Category Archives: kissing

On American Pie

Posted on by

You can go read the critical explanations of what Don McLean’s song, “American Pie,” is all about–Buddy Holly, Dylan, the Stones, the sixties, but I don’t think that most people think about those things today when they listen to the song. I imagine that most people think about lost loves, youth, music they loved, ideals, tragedy, religion, and a host of other associations which the broad metaphors and wide-open tropes of the song suggest. The beauty of the song does not lie in the exact meaning of each reference–the jester=Dylan–but in the voice that wants to tell a story about lost innocence and cynical experience. As adults we listen to this song, and some piece of it resonates with the things that have happened to us: a first girl friend, music, a pick-up truck, a glass of whiskey. What matters is that we listen to that voice which tells us that “for ten years, we’ve been on our own,” and we know that we are no longer young, no longer under the protection of our parents, no longer in the possession of our youthful ideals. We feel empty, rage, read too much bad news from our doorstep, seen too many widows on the nightly news. “American Pie” is about what is lost with age. This is the common experience which is shared with everyone who listens to the song. Each person fills in the blanks with the failures and losses in their own life. What makes the song special, however, what makes it stand apart from the pop music fluff of the seventies, is the song’s ability to evoke that period in everyone’s life when everything was lived so intensely, when everything was a drama, when you could still “kick off your shoes and dance,” when you still might wear a pink carnation. There is no remedy for the loss of innocence, and experience has taught us that although those high ideals we might have harbored in our youth were hot and burning, that life is a little easier to live without those preoccupations. Yet the loss of innocence is also a bitter affair when you realize how foolishly you acted, how unrealistic you were about the way the world worked, and how bitter experience can really be–“My hands were clenched in fists of rage.”

On American Pie

Posted on by

You can go read the critical explanations of what Don McLean’s song, “American Pie,” is all about–Buddy Holly, Dylan, the Stones, the sixties, but I don’t think that most people think about those things today when they listen to the song. I imagine that most people think about lost loves, youth, music they loved, ideals, tragedy, religion, and a host of other associations which the broad metaphors and wide-open tropes of the song suggest. The beauty of the song does not lie in the exact meaning of each reference–the jester=Dylan–but in the voice that wants to tell a story about lost innocence and cynical experience. As adults we listen to this song, and some piece of it resonates with the things that have happened to us: a first girl friend, music, a pick-up truck, a glass of whiskey. What matters is that we listen to that voice which tells us that “for ten years, we’ve been on our own,” and we know that we are no longer young, no longer under the protection of our parents, no longer in the possession of our youthful ideals. We feel empty, rage, read too much bad news from our doorstep, seen too many widows on the nightly news. “American Pie” is about what is lost with age. This is the common experience which is shared with everyone who listens to the song. Each person fills in the blanks with the failures and losses in their own life. What makes the song special, however, what makes it stand apart from the pop music fluff of the seventies, is the song’s ability to evoke that period in everyone’s life when everything was lived so intensely, when everything was a drama, when you could still “kick off your shoes and dance,” when you still might wear a pink carnation. There is no remedy for the loss of innocence, and experience has taught us that although those high ideals we might have harbored in our youth were hot and burning, that life is a little easier to live without those preoccupations. Yet the loss of innocence is also a bitter affair when you realize how foolishly you acted, how unrealistic you were about the way the world worked, and how bitter experience can really be–“My hands were clenched in fists of rage.”

