Bill Hicks’ Last Performance

It was fifteen years ago tonight – January 6, 1994 – that Bill Hicks gave his last performance ever, at Caroline’s in New York City.

I usually prefer to commemorate birthdays and beginnings, not so much anniversaries of death and “lasts.” But occasionally it’s important to remember for the sake of remembering, to honor.

This small, mostly unread posting is my humble token of appreciation for, among many other things, how much weight Bill has taken off my shoulders and mind over the last few years.

Thank you.

Holidazed and Confused

Long story short, I’m off from work this week. Needing a break from reading for a living I’ve indulged myself, alternating between watching Arrested Development and playing some new Wii games that Santa brought.

My state of mind was perfectly illustrated moments ago, when I got up to throw out a bottlecap and saw a crater in the couch where my ass has spent most of the last 48 hours. I thought to myself, Wow, I’ve been inside a lot lately. Watching a lot of TV with my ass planted in that spot on the couch. Maybe I should… move to the other side of the couch. Even it out a little bit.

Have a fine ’09.

Quarters

Not funny, not ironic, maybe not much of a deal at all for anyone who’s not me, BUT:

This morning, while buying a card for my soon-to-be one-year-old nephew, I received change on a bill of $3.24 paid with a ten. One of those quarters in that $6.76 in change was the Last One – the one I could only have imagined in April of 1999 at the Air and Space Museum in Washington D.C. while on a trip with my high school’s concert band. My first was one from Pennsylvania, and over the next nine and a half years – 9 1/2 years – I would flip over most any quarter I’d see – starting with the obviously newer shiny ones, but filling in the gaps as I had to – to find if the image on the back of that quarter was one that I didn’t have in my set, a set of 50 with one from each state, not two that would include one from the Philadelphia mint and one from the Denver mint – didn’t start over when I found that tidbit out, and don’t mind…

Yes, I’ve been collecting state quarters since that warm, promising spring day in my senior year of high school, when I was seventeen, when I hadn’t yet gotten drunk, gone to college, gone to Europe for three weeks, worked my first job, loved and lost, wrote my epic, graduated from college, graduated from grad school, spiralled into depression, started work… my entire adult life, literally, the many high points and the several lows, and every split second in-between has been running alongside this pursuit of completism, wholeness for the sake of wholeness, collecting shards of Americana to make a country infinitely more easily than it happened in real life, all the while making of myself and my many possible futures one coherent, layered but ultimately cogent self, e pluribus unum and all the rest…

This morning, in the cold sun striking Amsterdam Avenue between 72nd and 73rd Street, I found my Hawaii quarter.

One chapter of my life closed as a direct result of my desire to commemorate the progress of another life.

I installed it in its slot just a little while ago. Documented it.

And all this in the hours leading up to the longest night of the year, which so too ends with the commemoration of new life, with tomorrow’s Solstice sunrise.

Cheers–

Fountains of Youth

I think water fountains have finally gone the way of the pay phone. I saw a water fountain over the weekend, two actually – one at a mall, another at an airport – but before that, I can’t remember when the last time I saw one was, let alone two.

This is a difficult situation to assess, proving that something doesn’t exist. It’d be one thing if a tiny plaque was installed at the location of a former pay phone, or water fountain, indicating “HERE ONCE STOOD…” It’d be helpful if some wiring or piping was left sticking out of the ground, or wall – in that case, a plaque wouldn’t be necessary because we’d be able to figure it out, y’know.

Water fountains disappearing, if they are, is a sadder truth to bear.

Pay phones are so much less useful nowadays because of the ubiquity of cell phones, of course. The cost of maintaining a pay phone probably outweighs its profit. And they can be garish-looking things, all unused and empty. Eyesores, all.

Water fountains are so much less useful than they used to be, but not because of a rather involuntary shift in telecommunications standards (whereby You have a cell phone because you basically have to have one, like having a car in LA). No, their downfall, while also the result of companies replacing something public with something private, is also the result of that large portion of us being dumb enough to insist on buying both bottled water and the illusion that it’s the only potable water around, when in many cases the public water supply is perfectly satisfactory for drinking.

It’s private ownership that I’m talking about – there’s too much of it, certainly on the small scale. Think of the difference between buying a DVD you’ll watch once yet own forever, instead of getting Netflix and simply paying for the service. Now, DVDs you love, and will watch annually, yes by all means own those. It’s only practical. But otherwise, share and share alike, huh? City streets and squares are no longer places to commune, just places to walk through on the way from one building to another. It’s just as glamorous movie palaces have given way to antiseptic private screening rooms with twice the legroom but much less than half the charm. It’s just as pay phones and water fountains – water fountains, which provide such a basic human necessity – have vanished into the private sector.

We are not alone.

That’s the point.


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Idea List #2: Cacophoharmony

I work in an area of Brooklyn which lacks the tact and threatening signage of midtown Manhattan in this way: People lean on their car horns. My window faces the street near the intersection with an avenue, so I have a lot of red lights and a lot of cars waiting for their turn to pass through, and a lot of cars wanting to go straight while certain other cars have drivers that are trying to turn onto the avenue in opposite directions. I also have dwindling patience for these pinheads who think a honked horn is the magic elixir for what the French call un embouteillage. It’s a stoplight, it’s cyclic, it’s indiscriminate. You make it now, or you don’t. But you will, so sit tight and upright and take your forearm from the center of the steering column, please.

Thankfully, there is a technological solution to this problem of honking horns. (Lord knows machines are more responsive than the stubborn lackwits described herein.) Casinos, in fact, have re-engineered this problem, crafted an opportunity, and have inspired me to suggest it here: Vehicle horns should all be tuned to a certain key.  Harmony. Loud car horns are obnoxious, for sure, but the most irritating situation, physiologically irritating, is loud, obnoxious dissonance. One driver lays on his horn, another driver is insulted and defensively sees his honk and raises it in volume, so that bystanders hear an out-of-tune din they had nothing to do with creating. Nothing is gained and everyone suffers.

Check this out: Trucks’ horns should fill out the bass, say an F.  SUVs, a little bigger, a third above that at an A.  Standard cars, the fifth, C.  Standard but smaller cars, a full octave above, F. If you have a fancy car, you have the privilege of playing the smooth 6th above that F, a D, turning the whole endeavor into an F6 that might have ended an early Beatles’ song OR Dm7 that would fit somewhere in the bridge of an early Beatles’ song. I might also suggest in place of the fancy car-D, a comical car-Eb, making the chorus a pleasant and even jokey seventh chord, turning formerly contentious drivers into smiling and deferential citizens. (Naturally, we can’t have fancy cars and comical cars honking at each other with Ds and E-flats.)

All of these notes, of course, must be kept in tune. I don’t know enough about cars to say if horns drop out of tune after time, but on the occasion that they might, the horns would have to be “tuned” by a mechanic annually, say at inspection, so that the harmony can be maintained. Otherwise this whole suggestion is useless.

The point of a horn is to grab someone’s attention, in a good or a bad way, a rudimentary communication device, relying more on volume to alarm people than on pitch. And in all communication, there are better, more effective, more considerate, more polite and more elegant ways of doing it. We must finally consider the collateral damage of spreading disharmony in our world!