Carpe What, Now?

I don’t like to get on my pedestal and publicly shame people, but I feel a moral obligation to say something here. (Also, I actually do kind of like getting on my pedestal and publicly shaming people. But only if they sit silently and let me do it. I don’t like confrontation.)

As a society, we are constantly bombarded with the diatribe of “living each day as if it were your last.” Columnists, pop singers, new-age psychologists, tattoo artists…they all think they’re some kind of “made-you-think” poets with this line. But I find this philosophy to be – how do I put this delicately? – a compost pile.

Let me paint a picture for you of what would actually happen if I lived each day as if it were my last.

1. I would be fired. Because guess what – if it’s my last day alive, I’m ditching work that day. And sometime around, oh, day 2 of me still being alive but not showing up to work, my boss would probably call. “Uhm – are you coming in today?” “Sorry, Boss. I’m living each day as if it were my last. I won’t be in.” “Uh-huh. Well, ya hippy freak, to me, today IS your last day.”

2. I would weigh precisely 500 pounds. If I know it’s my last day on earth, I am eating Crunch Berries and Chocodiles for breakfast, two rib-eye sandwiches for lunch, and a Tommy’s Burger for dinner. Five pints of Haagen-Dazs for dessert. Now, that’s a dangerous way to conduct your diet for one day; but if it just so happens to not be my last day on the planet? Well, things are going to quickly get uncomfortable and, digestionally-speaking, unpleasant for me and everyone around me.

3. My family would hate me. Imagine your child or parent calling you daily and saying, “I’m sorry to tell you this – but I’m dying. These are my final hours, and I just wanted to call and tell you how much I love you. Thank you for everything you’ve ever done for me. I will miss you.” Emotional havoc ensues. Everybody is a big, weepy mess…until the next day. And the next. And the next. Then your phone call eventually receives a response like this: “There are no powers on heaven or earth that will stop me from coming over there this instant and removing any doubt that you will be taking your last breath today.”

4. Any material comforts would soon be gone – why pay my mortgage or gas bill? “Hi, Mr. Craig? This is Nevada Energy. I’m afraid we’re going to have to shut off your electricity if you don’t pay your bill today.” “Oh, do your worst. The joke’s on you! I’ll be dead tomorrow!”

5. I’d be making some powerful enemies, telling certain people exactly what I think of them. Starting with Nevada Energy, but moving on to people who set the gas prices, customer service at APX Alarm, Bill Maher, and Oprah Winfrey.

My final point to this nonsensical advice of living as if you were dying is this: H.H. Morant famously said, “Live each day like it’s your last and someday, you’ll be right.” Really H.H.? You do recognize that all those days leading up to that tragic day are days you’ll be wrong, don’t you? What kind of faulty reasoning is THAT? If you are so desperate to be right about something, why not choose an event that you would be excited about? “Live each day in your pajamas, because someday, you won’t have to go outside.” Now you’re on to something. Have Dr. Phil tattoo that on your lower back, Tim McGraw!

Sock Hoppin'

Our family recently attended a church activity that was affectionately referred to as a “Sock Hop.” A “sock hop” was a cultural phenomenon associated with the 1950 and early rock n’ roll. I like to think the name was derived from a common ritual that took place in most American high schools during that era, wherein when a young man asked a young lady to dance; if she said ‘no,’ he promptly took her shoes and went running into the night. Thus leaving her to have to “sock hop” all the way home. (It just makes sense.  Of course, I’ve checked zero resources to verify this. But I have to imagine it’s true.)

Not wanting to be unprepared, I thought I’d better do my homework before attending the dance. I began a rigorous study of early rock n’ roll. If a song came on, I wanted to know the moves, the attitude, and the lyrics – so I could belt it out for all the world to hear, while I ran out of the church carrying Katie’s shoes.

I am going to freely admit that I love early rock n’ roll. The simplicity, the playfulness, the contagious toe-tapping. However, in my studies, I came across two songs I simply do not consider boss (to coin a phrase, Daddy-O).

The first song, penned by Gerry Goffin and Carole King, is the 1962 hit from The Crystals, He Hit Me (And It Felt Like a Kiss).

What the WHAT?! What kind of complete bull pucky is that? Are those lyrics autobiographical, because that should cause alarm. Let me tell you what some possible song titles would be if my daughter wrote it:

He Hit Me (And My Dad Punched Him in the Throat)

He Hit Me (And His Funeral Services Are This Saturday)

He Hit Me (And He’ll No Longer Be Able to Have Children)

He Hit Me (And Now He Can Only Eat Things Like Jell-O)

He Hit Me (And the Police Still Haven’t Located His Body)

Or at the very, very minimum… He Hit Me (And We Broke Up)

The second song is The Cookies’ Don’t Say Nothin’ Bad (About My Baby). Written by – surprise, surprise – Gerry Goffin and Carole King – the same relationship-savvy duo that wrote He Hit Me (And It Felt Like a Kiss). In this lyrical sonnet, our delicate ingénue pleads with us to not say nothin’ bad about her hapless, insipid boyfriend. It’s bad enough this young man is clearly a horse’s patoot, but then, listen to her defense of him. Pitiful.