On the padiddle

Posted on by

Officially, a padiddle is a car, truck, or bug with only one headlight or one taillight. Urban lore has it that the spotter of the padiddle gets to kiss a member of the opposite sex, or some such nonsense that is dreamed up in the hormone addled brain of a teenager. I suspect that this is why teenagers love to drive around so much in the company of the opposite sex, praying, hoping that the maintenance schedule for most cars on the road does not include a yearly inspection of the lights, neither fore nor aft. All of which is very silly because teenagers don’t need a reason for kissing, but an ulterior, arbitrary occurrence of a padiddle is a wonderful ice-breaker for nervous, shy teens who don’t have a lot of experience getting the kissing business going. If you have read this far, you are probably smirking at your own first forays into good love. Urban lore, urban legend are the stuff dreams are built on. The dark intimacy of the back seat of a car can provide a wonderful opportunity for those first tentative experiences of a young adult who is neither child nor adult, occupying a liminal space after childhood, but before adulthood. Getting comfortable with one’s own sexuality and the accompanying physicality is a difficult, if not impossible, task, filled with bumps in the road, setbacks, detours, and the like. Rejection is a horrible, painful experience, but one cannot hide from their own identity. A slave to our own bodies and looks, we cannot control the avatars and caprices of the physical, social, pop world which would deem us handsome or ugly, attractive or repulsive. Perhaps the padiddle is Lady Fortune’s hand reaching out with a little help to the shy introverts of the world.

On the padiddle

Posted on by

Officially, a padiddle is a car, truck, or bug with only one headlight or one taillight. Urban lore has it that the spotter of the padiddle gets to kiss a member of the opposite sex, or some such nonsense that is dreamed up in the hormone addled brain of a teenager. I suspect that this is why teenagers love to drive around so much in the company of the opposite sex, praying, hoping that the maintenance schedule for most cars on the road does not include a yearly inspection of the lights, neither fore nor aft. All of which is very silly because teenagers don’t need a reason for kissing, but an ulterior, arbitrary occurrence of a padiddle is a wonderful ice-breaker for nervous, shy teens who don’t have a lot of experience getting the kissing business going. If you have read this far, you are probably smirking at your own first forays into good love. Urban lore, urban legend are the stuff dreams are built on. The dark intimacy of the back seat of a car can provide a wonderful opportunity for those first tentative experiences of a young adult who is neither child nor adult, occupying a liminal space after childhood, but before adulthood. Getting comfortable with one’s own sexuality and the accompanying physicality is a difficult, if not impossible, task, filled with bumps in the road, setbacks, detours, and the like. Rejection is a horrible, painful experience, but one cannot hide from their own identity. A slave to our own bodies and looks, we cannot control the avatars and caprices of the physical, social, pop world which would deem us handsome or ugly, attractive or repulsive. Perhaps the padiddle is Lady Fortune’s hand reaching out with a little help to the shy introverts of the world.

On The Cavanaugh Quest (Thomas Gifford)

Posted on by

Over the years I have returned to this story of love and death, incest and suicide, murder, listening to the voice of a jaded and burned out Paul Cavanaugh as he tries to unravel a pretty seedy story of human shame and revenge. Cavanaugh doesn’t think anyone can sink as low as he is, on the verge of a mid-life crisis, but he soon finds out that looks can be deceiving, and that everyone is lying to him, except maybe his father. Of course, this novel is about facades, and nobody is really who they appear to be. Cavanaugh falls in love, but he’s a failed Lothario who’s affection go unrequited by one of the most interesting characters you will ever meet in a crime novel who-dun-it, Kim Roderick, who is straight out of an Poe short-story. Cavanaugh is an unlikely investigator, but not an unlikeable one, who isn’t afraid to share his shortcomings, whatever they might be. He’s a bit of a moral relativist, but even he is shocked by the crime that has been committed, especially in the end when all is revealed. Some of the book is a nostalgic, but cynical, look at Minneapolis, Minnesota in the early seventies set against the Ford pardon of Nixon. Minneapolis looks good, but it’s really rotten to the core, a moral metaphor for the ethics of the local rich and famous, upstanding citizens who are a little less than upstanding. The story evokes an end-of-summer atmosphere of sweltering heat, thunderstorms, and North Shore memories that will make any Minnesota yearn for just one more weekend up-north, at the cabin. Cavanaugh yearns to feel young again, but the decay and moral collapse around him only heightens his sense of lost youth and passing time. Though he does solve the puzzle, it’s not because he is Poirot, but because he just sticks with it until the end, as would most people. Readers will be able to relate to a “normal” guy who is not a “gifted” super-sleuth. Gifford hides the solution to the puzzle in plain sight—he’s the real genius in this novel. It unfolds slowly and methodically, and you won’t feel cheated or bamboozled at the end because the solution was more than obvious from about chapter two on. The prose flows fluidly, and although Gifford might be a bit verbose, he does it to pad the readers thoughts with lots of red-herring almost as well as Agatha Christie herself. If you are looking for something different, this might be your ticket. I highly recommend it.

