I have read many lamentations from the Generation known as “X,” and ‘Boomer’, and so on. Their mighty and legendary deeds are inscribed on facebook and other social media for all to see. Tis a most worthy homage to bygone eras.
Here is my own contribution to this noble and honorable art form.
A LAMENTATION FROM A LOST GENERATION
We are a generation that shall never return.
That had no fancy phones to entertain us.
Who went entire days and sometimes weeks or months with no parental supervision.
And foraged for food instead of waiting for mom to make it.
We crafted our own toys out of whatever rough materials were handy, instead of buying everything on amazon.
A generation that walked everywhere, without the need for extravagant inventions like the wheel.
That went sometimes for days or weeks without food.
And settled differences like children should, with sharpened sticks and blunt objects and clubs and slingshots until one of us left the arena in disgrace.
Whose bloody exploits are forever commemorated in legend and song.
Whose mighty deeds were written on cave walls and told around campfires in the oral tradition instead of using fancy written language.
Who grew into strong magic, warriors who would do anything to topple demon cults that insulted our gods.
Who crushed our enemies, saw them driven before us, and heard the lamentations of the women.
No, never again shall you see our kind, nor our swords, or sorcery.
You know only a heap of broken images. “You! Hypocrite lecteur! mon semblable! mon frere!”
I heard this Led Zeppelin song today and, like many songs I first encountered as a youth, it caused quite a bit of reflection. Music doesn’t just move you, the best of it also magically transports you to a different place and time.
When I was a young and foolish kid, and first heard this one, I wasn’t crazy about it. I loved Zeppelin with a passion, but like most teens I favored their heavier songs, and this one struck me as too romantic. I wrongly assumed it was about a girl.
Later, I read Hammer of the Gods and learned about how Robert Plant lost his young boy, Karac Pendragon (what a gorgeous name), and this song was his response to that unimaginable tragedy.
Had I been listening closer to the lyrics back when I was a teen, I should have known this was no typical love song:
Yours is the cloth, mine is the hand that sews time His is the force that lies within Ours is the fire, all the warmth we can find He is a feather in the wind, oh
All of my love, all of my love, oh All of my love to you
You can hear his emotion, he is almost crying the lyrics by the end. My heart breaks listening to it.
Today, as a dad myself, I listened to All My Love and realized it’s one of the greatest and most moving rock songs I have ever heard. I am amazed that Plant was able to create something this majestic in the throes of the despair he must have felt. What a tribute to his boy, and to that profound, cruel, life altering loss. I have nothing but respect for Plant as an artist and a human being. Just beautiful.
Spring is the perfect time for THE OSPREY MAN to take flight! I will be at the Barnes and Noble in Poughkeepsie, NY this Saturday, 4/27 starting at 2pm, with copies of the book. Hope to see you there!
“You become mature when you become the authority of your own life.”–Joseph Campbell
I have noticed that some of the most accomplished and successful people I’ve met–writers, academics, business people, whatever field it is–are often the most unassuming and nicest and most supportive. This isn’t always the case, but it has happened often enough that it seems like a pattern. Perhaps these folks don’t need to prove anything, maybe they’re internally motivated and don’t need affirmation from anyone. Just something I’ve been reminded of now and again: if you can do something well, you just get on with it, and perhaps you can help some people along the way. Maybe this is simply maturity; it is an attitude that anyone can have, I think, if they want to, but some are more naturally kind.
Spring, Pieter Bruegel the Elder, 1565
On the other hand, I have known folks who are high achievers who are the opposite, and who constantly want you to know how much they know, how smart they are, how great and talented and so on. Or, worse, they put others down to make themselves feel better. They make cutting comments because, it seems, they are deeply unhappy. But these people are mostly just sad, and do not leave much of an impression, other than they are irritating to be around. I think they’re in the minority, but they make more noise so we sometimes feel like successful people aren’t so nice.
No matter what your profession, or what role you have to play in life, I think, as I get older, that the most important thing is being kind. It is just a better, more peaceful and happier way to go through life than the alternatives. When you go through your day simply being kind, you’re spreading good feelings, hopefully helping people to be better themselves. Find other people like this, and stick with them. Do what you have to and ignore the people who want to bring you down. I think this is an important key to success, however you define that for yourself. Peace and good luck.
“I can alter my life by altering my attitude. He who would have nothing to do with thorns must never attempt to gather flowers.” ― Henry David Thoreau
The library newsletter has a nice picture of my book, along with several others, in an ad for The Poughkeepsie Book Festival. It’s going to be on Saturday, March 30 at Dutchess Community College–I’ll be there with copies of THE OSPREY MAN. Hope to see you there!
