At the risk of getting a little high-brow for a blog that has thus far a declared audience of three (thanks guys!), I am about to guide you on a whirlwind tour of the life of two young talents who have recently met with their respective early demises this last week. If you're ever short on material to write or gripe (or gripe-write) about, just watch the news. There's enough material to infuriate anyone at any given time, and if the content doesn't drive you nuts, the inane banter during Power Play or Question Period most certainly will.
A young, tenacious and spunky young man named Gary Carter burst onto the scene with Major League Baseball's fledgling (and also now-defunct) Montreal Expos in the mid-seventies, impressing his fellow athletes with his unparalleled work ethic and never-say-die attitude on the field. The cornerstone of a young yet promising Expos team, doomed to fail in Montreal but earnestly carving out a niche in a hockey-mad market, Carter was dubbed 'The Kid', and for all the right reasons. Sort of like why we call Sidney Crosby 'The Kid', partly for his young arrival and partly for his youthful spirit. He was a solid position player, the only catcher the Expos ever had as far as their fans--myself included--would claim. He was a clutch hitter, a leader on the field, a remarkable ambassador for the game and had a strong bond with the community after-hours. And, what is so difficult to relate from today's baseball, he was clean. No drugs. No alcohol. He wasn't smoking in the dugout between at-bats. He wasn't a muscle-bound neanderthal, and he didn't sneak out the left -field fence to take a leak or order a pizza. He played fairly, treated his team mates with respect while maintaining a high standard of expectations, and most memorably, he smiled all the time. One day he was dealt to the New York Mets where he eventually helped his team win the World Series. He was an All-Star eleven times, and was recently elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, becoming the first player to enter the Hall as a Montreal Expo. Folks, there won't be too many more carrying that distinction.
Like a great independent film, or maybe like a Tarantino film but good, we switch over to the life of another celebrity. Young Whitney Houston was born as a second-generation gospel singer-turned R&B crooner. Her mom was an established singer (although I'll be darned if I've ever heard a Cissy Houston song in my life), and her aunt is Dionne Warwick, a Motown legend and widely respected artist in her own right. I'll always have a soft spot for 'That's What Friends Are For'; heck, it introduced me to both Elton John and Stevie Wonder! I think mom still has the 45 of that. Mom, while you're looking for my Sunday School service bars, if you have a chance, can you see if... never mind. Young Whitney was exposed to opportunities her peers would never have had, like, say, getting to hang around with Smokey Robinson, or having Aretha Franklin as a godmother. She joined her church choir in Newark, New Jersey back in the days when New Jersey meant Bruce Springsteen rather than Snooki. She crafted her unmistakable vocal prowess throughout her teens and eventually landed a recording contract. The rest is pretty much common knowledge, but I'll fly through the golden years--her first album, self-titled, yielded several number one hits and sold like mad; her sophomore album, called 'Whitney' continued the formula of her fist and also sold like mad, and her third, 'I'm Your Baby Tonight' also sold well, albeit not as much as the first two, but still, it did pretty well. Other teen-idols of the day would eventually fall the wayside simply because their talent just couldn't match Whitney's. And then Bobby Brown happened.
Here's where the plot thickens. Most of us, in the present day flashing back to those doe-eyed wholesome years as America's African-American sweetheart (and let's be honest, she was never allowed to just be a great singer; she was always a talented 'black woman' who was not always even supported by others in the black community for veering away from traditional R&B to explore pop music), tend to place the blame for Whitney's left-turn down the road to ruin on Mr. Brown, the bad boy who got expelled/quit New Edition, depending on who you ask. They seemed so polarly opposite it was too much for the tabloids to ignore. If she married anyone else, we need to ask ourselves, would we have perceived her any differently? You know how this ends, so long story short: Whitney either was corrupted by Bobby, or Bobby provided her a chance to expose her true personality. Either way, they had a tumultuous marriage, they raised a daughter in between fluctuating solo careers, tours and the inevitable drug abuse that accompanied their rock-royality lifestyle, and by the early 2000s, both had fallen from grace, reduced to untimely sound-bites at airports, bad reality shows and even interviews with Oprah and Babs. Bobby was indicted in the court of American sensationalism and public opinion thenceforth, and was found guilty of soiling the career and ultimately the very existence of one of America's national treasures. Who cares if he does himself in, really. Besides, he was the villain from the start. We all know it's his fault.
