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A Word About Ringo

First off- my qualification as a Beatles fan. 

If you were to rifle through my album collection in the day you would find an attempt at the eclectic- Aerosmith, Jim Croce, Aerosmith, The Spinners, Aerosmith, and Earth Wind and Fire. Not terribly impressive, and not a Beatle album on the shelf.

As many, I recently watched Peter Jackson’s take on The Beatles in the documentary ‘Get Back.’ Fan or not, it is footage that amazes, conjures curiosity, while it also burys a few myths. (Yoko never said a word:))

In the midst of the sometimes boisterous personalities of George, Paul, and John- Ringo is the one who stood out to me the loudest- by being the most quiet. He appeared to be a man who knew exactly what he was doing by being quiet, dutiful, and focused. It wasn’t shyness. He, being the last member to join the Fab Four, inserted his ‘old soul’ demeanor that in my opinion got them through the fews weeks they had to prepare for their finale.

His physical presence- elevated above the other, was a perch that called for responsibility. From it, he literally and emotionally kept the beat going as the group pushed lyrics and tone through the smallest of cracks, surfacing finally in soaring and freeing songs. During rehearsal breaks in the recording room- he is looking at the reaction of others to what they are hearing, while not talking. He would subtly remind all at moments that he was present, with a funny kwip or communal drag from the endless string of cigarettes that traversed the studio like white submarines.

A most memorable moment was one in which the closest two of the bunch, Paul and John, were having a British ‘row’. The clock was ticking and they only had four songs completed, with a goal of double digits. Ringo does not act preoccupied as they squabble, he just watches, straight face, not judging. At one point then he slinks from his drum kit and quietly, deliberately, comes to stand closer to them. Not over them, just closer. Paul and John know he’s there, and as if the letters that spell ‘let it be’ were falling one by one from the ceiling into their laps, that’s the short time it took for them to reconcile. 

The documentary is an extraordinary look at art. It is hard work. And sometimes the one who seems least artistic is the one who is actually leading. 

First off- my qualification as a Beatles fan. 

If you were to rifle through my album collection in the day you would find an attempt at the eclectic- Aerosmith, Jim Croce, Aerosmith, The Spinners, Aerosmith, and Earth Wind and Fire. Not terribly impressive, and not a Beatle album on the shelf.

As many, I recently watched Peter Jackson’s take on The Beatles in the documentary ‘Get Back.’ Fan or not, it is footage that amazes, conjures curiosity, while it also burys a few myths. (Yoko never said a word:))

In the midst of the sometimes boisterous personalities of George, Paul, and John- Ringo is the one who stood out to me the loudest- by being the most quiet. He appeared to be a man who knew exactly what he was doing by being quiet, dutiful, and focused. It wasn’t shyness. He, being the last member to join the Fab Four, inserted his ‘old soul’ demeanor that in my opinion got them through the fews weeks they had to prepare for their finale.

His physical presence- elevated above the other, was a perch that called for responsibility. From it, he literally and emotionally kept the beat going as the group pushed lyrics and tone through the smallest of cracks, surfacing finally in soaring and freeing songs. During rehearsal breaks in the recording room- he is looking at the reaction of others to what they are hearing, while not talking. He would subtly remind all at moments that he was present, with a funny kwip or communal drag from the endless string of cigarettes that traversed the studio like white submarines.

A most memorable moment was one in which the closest two of the bunch, Paul and John, were having a British ‘row’. The clock was ticking and they only had four songs completed, with a goal of double digits. Ringo does not act preoccupied as they squabble, he just watches, straight face, not judging. At one point then he slinks from his drum kit and quietly, deliberately, comes to stand closer to them. Not over them, just closer. Paul and John know he’s there, and as if the letters that spell ‘let it be’ were falling one by one from the ceiling into their laps, that’s the short time it took for them to reconcile. 

The documentary is an extraordinary look at art. It is hard work. And sometimes the one who seems least artistic is the one who is actually leading. 

Welcome to this week’s podcast, I’m your host Barry Fever. This week we take a closer look at the topic of dancing, specifically it’s demise, and hear an interesting view on the ‘why’ this country has lost its groove. Please welcome from St. John’s Wort Church, The Reverend Badsurmon.

Thank you Reverend for joining, please if you can outline your view on the decline of ‘cutting a rug’ today in the US.

Certainly. I began researching the topic by turning back the clock to when we could and wanted to boogie, and why now dancing, particularly at weddings where I preside, have become abhorrent. There seems to be an underlying message.

And what do you think that message is?

As far back as medieval times, people objected verbally to pending vows. Couples were challenged as to their eligibility- were they already married, did they wed their cousin, and so on. Information was lacking, questions needed to be asked. Today, nobody asks. Because everyone knows everything about everybody. Objection today exists as a revolt, expressed on our nation’s dance floors.

