Friday Night Frolic — Are You Still Dreaming?

It is preoccupation with possessions, more than anything else, 

that prevents us from living freely and nobly.

 ~ Henry David Thoreau

Adbusters Corporate Flag

You know, about the Dream. The American Dream: Justice, Freedom, Equality? Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness? Oh, that's right, the American dream has fizzled along with your investments and savings—if you've been so lucky as to have saved at all.

Really though, are you still dreaming?

Or are you weary to your bones?

The dream, as James Truslow Adams wrote in his book, The Epic of America, is the "[...] dream of a land in which life should be better and richer and fuller for everyone, with opportunity for each according to ability or achievement..."  Yes, life should be better for all. It should, dammit. Now wake up from the dream. (If you are, in fact, still dreaming.) Because that dream is over. Poof.

Things are beginning to get a little ugly on Wall Street (as if they were not already grotesque). And elsewhere. Police and protesters are clashing across America. Our government's leaders praise the youthful anti-establishment protests overseas, but in America—Land of the Free, Land of Hope and Promise—peaceful activists are being arrested and even run down by police scooters. Who knows what's next.

"...It is a difficult dream for the European upper classes to interpret adequately, and too many of us ourselves have grown weary and mistrustful of it..." 



I'm dreaming...

I can't help it, I wonder what's gone wrong.

Our young have taken to the streets in an assemblage of civil disobedience, giving temperate expression to anger. I pray it remains peaceful. They do, we do, of course, have every right to protest. As we should. We must rise against corporate greed and confront Wall Street, the banks, the thieves with their crimes! After all, our government (ha!) simply won't do it. They won't. They prefer to bail out the thieves. With our money.

We are still a nascent country. We are still trying to find our way and we are floundering. Worse, we are drowning in our own greed. And make no mistake—it's not just Wall Street or big corporate or the banks. It's a two way street. Greed runs both ways. Greed throws rationality out the window. Greed takes hostages and then forgets about them. Disposes of them. Makes casualties of them. Greed never looks at the fine print. Greed signs contracts while disregarding consequences. Greed makes ill-advised and just plain wrong decisions. Greed gives bogus advice.

"...It is not a dream of motor cars and high wages merely, but a dream of social order in which each man and each woman shall be able to attain to the fullest stature of which they are innately capable, and be recognized by others for what they are, regardless of the fortuitous circumstances of birth or position."

What we are sorely in need of, as individuals and as a nation, is self-actualization. You laugh. Bwahaha! I mean it,  we need to get ourselves self-actualized and but quick. Has our collective dream become solely the pursuit of mounds of money? Does that trump all?  I think not. (Though many's the time I've been mistaken.)

The disparity between the wealthy and poor is profoundly absurd. And no matter how one spins this dubious distinction when it comes to a full stop it is transparently clear that it's a dizzy and thickly layered black blotch against humanity.



I'm still dreaming...

What if, my OWS and Working America and Adbusters friends and All those interested in reform—and I don't care from where the financial backing comes—what if we considered doing more than just hanging around financial centers throughout the country. Now that OWS has gained momentum, what if the cause were to  use the cash to find us a new leader—hell, we should All use our cash for that purpose—to broaden the candidate pool (the pool obviously ought to be emptied, political parties sucked down the drain, cleaned and re-filled with a fresh, clear, odorless solution), and not another politician chained to big corporate and financial institutions, but someone, some thing, who's nested in the loamy grass of the earth. Someone, some thing, that understands the heart and soul of a country, its people, it's greatest desire, its dream—we could search Thoreau's woods and root him out—and what if we stood him firm on packed soil (though he may not come so willingly—who, what, in their right mind would)—brushed him off a bit and tossed him into the pool (which has been cleansed of its greedy, beastly, sell-your-soul-to-the-devil political system that has never truly represented We the People)? What if? What if we rewrote the whole damn system?! Our new earthly candidate won't need to answer to or feast with the great corporate powers that be. The People will back him! You think he'll get eaten alive like a vegetable? The People will back him! He will serve humanity. Humanity will feast!

Uh, I am having night sweats. I am turning and tossing...

Oh, dang, I just woke from my dream!

... But it's all right, it's all right
You can't be forever blessed
Still, tomorrow's going to be another working day
And I'm trying to get some rest
That's all I'm trying to get some rest.

* * * 

Paul Simon turned seventy yesterday. When he wrote  American Tune back in the 1970s our country was in high turmoil. We were in the midst of the Vietnam War, the Pentagon Papers were laid out for public consumption and horror, and the Watergate scandal sealed Nixon's fate. The American people had been mislead and violated. 

History does have a tendency to repeat itself.

And then comes Simon with his textured and rhythmic, So Beautiful or So What, which the Rolling Stone declared "His best since Graceland."





The road to America's self-actualized soul is littered with obstacles. The journey is long. The GPS is our collective conscience. I hope we never lose sight of it: our destination—our Dream. I hope we've enough fuel to get us there. 