And now she's gone. Dead at age 48, even Michael Jackson made it to 50. Just hours before the Grammy awards, the organizers had to rush around and put together a big tribute, complete with Jennifer Hudson singing "I Will Always Love You"--the song Whitney refused to duet with Dolly Parton for The Bodyguard, even though Dolly actually wrote it. With no disrespect to Jennifer Hudson, who is a lot like Whitney was, except she is a young black woman with apparently a weight problem and a not-so-afluent upbringing, but she isn't, can't, or never will be Whitney Houston. She is an American Idol non-winner, arguably more talented than most of the actual winners, in the rather dubious position of paying tribute to her idol at a Grammy show of which she would not have otherwise been a part. Bobby Brown reportedly sobbed during a concert performance just hours after Whitney's death. I was shocked that he was still performing at all, least of all with New Edition. I've yet to hear how her eighteen-year-old daughter felt or reacted, and that's definitely for the best. The poor thing was named Bobbi Brown Houston; she's already doomed to the legacy of her parents' checkered past. I can't see Bobby escaping the scrutiny over this, even though there still isn't a toxicology report, autopsy or other official statement as to how she actually died. He is going to be fingered by many, many people as the reason Whitney Houston first trod the path of excess which led to her untimely demise. No one is going to let him off this time. I guess we can't all be Chris Brown.
Flash back again, if you will, to Gary Carter. He was one of the best at his craft. He was only 57 when he finally succumbed to an aggressive, rampant brain cancer. Split the screen running in your mind to show Whitney Houston, however you want to remember her--myself, I prefer to remember when she won all those Grammy awards in 1986, purely elated at the mass acceptance of her hard work and Natural talent. Her long lashes, flashing eyes and that trademark wide smile. On the other side of the split screen, you can see Gary Carter, as I like to remember, back in the old grainy footage of the early '80s Expos games, coming through in the bottom of the ninth inning with one of countless clutch base hits, rounding the bases to be met by the cleared dugout of Expo team mates ready to hoist their young leader up on their collective shoulders. Just like we did when Whitney Houston was dazzling us with her soaring vocals and quirky pop sensibility, even when she risked her street credibility.
This independent documentary ends as both a tribute and a cautionary tale. Two remarkable human beings, both a credit to our species, have passed on. Both were masters of their trade. Both had adoring fans. Can you spot the difference? One lived a life of excess. One lived a life of exemplary leadership. One is still going to be talked about in the weeks, months, and most certainly years to come. One will be saluted rightfully, then only remembered again on sports broadcasts by sports fans. At some point, we might realize collectively that the storyline was, for better or worse, way more interesting than the individual characters. In the alternate ending I could write for the allegorical DVD release of my screenplay, I would end it with Whitney singing the Star-Spangled Banner like she did at the Superbowl, except it's at a Major League Baseball All-star Game, with the Kid standing in his catcher's gear, in his Expos uniform, flashing that unforgettable smile as Whitney reaches those closing high notes. Without even noticing, the divide between the two story lines will have faded.
Friday 17 February 2012
Friday 10 February 2012
If It's Greener...
