Membership

Club 27. It’s exclusive. If you’re famous enough to join, you only need pay one onetime fee and you’re in the door. The fee? You have to die when you’re 27.

So yeah, the entrance fee is extreme, but so is the life. George Harrison sang, “you got to pay your dues if you want to sing the blues.” I’m not sure the 27 club is what George had in mind; he lived too long anyway. He didn’t get in the club.

For that, his guitar gently weeps.

Amy Winehouse made the club. She died last week. Causes are still unknown, but one thing is known: She joined the pantheon of musicians who died at 27, making her a member of club 27. The member list is impressive. Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, and Jimmy Hendrix top the roster. Depending on your musical preference, Brian Jones, Robert Johnson, and Jacob Miller are noted members as well.

I know, I know. You have questions.

I have answers. That’s my job. I’m not famous. I keep time while the famous pass, and jot unread footnotes in their postscripts. They have their race. I have mine. I’m 43.

I like my race.

So, back to your questions. They probably have to do with pantheon. What is one and who gets in? Pantheon is a Greek word derived from the words Panth and eon, or age of the panth.

Whath’s a panth? It’s what I wear to keep my legs warm.

Yeah, sorry. And that’s why I won’t be famous. Let’s try again.

A pantheon is the Greek temple of all the gods or all the gods themselves. It’s a building where famous dead people buried.

“I see Fred Savage.”

Sorry, Fred isn’t dead, only his acting career lies six feet under. His wonder years are over and he didn’t get in the door either.

Haley Joel Osment could get in the door. He’s only 23, but he’ll need to become a much better musician. He’s got four years. It could happen. Jim Morrison came from nowhere in six years. The Doors started in 1965 before Morrison died in 1971.

That seems to be something Jim, Amy, and fellow panthe-ites have in common. They exploded from no-names to superstars in fast hot blasts. Amy released her first CD in 2003. She never released a third.

Another thing they share is blame. They never blamed themselves for their fame or for their death. They blamed their friends, their fams, and their fans.

“I did it my way.”

Yeah. Frank Sinatra sang that. He lived to be old and bought a pantheon all his own, built over a burial ground of early era Club 27ers and maybe even Jimmy Hoffa. We call it Palm Springs.

Club 27 ers didn’t do it their way. Oh, they had egos, but they’ll assure you that if they could do it their way, it wouldn’t be this way. The road Robert Frost took was the best road. Club 27 road is well lit by A&R men heaping platitudes like lei nooses around young travelers necks.

“You’re the greatest!”

And that brings another question: who is the greatest? Who deserves to belong to club 27 and who deserves to be forgotton?

When Kurt Cobain died, my first words where, “I thought he was already dead.”

To which my doom herald replied, “No, that was just an attempted suicide. This time he got it right.”

“Oh.”

I have to admit. I liked Kurt, but I never thought he was that great. Yeah, I can feel you hitting the back browser button now. It’s OK. I get it. It’s just that he had more to prove before winning me over, and he failed. Sure, he had potential, but he ran his race short and fast. He never completed the distance.

In that, the club 27 members are equal. They take a pantheon in our mind. Your Zeus is my Odin, but they reside in our heads because they all represent a world where we could have lived.

Was Amy Winehouse this generations Vesta? Maybe not, but we’ll never know. And that’s the tragedy. The same way that we’ll never know that freckly kid who lived down the block until he stepped on a mine in Iraq. He’s in my pantheon as well. He should be in yours, but you never knew him.

It doesn’t matter whom we consider greater. In death we’re all equal. What matters is that we remember the loss of those who could have been and share that with the lives that can still be. Whether they belong to club 27, 34, 49, or 86, it matters that we remember the lives lived and hold them in our pantheon, otherwise we’re empty temples housing nothing for nobody.

Borders Envy

Last week, a man lost his penis. This week, a nation loses a bookstore. Which is more important?

That depends on who you ask. Ask me, I’ll vote for the store. Books are my livelihood. Ask Mr. Woke-up No-Johnson, and he’ll see the forest with no tree. Ask my cat, and she’ll lick her shanks thoughtfully, before staring and yawning.

“Mew?”

Persephone is wise beyond her cat-years.