On The Cavanaugh Quest (Thomas Gifford)

Posted on by

Over the years I have returned to this story of love and death, incest and suicide, murder, listening to the voice of a jaded and burned out Paul Cavanaugh as he tries to unravel a pretty seedy story of human shame and revenge. Cavanaugh doesn’t think anyone can sink as low as he is, on the verge of a mid-life crisis, but he soon finds out that looks can be deceiving, and that everyone is lying to him, except maybe his father. Of course, this novel is about facades, and nobody is really who they appear to be. Cavanaugh falls in love, but he’s a failed Lothario who’s affection go unrequited by one of the most interesting characters you will ever meet in a crime novel who-dun-it, Kim Roderick, who is straight out of an Poe short-story. Cavanaugh is an unlikely investigator, but not an unlikeable one, who isn’t afraid to share his shortcomings, whatever they might be. He’s a bit of a moral relativist, but even he is shocked by the crime that has been committed, especially in the end when all is revealed. Some of the book is a nostalgic, but cynical, look at Minneapolis, Minnesota in the early seventies set against the Ford pardon of Nixon. Minneapolis looks good, but it’s really rotten to the core, a moral metaphor for the ethics of the local rich and famous, upstanding citizens who are a little less than upstanding. The story evokes an end-of-summer atmosphere of sweltering heat, thunderstorms, and North Shore memories that will make any Minnesota yearn for just one more weekend up-north, at the cabin. Cavanaugh yearns to feel young again, but the decay and moral collapse around him only heightens his sense of lost youth and passing time. Though he does solve the puzzle, it’s not because he is Poirot, but because he just sticks with it until the end, as would most people. Readers will be able to relate to a “normal” guy who is not a “gifted” super-sleuth. Gifford hides the solution to the puzzle in plain sight—he’s the real genius in this novel. It unfolds slowly and methodically, and you won’t feel cheated or bamboozled at the end because the solution was more than obvious from about chapter two on. The prose flows fluidly, and although Gifford might be a bit verbose, he does it to pad the readers thoughts with lots of red-herring almost as well as Agatha Christie herself. If you are looking for something different, this might be your ticket. I highly recommend it.