The difference between a blog entry and a formal essay, at least in my estimation, is that you can ramble aimlessly in a blog, and it seems almost to be half the point. Blogs can be a sound board for one's own thoughts, hypothetically typed as if speaking to oneself in the mirror out loud. Except I'm very sure I'm not speaking out loud as I type right now. Still, blogs are cathartic to some because they (like me) articulate their thoughts more cohesively in print form. It makes sense, really. If you change your mind about something, like I have at least twice so far, you can backspace it into cyber-oblivion, with no one the wiser. About to make that comment about something or someone you've been waiting for so long to do, but chickened out at the last second? Reminds me of the time I chickened out on the Kamakaze slide at Magic Mountain when I was in Grade 11, except less embarrassing. Side-bar (because I'm allowed in blogs, where the digression is more acceptable): the Magic Mountain t-shirt mom and dad bought for me that day stayed in my wardrobe for over fifteen years. Every time I wore it, it was a reminder that on that sunny day in 1991, I failed. For years I swore I would go back and avenge my humiliation. Now, I go to Magic Mountain like everyone else, but I look up at the hulking sentinel that dominates the MM sky with a secret satisfaction. The slide didn't win. By choosing not to go back, I acknowledged that I had not succeeded, and opted to walk away with my head high. We spend too much time worrying about righting wrongs. Some wrongs just remain wrong. They also remain finished.
I have written publicly before about how I feel about religion. It is one of those subjects that once it arises in conversation, it becomes that white elephant in the room. People know it's there, no one wants to address it head on for fear of offending someone, yet secretly we all behold it in our own way. You might think the elephant looks lovely standing over there by the curtains, while I might find it's just taking up space, stepping on everyone's toes and occassionally smelling bad. All the other guests may feel some or none of these things, but the point is it's there. Irregardless (a little nod to my grammar friends out there, we spoke of this recently), I have an ever-changing opinion about religion, ranging from sympathetic to scathing sometimes in mere minutes. One little-known fact about me is that I was quite involved with my home church, Trinity United in Port Elgin, where I took pride in my years of service bars I earned for consecutive years of attendance in Sunday School. I have something like thirteen or fourteen of them, I think; they're in mom's jewelry box, so mom, if you're reading, can you see how many exactly? After that, I taught a class for a couple years--poorly, but I filled a spot. I was good friends with the Minister, who entrusted me to prepare two services and conduct them in his absence, and I was told they went rather well. I did everything but play the organ. And it was a neat experience, and one hell of conversation piece!
And then I did the one thing you should never, ever do if you are religious. I got an education. I minored in Religious Studies at St. Thomas, originally out of an appreciation for Biblical study and the history of the Scriptures. Liberal arts, however, introduced me to the notion that there is more out there than meets the eyes and ears. I learned that the Christian world is brim full of contradiction. Evidence pointing to the veracity of the doctrine is scant at best, and absurd at worst. I became certain that blind faith in things people wrote centuries and millennia ago have caused people to do some really awful things. Finally, I found myself questioning whether or not a man named Jesus really knows me, or whether or not anything mysterious is out there smiling kindly at me, assuredly guiding me to better times while I suffer the humiliation of Kamakaze slides and other unmentionable embarrassments.
It was during these years, some of the most trying of my life, where I took it upon myself to learn about some of the other writings from back then, some from the Dead Sea Scrolls, some from the Nag Hammadi documents, and some other Gnostic writings. I can't pretend I know even the tip of the iceberg of material out there, but I can say that the movie 'Stigmata' pointed me to the Gospel of Thomas. Long lost in the desert of Egypt, among the Nag Hammadi collection, this unaccepted gospel was deemed heretical, and cast aside when the powers-that-be assembled what we now recognize as the New Testament. Who got to pick what stayed or went is anyone's guess, and the criteria for inclusion is sketchy, but Thomas' gospel struck me as fascinating for one particular reason. It says, and I quote:
"From me all came forth, and to me all return. Split a piece of wood, and I am there. Lift a stone and you will find me there." Then I began to think about why open space means so much to me. Solitude is as close to a religious experience as I think I've ever found, particularly when I'm near the sea. I began to craft the sincere belief that God does in fact exist, but that we are all a part of it. Everything around us is God, from whence we came and where we return. Maybe the big religions understood it once, but have lost sight of it since. Makes sense really; when too many self-agrandising people start to run something, it goes right to the dogs.