I’m still learning.

Last semester I took journalism. I thought I could elevate from mere blogger to real writer. In class, I learned about “newsworthiness”: a characteristic that makes stories worth writing; an important criterion that both blogger and writer blatantly disregard. I mean, books are published about things to do with penes, attached or not. Who really needs to know that? I didn’t have an instruction manual for mine, but I mastered the mechanism—and I certainly don’t need to know what to do with an unattached one.

Meanwhile bloggers are like Seinfeld: a blog about nothing.

“Just like the stork-o-pult baby placer, the world just isn't ready.”

So what’s the difference between blogger and writer? Bloggers are either superstars placating their fanbase or also-rans casting the illusion of importance. Writers are…uhm…no different really—except the paycheck.

My queen says I need one of those: a paycheck. I guess that’s why my vote for important news goes to Borders’ bookstore closing. If I’m gonna elevate to paid-writer, I’d kinda like a storefront to sell my goods. Otherwise I’m just a blogger who cuts down forests of wood.

“Timber!”

Just like that wood chopping woman in Garden Grove. Here’s the thing though: that woman knew the importance of newsworthiness. Penis chopping is so Lorena Bobbit 1994. It’s been done. It’s like blogging: nobody cares. This woman knew that making papers required more than cutting down trees. She also needed to pulp the wood. She’s McGyver. She utilized the tools available: she used a garbage disposal.

Yeah. For all the guys, this is where we’ll take a moment of silence, cuz we’re all looking down to make sure it’s still there. Go ahead; touch it if you need to. Nobody is gonna blame you.

It’s there? Yes. Good.

Now back to our story.

I’m amazed. Four out of four guys surveyed will tell you the real news here starts at the garbage disposal. Don’t get me wrong, we all wince at the chopping part, but the garbage disposal pushes things up a notch. It’s Emeril leaning over our crotch and shouting, “Bam!” And nobody wants that. In fact, most guys become quite thankful for the dismembered member once the garbage disposal cuts onto the news stage.

“Well at least she cut it off first…”

That’s right, cuz no man wants to come-to, lying on their belly, strapped over the kitchen sink to the sound of whirring blades while the woman they once loved pushes at their butt like a Bond villain with a toilet plunger.

“No Mr. Bond, I want you to cry. “

I’m not man enough to cry. No, seriously. Go ahead, strap me to the sink. Those blades? They aren’t coming anywhere near my privates. I’m hung like a 12-year-old white boy in an ice-cold swimming pool.

Who’s laughing now Mandingo?

Here’s another interesting newsbyte. More women read than men. No, it’s not that men can’t read it’s more that hunter/gatherers don’t require reading stimuli. We’ve got other things to worry about. That said, men do read. We just read differently, and not as much--at least not as much fiction. Men like history. We don’t want to learn from it; we just like the pictures. We like to learn other stuff. Teach us how to build or demolish anything except relationships and we’re on it, hammer in one hand, book in the other.

Borders disappearing from the book market won’t affect men. When buying books, we shop with purpose. We can do that on Amazon.

“Honey, I just bought a how-to book on installing a garbage disposal.”

Ok, men wouldn’t buy that book. Women would buy that book for us. Just because the paramedics removed us from the neighbor’s tree the last time we installed an outdoor wall socket, she thinks it’s a good idea to read.

“How ‘bout now?”

TZZZT!

But men do buy stuff. Men may not understand the import of closing a bookstore, but try closing a Home Depot in our home town and we’re mad as hell and we won’t take it anymore. Where else can we buy our garbage disposals?

And that’s where you separate the men knowledge from boy inexperience. Sure, we all winced at the disposal story, but the real men worked through the problem and found the disposal story half full. “Well, they lived in a condo and that might as well be an apartment. A condo is not gonna spring for anything more than the $19.99 garbage disposal special. That won’t chop through a sink of potato peels without backing up. His dick is fine. Pull it out, wipe it off, slap it back on, good as new. Now if he replaced the disposal with the InSinkErator Evolution Excel, he’s a eunuch--that think grinds bone…”

No, you reach in and get it.