Interesting, so expressing ourselves more, and more discreetly?

My god no. Let me explain. Look, people go to weddings for all the wrong reasons- free food, booze, a night away from the kids. We are all now completely self-consumed. Collectively it spells objection to all that is around us. I personally believe it is expressed most through today’s bad dancing. 

And how do you define bad dancing? 

We’ve had a long history in this country, a national embarrassment for sure. 

Is it the white man?

Much blame can be directed here. For example, forming a line like a train while weaving through chairs, and referring to this as dance. Despicable. And Kool and the Gang, ‘Celebrate Good Times? Are you kidding? 40 years later? Celebrate? How about ‘Where is the Fire Exit?’ A song so literal- ‘there’s a party going on right here, a celebration to last all through the years.’ Please direct me to the nearest toilet, I need to barf. Wedding planners, you confess this sin to me weekly. Please stop the madness.

And how would you describe the bad dance of today?  

Style wise the spectrum is broad- from the person who appears hip deep in quicksand with no desire to get out, to those whose idea of sexual attraction is enacting a life altering seizure. Any male subject, at any time, on the dance floor, in my opinion, is a pronounced objection. Twerking, an absolute hedonistic endeavor, summons the devil of infidelity. Let’s be clear, we are no longer people, or certainly people who can dance, we are objections, expressed in the most awful of ways. 

Incredible…

Well, this is where we are as a society. The way we say yes to ourselves perpetually is to object to everyone and everything around us- by dancing badly. 

I’d like to thank you, Reverend Badsurmon for your insight today.

Next week on the ‘What Grinds Your Gears?’ podcast-  a guest who has no problem calling out people whose ‘heads are in the damn clouds!!!’

Good evening. 

When we at one time, back in the day, laid a needle to vinyl- we knew that what was coming next was sounds, beautiful sounds.

Today, in our house, when any two surfaces make contact, we know that what comes next is barking, a symphony of dogs howling to the ceiling. 

We are wall-to-wall dogs here at 278. 

Our oldest is Maggie, a Goldendoodle. In the modern dog era, breeds are mixed like exotic cocktails. If Maggie were a cocktail- you’d be ordering a ‘Whatever’. Poodles are smart. Maggie is smart. She reminds us each day with her diamond encrusted ‘1600’ pendant on her collar, signifying her perfect canine SAT score. She is aloof. Whatever. 

After Maggie came Cailey. She is a Cockapoo. She is a hot mess. But sweet.

We thought we were done after having these two, yet wife Julie learned of a dog rescue website- where she laid eyes on Henry- a tiny Snoopy lookalike who was found in a box at a hospital. Before we knew it he was in our arms. He goes by ‘Hank’, ‘A-hole’, and occasionally ‘Putin’. He is jealous, cranky, but makes up for it by showing empathy when anyone is in pain. 

So, a ‘three dog night’ should have been enough to then say goodnight. But we added a fourth to make it a four dog night…mare. Georgie was on display at the pet store. No one wanted him. He is a tiny brown mutt, with drooping eyes that seem to say I party too hard or that I rode that roller coaster too many times. His back half never fully formed so he is literally a front-wheel drive pup, his powerful chest and front leg ‘guns’ have earned him part time work as a male ‘with a tail’ model.

Four of anything can feel like a lot. When you are picking up poop from one, another is in the trash, while the other two want attention. While we were busy managing this herd, these four were creating their own TV version of ‘Survivor’. 

One night they cornered me, in a virtual council fire setting, seeking the truth.

Maggie opened- ‘So we have been barking, I mean talking- the four of us, and we need to know something’. ‘I’m anxious when my mascara runs, but this is driving me nuts’ added Cailey. Henry told of a time when he threw up in our bed but he wasn’t really sick, just a bundle of nerves. 

Then, Georgie spilled the team beans- ‘which of us is your favorite?’

I was one of two boys. We both got the same things, delivered at the same time. We have two sons. They both got the same things, at the same time. Now with four dogs, who get coverage in the same way a rock drummer contorts to hit all surfaces, I needed a drum roll to bring the suspense to a halt;

“You will all interview for the job of ‘Top Dog!’

I instructed that each would be interviewed for 5 minutes, adding that with ‘Top Dog’ comes responsibility- not as a favorite, but as a leader.

The house is squeezed with our sons home given COVID, so interviews were conducted in the hall bathroom. I sat on the throne, fully clothed, and each came in separately. Maggie was first. 

Our discussion was under 5 minutes. She brought her academic transcripts, a neighborhood dog reference detailing her friendly nature, and in her mouth was my watch that I lost four years ago. The discussion peaked when she gave me a condescending glance and asked- ‘are you going to flush?’

