Well, guys. I’ve decided that it’s time to upgrade. Today I took my first steps in to a larger universe and created a Word Press account. Eventually, this site will, I hope, replace the one on Blogger. That’s no reflection on Google which has served me well since 2008. But in the immortal words of Bob Dylan, “the times they are a changing.” And they are. So welcome to Random Musings of a Psuedo-Madman Version 2.0. May our time together on this site be as fulfilling as our time together on Version 1.0 was. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t as fulfilling for you as it was for me but hopefully one or two of you are as excited about this move as I am. That’s it for now! More to follow… I hope.
Category: Life
The Shore – A Long Overdue Appreciation
You’ll notice that I did not entitle this “The Jersey Shore – A Long Overdue Appreciation.” That’s not because I wanted to disassociate it from the terrible MTV show starring Snooki, J-Woww and the Situation (though if I had, would you blame me?). No. It’s because for those of us that have lived our entire lives in close proximity to it… that have vacationed there for as long as we can remember, it has always been just “The Shore.” There’s no need to specify the state unless you’re not from around here, and by here I mean Pennsylvania, New Jersey, southern New York and to some extent Maryland and Delaware, though both states have their own coastlines and by association, their own “Shores.” My Shore? It is a part of our culture here in the mid-Atlantic. We grew up with it and many of us have started rearing our own children on it, much in the same way that our parents reared us on it decades ago.
If you ask people about their memories of the Shore you receive a whole range of responses. My wife’s memories, for example, are very different than mine despite the fact that our respective resorts were and remain only a few miles apart. Her memories involve time spent staying in one of the many, retro-Americana motels-turned-condos in North Wildwood, whereas mine involve staying in a one floor, three bedroom rancher in North Cape May a block off of the Bay. She remembers crabbing the inlets surrounding Wildwood Crest with her father while I remember fishing the Bay with mine. She remembers playing amidst the neon spectacle of the Wildwood Boardwalk while I remember the tranquil strolls I used to take through the Washington Street Mall. She remembers food like Mack’s Pizza and drinks like the infamous Lime Rickey. I remember Patty Melts and Shirley Temples from the Jackson Mountain Cafe. There are similarities between our experiences–Uncle Bill’s Pancake House, for example–but for the most part, her experiences seemed highly irregular to me at first and mine seemed the same to her. At first.
That’s because in both cases, we have made a concerted effort to duplicate our own experiences for each other over the course of our first 12 years together. Why? Perhaps to gain a better understanding of the other’s childhood, or perhaps just to get the f*ck out of dodge for a couple of days at a clip and go someplace not hemmed in by buildings and super malls. Maybe just because we both love the Shore so damn much and we can’t be away from it for long before we start to “dry out.” I honestly don’t know, but it has always been a part of our relationship, and one that I cherish greatly.
Early on, I would take her to Cape May at least once a year. In subsequent years our resort of choice has shifted back to Wildwood. Last summer, we took our then-two year old daughter Cara to the latter with us for her first time ex-utero (she had been previously while still sheltering in Nicole’s tummy) and watched her revel in the same things that we had reveled in as children. We watched her dig trenches in the sand and I helped her build a sand castle. She was terrified of the ocean but she went in once or twice, albeit while clinging tightly to her mommy or her daddy’s neck. She called the beach the “Big Sandbox” and the ocean the “Big Bathtub.” We ate dinner at the Ravioli House. We wandered along the Boardwalk. We went on rides and played games. We coddled her with junk food and ate a decent amount, ourselves. And while the week was slightly overshadowed by the specter of Hurricane Irene which had blown through a few days before our arrival, it was a wonderful, albeit truncated experience.
Fast forward a little more than a year to late October, 2012 and you know as well as I do what just “blew through” the Shore. You’ve heard the reports and you’ve seen the pictures. To say that Sandy was a vicious bitch is an understatement. In the process of “blowing through” she pretty much leveled the entire New Jersey coastline with a combination of high winds, huge waves and torrential rainfall. Not even my three year old throws a tantrum like the one Sandy just threw and Cara? She’s thrown a few dandies. I remember seeing the devastation that Hurricane Katrina dealt New Orleans back in 2005 and while I’d never diminish what that city endured and continues to endure I’m inclined to say that at this point? The scenes that are being played out over and over again both online and on television of the Shore look eerily similar to the scenes that we all grew so familiar with in August of 2005.
I am grateful that Wildwood and Cape May made it through the storm… not necessarily unscathed but less-scathed then their counterparts further north. It means that the landscape that I return to in subsequent years will not be overly altered from what it was the last time I was there (we did not make it down this year due largely in part to the arrival of baby number two, Natalie). But a few of the scenes that I have witnessed of the areas north of Wildwood have been especially jarring. The one that really sticks in my mind is the still of the Fun Town Amusement Pier in Seaside Heights, New Jersey.
Understand that I was primarily a southern New Jersey beach goer growing up but when my mother and my father first separated and then divorced in the late 1980’s my father moved to northern New Jersey. He took a liking to older, less frequented resorts like Asbury Park, Sandy Hook and specifically, Seaside Heights. He took me and my little sister to the last on numerous occasions and much of the old pier that has since been annexed by the Atlantic Ocean used to be our playground. The steel spine of the roller coaster that now sticks up and out of the water? I rode on it a few times. The log flume too. Long before Seaside Heights was Jersey Shore-ified by Snooki and her alcoholic brood it existed and has existedin my mind as a slightly less significant keystone of my childhood than Cape May.
But now? Little remains of not only the pier, but the Boardwalk that I knew so well and what does remain is battered and broken, some might say beyond repair. But I will not. I have faith in the good people of New Jersey and in her surrounding areas. Even in Snooki and her drunken counterparts though admittedly, my faith in them is slightly less then my faith in… well, normal people. I know that they will work together to rebuild what was destroyed. I have faith in their governor who has quickly transformed from a frequent target of ridicule to a Rudy Juliani-esque figurehead of strength and leadership. It is said that leaders… true leaders emerge from the ashes of disaster and while I never doubted Governor Christie’s capability to run his state (not always to my agreement but what politician, Democrat or Republican ever does?), I have seen a different side of him these last few days. I have seen not just a politician but a man who’s own childhood was spent along the Shore. A man who is visibly exhausted and mentally scarred from watching what nature did to the beloved locales of his own youth. And while I’m not endorsing the man for president in 2016 he has finally forced me to take notice of him. For what it’s worth? Insert pat on the back and handshake here. Well played, Governor Christie. Well played, indeed.