That’s why beyond shock and “awww…” the penis story is missing something. It’s missing long term impact—unless you’re Mr. Johnsonless

Even if Americans don’t read books, we’ll still weep the loss of Borders for quite some time. First, our economy hasn’t recovered. We’re drugged and tied to the bed. We don’t know what’s going on. For those of us already scouring the job market for work, we’re going to wake up tomorrow with 10,700 new competitors vying for the same job.

Second, despite slumping book sales, malls will miss Borders. They’re losing an anchor store. Anchor stores drive up mall traffic and bring in new retailers. With local store fronts already closing, some malls will find it very difficult to stay open. Many property owners may find that the town without Borders is a town without a mall.

I know what you’re saying, “Rob, it’s just a bookstore. It’s not like they’ve lost their manhood.”

Maybe. It depends on how things swing. This could just be a kick to the groin, or it could be the Ginsu lopping off the whole retail market. I don’t think it’s permanent, but I don’t think it’s going to be painless either.

If you’re a reader, this is a bittersweet moment. It seems like just ten years ago that Barnes & Noble and Borders swung their sizable prepackaged packages into town and frightened your favorite local competitor away. Now Borders’ package has shriveled up, and there’s nothing big about them. Go ahead, laugh. They’re girly.

There’s also nobody around to fill the void.

For many towns, that leaves Barnes & Nobel as your sole brick and mortar bookstore pick, for others, like Moreno Valley, California, it leaves you in a town without a bookstore, except for the adult bookstore downtown, and they don’t sell books.

Bookstore free communities can go online. I don’t know about you though, but I like to touch a book before I read it.

Yeah. For all the readers, this is where we’ll take a moment of silence, cuz we’re all looking around to make sure our books are still there. Go ahead; touch them if you need to. Nobody is gonna blame you.

They’re not there? Yeah, sorry.

Now back to our story.

Readers do still have libraries, but libraries are government entities with tiny budgets and ebook envy. More and more libraries are reinventing themselves as civic gathering places and informational hubs, overcompensating for what they don’t have: books. They’d write a book about it, but nobody would check it out.

But all of this is yesterday’s news. We’ve already read it. The disposal victim was released from the hospital earlier this week. Like his name, the status of genitalia is undisclosed. He’s moving forward learning to live in a new world. He now has a lot more time to read a book.

He’d better hurry and buy one, though. Many Borders stores will close their doors Thursday.

I know that everything is cyclical. Eventually other stores will replace Borders. The economy will recover. People will still read books. Still, I’m gonna miss Borders as much as I miss the other local bookstores they replaced.

It’s a loss, and like a penis in a disposal, it’s just a waste.

The Mythology of Subtext

“Thanks. Yeah, we’ll talk soon.”

Text is a close encounter with a Devil’s tower of unsaid mashed potatoes. See what I mean? What the hell did I just say?

No, text is more like conversational makeup slathered over the harpy face of context.

“Those open sores really give you facial character.”

Yeah. Text is vanity.

Subtext is everything.

Subtext is the harpy claws hiding in panty hose.

Why all this happy harpy talk, and, more importantly, what the heck is a harpy? For those of you not up on your current affairs, a harpy is a mythological mash-up creature from the past.

Those who know Greek mythology know the harpy as an ugly winged bird creature with a woman’s face and torso. Don’t get too excited about the torso part, boys. The harpy also has talons; no groping here. Those talons are sort of like the harpy version of subtext.

Those who don’t know mythology might know Dungeons & Dragons. For them, a harpy as a seven hit dice monster, or the woman coming down the basement stairs.

“Tommy! Go get a job!”

An image also containing a whole subtext of it’s own.

Harpy or no, subtext is everywhere. So, why is Robby harping on harpies? They’re the perfect metaphor for dialog. They’re winged, they’re deadly, and they can be exceptionally ugly.

Ok. So maybe it’s not the perfect metaphor, but it works for me because this week I dated a harpy.

I know! And the Pirate Queen approved!

She approved because it wasn’t a romantic date. It was a different date. A date with another person you want to get to know better. A person you hope to one day stand at an alter and say, “I do,” before an HR representative announces, “I now pronounce you, insured and employed.”

That’s right I had a first date with an interviewer.