"Friday Night Frolic" - Going Home

It's snowing again, and the wind stirs the crystal confection into dramatic peaks against the sliding glass door, like the thick froth of the steamed milk in my cappuccino, only colder. I don't know why, but all this wintry weather and snow drifting makes me think of the ocean and its undulating waves. Peaceful, calm. Perhaps it's just longing for a warmer atmosphere (even though I do love the winter).

Which brings me to the movie, Local Hero (1983). I don't mean to push soundtracks here—after all it's Friday night, and this is a Frolic, your supposed to be out whooping it up, shaking your derrière—but with this weather keeping me (and the kids) hemmed in at home, movies are on the forefront. There's only so much homework and projects and reading one can do. 

So I return to Local Hero, which is another one of those films in which the soundtrack (Mark Knopfler—need I say more?) outsold the film. The movie's instrumental theme song, Going Home (as well as the other scores), is a stunning, emotional and mellifluous piece of work by Knopfler. In this case, however, the movie is every bit as good as the soundtrack. This film is a favorite of mine, it speaks to humanity in the simplest way. Its premise: big Corporate trying to swallow up small, Scottish coastal town for its own gain. But what follows is extraordinary, in a very ordinary way. Ordinary characters doing ordinary things. With all this ordinariness it may seem not worth your while. But it is. The film is pointed, quirky and endearing. The humor, subtle, dry and wry. And Knopfler's accompanying music makes it hard to keep the eyes dry.

I won't give it all away, in the event you haven't seen it. I'll say only that it's about change, how our experiences—which need not be profound—change and transform us. And it has one of the sweetest bar scenes of all time ("I'll make a good Gordon, Gordon"). I've watched this story often over the years, and each time I discover within it something new.

Here, the profusely charming Victor breaking hearts:

This gem of a move and Knopfler's orchestration are so worth Going Home for.

2011: Prelude (or - My Conversation With Einstein)

Yes, I'm a little behind the eight ball, but I have made a resolution for the New Year as if I had an IQ of 200+ (why not shoot for the stars?): Solve/complete/prove the Grand Unified Theory. Why? Because what I want most this year is the same thing I want every year: peace on earth and less facial wrinkles. The Grand Unified Theory (the merging of three non-gravitational forces into one theoretical framework) as a viable solution to the world's (and my) wrinkles is not pie-in-the-sky, even if purely theoretical, the fact that I'm entertaining it as succor is a major shift in my universe—pragmatically speaking. 

However, I don't have an IQ of 200+, so you see, there are serious limitations to meeting my 2011 goal. It's January 3rd, and I wish I were smarter and younger (but I'm not on both counts), and I've already set myself back by two days. This means only one thing: I need to meet with my old acquaintance, Mr. Albert Einstein. Fortunately, he has graciously accepted my invitation to lunch.

Einstein joins me at my round kitchen table, a large leaded glass bowl of fruit before him, and comments, "'A table, a chair, a bowl of fruit and a violin; what else does a man need to be happy?'"

"Oh, about the violin, Mr. Einstein," I reply, "I must confess I don't actually have one. 

Einstein shrugs his shoulders and looks up at the matte-white ceiling. "Humph," he snorts. "At least you've got mango and kiwi," he says, as he slips a slice of the silky tropical fruit through his pursed lips. 

"If you would be so kind, tell me if you would, Mr. Einstein, in layman's terms—if that's possible—more about your idea of unifying your theory of relativity with electro-magnetism, this particle adventure of yours, so to speak. But first, Al," I continue (as if it's imperative I get it off my chest), "I want you to know that my day didn't start so well, with an awful lot of troubleshooting in fact, prompted by a phone call from Shalita the Bully at Bank of America, announcing that my Line of Credit was past due to the tune of $5.77, which, mind you, conflicts with the zero balance noted on recent statements. And did I care, she asked, to ruin my credit rating for a mere $5.77?

"As you can see, Al, BOA has an accounting—not to mention "communication"— problem, which is why BOA is also known, at least by me, as BOAP: Blatantly Ominous Accounting Problems. 'No, it is not me who is delinquent Ms. Shalita the Bully,' I wanted to say to her. Sheesh, it's these types of nonsense events that force me to resort to purchasing expensive moisturizers, Al!"

Einstein says nothing. Looks oddly at me and sucks on a grape.

"So anyway, Mr Einstein, take a look at my face—that's gravity for you. Why is it that we haven't yet solved the problem of gravity? Why is it the BOAPs of the world can operate in outer space, while I'm relegated to the earth? I suppose if the problem at hand were solved, big cosmetics and personal care companies might be painfully pinched by the abrupt drop in Deep Wrinkle Moisture sales."

Einstein shifts in his chair, pulls a compass out of his vest pocket and inspects it. I'm afraid I'm losing him. "Excuse me, Mr. Einstein, I diverge. I apologize, I'm just venting. I understand that gravity is precedent to keeping us grounded. I just don't like it."

Einstein gets up from the table, juggling an orange in one hand, grabbing a piece of chalk with the other, and hacks away at the kitchen blackboard, white powder drifting to the wood floor. "Call me Al," he says. "And it's all right, I'll knock out a few equations for you."

"You know what they say," he reasons, "'If you can't explain it simply, you don't understand it well enough.'"