This blog entry is not a political propaganda piece, however. Anyone who uses something like this to further their own agenda or the agenda of another is a reprehensible human being which is why I am grateful that, even with arguably the most important presidential election of my lifetime less than a week away, the two major candidates for the highest office in the land have suspended what has been an increasingly ugly campaign in an attempt to focus on more pressing issues like saving lives and rebuilding infrastructure. Were I an undecided voter this year (which I am not), the candidate that campaigns the least between now and November 6th would win my vote and no other issues would matter (’cause let’s face it: They’re of equivalent if not equal minds on what needs to be done to fix this country, they just wear different ties).
But that is neither here nor there. The title of this blog entry is “The Shore – A Long Overdue Appreciation” not “My Feelings on Politicians and Election Day, 2012 (with a look ahead to 2016).” Perhaps I should refocus on the piece that I had originally intended to write.
Many outsiders, even some that have lived in this area their whole lives think of the Shore as little more than one big and dirty amusement park by the sea. They think of it as a landfill covered by overpriced properties and mom and pop establishments that do a year’s worth of business in four or five months and then shut down. They use the term “overrated” when they describe it. Even people that I work with have a low regard for it, citing that it is “not a real seashore, not like Florida or California, or Hawaii or the islands of the Caribbean.” Those people? They have read way too many stories about hypodermic needles and medical waste washing up on the sand. The Shore is more than just the place where New York City’s garbage goes to die. It hasn’t been that for decades and even when that was occurring it was occurring in one or two, isolated places and not up and down the entire coastline. It is more than tacky, plastic souvenirs, bumper stickers advertising mile markers and hermit crabs. What is it?
It is the sum of a million… a billion or more shared memories, dating back not just decades but centuries. Some might say it is the lone similarity between the generation being born in to the world currently, the generation that proceeded it, the generation that proceeded it and onward and backward. In my opinion? Those people would be correct. After all, it is difficult to discuss World War Two with someone unless you’ve studied it. It is difficult to relate to Disco when you’ve never heard a Donna Summer song. It is difficult to discuss “Twilight” when the only vampire book you’ve ever read is “Bram Stoker’s Dracula” and it is difficult to relate to an iPad when all you ever used as a child was a typewriter.
The Shore, though? When you tell your grandfather about the Lollipop Motel in North Wildwood he knows what you are talking about without the benefit of a Google search. When you tell your grandmother about how much you love Kohr Brothers Frozen Custard she smiles and says, “so did I when I was your age.” When you tell your aunt or uncle about “The Shack” in Long Beach Island she or he immediately removes her or his iPhone from her or his pocket and brings up a picture of a teetering, gray-black, roofless structure with a tarnished American Flag hanging over its facade. “This Shack?” she or he says and you smile and nod. When you meet a stranger on the street who is wearing an Asbury Park sweatshirt and you look at him, nod and say, “Stone Pony,” he knows immediately that you are talking about the place where Bruce Springsteen got his start 40 plus years ago and he gives you a thumbs up. Even people that disagree about which Allentown Billy Joel was referring to–Allentown, New York or Allentown, Pennsylvania–concur that families from both towns “spent their weekends on the Jersey Shore.”
Why? Because despite time’s sometimes cruel advance the Shore remains timeless. Certain aspects of its appearance change on a whim and in the days, weeks, months and years ahead, likely to be known as the post-Sandy Era or Epoch, many of the aspects of its appearance that my wife and I grew up with and that we introduced Cara to last year will most certainly change, even before we can introduce Natalie to them. There isn’t much that any of us can do about it: Sandy took choice out of the equation when she roared ashore like a child who’s pissed off that you scolded at her for not eating her carrots and told her to go to bed. But despite it… despite its ever altering face the Shore is still the same place that it has always been. Despite the fact that the Star Jet roller coaster in Seaside Heights has been claimed by the Atlantic Ocean and now looks like a twisted, modern art interpretation of a drowning snake in its death throes what it was and what it represented remains and always will remain. Those rides upon its steel spine will remain a part of not only my memory, but a part of millions upon billions of others’ memories, as well.
And that, really, is the crux of what this little piece of Mental Flatulence is about: Memory, and how it personifies itself. How it lives and breathes despite the fact that most people call it an “abstract concept.” It’s not, guys. It’s as alive as I am. We all have memories, whether we summered at the Shore growing up or vacationed in Disney World every year. I would never claim that one is greater than the other… that Atlantic City is greater than Virginia Beach or that Ocean City, New Jersey is greater than Ocean City, Maryland. I can only speak from experience and per my experiences? There is something special about my Shore that transcends a popular reality show on non-Music Television. Maybe its just me but I don’t think so. I’ve seen the comments, the Facebook statuses and the Tweets about what happened there, and the majority of people that are talking about it are doing so from their own, individual memories. “Remember when we went here,” and, “look at what happened there.” Here? There? Everywhere up and down the coastline? “There be haints, guys,” as Pat McClane (I almost made it this whole blog entry without an ENDWORLD reference) might have said if given the opportunity. Years upon decades upon centuries worth of haints that exist because of our own, shared experiences. While superficially, much of what we knew has been forever altered beneath the surface, the Shore that we grew up crabbing, fishing, eating, drinking, playing upon and strolling through… the “Big Sandbox” that we grew up digging trenches through and building castles upon… the “Big Bathtub” that we grew up terrified of unless we were clinging tightly to our mother or father’s neck…
It is still there. It always has been and it always will be. Not because it was spared Sandy’s wrath but because it wasn’t.Because Sandy, despite the swath of destruction that she left in her wake did something entirely unexpected. She made something that had, like Governor Christie, been reduced to little more than a punchline in a sub-par reality show real again. I won’t thank her for that anymore than I’ll endorse Chris Christie for president in 2016. But I’ll never forget the impacts of either, and that may end up being the most important thing that I take away from this experience.
Just Another Appreciation, AKA The Equivalent of a Gen Ed Appreciation
I think the title says it all. Or does it? In truth, the title really says nothing other than what it says. This could be an appreciation of anything from “The Walking Dead” to Pez… from the futility of being a Philadelphia Eagles fan to being a Conservative Liberal or a Liberal Conservative (and I’m not going to tell you which I am because really? I might be both… or neither). And while I am entering the composition of this little piece of Mental Flatulence with the foreknowledge of what it is going to be an appreciation of… well, I guess I thought that the title I chose was a better one than “Anniversaries: An Appreciation.” The former keeps you guessing and makes you want to read on to solve the mystery while the latter can be easily dismissed as me, once again talking about myself. Now that I’ve admitted to my ploy you have my permission to look away or you can continue to read. Either way I got credit for a blog hit which is good. I’ve always said that if I ever make it to 100 hits on a single blog entry I’ll go public. If you want me to go public then that’s a good thing. If you don’t I highly suggest that you stop clicking on the links when I post them. ‘Cause I’m doing it at 100 whether the world wants me to or not.
You have been warned.