Little Robby draws from harpy bad-touch memory

This week I interviewed with Gary Gary from Bigshot Media. Gary squared is looking for somebody to web edit his cluster of Middle America radio stations so that they sound like individual slices of Middle American mom made apple pie, gooing with personality and not like the compressed conglomerate pre-wrapped and stuffed Hostess sugar licks that they are.

Does that sound harsh? It’s not. I find pre-fab corporate America quite fab. I love Walmart, Target, and Starbucks as much as mom and pop down the block do. It doesn’t bother me that corporations pretend to be local, so long as they’re paying local people, like mom and pop.

“Hi! Welcome to Walmart!”

“Didn’t you used to own mom and pops…?”

It’s all in how we pursue the American Dream.

That’s what Gary is doing, pursuing his dream.

Well, if Gary likes me, his dream will include moving me into a local market so that I can take a job there. I can make that part of my dream.

Gary wants his currently local radio team to write conversational blogs and raise the radio website like a multimedia barn. Gary wants the websites to look like the RobBlog on Hee Haw steroids. As the RobBlog writer I’m well aware of what Gary wants.

“I’m a pickin!’”

“And I’m a grinnin’!”

I know it’s me.

How do I know this? I applied for the job.

I don’t go one butt-cheek into an interview; I take everything full butt. I Googled Gary Gary, and let me tell you, Gary is an impressive guy. You know Rupert Murdock? He polishes Gary’s Jag for extra cash on the weekends. If Howard Stern is the King of all Media, Gary is the stinky-fisted puppeteer moving Howard’s lips.

Ok. I might be exaggerating, but in RobWorld Gary squared is doubly impressive. If I want t Gary’s Bigshot gig, I need to know what Gary is looking for and be damn sure that I’m it.

I know, I am.

I need to prove that to Gary, because I do have obstacles.

See, my kryptonite here is my experience as an online editor. It’s limited. Yeah, I’ve edited the RobBlog and Viewpoints Online, but how do I translate that into Gary love for Rob when all I’ve got are good looks?

I am so screwed.

Still, I can do the job. I have sent in an honest resume and strong portfolio, and Gary liked them enough to call back. That’s gotta mean something, right? Gary’s a big shot. You don’t become a media big shot without scouring the land with your army of search-harpies riled up like Ozian flying monkeys. They must have brought back some results that said, “You’ll like him, and his little cat too,” cuz I ‘ve got an interview.

So I gather all the Rob confidence I can muster. I stalk—er, uh study Gary for a week and I research what Gary wants in the job, so that when he calls me, I ‘m ready.

He calls. “Rob?”

I answer, “So whatcha wearing?”

I’m a little nervous. Sweat rivers glide down my face, forming grit deltas amongst my chest hair.

“I mean, hi! This is Rob.”

So begins the dance of the harpy. We’re two guys saying words, trying to see what’s underneath the skirt of subtext.

Does he like me?

Is he what I’m looking for?

Can he treat me as I deserve?

Can he make breakfast before he leaves?

Gary starts with a vocal smile: a glorious biography of the man, the legend, the hero that is Gary Gary. I listen. Everything he’s telling me, I know. I’ve stalked—er, researched this. He’s telling me everything except that he likes puppies and September breezes.

I already know those things too.

I’m quiet. I’m good. I listen. When he’s done I prove I know him like he needs to be known and I know what he wants, “So, how is your beagle, Jake?”

“Uhm, he’s fine. So Rob, what do you have to offer Bigshot media?”

I tell him. I’d tell you too but I don’t want to bore you with the details. Let’s just say I offer lots of long walks, holding hands, and plenty of snuggles.

“Snuggles? OK…Uh, How do you approach good SEO practices?”

Gary and I don’t seem to be jibing. It’s ok. He’ll like me once he gets to know me. I know I’ve got his SEO answers too. I amaze him with tales of keywords and metadata living together and bringing the Google queen and all her web-crawler friends along for the party. I even reveal how I incorporate keywords into article title tags.

“That’s great, “ say’s Gary. “Let’s talk about this article you wrote for Viewpoints on Stargate Universe.”

That’s a fan favorite. Let’s talk about that! “Ok.” I unbutton my top button.