So long story short, I think God is Nature. Henceforth, I'll capitalize it as such. Nature is really all-powerful; if humankind thinks it has the upper hand, Nature will swiftly kick its ass. And justifiably so. I can just hear the echo of the late Graham Chapman, speaking (from Nature) quoting that awesome line from the Holy Grail "How DARE you profane this place with your presence?!"
I was inspired to write about this by a visit I received to my front door by a couple really friendly ladies campaigning for the local Kingdom Hall. It's the one on St. Mary's Street, which is really Killarney Road, just around the corner from my house. I was up having coffee, looking over my last blog actually, when I saw them filing up my front step, tote bags and testaments in hand, dressed to the nines and being monitored from a safe distance by two gentlemen in a fancier car than mine at the base of my driveway. Naturally, I had to talk to them. This isn't new, I've chatted with Jehovah's Witnesses countless times. Once, I greeted them on the Greenhouse porch in my Taz boxers with a beer and a cigarette. That was a short conversation.
Anyhow, they tried really hard to find out why I was so skeptical about anything they had to share, but I didn't have the heart to tell them I had it all figured out. I don't have to retort that I know where to find God, because it would have ended in a stalemate anyway. I have no right to convince them one thing or another, and that's why people hate when they come to the door. No one wants to be shoved in any direction they can't choose on their own. Even the Witnesses. So what if I've got all kinds of angles to play, a five-figure education full of logic and rhetoric to blow their tenets out of the primordial soup? It doesn't matter. And one more thing, what if I'm wrong? What if it's greener on their side? Sometimes I wonder; their property always looks so nice and pristine. Deer graze in the yard there all the time. I could have sworn I saw Bambi and Thumper flitting their eyelids at me that one time. And with no windows or anything, they must have something really special going on in there. When the ladies realized I wasn't going to crack, they very kindly offered to come back one day soon with literature for me to read, and I said that would be fine, because I like reading. They never did, and I was somewhat offended, because they promised me literature. I almost went to the Kingdom Hall to follow up on it.
I once read that they believe that only 144 000 people can actually get into heaven. It seems odd that anyone who believes that would want to try to recruit more, when there are millions of believers already out there, not to mention the ones that have already passed away. I needn't go any further exploring that paradox; most religions face conundrums like this everyday. The best thing you can do is just accept something at face value and hope the hand you're holding is a winner. Or, you can just turn around and go tubing on the Lazy River.
I have written publicly before about how I feel about religion. It is one of those subjects that once it arises in conversation, it becomes that white elephant in the room. People know it's there, no one wants to address it head on for fear of offending someone, yet secretly we all behold it in our own way. You might think the elephant looks lovely standing over there by the curtains, while I might find it's just taking up space, stepping on everyone's toes and occassionally smelling bad. All the other guests may feel some or none of these things, but the point is it's there. Irregardless (a little nod to my grammar friends out there, we spoke of this recently), I have an ever-changing opinion about religion, ranging from sympathetic to scathing sometimes in mere minutes. One little-known fact about me is that I was quite involved with my home church, Trinity United in Port Elgin, where I took pride in my years of service bars I earned for consecutive years of attendance in Sunday School. I have something like thirteen or fourteen of them, I think; they're in mom's jewelry box, so mom, if you're reading, can you see how many exactly? After that, I taught a class for a couple years--poorly, but I filled a spot. I was good friends with the Minister, who entrusted me to prepare two services and conduct them in his absence, and I was told they went rather well. I did everything but play the organ. And it was a neat experience, and one hell of conversation piece!
And then I did the one thing you should never, ever do if you are religious. I got an education. I minored in Religious Studies at St. Thomas, originally out of an appreciation for Biblical study and the history of the Scriptures. Liberal arts, however, introduced me to the notion that there is more out there than meets the eyes and ears. I learned that the Christian world is brim full of contradiction. Evidence pointing to the veracity of the doctrine is scant at best, and absurd at worst. I became certain that blind faith in things people wrote centuries and millennia ago have caused people to do some really awful things. Finally, I found myself questioning whether or not a man named Jesus really knows me, or whether or not anything mysterious is out there smiling kindly at me, assuredly guiding me to better times while I suffer the humiliation of Kamakaze slides and other unmentionable embarrassments.
