"Always Have Peacocks, These People"

Charming intro, one senses, to a return to authenticity for Paul. No doubt we have Miss Tacky-Nighties to thank. I know I feel better about the man than I have in years ... it's palpable, age, genuine good spirits, never mind the bloody talent. The test will be, shall he have to dis John Lennon again.

Redemption lives in the strangest corners of our lives.

Where Do They All Come From

Sometimes the best stuff goes on at someone else's blog. You know, kind of like the way some couples fight at other people's houses.

Like this poor guy, making his helpful little Liberal remarks. I can pick a fight with anybody. Particularly the well-meaning, whose very springboard is All Wrong. Bamboo slivers neath the nails. Bring 'em on.

Comment by Robert Franklin

“BTW, we have just finished up a round of interviews with teens for the website I will be launching FamilyThrive and one thing that was really clear to me was that even though teens push back about spending time with their parents to their parents. When we conducted our interviews they all shared how much they truly cherish spending time with their parents and want to spend more. Ironic.”

Thread hijacking? I don't think so. Or let me put it another way: this hi- wanted so bad to be -jacked, people were making fools of themself every whichway, using their best stuff to honk off in all wrong directions. Mean kids, the blog owner called us.

Comment by Zo

“Actually, this comment has steam coming out of *both* ears. If it is in truth a SURPRISE to anyone that parents are NOT to look to their teenagers for signs of approval of their parenting … but to BE the goddamn parent … step over to my blog, I want to have a word with you.

You had to “conduct interviews” to learn this?

Where, oh where, did we go wrong. In the Sixties. Are you young enough to be my child? My kids are not clueless parents.

But wait—I was one of the few hippie moms who actually behaved as a parent. An “old-fashioned” parent, it was called. Hell-o? It was clear to me who the children were, and who were the (stoned, drug-addled) grown-ups. It was very fashionable to let your kids Do Anything. Tres cool.

Like most such trends of cool, this made life easier for said grown-ups. They didn’t have to be Adults. You know, like doing the right thing, making unpopular decisions and such work, all by your lonely self.”

Comment by Robert Franklin

“Zo,

Seems like what I meant was not able to make it thru the steam. What I was trying to convey is that even when our teens are pushing us away they really want us to hug them tighter.”

Except there, right after the word “steam,” was a Smiley Face. A service to the reader you will never find here. Ever.

“May seem obvious to some, but it bears repeating, especially during the tough times with our children.”

I did not take time to count the ways R. Franklin still hung up on reaction/acceptance. Hell, my daughter couldn't stand the sight of me til she was seventeen and one half, at which time she promptly returned to her sweet normal self, and I says to myself, Job well done.

Once in a huge and serious pillow fight—when she was thirteen and I a mere lass of thirty-four—she belted me a good one and hollered, (bless her heart, I'll never forget it) “You old sow!” I dunno, I wouldn't let her date somebody who worked at the gas station. Point being? Point being, “All the insecure people.” As the Beatles almost wrote.

Happy Endings Live Inside You

Lovely piece in the Washington Post the other day about Paul, his new oratio is it, and of course the writing trailed off into all else that has happened and is happening—then gathered on this marvellous ending note, this opening up into the night but also into what must be, still, a wonderful heart. An antic moment that seemed very much of the Beatles as they were, and perhaps part of McCartney's genius is that this has never changed. I would imagine so. And I would imagine that anyone with the weensiest crimp in her heart might feel a twinge of envy that, unacknowledged, might grow into something morbid indeed. Especially if one knew one had done some very tacky things. This just about tells us that Paul is a good man. Good to marrow, and probably still an innocent, in all the best ways. I do not doubt there is much goodness, or much that wanted to be good, in his can't-be-too-soon ex. But—how shall we put it—she hasn't done the work. A pity. But the world doesn't want what she's offering. The world, in the face of all the death and shit and sorrow, wants this:

An hour later the session wraps up, and McCartney bounces up to the orchestra, clapping and laughing and thanking everyone. Then he wraps himself into a warm overcoat and scarf and hops into an SUV driven by John Hammel, his friend since the early 1970s. As they drive off, he opens his window and leans out, beaming, and sings a loud chorus of “Ecce Cor Meum.” The street is dark and empty, and McCartney's joyful serenade echoes off the old stone buildings.

link: Paul Rehearses

Love Me Do

And finally, the Rolling Stones are much better than the Beatles.

Now admittedly, this Stones versus Beatles thing is decades old. But it rages still through the halls of nursing homes the world over.

Oh, oh! Low blow!

Not a successful one, but low.

Hell, I could run a pipsqueak like you through a Beatles marathon what would rip your heart out. 'Cept you weren't even born yet, that's how much you know.

Of course the Stones are the better band . . . But that is hardly the point.

The point is, the Beatles were, well, the Beatles, and you will never know a revolution in your whole life like the one that beset our ears, summer of '63. The DJ's were teasing the hell out of us with this weird and weirdly compelling sound, playing over and over, She loves you, yeah yeah yeah . . . and then the way they dropped into the minor chord,And you know that can't be bad ... who had ever heard anything like it/

You think they rose to Jesus-level over nothing? I know what you think, dudes like you, you think the Beatles were just a bigger Back Street Boys, or Boys on the Next Fucking Block or whoever it was.

No.

The Stones are deeper, nastier—and hey, unfair advantage: they've got Keef. But back then? Ruby Tuesday. Nuff said?

The point is, the Beatles music was and remains wonderful, the foursome, besides being Master Rocksters, always dear, always unbeatable. Perhaps it was their dearness, as persons, which never hardened over, even as it grew more sad, that had something to do with their immediate and permanent grip on the heart. Which, as you can see, is a whole nother discussion from the Stones, whose grip is on quite a different part of the collective anatomy. Isn't it.

Okay. I win. And when I do have The White Album blasting the nursing home one day—Why Don't We Do It In The Road—this will be in no way a watered-down oldster experience. I may still be avoiding Start Me Up, but only because it will get me going about an old boyfriend (just ran a quick check: yup, three chords in and I'm still outta there, I miss the bastard so) ... and yes, in case you were wondering, I will be in charge of the tunes, who better?

Oh, Crispy boy, try and think afore you write, next time. I can't be getting all stirred up like this, I got work to do.

Love,
Zo

Deep

Rabbitblog , that fount of all wisdom, says:

The more you face the bag lady life, the better it starts to look. Oh sure, it's deeply uncool, but what truly good thing isn't?

Of course, this tips a clue to the secret of genuine, unshakable coolness. The kind you couldn't be rid of if you wanted. The cool on the other side of uncoolness.

I have nothing yet to say on the origins of this cool. Maybe one word: The Sixties. (Okay, picky: two.)

But for now, I can say no more. As George said to Ringo.

Or was it Paul to John.