Grandma, beautiful Grandma
Joy, happiness, joy
All hail the wannabe warriors
Reading us all into shame
They of the booty unconquered
Long may we bask in their Rain
I love bunnies.
Who do I think I’m kidding? I’m not going to go back in there until this thing is over. It’s not just the sight of that poor kid’s dead body that’s bothering me. It’s the whole situation. I’m 20 years old. I can’t take the responsibility for directing a funeral. Elder Slinker and the Sisters will have to deal with this one on their own.
Geez, I hope nobody comes by and sees me crying. That would be the talk of the town. “Hey, did you see the gringo whimpering down there by the plaza? Yeah, that’s right, the short one.” Man, this is just too much. I mean, two weeks ago this family was doing just fine, taking care of their animals, minding their own business, and BOOM, we happen along. “Hi! We have a message for you from Jesus Christ. Could we come in and tell you about it?”
I just don’t know anymore. They seemed so golden, listening to every word, praying with us, asking if we’d come and teach them again tomorrow. It really was starting to look like Concepción was going to have its very first convert baptisms. I was sure the father would be the town’s first branch president before the year was out. Just a month after opening the area we were going to have some real members.
And then this. What could be the reason for it? A family, opening their hearts to our message, leaving behind their Catholic beliefs and WHAM, their 10-year-old boy is run over by a transport truck. A transport truck! This isn’t supposed to happen. They sure never taught us the correct procedure for explaining why an investigator’s kid dies just as said investigator is deciding to join the Church.
Oh great, here comes somebody. No problem, just turn away as they walk by. I can hear Slinker and the Sisters in there singing. Isn’t that ‘I Know That My Redeemer Lives’? What should I say to them when they finally come out? I guess I’ll just say I’ve never been able to handle funerals.
If we hadn’t appeared on the scene the family would at least still have their Catholic faih to look to for strength. As it stands we’ve convinced them to set aside their previous beliefs but they don’t know enough about the Mormons yet to fill the void. This is too much to put on a 20-year-old, especially one who’s not sure himself about what he’s teaching.
It’s too late to back off now though. We’ll just have to testify to them some more. We can’t just leave them in limbo after the impact we’ve had on their lives to this point. I wish my buddy Billo were here. He’d at least put his arm around me and say “Knock it off, things will work out.” He wouldn’t actually know how things would work out, but just to hear him say it would help.
I just hope the Church is true. If it’s not, then… I mean… Why the hell am I here? I’m only in Concepción because the Mission President found out that I broke the rules and decided that office Elders had to be more of an example for the other missionaries. So he thought that having me finish my mission as a branch president in a newly-opened area would change my ways. Yeah right, all assignments are inspired, eh? I guess old Elder Fail, you know the one out here in the street whimpering while his companions console a suffering family, he’s definitely the one to go up there and begin the work in Concepción. Good move, Pres!
Am I a good missionary? For that matter, am I even a good Mormon? Hold up, here they come. Alright, calm down. Straight face.
“How are you Elder?”
“I’m ok. Sorry I couldn’t help you out in there.”
“Don’t worry about it. The Sisters want us to go with them to their place. Sister Lopez made some rice pudding.”
“Sounds good.”
Concepción, Junín, Perú – February 1985
Here I was in Sao Paulo yesterday doing the work that most romanticize, some demonize, and the reality of which few would recognize. I was in a taxi returning from a failed quest to find cheddar cheese when I looked out the window and what did I see? Brilliant black and white posters shouting “Therion – Outubro 26.”
An immediate aside: Roughly one month ago, I happened upon a new music option of which I had previously been completely unaware. Variously called “romantic death metal,” “melodic doom,” and “symphonic black metal,” the sub-genre mixes crunching heavy metal bass, guitar, and drums with operatic vocals, pseudo-classical piano, violin, cello, and even, at times, oboe. It differentiates itself from mainstream death metal – for which I have little-to-no fondness – partly by replacing the shouted, gruff, satanic vocal style with angelic, choral, and often female beautifulness. The violin/cello interludes – especially those coupled with a background of grinding industrial rhythms – also add to its attraction. Via some internet sampling, I had been dabbling of late with – and treadmill walking to – the sounds of three bands in particular: Haggard, My Dying Bride, and Therion(!).