On Valentine’s Day

Posted on by

Perhaps we might invent a holiday that torments single people and makes them feel isolated and alone. Wait, we already did that with Valentine’s Day. I think marriage was invented so that the vast majority of people would not have to worry about getting a date for that day, or not getting flowers, or not going dancing, or not giving away chocolates. The pressure is always on during the days leading up to Valentine’s Day. Single people are tormented by the endless parade of happy people, their flowers, their heart-shaped balloons, their romantic dinners, their Valentine’s Day cards. What if you don’t get any? And romantic music is like a stake in the heart for a vampire. For those lucky folks who find themselves paired up during the Valentine, the holiday in mid-February is a wonderful time to love stuff, but for those folks who have recently broken up with their significant other, every loving couple is only another reminder of their own loneliness and failure. Every Valentine’s Day party, every bouquet of roses, every couple dining in a romantic setting, is a reminder of their own solitary condition. This is supposed to be happy occasion, and for many people it is, but the irony is bitter, difficult to swallow because solitude is the only part of the human condition for which there is no solution, unless it be other people. I don’t know which part of Valentine’s Day I hate most–the stuffed bears, the bunches of balloons, the red, frilly hearts, the roses, the chocolates, or kissing couples. The clichés are not endless, but they are repetitive, and they are boring. People in love just make me sick. In another lifetime I might not have felt this way, but the years have tanned my hide, so to speak, and any romantic bone that I might have ever had has long since petrified, cold and unfeeling. Yet, this strange red and pink-hearted holiday is about an ideal after which most of strive at some moment in our lives. Our crushes, our loves, our obsessions all come home to roost on Valentine’s Day when we remember, perhaps ponder, our emotional attachments, the loves of our lives. What most bothers me about Valentine’s Day is how the multi-national corporations that sell Valentine’s Day have turned a sweet, emotional fun day into an out-of-control consumer nightmare of buying and splurging and spending. One is delinquent if one has not bought a diamond or chocolate or roses or lobster or mink or electronics or whatever. Since when is love about money and spending a whole bunch of it? I am often disappointed in my own culture’s inability to find meaning and value in something without attaching a monetary value to it. Savage consumerism has wrecked this holiday, and there is probably no way to save it from unbridled spending and uncontrolled materialism. Materialism is the dialectic opposite of love, which is a self-less emotional response to another human being. Things, stuff, can only get in the way, and are often the cause of so many break ups. Perhaps love can only survive Valentine’s Day when it is not controlled by a capitalistic market that is marked only by dollars and cents. Diamonds are not the solution to Valentine’s Day, but real emotion might be. Valentine’s Day, the way it is sold in stores, is fake, phony, a waste of time. Valentine’s Day really only exists in the heart, and that is the only place where it will ever be found.

On Valentine’s Day

Posted on by

Perhaps we might invent a holiday that torments single people and makes them feel isolated and alone. Wait, we already did that with Valentine’s Day. I think marriage was invented so that the vast majority of people would not have to worry about getting a date for that day, or not getting flowers, or not going dancing, or not giving away chocolates. The pressure is always on during the days leading up to Valentine’s Day. Single people are tormented by the endless parade of happy people, their flowers, their heart-shaped balloons, their romantic dinners, their Valentine’s Day cards. What if you don’t get any? And romantic music is like a stake in the heart for a vampire. For those lucky folks who find themselves paired up during the Valentine, the holiday in mid-February is a wonderful time to love stuff, but for those folks who have recently broken up with their significant other, every loving couple is only another reminder of their own loneliness and failure. Every Valentine’s Day party, every bouquet of roses, every couple dining in a romantic setting, is a reminder of their own solitary condition. This is supposed to be happy occasion, and for many people it is, but the irony is bitter, difficult to swallow because solitude is the only part of the human condition for which there is no solution, unless it be other people. I don’t know which part of Valentine’s Day I hate most–the stuffed bears, the bunches of balloons, the red, frilly hearts, the roses, the chocolates, or kissing couples. The clichés are not endless, but they are repetitive, and they are boring. People in love just make me sick. In another lifetime I might not have felt this way, but the years have tanned my hide, so to speak, and any romantic bone that I might have ever had has long since petrified, cold and unfeeling. Yet, this strange red and pink-hearted holiday is about an ideal after which most of strive at some moment in our lives. Our crushes, our loves, our obsessions all come home to roost on Valentine’s Day when we remember, perhaps ponder, our emotional attachments, the loves of our lives. What most bothers me about Valentine’s Day is how the multi-national corporations that sell Valentine’s Day have turned a sweet, emotional fun day into an out-of-control consumer nightmare of buying and splurging and spending. One is delinquent if one has not bought a diamond or chocolate or roses or lobster or mink or electronics or whatever. Since when is love about money and spending a whole bunch of it? I am often disappointed in my own culture’s inability to find meaning and value in something without attaching a monetary value to it. Savage consumerism has wrecked this holiday, and there is probably no way to save it from unbridled spending and uncontrolled materialism. Materialism is the dialectic opposite of love, which is a self-less emotional response to another human being. Things, stuff, can only get in the way, and are often the cause of so many break ups. Perhaps love can only survive Valentine’s Day when it is not controlled by a capitalistic market that is marked only by dollars and cents. Diamonds are not the solution to Valentine’s Day, but real emotion might be. Valentine’s Day, the way it is sold in stores, is fake, phony, a waste of time. Valentine’s Day really only exists in the heart, and that is the only place where it will ever be found.