Cailey came in. She kept looking at herself in the mirror. I couldn’t get her to focus- so I played some Jonas Brothers on my phone to bring her around, tail wagging now to the beat. Her response was ‘Nick Jonas’ when I asked her where she saw herself in two years. 

Henry knocked on the bathroom door, I let him in, he then mumbled something. I asked him to repeat it. He said this was ‘a bunch of f’ing bs’. We then got into an italian mob style argument- ending with me sobbing and Henry trying to be productive for once with the toilet paper, strands that he usually drags and eats in the middle of the house. 

Finally, Georgie. He is my favorite. He is our favorite. He knows it. The real question was, would this then to be grounds for lawsuits filed by the other three for prejudice?

‘Will I get a company car?’ Georgie assumptively asked. 

We reconvened. Georgie was declared top dog. 

The other three immediately contacted legal counsel, sued, and made out handsomely. 

Maggie bought a home in Savannah. Cailey got tickets to Coachella.  And Henry struted 7 angry little leg miles to purchase a pistol.  

Monday came, and I asked who of the four dogs was going to take out the trash. 

Georgie looked at me with those droopy eyes as the other three howled “Top Dog!”.

I remember skipping stones growing up in Westline, Pa., a town where my father was born- in his house. The area is filled with beautiful streams, trout, a raw air aloft in its inhabitance. 

We would go to Westline many weekends during my young years, to help my grandparents with outdoor chores, then go fishing at the end of the day as a treat. On Monday mornings my brother and I would hear about the fun our friends had back home in East Aurora while we were gone. It’s just something we were made to do.

I consider my current state of mind at age 60. I then think about life as a continuum. For me, my end points represent the extremes of despair and joy. Struggling emotionally for many years to become mature, peak events in my life such as becoming a father and quitting alcohol began to form definition and purpose within me. 

So why would I then think about skipping stones as a metaphor for life’s reconciliation?

Life has slowed for a moment. My sons are back home. I don’t have to commute anymore. I appear healed from prostate cancer. The house rumbles with my wife’s laughter. 

Maybe then what my mind is doing, in its new found strength, is allowing itself to make peace with the past.

When I look back and consider skippings stones, I remember the effort made to find the perfect rock. It took a little bit of time and patience to find the right shape and feel to determine which one would skip and slither best. Yes, it had to be flat, but in clinching its surface, smooth feel, was there comfort in it to be found.

Once you felt you had the best rock, all that was left to do was give it the right hurl. You don’t want to waste a stellar rock on a hasty toss. And when the rock was right, and the throw controlled and natural, time stood still, as light bounces of joy found its potential in crossing to the other side.

Looking back, I now wish I had made the same effort earlier in life to ponder my own shape and feel and how it might travel across to the other side.

 I was reluctant to stop, bend down, and consider the possibilities. 

That is in the past. 

All that is important now, years later, is to keep looking for the right rock.

Chasing. Not finding. Desperation.

Before the race of desperation started- I was being followed. It was denial, the untrue, an enemy that moved slowly but deliberately. It seemed to know me well, and its presence made me anxious. It heard me increasingly resent and seek a place to hide.

Was this my imagination- this thing following me. Thoughts in the form of fear, not curiosity, made me even more anxious. I began not caring about my thoughts other than to find a way to turn them off.

Then this enemy, one by one, entered the bodies of those around me. Family, friends, Co-workers. I could no longer distinguish their faces, they were a silhouette of how I remember them to be. The only distinguishing feature of their faces was the expression of distance.

They didn’t choose the path that led to my front doorstep of being. It was as if I asked them to enter from the back. I thought I could hide who I had become if they came in a different way.

Most puzzling was who I thought I was before this dark shape showed itself in my reveal. Caring not enough for myself would then be the time I began not caring about others. 

This, the untrue, was the worst kind of existence.

My lifelong need to be loved and affirmed stemming from self centered fear then shifted like the earth to a place I did not know existed.

Peace of being, in the midst of truth.

Humankind knows when one does not love themselves enough to care. In this there can be forgiveness, if love can be found.

Someone needs to take the first step to admit the drink has stopped working.

So many are being hurt.

Humankind then seeks to heal and remove the dark shape.

We have been jolted. Lives lost. Jobs lost. Health lost.

Trust is lost.

The trap is real. Are there cracks of light, anywhere?

 Light in the midst of dark is the only salvation for those seeking escape

We don’t want pep talks

It is here where we need to find ourselves

Again and for better

This is the hidden invitation

How have I felt this way before, and what then did I do

Waste, waste is what comes to mind first, time

The jolt is beckoning me to open wider

My eyes, arms, and heart

With these there is worth in reclaiming

Without abhor, I embrace the need  

And meaning

To restore

Reassert who I want to be, to help, not just stand still

Improve. Forgive. Recapture.

Live the dreams I still can 

Recall