So, in what seemed to me to be an incredible twist of fate, I was amazed to learn that Swedish rockers Therion were not only in Brazil, but were to perform in Sao Paulo that very evening. Of course, being a risk averse old geezer, thoughts of actually seeking out and attending the concert were quickly overwhelmed by laziness – the posters didn’t actually say where the concert would be; how was I to find it? – wussiness – maybe it would be far away in a bad neighborhood and I’d be assaulted, or worse – and insecurity – I’m a pathetic old fart, young Brazilian rockers would laugh at me. I returned to my solitary hotel room for a late afternoon of room service and old movies (The Desert Fox: The Story of Rommel ).
But wait, as long as I have my computer in front of me, why not check the internet to see if I can find out where exactly the concert will be held. What the hell?! The venue is only FIVE BLOCKS from my hotel. That changes things. No longer do I face concern about finding a late night taxi to return home. If victimized by crime and left naked in the street, I would only have to streak a few blocks to return to the clothes, cash, and tranquility left behind in the room. Moreover, if the crowd were to prove hostile to an aging gringo rocker or if tickets were no longer available, there would be little lost by just walking the five minutes back home. I’m going for it!
In what true believers might view as divine intervention, I happened to pack a black Utah Jazz t-shirt for use in the hotel exercise room. First time in months that I had not opted for the usual gray DC United shirt. I found that by turning the Jazz shirt inside out and pulling off the tag, it passed for simple black “goth.” Unfortunately, tan dockers and white Nike sneakers were the only options for the rest of the outfit, but hey, the point was solely to avoid standing out vice the more difficult – and likely impossible – fitting in. I dumped all credit cards, extra cash, and most ID into the in-room safe, uncombed my dork hair, and set out.
Five blocks and 16 dollars later, I found myself standing near the back of the chairless 1000-person venue doing some people-watching in between glances at the two video screens alongside the stage that were showing TV commercials for everything from airlines to cell phones to DirecTV. All my fellow humans – I loved and felt one with all of them by now – were dressed in black. A small few went all out with the white vampire goth makeup, lacy black garments, black leather pants, long coats, and, of course, tall black leather boots. Most however sported the same black T-shirts and normal dude pants that I had chosen for the evening. While clearly beyond the median age, I was most certainly not the oldest. A few retired-looking attendees created within me fond memories of my own grandma taking my sister to an Emerson, Lake & Palmer concert way back when. I was clearly entering a happiness zone.
The band took the stage on time at 2200 hours. Two guitars, bass, and drums were accompanied by three vocalists; female soprano, female contralto(?), and a male baritone – but not gruff – voice. Band leader Mr. Johnsson seemed sincerely happy to find me and my roughly 700 friends in attendance and welcomed us enthusiastically to the show. The loud, two-hour set, including two encores, was just plain excellent. Piano and organ sounds appeared to be all on tape – which was a bummer – but the guitars did a surprisingly good job of mimicking the original violins and cellos, as I could personally judge from the two Therion songs I had heard before. I floated into the heavens on the wings of sound created by our two female death mongers dressed in their long black gowns; their voices were damn hell gorgeous. I banged my head.
As the concert ended and I made my way the hell out of Dodge, I dropped the equivalent of 7 dollars on a Therion South America Tour 2001 black (obviously) t-shirt. While working my way back to my lodging through empty, semi-residential streets, I smiled. I had seized the day. I had gotten off my butt. I had sought life. I had rocked.