“Your title, ‘Goodbye Old Friend’ doesn’t meet those SEO practices you were talking about. Why?”

The next sound you here is me spittaking my wine into Gary’s face.

He’s right and I hate him for it.

“Well, it was designed for print not for online.” I’m pulling the back-petals off of my flowers cuz I don’t bring my backpedaling bike on dates. “I left the title because I found it appropriate for the story.”

Great. I admit to leaving it because I’m a writer, not because I’m an editor. I might as well add some sweet nothings smooth over, “Oh, and that tie? It makes you look fat, you whore.”

“Ok…let’s talk about this Viewpoints Online. I’m looking at the site right now. What have you done for them?”

What? Can’t you see it? What part doesn’t scream “Rob was here?” What part doesn’t look like the tailor made pictorial answer I created you when you asked, “What do you offer Bigshot Media.”

Yeah. It was obvious that Gary and I were getting the same feelings from our date. Still we’re professional: we stick through the gore and slime until we’ve said all we need to say since neither of us have prepared emergency text messages from friends.

We’re locked in a spinning harpy gyre to the death.

“Do you have any questions for me?” Asks Gary.

I want to ask, “Yeah, what about my resume made you thing I was the guy you wanted when I’m obviously not?” Instead I moved in for a kiss.

“Uhm, what are you doing?” Gary’s working some back petals of his own.

Ok, so maybe I meant a more metaphoric kiss: “Where are you in your job search?”

“We’re really early. Right now we’re just talking to lots of people, gathering names, then we’ll pick who works best.” He brushes his lips against my forehead.

We don’t mesh, but at least we understand each other. We promise to stay in touch, but both of us have lost the other’s number before the phone goes silent.

Me? I’m alright with that. I have no hard feelings for Gary. I hope he finds what he’s looking for, the same way I know that I’ll find what I’m looking for.

It’s just going to take some time for both of us. More dating and more subtext. Lucky for me, I know how to speak harpy and Mom’s basement is big enough for all my Dungeons & Dragons needs.

Waxing Nostalgic, Peeling the funny.

Where’s the funny?
If I read the RobBlog, that’s what I’d ask. I mean, I’ve heard that Cupid Pops, and On Top of Spaghetti are spit-take funny. This latest stuff? Not funny. No spit.

I’ve also heard that bananas and “k” words are good for laughs. I dunno. If I’ve gotta
resort to kumquats and banana peels, maybe it’s time to hank thinks up.

See?

Nothing.

No funny.

Sigh…

Maybe it’s the music in my diet. Music isn’t funny. Even worse I’m bloating on The
Carpenters. I’m nostalgic lately.

“When I was young I listened to the radio…”

Last weekend I heard that song for the first time in ages. Karen Carpenter sang
it. That’s not funny. Neither is the song. It’s a reminiscent song. It’s about sitting
around listening to the songs of her youth.

I can get behind that. This year I’m making plans for my future with the Pirate
Queen, and I’m saying good-bye to some old ghosts. I’m not usually a nostalgic
type guy, but fake nostalgic cigars have been exploding in my face and buzzing my
memories with joy.

“…those were such happy times…but now they’re back again…”

Why couldn’t they bring the funny with them? Why couldn’t they be anecdotal
ghosts not just nostalgic ones.

I found a post on my Facebook page:

“About 15 years ago, you were the first person to inform me that Jimmy Page was
a ‘sloppy’ guitar player (and I know for certain this is the exact word you used)…”

The Pirate Queen asked me about it. She’s trying to help me find my funny. She
suggested I look in back-story. It might be amusing.

I humored her

I told her.

It wasn’t funny.

Some Jokes are location jokes: you have to be there.

She wasn’t; the story wasn’t funny.

“Trust me, I was there. It wasn’t funny then either.”

“Oh, then have you tried writing about bananas?”

Most days life isn’t funny. Not naturally. We really have to search for the humor.
Karen Carpenter didn’t find the funny.

“Every whoa-oh-woe…”

Me, during the Cupid Pops days, I needed the funny. I was going through a divorce,
looking for something good.