Incidentally, my last entry–“Penn State Proud – A Psuedo-Madman’s Take”–remains my high water mark for hits: 70. Most everything else that I’ve written has remained between 30 and 50 hits total. I have no reason to think that this particular entry will in any way, shape or form rival my last or my second most viewed entry ever–“What Thanksgiving Means to me by way of Probability and Statistics” (66)–but I’m hopeful. I’m always hopeful that there’s more out there for these musings than word of mouth via Facebook or Twitter because despite my sometimes inane ramblings that are, seemingly, meaningful to only one or two people (myself included), I maintain that there are a few quality ideas in them. A few. Um…
Inci-incidentally, if you are interested in reading either of those two blog entries you can link the Penn State one HERE or the Thanksgiving one HERE. All of my other entries are accessible via the main page of Random Musings HERE. Notice also the addition of a “SHARE ME” box directly directly beneath my profile and a “G+” icon at the top. Please, feel free to pass any of these entries on to your friends. Help me get to 100 and fulfill my dream of publishing something (I’m not discriminating). And with that bit of shameless promotion out of the way, I will now return you to my current blog entry, already in progress.
All together now: Oh thank God.
Today is a momentous day. For me, at least, and hopefully for my wife. Today is my seventh wedding anniversary. There was a time, a little over a decade ago where I never would have dreamed such a thing possible. Pre-November, 2001 I was… well, I guess you could say that I was romantically a rudderless ship. I’d spent the better part of six plus years obsessing over relationships that either should have been or were but ended too quickly. Many of those relationships took on an almost cult status in my own mind over time. I even referred to the women that I had those relationships with by surnames like “The Feminine Bane of My Early Existence” or “Miss Issues Incarnate.” My earliest pieces of Mental Flatulence, composed on my old 286 HP with the monochrome screen were primarily devoted to tales of my escapades with them or related to them. I have never forgotten those tales. They are compiled forevermore both on my home computer and in a white binder that I keep with the rest of hard cover collection in my home “office” entitled “Mental Flatulence Volume One: Musings from Beyond the Wormhole.” But it was a different time for me, then… a different mentality. “Chaos [was] a friend of mine” as Bob Dylan once said. I was a prophet of anti-inspiration: I drew from negativity. And I was prolific though only a few, select people read those pieces… sh*t, read anything I wrote back then.
Inci-inci-incidentally, if you’re interested in reading them please email me using the link at the bottom of this page under “Creative Commons Agreement” and I will be happy to forward you a copy. Um…
Yeah. Sorry. Shameless self promotion penalty flag number two on this blog entry has been thrown. One more and I’m disqualified.
Yet in 2001 something entirely unexpected happened. Many of you reading this know the story. For those of you that don’t I’ll rehash it for you. In June of that year I–still a Store Manager for CVStress–was transferred out of my cushy little mall store in Plymouth Meeting, PA to a higher volume strip store in Havertown, PA. Needless to say, the assignment was a daunting one. Not only was my crew larger and testier but for my first time as an actual Manager I had a pharmacy. Said pharmacy at the time that I took over employed a young intern who attended Temple University named Nicole Gentile.
In all honesty, friends? I barely registered her presence at first. Don’t crucify me for that: She never has. I was too busy trying to fix the front store’s problems. I was coming out of my longest ever relationship–a whopping seven months–and was adherent to the unwritten credo of the CVStress Front Store/Pharmacy relationship: One does not associate with the other unless one is forced to. Yet over a short period of time, specifically early July through early November of 2001 that changed. I found myself taking more notice of her than I had before: Her deep, brown eyes, her curly, brown hair, her smile which was just downright radiant and her personality which was infectious. I won’t even tell you what I thought of her body as those memories are mine and mine alone. Who the f*ck was this girl that had caught my attention, seemingly out of nowhere? Sometime in early November post-almost killing myself trying to get a box of pharmacy bags for her out from behind a stack of promo trays and post-the back rub she gave me after a long weekend of setting up Christmas I was faced with a choice. I had been informed by my then-Shift Supervisor Donna that someone in the store, specifically in the pharmacy was interested in me though I did not know who. Simultaneously, my then-Photo Lab Supervisor Sister Mary of the Photo Lab (yes, she was a nun on sabbatical) informed me that the then-District Photo Lab Supervisor, Jess, was interested in me, as well.
My choice: Do I pursue the known commodity–Jess and I had been associates for a while and were both Front Store employees–or do I embrace the mystery? The *GASP* pharmacy. I was initially torn. I weighted one against the other and eventually made my choice. I asked Donna to pull back the curtain and abracadabra: I discovered that the person with an interest in me was Nicole. To say that I was enthused would be an understatement. I was ecstatic. I went out that night with my friend Pete to a bar in Northeast Philly to discuss my course of action and sometime around 9:30 PM, I made the call. I did so from a payphone outside of a now-defunct bar, the name of which I can not remember (across from Whisky Tango on the Boulevard: Someone help me out, please?). I called her parent’s house because it was the only contact info Donna had in the HR system for her. Little did I know she lived in South Philly at the time and not in Havertown. But eventually she got the message and returned it and the rest? History, friends. Almost 11 years worth.
Oh thank God.
Our first date was on November 11, 2001 but this blog entry is not about our first date. It’s about anniversaries and an appreciation of them. Fast forward to 2005 and a sun-bleached day in mid-October. I found myself standing upon the altar of Sacred Heart Church in Havertown, PA about 75 yards from CVStress Havertown with my wedding party behind me. I was sick as sh*t… I had awoken Saturday morning with the same cold that Nicole had been fighting all week. But thanks to a couple of attentive groomsmen and about half a package of Tylenol Cold and Flu, not to mention a handful of Fuzzy Navals (Vitamin C, man: Can’t beat it, or so I told myself) I was upright and able to breathe. And when I saw her walking up the aisle toward me, flanked on either side by her mother and her father? Niagara Falls. I had always feared that I would cry at my own wedding and embarrass myself. Whether the tears were substance induced–cold medicine and vodka–or not at that moment? I really didn’t care what anyone else thought of me… could have cared less whether I was a blubbering idiot or completely composed. That moment was the happiest moment of my life. “The Feminine Bane of My Early Existence” and “Miss Issues Incarnate?” My sordid relationship history? The fear that one of my two Best Men was going to Wet Willy me as they had claimed they would? Nothing mattered at that moment but her. Every married man claims that his wife was, at the moment that he saw her walking down the aisle, the most beautiful woman in the universe. Every married woman counter-argues that “[we] have to say that.” I can’t speak for anyone else and wouldn’t dream to. But when I say it? I mean it.