I don’t like to write up rants about gigantic companies–such screeds are pointless and only serve to make me angrier. But I just wanted to spread the word about how rude and awful optimum was when I tried to cancel service, and to urge anyone reading this to stay away. I’ve had their internet and phone service for close to a decade, but the service has gotten pretty spotty as my bill crept higher each month. They offer much cheaper options for new customers, but if you’ve been with them for years they tack on new fees every month, until I was paying over $100 for service that started out at around $50 8 years ago.
In the past, I never switched because I knew it would take a lot of hassle and time on the phone. This is why no one bothers to change providers–it is a maddening experience. But I finally saw a much better offer from verizon, offering hundreds of dollars in credits, a 5 year price guarantee, and to really sweeten the deal, a new xbox. So, I decided to switch, against my better judgment.
I knew it would be a pain in the neck, but it was much worse than I envisioned to quit optimum. I’ve never experienced this kind of thing in the past; if I was trying to switch phone or internet or tv providers, maybe a salesperson encouraged me not to quit, but then they just processed my request and it was done.
This time, it took me two+ hours on the phone, multiple callbacks, intentional disconnections from their call center, lengthy waits, constant belittling pressure and badgering to stay with optimum, followed by a bunch of lies and extremely rude and petty behavior from their staff before I could successfully quit. To make matters worse, they charged me for an entire month of service, when I was 2 days into my latest billing cycle. A hundred bucks for two days of service. I told them that if there was ever a chance I’d stay, or come back, it’s gone now. Companies used to pro-rate these things for you, but it seems those days are over.
Then, bizarrely, they called me a couple of times the day after I returned all the equipment, promising lower rates, a reduced final bill, better service for less money, 3 months credit, and a $200 dollar gift card. I couldn’t stop laughing at this. I asked why they didn’t offer this in the first place, as I would have probably stayed with them and avoided the whole ugly ordeal.
Stay far away from optimum, a terrible company that uses pressure tactics and gets very nasty when you try to quit. I’m sure my new company is probably just as heartless but for now I’m happy with the new service.
I imagined for a moment that I was trying to describe today’s entertainments to an alien from another planet:
“There are two teams of exceedingly manly men. They will fight over a ball. A large crowd of people pay thousands of dollars each to witness the spectacle. Many, many millions more will waste an evening at home to witness it, broadcast on large screens. A very great many males wish they were just like these gladiators. They watch their every move and speak of them endlessly, ignoring everything else around them.”
“Are these gladiators playing for money? For their lives?”
“For money, and fame.”
“They’re trying to lift themselves out of poverty?”
“No, most of them are fabulously wealthy already. But forget about that for a moment. There is something else at work here. A world-famous, glamorous singer is at the event. Her mate is a celebrated player. She is very happy when he does well. It brings her joy.”
“OK.”
“This makes many men watching the spectacle at home insane with rage.”
“Why?”
“No one knows why. But these middle-aged, portly, lonely men are so, so angry. And these same men also wish for a dictator to take over their land.”
“What does a dictator have to do with the famous entertainer?”
“No one knows. But they say it is an enormous conspiracy.”
“To what end?”
“No one knows. ‘Tis a mystery, traveler.”
“What happens when the game is over?”
“The side that wins is very happy and they gain fame and riches. Everyone else must go back to work.”
“What about the singer?”
“No matter what happens, she remains rich and famous and enrages the lonely old men.”
I sent some questions to our Tolkien Conference guest, Professor Nicholas Birns, you can read his responses below. Go to the conference page to register or submit a proposal.
I like to take a break from social media and blogging and things like that through the holidays. I want to wish everyone a Merry Christmas, Joyous Solstice, a Happy New Year, and may any other holiday you celebrate bring you peace and joy with those you love.
I’ve been working on lots of different things, hopefully some of them will see publication in the new year. Perhaps I’ll share some of these works in progress here; I had planned one book for release next September, but my publisher seems to be defunct now, so I’ll search for a new venue in 2024.
In the meantime, please enjoy this holiday song, “Run With the Fox,” from Alan White and Chris Squire, two great musicians who have passed on. This time of year I think we all remember friends and family who shared past holidays with us, and who are no longer here. I like to focus on the good times we had together and how lucky I am to have shared such moments. Peace to everyone reading this.
