Beatles had about 2300 fans on each side of them and no one thought that this might be dangerous for the band; think 'The Who' in Cincinnati and Altamont. Finally, you have to be stunned to notice that only eight of DC's Finest easily kept the stage clear. [It took only three cops to walk (yes, walk) the band back to the dressing room after the show.]

I am a very jaded individual, but all of this could never happen today. If even a minor star tried this type of informality, the star and the promoter would have more law suits than bed bugs in a cheap NYC hotel.

This show too place only two days after their first gig on the Ed Sullivan Show. The concert opened with George up front doing Chuck Berry's Rollover Beethoven and finished with Little Richard's Long Tall Sally with Paul in the lead. The fact is that Paul's version of Long Tall Sally may be the best rock and roll song of all-time. [If you doubt me, give a listen to the last cut on British release of Wings Over America if you want proof.]

Everything in between, all 40 ' 12” of it, are these 2' 30” pieces of pure joy. Even a cover of the Isley Brother's Twist and Shout comes off cleanly and authentically R&B.

To be certain there are the occasional missed note or riff, as is true of all live shows, but the band is well practiced and tight. It does seem that John's famous (infamous) leopard scream tends to draw Paul a quarter tone flat throughout the show. One thing that made this 100+ db crowd noise concert that much more impressive is the fact that the entire show was played through only a trio of 100 watt Vox studio amps. It is surprising that the band could hear at all, yet it was in tune. (Playing in European beer bars was probably a great training ground.)

This concert showcased four young men who were apparently having the time of their lives. I had forgotten that the Beatles were young once-upon-a-time and only became pseudo-religious icons post-Revolver. The band looked and acted like bandmates: smiling and chatting happily between songs and whilst moving the amps or drum kit around. They and all concert goers looked … happy.

Only 5 ½ scant years after this show, the Beatles were functionally no more. John was off with Yoko. Paul was happily married to a Kodak trust-funder. George was in and out East Pakistan (now Bangladesh) hip deep in the Maharishi's teachings and Ringo was off being Ringo: never really gone, but no longer in the center of the spotlight.

Were we ever really as young and innocent as it seems we were in 1964? Yes, I think were probably were. But one thing is certain, that we have never that innocent since.

everybody loves raymond ....

I would love to say it isn't true, but there are many parts of ELR  that match my parent's house it is frightening.  My Mom was Marie in a nightgown and dark glasses.  Frank matches my Dad's most functional personality (there were 3 of them just before he died).   True, we did not have a really big person with smelly feet, but there is more!  Although Raymond feared his Mom and Dad, I simply tried to make everything alright to everyone.  The interesting thing is that both ways of dealing with family failed miserably ... for both of us.  Still you can't find much else funnier than ELR and my family.

Small Lives

It is a small life, but it is the life that we have chosen or that life that has chosen for us. All the small victories and various sized loses make up the heart of a small life. All of us, living our small lives together, each doing what we do make up civilization. In the final analysis, it really is a small life: but it is all we have.  And we are probably all the better for its size.