"So true, Al," I nod. I'm not very good at equations. I look at the slate and see foreign formulas floating from it in 3D, like an animator whipping out a cartoon series. 

"Where are we now?" asks Al. "Oh, yes, the Grand Unified Theory." Al spells it out on the board: GUT (as we know it today). 

"Is this like String Theory?" I ask. "And never mind, Al, that you didn't quite solve the GUT riddle, I think it's remarkable that you even thought it—unifying forces and all."

Al blushes a bit, sits back down, pulls on a grape cluster, and tells me that this theory actually sprung from his fear—or denial—of quantum mechanics. "Very interesting, Al." I cup my right hand over his, which is perched limply on the table, and sympathetically say, "You know this idea of yours lead to an understanding, by our modern day scientists, of high energy electromagnetic and weak forces as aspects of the same force? This ought to bring us closer to the meaning of life, don't you think? Maybe even to everlasting life? So you see, in the end Al, you didn't quite lock yourself into hopeless scientific problems."

Al digs a thumbnail into the orange and a citrus spray erupts, droplets landing on the tip of his large-pored nose, and says that I may be getting ahead of myself, but he's glad we're lunching together; and I agree.

I glance up at the blackboard. "You're telling me that this GUT thing combines three of the four fundamental forces—strong nuclear force, weak nuclear force, electromagnetic nuclear force and gravitations force—into one single equation? Why three forces? And what about the fourth force: gravitational force? Wait, don't answer that. My kids would tell us it's because all measurements, all things in fact, come in threes.  Small, medium, large. Fahrenheit, Celsius, Kelvin. Richter, Moment Magnitude, Mercalli. Judicial, Legislative, Executive. Stratus, cirrus, cumulus. Gas, solid, liquid (but they forget plasma). The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. The three wise men. There are three types of lavas and even three types of lava flow. But you already know all that, Al, don't you? If this is true though, can you tell me why the water temperature options on my Whirlpool duet are cold, warm, hot and super hot? And why are the spin speed options low, medium, high and extra high? And why no super cold or extra low?"

Al tells me to call Whirlpool as he fingers a strawberry, and I thank him. "That's a good idea," I answer.

"You know, a chocolate fondue would be marvelous with this," Al suggests as he pops the berry into his mouth.

I look at Al, straight into his dark, dilated pupils, "Anyway," I say, "You have to separate gravity from just about everything else, now don't you? Gravity: it's a force unto itself, Al." I'm not so sure he wants to hear this. He  peels a ripe banana, takes a bite and chomps, a banana bit clinging to his mustache. "Again, just take a look at my face. Physical gravity and mental gravity, both despairingly heavy-handed, don't you think? And you know this is precisely why I need you here, why I called upon you, for a breakthrough. We need to get to GUT, because if we get to GUT, we can throw in the fourth force, gravity, and move on to the next theory: the Theory of Everything!" 

Al sits up straight in his chair, throws the banana peel on his napkin, and clears his throat. I offer him a glass of water and he takes it.

"By the way, have you heard about the cupcake boutique on Rue Saint-Sulpice? You should check it out, Al, you'd love it."

Einstein admits that he really can't explain GUT, or anything else for that matter, in layman's terms. "It's alright," I assure him. "Don't sweat it. I've got my own theory. It's kind of like the everything that goes up must come down thing. Now I know back in October I started my fiftieth year by imagining life as linear, and you may or may not have agreed with that; but I know that life is really a concentric circle, and we're all aiming at the center target. And I also know that no matter how good a thing looks, tastes or smells (Veuve Clicquot and Ring Dings, for instance), eventually it's going to be exposed as foul-scented substance resembling crap. Is this all life has to offer, Al?"

"That's sort of a pessimistic view," says Al, "but you may be on to something there."

"Anyway, Al, It's all relative, so to speak, now isn't it? My gravity is actually different from yours, and the guy seated next to you. Hey, was he invited? At least from my scientific observation point." 

GUT. Alchemy. An eloquent description of the meaning of life. I wish it all. 

"Imagine if the world were unified, and every problem could be solved with one single equation," I remark. "Have I set my goals too high? Is it too much to ask—peace on  earth, good will to men, slow the aging process, and get BOAP off my back?"

"'I have just got a new theory of eternity!'"Al suddenly announces. "But I need to go now. Mind if I take this apple?" 

I sense my eyebrows shifting upwards. That was a little random, I think. Al slowly lifts himself from the chair, shuffles to the the door with the ruby Empire in hand, and nods his head—a silent thank you.

Not another theory to ponder... "Oh, by the way Al," I shout after him, "look what I got for Christmas—remember how I scalded my last teapot?—it doesn't have a whistle but it's shiny and new..."

Al smiles—a mischievous grin—waves his hand in the air, and snuffles, "So lange."  

"Dankeschön, Al," I smile back. "Glückliches neues Jahr!" I cheer, as I survey sparkly particles fluttering in a vaguely organized manner, tumbling into the empty glass fruit bowl.

There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle.  The other is as though everything is a miracle.  -Albert Einstein