It was during these years, some of the most trying of my life, where I took it upon myself to learn about some of the other writings from back then, some from the Dead Sea Scrolls, some from the Nag Hammadi documents, and some other Gnostic writings. I can't pretend I know even the tip of the iceberg of material out there, but I can say that the movie 'Stigmata' pointed me to the Gospel of Thomas. Long lost in the desert of Egypt, among the Nag Hammadi collection, this unaccepted gospel was deemed heretical, and cast aside when the powers-that-be assembled what we now recognize as the New Testament. Who got to pick what stayed or went is anyone's guess, and the criteria for inclusion is sketchy, but Thomas' gospel struck me as fascinating for one particular reason. It says, and I quote:
"From me all came forth, and to me all return. Split a piece of wood, and I am there. Lift a stone and you will find me there." Then I began to think about why open space means so much to me. Solitude is as close to a religious experience as I think I've ever found, particularly when I'm near the sea. I began to craft the sincere belief that God does in fact exist, but that we are all a part of it. Everything around us is God, from whence we came and where we return. Maybe the big religions understood it once, but have lost sight of it since. Makes sense really; when too many self-agrandising people start to run something, it goes right to the dogs.
So long story short, I think God is Nature. Henceforth, I'll capitalize it as such. Nature is really all-powerful; if humankind thinks it has the upper hand, Nature will swiftly kick its ass. And justifiably so. I can just hear the echo of the late Graham Chapman, speaking (from Nature) quoting that awesome line from the Holy Grail "How DARE you profane this place with your presence?!"
I was inspired to write about this by a visit I received to my front door by a couple really friendly ladies campaigning for the local Kingdom Hall. It's the one on St. Mary's Street, which is really Killarney Road, just around the corner from my house. I was up having coffee, looking over my last blog actually, when I saw them filing up my front step, tote bags and testaments in hand, dressed to the nines and being monitored from a safe distance by two gentlemen in a fancier car than mine at the base of my driveway. Naturally, I had to talk to them. This isn't new, I've chatted with Jehovah's Witnesses countless times. Once, I greeted them on the Greenhouse porch in my Taz boxers with a beer and a cigarette. That was a short conversation.
Anyhow, they tried really hard to find out why I was so skeptical about anything they had to share, but I didn't have the heart to tell them I had it all figured out. I don't have to retort that I know where to find God, because it would have ended in a stalemate anyway. I have no right to convince them one thing or another, and that's why people hate when they come to the door. No one wants to be shoved in any direction they can't choose on their own. Even the Witnesses. So what if I've got all kinds of angles to play, a five-figure education full of logic and rhetoric to blow their tenets out of the primordial soup? It doesn't matter. And one more thing, what if I'm wrong? What if it's greener on their side? Sometimes I wonder; their property always looks so nice and pristine. Deer graze in the yard there all the time. I could have sworn I saw Bambi and Thumper flitting their eyelids at me that one time. And with no windows or anything, they must have something really special going on in there. When the ladies realized I wasn't going to crack, they very kindly offered to come back one day soon with literature for me to read, and I said that would be fine, because I like reading. They never did, and I was somewhat offended, because they promised me literature. I almost went to the Kingdom Hall to follow up on it.
I once read that they believe that only 144 000 people can actually get into heaven. It seems odd that anyone who believes that would want to try to recruit more, when there are millions of believers already out there, not to mention the ones that have already passed away. I needn't go any further exploring that paradox; most religions face conundrums like this everyday. The best thing you can do is just accept something at face value and hope the hand you're holding is a winner. Or, you can just turn around and go tubing on the Lazy River.
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