A friend gave me a tape of Pogues songs when I was in college, back in the mid-90s. It was like nothing I’d ever heard before, but at the same time, incredibly familiar. Irish traditional music with a punk edge and a poetic lyricism that many songwriters attempt and few carry off. I was dumbfounded. I went out and bought everything they had released.
The more I learned about the Pogues, the more I hoped to see them. The problem was that they no longer existed, like so many of the bands I grew up admiring. Shane was unreliable, I read, and had split with his bandmates. This was news I was not happy to hear. But I bought Shane’s new records, recorded with a band he called ‘The Popes.’ The Snake was a great album, I loved it–it featured a hilarious track called “The Church of the Holy Spook” that I enjoyed playing at full volume. I liked some of his work with the Pogues more, but that record was important to me; I’d been waiting for a new album, rejoiced when it came, and played it for months, to the irritation of friends riding around with me in my junker of a Dodge Colt.
The other albums the Pogues recorded were a revelation to me. Impossibly good, each one better than the last. Songs like Navigator, and The Sick Bed of Cuchulain, A Pair of Brown Eyes, Dirty Old Town, The Irish Rover were the soundtrack of my twenties. I listened a lot to other music too, but the Pogues were something special. The music is wonderful but the heart of it was Shane and his poetry. He was such a writer! Singing of mythology and death and gambling and drinking with wit and charm and humor, and making this unlikely blend seem natural and easy to do. Read some of his lyrics sometime–they stand up well after all these years, even without the aid of the band. I have a feeling his songs will be sung long after all of us are gone.
And of course, there is no better drinking music. Brown Eyes begins: “One summer evening drunk to hell, I sat there nearly lifeless” and every time I heard it I burst out laughing, usually with a bottle in my hand.
I tried and failed to see them when they reformed in 2002. I got tickets the instant they went on sale and I waited for the day excitedly. My girlfriend and I would see the great songwriter in person, on St. Patrick’s Day in New York. What could be better?
We drank a lot of beers before going to the venue, but when we arrived we found a Xerox sheet on the locked doors: “THE POGUES SHOW TONIGHT IS CANCELLED.” Shane was mercurial and not so reliable with shows. He wasn’t healthy. Had it been some lesser artist, almost any other artist, I would have been angry and complained. But this was Shane MacGowan. I was crushed, but not angry with him, only sad I didn’t get to see him. We went and had some more pints of Guinness and played the Pogues on a jukebox.
Eventually, I saw him in 2008. It was worth the wait. Maybe it wasn’t the heyday of the Pogues, but I didn’t care at all. I got to see him, the peerless songwriter, the guy who in my opinion is up there with Dylan.
“Did the old songs taunt or cheer you? And did they still make you cry? Did you count the months and years Or did your teardrops quickly dry?”
–Thousands are Sailing
The lyric above always reminded me of my Irish grandmother, a woman I never knew, who died before I was born. An immigrant who arrived in New York when she was in her early twenties. Anytime I asked my father about her, he got very serious and spoke in reverent tones. She was very sick with Parkinson’s from the time he was a young boy. Confined to a wheelchair and ill, she was taken care of by my grandfather. My dad wasn’t big on sharing a lot of detail of his early life, but I know he grew up in borderline poverty, and her illness pained him even many decades later. It must have been hard to see the person he loved most so helpless. I could see in his eyes how much he cared for her, what an important force she was in his life. He was a kind, gentle soul, and I credit the woman she must have been for that. I’m sorry I didn’t know her.
I did know her brothers, however. I recall them coming to the house when I was a young boy. They had brogues and smoked and drank and laughed constantly and I thought they were rock stars. I’ll never forget their visits. I wish I knew them better because they seemed like an awful lot of fun.
My father also told me of going back to her hometown in rural Ireland in the early 1950s, when he was in the Air Force. He arrived in her little town, where a woman greeted him, saying, “You must be Mary’s boy.” Indeed he was. They had been told he might visit, and I guess the town was small enough that his reputation preceded him.
As an adult I gained Irish citizenship. I love Irish music and poetry, and feel proud to be Irish, but have never had the chance to go to Ireland. I’ve gained citizenship for my kids, as well. Someday we’ll all go and visit that beautiful island, and drink to my father, and my grandmother, and to Shane. May they all rest in peace. Thank you, Shane, you crazy, beautiful, poetic soul. Your exquisite songs of love and longing and hope helped many of us understand where we came from a little better.
If I should fall from grace with God Where no doctor can relieve me If I’m buried in the sod But the angels won’t receive me
Let me go, boys, let me go, boys Let me go down in the mud, where the rivers all run dry
Christopher Tuthill 