And that’s what this day is all about: The anniversary of not only my wedding day but the anniversary of the happiest moment in my life… the culmination of years of playing Skirmish with mine and Bob Dylan’s friend Chaos and embracing anti-inspiration. I really never did think it would happen for me, guys. Had you told me that I would be where I am right now pre-November of 2001 I would have looked at you askance, much in the same fashion that I would look at you presently if you told me that “The Walking Dead” stinks, that Pez is disgusting, that the Philadelphia Eagles will win the Super Bowl this year with Andy Reid as their coach and Michael Vick as their quarterback and that despite my double talk, I’m either a Liberal Democrat or a Conservative Republican. Back then I was a product of my situation, much like I am currently albeit for different reasons. Pre-November, 2001 I would never have allowed myself to believe that I could be happy because I was so accustomed to disappointment. And it took me until mid-October of 2005 to convince myself that it was possible… took me until that moment when I looked down at my left hand and saw the ring that has rested consistently on my finger now for seven years shining back at me. I remember feeling an all-to-brief wave of contentment rush over me at that moment and a little voice that I have rarely heard speak in my mind did so. And do you know what it said?
You did it, Frank. You did it.
I remember briefly closing my eyes, taking a deep breath and smiling. Seconds later we were pronounced man and wife and the insanity commenced. I smiled for pictures for the next approximately six to eight hours. I forgot about my cold and drank copious amounts of alcohol on top of what I had already ingested. I ate delicious food and I continued to embarrass myself by dancing my a** off to everything from Springsteen to Bon Jovi (no Chicken Dance, though… we had a strict No Chicken Dance Policy). I listened to people wishing me and Nicole well. I accepted gifts. I greeted relatives and friends, many of whom I have, sadly, not seen since. The remainder of that day is still a blur in my mind and my memories of it are few and far between. But I will never forget standing there upon that altar less than a football field’s length away from where I first met Nicole Gentile, once Pharmacy Intern turned Nicole Gentile Marsh, PharmD. I will never forget that brief moment of serendipity (of which I have not had many since).
There have been days since that day that have ranked among the happiest moments of my life. The day that we made settlement on our little three bedroom, one and a half bath Colonial in Broomall with the finished basement that habitually floods and the backyard that I can’t maintain no matter how hard I try. The day that I found out that Nicole was pregnant and the day that our first born, Cara Angelina Marsh graced us with her presence in 2009. The day that I found out that Nicole was pregnant again and the arrival of our second born, Natalie Theresa Marsh earlier this year. The day that I finished re-writing “Endworld.” The day that I finally leveled my Hunter to 60 in the original, non-expansion World of Warcraft and the day that I finally beat my friend Austen in Words With Friends. Those days? They are memorable but save for the birthdays of my daughters I will never celebrate them. They are supplemental. Because?
Because anniversaries celebrate moments. Moments in time like that moment seven years ago on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existance when I looked in to the angelic face of my wife, veiled in white as the priest told me I could “kiss the bride” and I thought, a second before my lips locked upon hers…
You guessed, friends: Oh thank God.
Happy Anniversary, Nicole. All my love, now and forever.
(NOTE: Shameless self promotion flag number three for excessive shameless self promotion thrown simultaneously with my initialing of this blog entry. I am hereby disqualified from writing anything else. So, if you want to read more, you can link the rest of “Random Musings of a Pseudo-Madman…”)
ICS, J-Town – An Appreciation
Once upon a time… because all good stories begin as such in the words of an as-of-yet un-immortalized, ill-fated hero from modern literature named Pat McClane… once upon a time myself, my family, and a motley crew of others lived in a little, upper lower to middle class neighborhood in Montgomery County, Pennsylvania that we endearingly nicknamed “J-Town.” The actual name of the town was “Jenkintown” and you may or may not have heard of it. Not many people have as it is nestled between the sprawling communities of Abington and Cheltenham, Pennsylvania and is easily missed.
If you’ve never heard of it and can’t find it on a map don’t worry: You’re not alone. There’s really not a lot to it. The town proper, not including the outlying “suburbs” of Rydal and Noble, is approximately 0.6 square miles border to border (per Wikipedia), and the population as of 2010 was an underwhelming 4,422 (also per Wikipedia). By comparison the current town in which I reside with my wife, Nicole and our twodaughters Cara and Natalie, along with our two feline children ‘Dorna and Roxy has a population of 11,046 as of the same census (plus one if you count our own, personal plus one and no other newborns) and is well known for many reasons, not the least of which is the fact that it is a dry town, much to my chagrin. Good thing I’ve got the dual, Delaware County drinking havens of Drexel Hill and Havertown, Pennsylvania in close proximity.
Unlike Broomall, Jenkintown is best known for two things: Beth Sholom, the last building designed by the architect Frank Lloyd Wright before his death and the actor, Bradley Cooper, who grew up there and went to Jenkintown Elementary before leaving to attend Germantown Academy and thereafter, Villanova and Georgetown Universities (also per Wikipedia). Which of these two facts about Jenkintown is most important to you is really a matter of perspective. Me, personally? I’m more partial to a modern marvel of architecture than I am to some guy’s abs but you can focus on whichever you prefer to… Nicole (just kidding sweetie.’Heart you!).
Yet this little piece of Mental Flatulence, e-translated in to a blog entry is not meant to be a history of Jenkintown. If you’re interested in that then I’m sure you can find a good book on it at your local library or online if your local library has been turned in to a CVS or a Walgreens. And there’s always Wikipedia, right?
No. The title of this says it all: “ICS, J-Town – An Appreciation.” Much like J-Town is to Jenkintown, “ICS” is to “Immaculate Conception School.” (we were fond of shortening things back when we were kids. That’s likely why we called everyone by our last names. “I’ll take Marsh!” or “Hey, Hungerford!” Sometimes I wonder how many first names of my fellow townsfolk I knew when I entered high school) You can also find ICS online and you don’t have to look very hard. Just Google “Immaculate Conception School Jenkintown” and go to the top site that appears in your browser. It’s the school’s website.
Well, it was the school’s website. It’s still there but I don’t know how long it will be there for. That’s because today, June 15th, 2012 is the final day of classes ever at ICS. Those of you not living in and around the Philadelphia, Pennsylvania area may or may not know this but earlier this year, the Archdiocese of Philadelphia’s “Blue Ribbon Committee” recommended ICS and multiple other, Catholic elementary schools and high schools in the region for closure. Some of those schools were able to appeal the committee’s ruling and earn a temporary respite. Others–ICS included–were unable to do so. Today is a sad day for those of us that attended school, taught at or had children attend ICS and other schools that failed to earn an extended chance, and while Immaculate Conception School will always remain a part of my past, my sister’s past and the respective pasts of others, it will no longer exist in anything but our collective memories. Much like the Dodo Bird, that which was will… as of this afternoon… cease to exist.
