Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 323

Jefferson Airplane, Jefferson Starship, Starship and one unbelievably bizarre video.

See if you can follow this.

There once was a band called Jefferson Airplane. The band played together with its original members from 1967-1971, appearing at (among other places) Woodstock and scoring a number of hit songs. 

Their 1967 record Surrealistic Pillow is regarded as one of the key recordings of the "Summer of Love." 

The band consisted of Marty Balin, Jack Casady, Spencer Dryden, Paul Kantner, Jorma Kaukonen and Grace Slick. 

The group broke up in 1972 (following Grace Slick's near-fatal car accident), and essentially split into the two bands.

Jorma Kaukonen and Jack Cassady formed Hot Tuna, eventually adding former Jefferson Airplane guitarist Marty Balin as well.

At this same time, Jefferson Airplane's singer-guitarist Paul Kantner recorded Blows Against the Empire. This was a science fiction concept album featuring an ad hoc group of musicians, including former Jefferson Airplane members Kantner, Grace Slick, Joey Covington, and Jack Casady, as well as Crosby & Nash and members of Grateful Dead and Santana. The LP is credited to "Paul Kantner/Jefferson Starship", marking the first use of the Jefferson Starship name. The band would officially come together in 1974, producing hit songs of their own, including a number one album in '74. 

Over the course of the next decade, Jefferson Starship played on, slowing losing and replacing members. 

In June 1984, Paul Kantner, the last remaining founding member of Jefferson Airplane, left Jefferson Starship, and then took legal action over the Jefferson Starship name against his former bandmates. Kantner settled out of court and signed an agreement that neither party would use the names "Jefferson" or "Airplane" unless all members of Jefferson Airplane, Inc. (Bill Thompson, Paul Kantner, Grace Slick, Jorma Kaukonen, Jack Casady) agreed. 

The next album was finished with the five remaining members, consisting of Slick (the only original member of Jefferson Airplane , co-lead singer Mickey Thomas, guitarist Craig Chaquico, bassist/keyboardist Pete Sears, and drummer Donny Baldwin.

They called themselves Starship. 

This album, Knee Deep in the Hoopla, produced two number-one hits: Sara and We Built This City. It was the first time since 1974 that the band had a number-one hit record. The band went on to record two other number-one hit songs. 

Grace Slick left Starship in 1988, joining the reformed Jefferson Airplane for one more album in 1989, before announcing that she was retiring from music.

The last member of the original Jefferson Airplane had left the music industry.

Despite the success of We Built This City, a 2011 a Rolling Stone magazine online readers poll named "We Built This City" as the worst song of the 1980s. The song's winning margin among was so large that the magazine reported it "could be the biggest blow-out victory in the history of the Rolling Stone Readers Poll."

I like the song, perhaps for nostalgic reasons.

I was led down this rabbit hole by this song, which I played as while Clara and Elysha were building a Lego set. I played the song off YouTube, which caused me to watch the video, which is unbelievable.

It's terrible, of course. 

The length of time of a single shots in this video is astounding. They camera remains on musicians forever, simply refusing to cut away, and the fading in of various people and objects is just weird. 

 But something happens in the video around the 1:30 mark that makes absolutely no sense and blows my mind every time I see it. 

You won't believe it.

The two birthday gifts you should be asking for above all others

My birthday is approaching.

My wife often asks me for possible gift ideas, as I can be a difficult person when it comes to presents. I am much more interested in eliminating things from my life than adding to it. The accumulation of stuff does not interest me. In fact, if someone would just agree to clean out the the extra furniture from my basement and remove the bins of clothing on the second floor of my home, that might be the best birthday gift of all.

But if cleaning out my basement doesn't strike you as a reasonable gift, there are two things that I want more than anything else, and I humbly suggest that you consider them as gift ideas for yourself as well. 

I promise you that they are far superior to any cashmere sweater, shiny trinket, or electronic gadget that you think you may want. 

Time

Truthfully, the best gift of all is the gift of time, and it's not a terribly difficult or expensive gift to give. In the past, my wife has hired people to cut the grass, rake the leaves, and shovel the driveway, thus returning this precious time to me.

Other options for the giving of time include babysitting my children, digitizing my photo albums, walking my dog, mulching my flower beds, bringing my car to the shop to get that light on the dashboard checked out, renewing my passport, determining the contents of the boxes in my attic, correcting all my spelling tests for a month, or offering to complete any task or chore that I would otherwise have to do myself. 

Your list would be different, of course Hopefully it doesn't include a warning light on your dashboard or mystery boxes in your attic. But I'm sure you can think of things that you would rather not do that a friend or family member is more than capable of accomplishing on your behalf.