Next morning as I sit contemplating last night’s events, I glance out onto the balcony to see my clothes blowing in the breeze in a likely futile attempt to remove the cigarrette stink. I am at peace. I miss my kids and wife. I await the moment of my return flight to Brasilia and home. I look forward to in-depth discussion of Dragonball Z and Harry Potter with my boy. I pine to listen to my daughter read Dr. Seuss aloud. I wish to hug long my postal service spouse. I am happy.
And so, the year 2001… Among the various monumental and fleeting experiences so far this year, two stand out for me at the moment of this typing. While they may seem total opposites when viewed from outside, the inner peace they brought are the same. The temporary connections with the universe these two days in the life spawned cannot be differentiated. These outwardly incompatible moments of internal calm and understanding were: (1) sitting on a lonesome windblown high-altitude hillside outside Huancavelica, Peru, contemplating some Andean folk pasturing their sheep, and (2) closing my eyes and being sucked into heavy metal Valhalla by the roaring guitars and vampire angels of Therion on a Sao Paulo Friday night.
– Sao Paulo, 27 October 2001
Reelin’ and Rockin’ – Chuck Berry
The first record album I remember having as my own was a Chuck Berry greatest hits collection called Johnny B. Goode that my mom bought me. I had one of those briefcase-like record players with the cover that latches and a handle for carrying around. I distinctly remember lugging that record player into the downstairs living room as a roughly 9-10 year old, getting out the Chuck Berry LP and putting on the song Reelin’ and Rockin’ over and over again so I could learn all the lyrics and sing along.
The company that pressed that record (Pickwick) knew what was up ‘cause they put a big pink sticker next to Chuck on the album cover announcing the inclusion of Reelin’ and Rockin’ amongst the disc’s gems. I liked all the songs but that one song was by far the one that most called out to me. The whole time countdown scenario was the coolest thing I had ever heard – time was passing and Chuck was trying to have as much fun as possible before it got too late!! I could totally relate.
Well I looked at my watch, it was 9:21
We was at a rock’n’roll dance having nothing but fun
Well I looked at my watch, it was 9:43
And everytime I spinned she spinned with me
Well I looked at my watch, it was 10:05
Man, I didn’t know if I was dead or alive
Well I looked at my watch, it was 10:26
But I’m gonna keep on dancing till I get my kicks
I wanted to sing along to the whole (more than four minutes!!) song but the lyric was pretty complicated. No verses repeated (although some lines did). It took a while but eventually I had the whole thing down and I could just let it play through and warble along while dance-running around the room. It was probably my first experience with getting completely pulled into a song and just plain feeling the joy.
As I listen to the song now, I realize it is probably where my taste for chugging electric guitar began as well – what with the freight train-like repeated riff throughout – but back then it was all about the super cool story and the obvious fun that was happening in that song’s world.
As I was getting lost in Chuck’s rock and roll dance party fun circa 1974, that now more than half-century old song had only been recorded 16 years before. Hell, my daughter’s 16 now and she was a little tiny baby bundle of joy only a second ago. Time is not a long journey. Everything happened right now in the blink of an eye.
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Dizzy – Tommy Roe
My earliest song memories are a few scattered things my folks would play or sing around the house. However, besides the theme song from The Monkees TV show, the first song I specifically remember enjoying with my friends and completely apart from my parents’ influence was Dizzy by Tommy Roe. I couldn’t have told you it was Tommy Roe singing at the time, nor even until a few years ago when I finally looked it up. For a long time, I thought it was maybe done by The Archies and in my memory I sometimes mixed it up with the song Spinning Wheel by Blood, Sweat and Tears, a tune with which Dizzy has next to nothing in common save for the fact they both came out in 1969 and share the word “spinning” in their lyrics.