You may be yearning to ask: Why mourn the loss of something so distant in the past? It’s not like the powers that be closed my high school, Bishop McDevitt or my colleges, The Penn State and Drexel Universities. ICS was my grade schoolfor God’s sake. I “graduated” from it in 1989, a full 23 years ago, when Hair Bands still ruled terrestrial radio, I still wore Jams and my sister still wore Jellies, Charles Barkley was still a 76er and not a poster child for Weight Watchers, Michael Jordan hadn’t yet won an NBA Championship, George Bush Senior was still the president and Iraq was still an ally. I collected Garbage Pail Kids… I hadn’t yet tried alcohol… hadn’t yet smoked a cigarette or a joint. I’d never kissed a girl, my nuts had barely dropped and I still could sing soprano. So much of my life has been lived in the two decades since I walked out the glass doors of that school for the last time. It shouldn’t even be a proverbial speck in the corner of my brain… should it?
It probably shouldn’t. But surprisingly, I remember more of my time both at and outside of ICS than I do whole portions of my college years, likely due to the overabundance of alcohol, cigarettes and marijuana that I consumed in the latter. I remember the names of allof the people that I “graduated” with, many of whom I’m friends with on Facebook and a few who I remain friends with outside of our ever-growing, social media community (I can say “our.” It’s a publicly traded company now, is it not?).
And not just my class, either. I remember the class that proceeded me almost as well as I remember my own, due largely in part to the constant beatings I took at the members of it’s pre-pubescent hands. If any of those people are reading this, right now please, do not take my last statement as a knock or, as we called it back then, a “bust.” Many of those beatings I brought upon myself out of my sheer inability to grasp that fact that I was not popular… that I was a complete and total nerd, geek, or otherwise unsavory personality. It took me until half way through my sophomore year at McDevitt to accept the fact that I would never be the head of the student council and you of the “Noogies” and the “Six-Inches?” You helped me to get to that point as much as my friends did, even if you thought all that you were doing was punching the fat kid in the arm… and the stomach… and occasionally the face. If anything, I should thank you and move on.
Well? Maybe not thank you. But move on? Definitely.
But that’s not the extent of my “re-memory” (one of my favorite terms. Not a Frank-ism. Google “re-memory Toni Morrison” and you’ll see what it means). I remember the feel of the sun on the back of my neck as I stood outside playing dodgeball. I remember the way the heat would rebound off of the white top of the schoolyard as I played, and oft times lost a game of one-on-one basketball against Ring or Breslin. I remember sitting in the cafeteria on a rainy day trading my peanut butter sandwich and Tastycake for a piece of Kodadek’s cold, Ellio’s Pizza. Because who didn’t want cold pizza for lunch back then, even if it was re-processed cardboard topped with a proportionate amount of sauce and Gov’ment Mozzarella cheese. I remember glancing around me at the art projects hanging around the cafeteria on those days. In conjunction with the endless rain, said projects were early signs of Spring and the yearly Art Fair which, I am not ashamed to admit, I often won.
And it doesn’t end there. I remember the feel of the warm breeze that blew in through the roll down windows and rattled the Venetian Blinds in the late morning and the early afternoon as I sat learning my lessons. Of course, English was always my favorite. I remember the way my habitual, afternoon doldrom–the same doldrom I feel nowadays right around now when the effects the low-carb Monster I should not have drank but drank anyway in the morning have all but worn off–was shattered by the sound of the church bell next door to the school ringing twice. 2 PM, I would think, only one hour left to go! I remember the way we all scampered out the glass doors that overlooked West Avenue at 3:00 PM, so many, many times before walking through them one, final time with blue gowns upon our shoulders and smiles on our faces. High School, we thought then, we’re high school students, now. No matter where we went, who we hung out with or what we ended up doing with our lives we always shared that one binding tie between us: We were “graduates” of ICS.
Little did we know then what we know now: That a full 23 years later many of us would be sitting at our desks at work or surrounded by our own children at home watching the school that was the centerpiece of our world for eight… and in some cases more years close it’s big glass, double doors behind the Class of 2012 one, final time. My gut tells me that those kids aren’t stepping out in to the warm, breezy late Spring day that I just walked in to my office in Royersford, Pennsylvania from in their blue graduation gowns like conquering heroes, their thoughts on the lazy, Summer months ahead and the prospect of high school beyond them. In truth? A few of them are likely choked up over the fact that within a few hours, their alma mater will be defunct: Merged forevermore with its once-rival Saint Luke’s in to the newly minted Saint Joseph the Protector Regional Catholic School in Glenside, Pennsylvania.
Don’t get me wrong. The same tie that bound and continues to bind the class of 1989 together will forever bind the class of 2012 together with a singular exception: Every time the members of the class of 1989 rolled back in to town in the past with their spouses by their sides and their children behind them they could drive by the faded, glass and stucco facade of the building that they had spent the better part of eight or more years in, point to it, and say, “look ____, that’s where daddy/mommy went to grade school!” 23 years from now when the class of 2012 rolls back in to J-Town with their family in toe, they won’t be able to point to the building that they spent so much of their early lives in. Maybe they’ll point to a CVS or a Walgreens. Maybe they’ll point to a movie theater. Maybe it’ll be a park or maybe it’ll be a municipal black top. No ones knows what it will be at this juncture. But it won’t be ICS. The church next door will still be there… will still ring its bell every hour on the hour from 6:00 AM to 6:00 PM, but there will be no students dosing at their desks when said bell signals at 2:00 PM that there is only one hour left to go in the day. No feelings of elation. Just two, lonely chimes and then? Silence.
The entire scene as it once was–like some post-modern, art deco representation of a Norman Rockwell painting with a Gothic church on one side of a sloping driveway and a three level, glass, sheet cake building on the other–will never exist as it once existed for me and for so many others for over a hundred years. Is it… was it as awe-inspiring as Beth Sholom or Bradley Cooper’s abs? No. Far from it depending on who you ask. But not all art needs be a masterpiece. Some art doesn’t begin that way. Some art, at first, is a bit awkward to look at. The angles are either too simple or too skewed. The picture is fuzzy. But over time, as more people experience it, said art is infused with the mind, body and soul of the people that were moved by it. Even the ugliest duckling in the bunch can become a masterwork after all is said and done. The picture is still the same as it was when the artist first created it but the experience of the picture has changed drastically in the subsequent years.Why can’t the same be said of a school that over the years graduated thousands upon thousands of students despite its undeniably plain facade, most of whom still speak fondly of their experiences there to this day?