Today I have something good. I don’t need the funny to fuel my day. I still enjoy it
but, if I don’t get it, I’m not sitting on my closet floor clenched in a fetal ball. Not that
I ever did that…I’m just saying, “what if?”

No really. Stop looking at me like that. You’re creeping me out.

That’s not funny.

Fine, whatever.

“Tell them about the guy at the Hall and Oats concert.”

That’s the Pirate Queen. Now she’s over my shoulder, editing for the funny. She
wants me to tell you about the fireworks show on the fourth. She love’s Hall and
Oats. So we celebrated the birth of our nation with a Hollywood Bowl full of Hall and
Oat-meal with pyrotechnic sprinkles.

Our seats were great. They were so cool they had a special name: the garden section.
That’s not quite as cool as the “Pool Circle,” but it totally rocks over “Section NN.”

You, back in the back. See my hand waving? No? Well just imagine what the band is
going to look like from back there. From here they look great.

“That’s not funny, Rob. Tell them the funny.”

Ok, so there were these people at the table next to us—yeah, we had tables! I told
you our seats rocked, NN dude! Not only do we have tables, but we also had a hip-
high garden wall, fencing us off from our good neighbor’s garden box. We’ve got
privacy!

So we’re sitting there and the Pirate Queen isn’t respecting our neighbor’s privacy.
She looks at me and whispers, “That guy next to us looks like Ron Jeremy and that
old singer who sang time in a bottle—“
“You mean Jim Croce?”
“Yeah, he looks like they had a lovechild.”
“A brokeback, love moment?”
“Exactly! You should blog about that.”
“Cuz it’s funny?”
“Funnier than what you’ve been writing lately.”

I am no longer my harshest critic.

Still, she’s right.

One of the women Jim Jeremy sat with was this Kim Catrell Sex and the City type.
Jim and Kim adhere to SoCal cultural mores. Cell phones and garden walls represent
cones of silence. It’s like dogs hiding their head.

“You can’t see me.”

Only in LA can you get personalized freeway Fireworks.

We can hear Jim and Kim. They’re talking about rehab, lesbians and piles of coke that would make Hunter S. Thompson back away slowly.

“And the good times I had make today seem rather sad…”

Kim is getting nostalgic too. She’s talking about her 40th birthday party. Remember
Major League? Kim had a swingers’ weekend. I know, that doesn’t have anything to
do with Major League. Major League had a Wild thing, no swingers. Still, bear with
me. Kim told Jim, in garden-wall confidentiality, that she had a nude cutout of herself
at the swinger party: Just like the one in Major League. Except for her cutout, instead
of uncovering it, she had people cover up parts of her body. To me, that’s a little
counter swinger productive, but who am I to judge. I’m only the neighbor with his
ear to the wall.

Sitting next to us, Kim drops names of people who were there. We don’t hear

anybody we know. We don’t hear a thing. My queen and I just pour our champagne
and toast. Compared to Kim’s Palm Springs party, we don’t know how to have a
good time.

Our side of the wall doesn’t know how to hold a garden party. Just like that Ricky
Nelson song I heard last weekend.

“…I learned my lesson well…”

Still, moving forward, my queen and I do have fun. As Hall and Oats walked out on
stage, I took her hand and I remembered why I used to love concerts. They’re not
funny, but they are fun. They’re three hours of heartbeat bass pounding in your
chest, and melodic blood pumping through your veins.

So my queen and I are singing along and dancing. Oh yes. There was dancing! Such
cacophonic convulsing as only our parents would appreciate (as they had taught us
to dance the very same said seizure of freedom in their youth).

“You make my dreams come true…”

As I’m butt pendulum-swaying to the beat, my hands, clenched tight in ten and two
formation, syncopate with a rhythm all their own. I amaze my queen with my moves
of love.

“Excuse me sir.” It’s the usher. “The gentleman in NN is asking you to sit down.
You’re ruining the show.”

See? It’s not that funny of a story. Right now my queen is telling me that I didn’t tell
it right.

I dunno. Maybe this is the year of the unfunny blog. Maybe this is the year of
sentimentality singing and white-boy dancing. This is the year of moving forward.
And unfunny or not, this is the year of the Rob.

Stay tuned.

Great Kameron’s Klaxons! It’s a banana peel…