I have a clear as crystal recollection of 5-year old me just outside the car port at our house on Greenfield Avenue in 1969 with best friend Brian and one or two neighborhood girls of the same age as we repeatedly twirled around until falling down while chanting those opening lyrics:
I’m so dizzy my head is spinning
Like a whirlpool it never ends
The theme was pure childhood joy and freedom and lack of cares. Untainted fun was happening. As I think about it now, I take note that the moment of joyous fun which I have remembered clearly for 42 years despite its having no greater importance or meaning was coupled with some kind of physical action on my part that temporarily fuzzed my brain and affected my perception/balance. Hmmmm…
Dizzy:
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Folsom Prison Blues – Johnny Cash
If I were allowed to recapture and relive one moment of my life, the choice would probably be to go back and troll for rainbow trout in the Lucerne Bay section of Flaming Gorge reservoir on the Utah/Wyoming border. We used to regularly go up to my Grandpa’s cabin in Manila, Utah, for the weekend with grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins and it was, at least in my memory, idyllic.
There was the gigantic fireplace burning big old logs every night, the eggs and bacon and pancakes cooked up by Grandpa on the coal-burning stove in the cold, early morning, and the slow, relaxed trolling for rainbows out the back of Grandpa’s fishing boat or our own pale blue ski/touring boat, which tended to move too fast for trolling and required us to drag pails or buckets on ropes out the back to slow us down (if memory serves). We could set up as many as four people fishing at a time, with one out each side and two out the back. All the rigs were set up with Grandpa’s Kelly Spinners and worms on hooks about a yard behind them. I remember Grandpa having no patience with anyone who couldn’t put their own damn worm on the hook and also shaking his head if you missed setting the hook when a fish started nibbling. I also remember that no one was ever as excited for you when you reeled one in as was Grandpa.
Our boat must have had an 8-track tape player, because Dad would often put in a Johnny Cash greatest hits collection that would play as we’d while away the time between bites. I loved those stretches when the fish were only hitting on occasion, all of us nearly asleep in our seats as the morning sun glimmered down and the boat puttered along quietly, with Johnny Cash playing low out of the speakers. I didn’t know which song it was at the time but whenever that lyric would play about Johnny letting his mom down and killing some poor bastard for no reason, my 8-10 year old self would pay close attention. I was perplexed by the evilness of the act and imagined that suffering mom wondering what had gone wrong. The words seemed eep, and contemplating them out there on the lake added to their gravity.
When I was just a baby
My momma told me, Son
Always be a good boy
Don’t ever play with guns
But I shot a man in Reno
Just to watch him die
I can’t remember exactly when it might have been, but I believe one of the first times I ever gave Dad music as a gift, it was a collection of Johnny Cash tunes that included Folsom Prison Blues in memory of those fishing moments. Besides playing catch in front of our house in Ogden, I’d have to say that listening to Johnny Cash while trolling for rainbows at Flaming Gorge is one of my most treasured Dad remembrances.
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Deuce – Kiss
Nothing will ever be better than what was new when you were 12. I got the Kiss Alive! double album in 1976, about a year after it came out. The country was celebrating a bicentennial (cool new quarters and all), Jimmy Carter was getting ready to win the presidential election and piss off all the same kids from the majority Republican families in our Utah neighborhood who had made fun of me for parroting my folks’ McGovern preferences back in ’72, and my parents were finally breaking up after a couple years with a lot of yelling.
All of that was just background noise to my adolescent ears however as they discovered the world-altering force of HARD ROCK and the mind-blowing power of the electric lead guitar. When Ace Frehley played that little “de de de da de de da de de, de de de da de de da de de” thing after each of the first two lines of the second verse about 90 seconds into the live version of the song Deuce, I had literally never heard anything like it. I would gin the disc up on my portable record player so I could listen to that little bit over and over. I forced Mom to listen to that little portion (literally, those few seconds) and fully expected that she would be as deeply moved as I had been. One day my older cousin Tammy – mouthwateringly wordly, rebellious, and dangerous and who I desperately wanted to impress – was coming over to the house, so I set up the record just right so I could drag her immediately down to my room and play that lead riff for her as soon as she walked in the door. When she said something along of the lines of “sounds pretty cool,” I was walking on clouds.