I do not fault the Archdiocese of Philadelphia’s Blue Ribbon Committee for their recommendation. Nor do I fault Archbishop Chaput for denying the heartfelt appeals of not only the ICS community, but others schools and their respective communities, as well. One thing that I have learned over the course of my adult life is that business is business, even when religion is involved and it is rarely personal. The decision to close ICS and other schools, at least per the evidence that I have seen was not personally motivated. It was made per an exhaustive series of hard numbers on enrollment, contributions, salaries et cetera, et cetera. The bottom line? Other schools were performing better and those schools were the ones that earned a respite. But knowing the numbers behind the decision does not lessen the blow that I feel knowing now, at 4:11 PM on June 15th, 2012, that the same classrooms that I spent eight years of my life in will never see another lesson…
That the same white-top playground that I used to hang out on with my classmates will never see another game of “Suicide” or “Spring” (the latter, otherwise known as “Freedom” in communities other than J-Town)…
That the same cafeteria that I once traded for and ate cold, Ellio’s Pizza in will never see another Art Fair…
That the joyous cries of the students exiting the building at the end of the day will never again be heard echoing off of the buildings across West Avenue that face the big, glass double doors inset within the plate glass front of the school. Once upon a time… because all good stories begin as such, we all lived on a little, 0.6 square mile plot of land that I and my brethren endearingly referred to as “J-Town.” Pre-Facebook… pre-Mental Flatulence and blogs, pre-a global, social media community, the cornerstone of that little hamlet nestled between Abington and Cheltenham, Pennsylvania was the school that we all seemingly attended. We knew very little of the world beyond it’s borders and in truth? We didn’t need to. J-Town was our home and by association? So was ICS.
Rest in Peace, Immaculate Conception, secure in the knowledge that the majority of the people that passed through your doors were positively changed by their experiences within your hallowed halls. No matter what happens you will forever be an alma mater. As my former classmate Hungerford posted on his Facebook page today, “cheers to the blue and the white.” Cheers, indeed.
F.
The Mix Tape – An Appreciation
“The making of a great compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do and takes ages longer than it might seem. You gotta kick off with a killer, to grab attention. Then you got to take it up a notch, but you don’t wanna blow your wad, so then you got to cool it off a notch. There are a lot of rules. Anyway, I’ve started to make a tape in my head. Full of stuff that she likes. Full of stuff that makes her happy. For the first time I can sort of see how that is done.”
– Rob Gordon (as written by Nick Hornsby and played by John Cusack), “High Fidelity.”
Last evening, I moved a bed out of mine and Nicole’s “Room of Requirement” and replaced it with a glider. For those of you reading this that have been living under a rock for the last ten years or have simply never seen nor read a Harry Potter story, the “Room of Requirement” is just that: A secret room in Hogwarts that morphs in to whatever the person that discovers it requires. A magic dojo; a place which hides a Horocrux. Pick your poison, friends. Every house has something similar. Some more organized households have a drawer or a closet. Nicole and I? We have a whole room. We originally set it up six years ago (when we bought our house) as an office/guest room. Over time, it grew in to a repository for everything from old files to my deadbeat father’s coin collection/memorabilia collection. Our office is still there albeit buried beneath rolls of wrapping paper and behind totes filled with holiday decor (due mainly to Nicole’s passing, two year or so fancy with the Cult of Home Interiors) but the room itself resembles something out of an episode of “Storage Wars.” Save for an old Sirius/XM dock, a couple of recievers and a collection of first edition, Stephen King hardbacks (unbroken all the way back to “Bag of Bones” I am proud to say) there is little of value in it but “YUUUP,” It’s there.
I digress… again. Last night, I moved a bed out of that room and replaced it with a glider. You see, our once-“Room of Requirement” is soon to be the plus one, alias Natalie Theresa Marsh’s nursery. Much remains to be done–carpeting, painting, maybe a new ceiling fan and, of course, furniture–but we’ve finally begun the long and laborious process of cleaning it out. In one of the corners of the room behind the bed I discovered my own version of “The Wow Factor”: The stereo that I bought for Nicole way, way back when we first began dating for her birthday, complete with a three CD changer, an AM/FM radio and… brace yourselves, guys… a dual cassette, continuous play tape deck. But that’s not all. Beneath said stereo in two ancient milk crates that I have carried with me since my days as a wayward pre-teen living in a room in my mother’s house in Jenkintown, PA were tapes. Actual tapes, guys. Everything from the first tape I ever purchased–Journey, “Look In To The Future”–to the last one I purchased before I finally gave in and upgraded to CDs–Prodigy, “The Fat Of The Land.
I was shocked. I quite literally gasped at my discovery. Did it still work? I had to know. So I found the power cord, made sure that my cats hadn’t chewed through it (they hadn’t), unwound it from it’s twist tie and plugged it in. Eureka! The face lit up and a single word appeared upon it in angry, orange letters: “TAPE.” I knew it was a sign. I immediately began shuffling through my tape collection and was in awe at the diversity displayed by it–Everything from Paganini to Bon Jovi, “Fields Of Gold” to “River[s] Of Dreams”–a diversity reflected to this day in my eclectic, 36 year old taste in music. I found a cast recording for “Pippin”–the musical I proudly played King Charlemagne in during my 19th summer of life on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. I found an old recording of “Dark Side Of The Moon” on one side and “The Delicate Sound Of Thunder” on the other that my uncle once dubbed for me… off of vinyl. I could go on and on–From Prince and the New Power Generation to the Moody Blues–but to do so would defeat the purpose of why I am writing this little piece of Mental Flatulence currently. Simultaneously with Nicole’s and Cara’s arrival and a spirited, “What’cha ‘doin?” from my wonderful wife, I moved a stack of tapes and discovered not one, not two but at least a half a dozen, if not more Mix Tapes. Yes, you heard me right: Mix Tapes that had been made for me by friends, ex-girlfriends and “others” over the course of my young life. I removed one and gasped as I saw who it was from. I removed another and tried like hell to remember who had made it for me. I removed still another and remembered my creepy, once-Head Cashier at the now defunct CVS in Plymouth Meeting, PA who behind his greasy, black hair and a serious case of halitosis had once of the most impressive and nightmarish musical minds I had then and have ever encountered. Memories flooded back–some good, and some bad–and the only thing that I could think to do to avert the tidal onrush of emotion?
I picked one of the tapes up, smiled, removed it from its case, inserted it–Side A–and hit “PLAY.” I didn’t even glance at the “liner notes.” I wanted to be surprised. After a second or two of what sounded like someone passing gas in slow motion, Van Morrison’s all-to-familiar lyrics hearkened to my ears:
“Hey where did we go? Days when the rains came. Down in the hollow. Playing a new game. Laughing and a running, hey, hey. Skipping and ‘a jumping. In the misty morning fog, with you. Aw, my heart started pumping with you… my Brown Eyed Girl. YOU MY… Brown Eyed Girl.”
Cue musical interlude.