Everybody says he's lazy

But not when he's kissing me

Everybody says he's crazy

Sure he's crazy, crazy about me (Oh, yeah)

So…what you’re saying is that although it’s common consent that this boy is a useless, unmotivated sap, he’s pretty aggressive and “un-lazy” when he’s trying to eat your face and pushing the boundaries of moral decency. Hmmm…I hear what you’re saying…and while “assertiveness” may be a commendable trait, I’m just not sure that’s a ringing endorsement of his character. Not really the kind of integrity we’re looking for. And then there’s the issue of his sanity, to which you drolly respond “Oh, yes, he’s absolutely insane in the membrane – insane over ME!” (as you throw flowers in the air and twirl). Meanwhile, this “crazy for you” kind of guy is taking a baseball bat to the car of that friendly, upstanding sane boy that he saw you talking to at school. Ah. That’s sweet. Now, why would we say anything bad about your baby?

But aside from these two songs, I have to state for the record that in general, early rock n’ roll songs were delightfully lighthearted, fun tunes. I say we need more sock hops! I miss the simple days of yesteryear – when little ditties made you smile, when youth shared a single soda with two straws, and when Gerry Goffin and Carole King were evidently in a highly dysfunctional, complex relationship that led to financial success and abusive kissing.

***

Here’s a clip of our festive night. Let me just answer your questions right now:

1. Yes, Katie made those poodle skirts for Abbie, Roxanna, and Becca.
2. Yes, it was the most fun night of Connor’s life.
3. No, they did not play He Hit Me (And It Felt Like a Kiss) or Don’t Say Nothin’ Bad (About My Baby)

A Toast to Dan Fogelberg

I was recently driving down the highway, minding my own holiday cheer and avoiding WalMart like a punch to the throat, when I was exposed to an extra special (read: not extra special) Song of the Season.

I will accept some responsibility for this, as I was listening to the local radio station that is federally mandated to play Christmas music between Thanksgiving and Christmas; however, I maintain the real blame lies with the author of this little holiday hymn. 

The song began and, not having heard it before, I was intrigued. Somewhere in the middle of the song I thought to myself,  “This was written by a hippie.” Then towards the end, I thought to myself, “I'm not sure this resembles a Christmas song by any stretch of the imagination.”

The song is Same Old Lang Syne, and it is written and performed by Colorado based and noted folk singer/songwriter, Dan Fogelberg. I’ve included the lyrics here, and I thought we should review them together. My notes are after each stanza.

Met my old lover in the grocery store

The snow was falling Christmas Eve

I stole behind her in the frozen foods

And I touched her on the sleeve

Okay, first, does your “old lover” have a name, Dan? Because frankly, that’s just rude to refer to her that way when making introductions. “Oh, John, this is my old lover – Old Lover, this is John.” And second, unless your name is Weird Al Yankovic or Barnenaked Ladies, the words “frozen foods” have absolutely zero business being included in your lyrics.

She didn't recognize the face at first

But then her eyes flew open wide

She went to hug me and she spilled her purse

And we laughed until we cried

I’m sorry, how hard did you laugh? I’m going to go out on a Christmas tree limb and guess that these two people don’t laugh often, and when they do, it is usually at Pauley Shore movies. Also, the song doesn’t say, but I like to picture Dan standing there, still laughing as his old lover crawls along the floor, unassisted, picking up all the spilled contents from her purse.

We took her groceries to the checkout stand

The food was totaled up and bagged

We stood there lost in our embarrassment

As the conversation dragged

You know what , this is where you say, “It was great to see you; have a Merry Christmas, and hey – are you on Facebook?” If after three minutes of catching up the conversation is already dragging, then don’t let’s pretend we are suddenly obligated to be buddies, since you, Dan, are obviously busy being a (folk) rock star, and she is merely your old lover.

Went to have ourselves a drink or two

But couldn't find an open bar

We bought a six-pack at the liquor store

And we drank it in her car

Still got it, eh, Dan? You old romantic. But why not just drive the rest of the way to her trailer?

We drank a toast to innocence

We drank a toast to now
(And don’t forget a toast to Schlitz Malt Liquor, guys)

And tried to reach beyond the emptiness

But neither one knew how

She said she'd married her an architect

Who kept her warm and safe and dry

(the architect, or the tent he designed?)

She would have liked to say she loved the man

But she didn't like to lie

Yes, she has far too much integrity to lie, so instead, she just married a man she didn’t love. Well played, Old Lover.

I said the years had been a friend to her

And that her eyes were still as blue

But in those eyes I wasn't sure if I

Saw doubt or gratitude

“I wasn’t sure what I was seeing, because the beer was kicking in at this point.”

She said she saw me in the record stores

And that I must be doing well

I said the audience was heavenly

But the traveling was hell

I imagine traveling all over the great state of Boulder, Colorado would indeed be a grueling tour schedule.

We drank a toast to innocence

We drank a toast to now

And tried to reach beyond the emptiness

But neither one knew how


"But one's thing's for sure, the beer was helping."

We drank a toast to innocence

We drank a toast to time

Reliving in our eloquence

Another 'auld lang syne'

The beer was empty and our tongues were tired

And running out of things to say

She gave a kiss to me as I got out

And I watched her drive away

NOW who’s laughing, Dan? Guess she must have remembered how you stood there laughing while she had to pick all of her belongings off the grocery store floor without even an offer to help from you. Now you’re stuck out in the middle of nowhere with a Miller buzz on Christmas Eve while she drives off in her nice warm car! HA!

Just for a moment I was back at school

And felt that old familiar pain

And as I turned to make my way back home

The snow turned into rain

And God bless us, everyone.