Honey, don’t put your man behind his years
(De de de da de de da de de, de de de da de de da de de)
And baby, stop cryin’ all your tears
(De de de da de de da de de, de de de da de de da de de)
The highlight of the full make-up, original member, reunion tour KISS concert my wife and I saw in Mexico City in 1999 was when Deuce came as the third song. My inner 12-year old blissfully welcomed literal tears of joy when Ace stepped to the front of the stage and launched into a perfect “de de de da de de da de de, de de de da de de da de de.”
Upon approaching the pearly gates when my time comes and being asked to fill out the feedback survey for the Life on Earth self-guided tour, I will without qualm check the box indicating that there was no more loving gift from God to his human children than the blessing of big, dumb, preening hard rock music. To this day, while I listen to all kinds of music and artists and have over 20,000 songs uploaded onto my iPod, I always go back to the four-piece (lead, rhythm, bass guitar and drums) hard rock tunes with meaningless words and self-indulgent lead guitar solos whenever I need to smile… and it all began with Deuce.
Deuce (live):
My fantasy tree fort is a log cabin high up in the Ashley National Forest along the border between northeastern Utah and Wyoming. I definitely have an indoor toilet, a comfortable one. There is a big honkin’ stereo and no neighbors to complain about the noise (although oftentimes I just go with the sounds of quiet nature). Yes, I sport 500 TV channels and have an endless supply of books to read in my comfortable bed, chairs, and sofa. I spend much time just relaxing in a rocking chair and I have learned to play the guitar pretty well. I have an exceptionally fast internet connection that allows me to listen to radio from wherever I want whenever I want.
I correspond a lot with a few select pen pals. Actually, it is not so much correspondence as it is taking turns “holding forth.” I write a bunch, eventually completing and selling a couple of well-received, thoughtful novels that folks like to read more than once in order to take it all in.
My sweet wife is there with me but mainly only in the evenings and at night. She arrives home and we often drift into the bedroom and just lay there and talk for hours. She hugs me mucho. Sometimes a hug can last an hour; no words just an intense pure beautiful hug of love. I exercise and eat right. I am healthy and I look it. I’ve grown a beard and I have long ago cast off my appearance complex (mainly a result of looking pretty good).
During the daytime, I am usually alone. Somehow, the need to buy things – besides healthy food (no more Diet Coke!), books, and CDs – just doesn’t come up. The cabin is very comfortable and the stereo and TV are first rate, but decorative trinkets are few and those that are displayed have some special significance. I walk and hike through the pine forest often. As I think about it, I must own a nice motorcycle too and ride it around the old logging roads.
Visitors come by at my invitation for poker, dominoes, sports on the tube, and conversation. They stay long if I’m into it and don’t rush home if the palaver is good; instead, they sense exactly the right moment when I start to tire and crave privacy. As such, every visit is perfect, no one leaves either too early or too late.
By this time my kids are grown and on with their young, healthy, happy lives. I see them often, talk to them even more. They make me very proud and continue to love me openly. They both are still willing to sit next to me on the couch with my arm draped over their shoulders; no “I’m too old for that” from either one, not even the boy. They consult me on big decisions and confide everything to me. Truth be told however, their lives are going really well so they don’t really have many worrisome things to confide.
Yeah, I toke up every once in a while but nowhere near as often as I thought I would. As it turns out, I don’t really need the escape. Tunes, writing, reading, exercise, nature; it all just fills my mind with peace. I don’t crave …
As I hit the age of 71, but still looking like 55, the “system” gets wise to my autonomous ways and, after a 37-day stand-off, an FBI sniper gut shoots me when I accidentally doze off in my chair near the window while inexplicably listening to Nelly Furtado. Just like that and in the blink of an eye, I die. There is no heaven, no ball of energy. I’m just gone and my physical remains soon rot away to nothing.
I do, however, leave behind volumes and volumes of prose, correspondence, poems, essays. My descendants dig it forever; they are proud to be my descendants.
Victim of the Fury 