As “Brown Eyed Girl” segued in to “In The Jungle” and “In The Jungle” segued in to “What A Wonderful World” and “What A Wonderful World” segued in to “Witch In The Ditch” (remember that one?) a few things happened simultaneously: I remembered who had made said Mix Tape for me, my two and a half year old daughter started dancing to music she had likely and… in this day and age of Gagas and Minajes… might never hear again, and my wife and I started singing along. While these things were happening something else occurred to me. Far be it from me to over-dramatically link my little discovery in my “Room of Requirement” to something as monumental as, say, finding the Lost Ark, but I realized that I had uncovered and was enjoying a long, forgotten art form: An idea that was touched upon by Nick Hornsby in his phenomenal book “High Fidelity” and was later successfully transposed (with the help of a then-unknown actor/comedian named Jack Black and a well-established but typecast actor named John Cusack) to celluloid. The Mix Tape. Not just a collection of songs thrown together to listen to in your car but something more. Something deeper. To once again quote Rob Gordon/John Cusack, “The making of a good compilation tape is a very subtle art. Many do’s and don’ts. First of all you’re using someone else’s poetry to express how you feel. This is a delicate thing.”
The Mix Tape is a lost art form, friends. When one was created properly and with the right amount of care it was as magnificent as a painting, as pithy as a poem or a song or as epic as a novel. It was a way of telling someone how you felt about them “back in the day” without using emoticons or multiple “u’s” at the end of “I HEART YOUUUUU.” Back before any of us could afford jewelry or a fancy dinner we could always afford a package of three 120 minute, blank cassette tapes at the local CVS. And who didn’t have tapes or, later, CDs to “dub” (now we call it “burn” but we used to call it “dub”)? “Back in the day” I considered myself quite the maestro at “using someone else’s poetry to express [how I felt].” So much so that I promised Nicole, shortly after we had begun dating in 2001, that I would make her a Mix Tape. I was quite confident in my ability to craft something lasting for the woman I had so quickly fallen in love with. Sadly, circumstances interfered and it took me an additional year or two to put one together for her. But then, one late night in 2003 (per my hand written liner notes), I fulfilled my vow to her. I put together what would be the last Mix Tape of many that I had made over the course of my life on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. I split it up in to two parts: Side A was entitled, quite simply, “Fast Tracks” and the song listing?
“Without Me” – Eminem
“Cowboy” – Kid Rock
“Question” – Familiar 48/Bonehead (take your pick; same band/identity crisis)
“Grey Street” – Dave Matthews Band
“Love Rollercoaster” – Red Hot Chili Peppers
“Nookie” – Limp Bizkit
“Lucky” – Downcircleback
“Everyday” – Dave Matthews Band
“Preaching The End Of The World” – Chris Cornell
“Brand New Day” – Sting
“F*cking In The Bushes” – Oasis
No subtext, guys. No, none whatsoever. Side B was called “Love Songs” and the track listing?
“Sunshower” – Chris Cornell
“To Be With You” – Mr. Big
“If You’re Gone” – Matchbox 20
“Where Are You Going?” – Dave Matthews Band
“Porcelain” – Moby (yes, once upon a time I listened to Moby. My techno-identity crisis was brought on by a friend. No names but if you’re reading this, you know who you are)
“I Don’t Know How To Love Him” – “Jesus Christ Superstar”
“Lullybye” – Billy Joel
“I’m Open/Around The Bend” – Pearl Jam
“Somewhere In Between” and “Everything” – Lifehouse
“May It Be” – Enya
Again, no subtext. I swear. While the songs chosen may seem tame and… relatively Top 40 in their nature in truth? You’ve never met my Top 40 wife. Seriously, though (and sorry about that, sweetie), I had never put more thought in to a single Mix Tape that I had made for anyone. Why? Because I knew, even then, that I was making it for the woman I hoped I was going to spend the rest of my life with. Marry. Buy a house with. Have children with. Create a “Room of Requirement” with. Turns out I was right in my assessment on all fronts though admittedly? Had things gone awry I would have felt much like Lloyd Dobler–a different John Cusack interpretation–did when in “Say Anything” he told the woman of his dreams to “burn” the letter he had written her, for “it hurts him to know that its ‘out there.'” There are a few tapes that I made for people over the course of my life that I know remain “out there.” Does it hurt me to know that they are? Not really. Because each of those people–be they friends or ex-girlfriends or “others”–had an indisputable impact on my life at the point that I made said tape for them. Each in turn helped me to grow beyond the child I was then and in to the man I am now and for that? I am eternally grateful. Maybe one day–if I ever achieve my seemingly ceaseless dream of becoming a published author–said tapes will be worth something though I’m quite sure given what little, legal knowledge I retain that copyright infringement is a valid worry. Ah f*ck it. I’ll cross that particular bridge when and if I come to it.
Perhaps there are others out there either reading this or not that feel the same way about the tapes they made for mebeing ‘out there.’ If any of those people are reading this I have one thing to say to you: Don’t. Ever.I’m not a big fan of looking over my shoulder at this juncture in my life though occasionally, an odd situation like this onepresents itself and reminds me of the road that I traveled and the people that I encountered to get to the point I’m at today. I’m even less a fan of “looking back in anger.” What do I have to be angry about? I’m pleased with how my life worked out and I hope that you, you and you are too. If anything, I will always hold said compilations near and dear to my heart because they represent something more than a DVD or even a book. They represent a little piece of your heart and soul. There is, in my opinion, nothing more selfless and thoughtful than that. So thank you. All of you.
Cue musical interlude. And of course, I digressed… again.
As Cara danced and Nicole and I sung along andtook turns dancing with Cara I proceeded to look at the other Mix Tapes that I had uncovered. I determined upon closer observation and thought that there are, in fact, five distinctly different kinds of Mix Tapes, many of which were represented to some extent in my collection. We’ll call this my own, “High Fidelity-esque”Top Five List. “The Top Five Distinct Types Of Mix Tapes As Partially Represented By My Own, Personal Collection.” In no particular order they are:
1. The Friendly Mix Tape: This one is about as simple as they come. The songs are selected not by significance but by what flows and what naturally goes together, i.e. Jimmy Buffett with James Taylor, The Police with solo Sting, etc.. I have multiple versions of this Mix Tape in my collection. One of them I have already mentioned–The one with “Brown Eyed Girl,” “In The Jungle,” “What A Wonderful World” and “Witch In A Ditch” on it. Many of the others were made for me by a good, still-friend of mine after my unfortunate run in with a white picket fence and a pond one icy night in December of 1993 in Huntingdon Valley, PA. My entire tape collection was ruined by the two feet of water that seeped in to my mother’s Pontiac Sunbird and he took it upon himself to replenish it as best he could from his own collection. I still have all of those Mix Tapes today, their liner notes written in precise long-hand by a now, mid-30 something, still-perfectionist who I have been and remain proud to call one of my oldest and best friends. No names, but if he’s reading this he knows who he is. And if he doesn’t? Wus.