On standing up (erect)

Posted on by

Some things are better done while sitting, but others can only be done while standing up. It is easier to write on a computer screen if you are sitting down, while it is easier to wash dishing while standing. Playing the French Horn can be done while sitting or standing. Sometimes I stand and eat, but tonight I sat while eating. Riding on a train is a fine thing to do while sitting, but riding a bike is a sort of sitting/standing proposition. I don’t like to stand to watch television, but when I’m having a beverage with friends standing up is just fine. Reading lends itself to many positions–lying on a bed, sitting in a chair, standing. Standing up is required for many fun activities such as baseball, grocery shopping, and dancing. You cannot change your oil while sitting, although you may need to lie on the ground to get the plug out. Activities with other people may depend on whether you personally can stand up or not–sometimes people take medicine so that they can stand up whenever they want to. A marathon requires standing, for example. One might see farther while standing up. One cannot sleep and stand at the same time. I think that horses have mastered the technique, but they have four legs and an edge in balance. I can, however, sit in a chair and sleep like a baby–that is, wake up every hour or so and cry. If you have to stand too long, your back might start to hurt, as well as feet, knees, hips and muscles. I watched a very young child take their first steps today, standing up. One might have an intense personal experience while standing up. Of course, fainting is bad if you are standing up because that means the floor is farther away, and gravity is very unforgiving. Standing up is about going against gravity. If someone helps you stand up, you should thank them in some significant way. Falling down is the not opposite of standing erect. Standing up is a sybollic act of respect in many circles–a standing ovation when someone excels on the stage, for example. We stand to pray, to sing, to walk away when necessary. One stands up to be counted. Standing up in the morning becomes a more interesting experience as one gets older. Just being able to stand up is always a sign of hope, of power, of success, of love, of strength. Nevertheless, the secret to standing up is always having a good motivation to do so.

On standing up (erect)

Posted on by

Some things are better done while sitting, but others can only be done while standing up. It is easier to write on a computer screen if you are sitting down, while it is easier to wash dishing while standing. Playing the French Horn can be done while sitting or standing. Sometimes I stand and eat, but tonight I sat while eating. Riding on a train is a fine thing to do while sitting, but riding a bike is a sort of sitting/standing proposition. I don’t like to stand to watch television, but when I’m having a beverage with friends standing up is just fine. Reading lends itself to many positions–lying on a bed, sitting in a chair, standing. Standing up is required for many fun activities such as baseball, grocery shopping, and dancing. You cannot change your oil while sitting, although you may need to lie on the ground to get the plug out. Activities with other people may depend on whether you personally can stand up or not–sometimes people take medicine so that they can stand up whenever they want to. A marathon requires standing, for example. One might see farther while standing up. One cannot sleep and stand at the same time. I think that horses have mastered the technique, but they have four legs and an edge in balance. I can, however, sit in a chair and sleep like a baby–that is, wake up every hour or so and cry. If you have to stand too long, your back might start to hurt, as well as feet, knees, hips and muscles. I watched a very young child take their first steps today, standing up. One might have an intense personal experience while standing up. Of course, fainting is bad if you are standing up because that means the floor is farther away, and gravity is very unforgiving. Standing up is about going against gravity. If someone helps you stand up, you should thank them in some significant way. Falling down is the not opposite of standing erect. Standing up is a sybollic act of respect in many circles–a standing ovation when someone excels on the stage, for example. We stand to pray, to sing, to walk away when necessary. One stands up to be counted. Standing up in the morning becomes a more interesting experience as one gets older. Just being able to stand up is always a sign of hope, of power, of success, of love, of strength. Nevertheless, the secret to standing up is always having a good motivation to do so.