2. The I Want You But I Don’t Know How To Tell You Mix Tape: This particular tape is, perhaps, the most complicated of the lot because it is difficult to determine if the Mix Tape that was made for you is, in fact, what I’ll call a “Number Two.” Number Twos are halfway between “Number Ones” and “Number Threes.” I potentially have two such Mix Tapes in my collection. I say “potentially” because classifying either as a Number Two is not an exact science since only one resulted in a very short-lived, albeit intense relationship for the same reason that I just mentioned. Ask yourself: Is there a subtext to the song selection or not? In many cases the only person that truly knows for sure is the compiler him or herself and all you, as the recipient can do is speculate and be grateful. But if you have a thing for the person that made you what potentially could be a Number Two? Well, friends, said speculation and gratitude can quickly become the cause of a lesser form of insanity that can drive you to drink, do drugs or, in many cases, do something drastic only to discover that the only reason said person put “Don’t Give Up” by Peter Gabriel on there was because he or she likes the song. Not because he or she is telling you not to give up on your chances with him or her because he or she currently has a girlfriend or a boyfriend. Not that I ever made that mistake…
Cue musical interlude. “I don’t care what you play just play it loud!”
3. The I Love You And You Reciprocate My Love Mix Tape: Case in point is the above mentioned Mix Tape that I made for my then-girlfriend Nicole Gentile: The song selection has a clear subtext. The only real guesswork for the recipient comes from determining the intensity of the Love echoed by the tape. How deep? How physical? Here’s a tip for any dinosaurs out there who are considering putting one of these together: The inclusion of a song called “F*cking In The Bushes” means that the giver really, really wants you. Really. And there’s a reason why “Cowboy” by Kid Rock is the second, most popular song for strippers to dance to directly behind “Pour Some Sugar On Me” by Def Leppard. Don’t believe me? Google it. “Cowboy, baby.”
4. The I Want You Back Mix Tape: Admittedly, I don’t have a single one of these. I never madeone either. Generally speaking if you dumped me or if I broke up with you it was pretty mutual. That may sound cold but trust me: My personality tends to grate on people after a while. Even now, I marvel at how long Nicole has stayed with me despite my oft-times quirkiness (see: This blog post). Looking back over the course of my life on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence in this, my own subjective universe I can only think of one, particular incidence where “wanting someone back,” at least from my perspective was even a consideration post-break up. As it turned out that desire was little more than a pipe dream, fashioned by me from my own psyche to compensate for the knowledge that I was not in lovebut was, rather, in love with the idea of being in love. Because I was a romantic and I wanted to be in love so badly.
And believe it or not, I didn’t even need a shrink to teach me that. I just ‘kinda… figured it out.
Little did I know what True Love felt like. Not melodramatic, “Princess Bride-esque” “‘Twue ‘Wuv” but Love with a big, bold capital “L.” My wife taught me that first. Now my two and a half year old, “Dancing Queen” daughter is teaching it to me. And in a few months? My plus one alias Natalie Theresa will, I pray, teach it to me even further. How do I know this for sure? Simple: I just do.
5. The I Despise You On This Or On ANY Side Of The Proverbial Wormhole Of Existence Mix Tape: “YUUUP.” These particular Mix Tapes? They’re generally very similar in content regardless of who or what is making them. They usually start off with something from “Jagged Little Pill” Era Alanis Morisette. It doesn’t have to be “You ‘Oughta Know.” It could be something veiled in anger like “You Live You Learn” but if said selection doesn’t start off Side A I gauren-damn-tee you it is strategically placed on there somewhere. Other musical selections that might be included on said tape? “Head Like A Hole” by NIN. “I Won’t Become The Thing I Hate” by Stabbing Westward. And the always pep, pep, peppy “I Hate Everything About You” by Three Days Grace (about as subtle as a sledgehammer to the nads). I can’t say that I ever made one of these Mix Tapes nor did anyone ever make one for me. I count myself lucky on both fronts but if you have made a tape like this for someone in your wayward, youthful, lovelorn days? Fret not: One particular friend of mine got a combination Number Two/Number Five Mix Tape once. We listened to it multiple times in his now-defunct, black Camaro as we ferried ourselves too and from State College, PA back in our own, shared, wayward and lovelorn youth, alias the mid-nineties. If anything, it was an always reliable topic of conversation. “No message, Vato?” No message, Vato. None whatsoever. Cue Stabbing Westward, “Shame.”And cackle in a combination of humor and fear for your respective lives.
And there you have it, friends. THE MIX TAPE: An Appreciation. Perhaps not as poignant as “Contrary” but it sure was fun to write. We live now in a post-modern age of MP3s and streaming music. Even the CD has begun a steady, fiscal decline similar to the decline experienced by the cassette in the early parts of the last decade. The future of music is digital and what I am referring to via this composition as an art form may be little more than just one, pseudo-madman’s rambling about the mentality he grew up with: A mentality reflected in a book and a movie like “High Fidelity” but nowhere else. No one will ever confuse a Mix Tape with a work of art by Vincent Van Gogh, a poem by T. S. Eliot, a song by Kurt Cobain or a novel by Toni Morrison. But for me, it exhibits many of the characteristics of each: It’s colorful and textured like a masterwork of art, it’s multi-layered and symbolic like an epic poem, it’s a virtuoso synthesis of music and words like a musical composition and it tells a story like a book. It is, in fact, a synthesis of all art forms and science, i.e. the ability to duplicate–oft times illegally–previously recorded content. You don’t have to run to the clearance table at Walmart or Target and buy a cheap, three pack of 120 minutes cassettes. You may not even have access to a tape recorder or a stereo. But remember the idea of the Mix Tape. Pass it on to your children. Tell them about “dubbing” and teach them how to “burn” music for someone they care about. Maybe one day–when everything is holographic and stored on an extensive Cloud–one of them will find their old, iPod docking station and their equally old iPod behind an old bed in their own “Room of Requirement.” They’ll plug in the docking station and charge up the iPod on it. They’ll realize both work and they’ll power up the latter, select a playlist that they created and shared with a friend, ex or “other” once upon a time and hit “PLAY.” And as the lyrics penned by Lady Gaga or Nicki Minaj echo out from the speakers and across the room that they’re prepping for the arrival of their own, respective plus one they’ll watch with their own wife or husband as their first born child dances awkwardly across the floor to music they’ve never heard before and likely never will again… the music that they grew up with. They’ll look at each other with smiles on their faces and tears in their eyes and they’ll think to themselves…
You guessed it: “What a wonderful world.”
F.
Random Musings of a Pseudo-Madman, Version 2.0 