I know what you're thinking:

"Matt, I'd rather mow my own grass and receive that cashmere sweater instead." 

"I'd rather complete the mountain of paperwork required to renew my passport myself and open a brand new iPad on my birthday."

"I'm more than happy to shovel my driveway. Give me that new Fitbit/star finder/water purification device that I have wanted for months."

No. I'm sorry, but you're wrong. I know it may seem presumptuous to tell you what you want, but trust me. I know. I know the difference between what you want and what you think you want, and the two could not be more different.

Studies repeatedly show that money spent on experiences generates far greater happiness than money spent on things. The gift of time is the gift of an experience otherwise lost to a mindless or meddlesome chore. It's the opportunity to play with your kids or enjoy dinner with a friend or read a book or watch a movie.  

I promise you that when you are lying on your death bed, surrounded by all of your material possessions - your stuff - your greatest regret will be the time you could've spent with friends and family. At that moment, the gift of time will mean more to you than anything else. 

It should mean that much today. Don't wait until it's too late to appreciate it.

Honestly, you don't need any more clothing or jewelry or electronics. 

You could do without the device that clips to your belt or fastens to your handlebars or makes imaginary things explode when you click the right combination of buttons. 

The thing you should crave - more than anything else - is time.  

Knowledge

Coming in a close second to time (and in many ways its first cousin) is the gift of knowledge. Find a way to teach me to do something that I’ve always wanted to do but never could or haven’t had time yet to learn. 

Either teach me yourself or find someone who can do it for you.

We all go through life wishing that we could do more. Accomplish more. Achieve more. This is a gift that would allow a person to take one small step closer to those dreams. 

For me, it's meant sending my wife to a cooking or an art class. 

For my wife, it's meant buying me an hour with a professional poker player or an afternoon with a golf instructor. 

In these instances, we walk away with nothing material but something far more valuable: The gift of knowledge. The acquisition of a skill. A slight improvement in an area that means a great deal to us. 

Far more valuable than a pretty scarf or a new sweater. 

In case you're thinking of giving me a birthday gift this year, here is the list of things I want to currently learn:

Change the oil in my car Hit my driver longer and more consistentlyInstall replacement windows in my homeManage my photo library on my MacWire my television for the best combination of sound and on-demand and/or cable programmingStrike-through lines of text in SquareSpace without having to learn how to codeRemove the occasional burst of static and background hum during the recording of my podcast

I was bullied by a bunch of middle-aged pencil pushers. And it hurt.

About eight years ago, I was in search of a writer's group. I had just sold my first novel and was hoping to find some colleagues of sorts to meet with and share my struggles and seek solutions. I was new to the writing business and had many questions.  

Also, writing can be a lonely business. I was hoping to find some friends. 

While wandering through the local library one day, I notice a flyer for a local fiction writers group that was looking for new members. I'm thrilled. Exactly what I was looking for. I had sent my request into the ether, and the universe had responded. 

Huzzah! 

On a cold, winter night, I trudge through snow and ice over to the library, where I find about a dozen people meeting around a table on the upper floor of a local library.

I couldn’t believe it. Writers excited about their craft, gathering on a weeknight, notebooks piled around a large, oval table, presumably filled with brilliant ideas, finely crafted sentences, and unexpected word choices.

I thought I had found heaven.

The meeting begins with a gentleman at the head of table welcoming the writers. As far as I can tell, he's just another writer, somehow acknowledged as our moderator and leader. Everyone seems to know one another, laughing and chit chatting like old friends. I appear to be the only new face this evening.

Presumed head honcho explains that we will begin with introductions. "Please tell us who you are, what kind of writing that you do, and any recent success that you’ve had with publishing." 

People around the table tell us their names, a little bit about their current manuscripts, and news about contests entered, contests found, and in one case, a contest won. Flash fiction. A prize of $10 plus the story will appear on the contest sponsor’s website next month.

Light applause.

Then it’s my turn. Less than six months ago, I sold my first novel to Doubleday, but not wanting to grandstand, I try to downplay my accomplishment.

“I’m a novelist, though I write some poetry and non-fiction too.”

“Any publishing credits?” someone asks.

“Sure. A few op-ed pieces and a couple articles in some educational journals. I’m a teacher.”

“Anything else?” head honcho inquires.

“Well, I sold my first novel a couple months ago, but it won’t be out for more than a year.”

At news of this, everyone sits up. The questions come fast.

"Who bought the novel?"
"How much was the sale price?"
"Hardcover or paperback?"
"Is it a multi-book deal?"
"What was your advance?"
"How did you find a publisher?"
"Do you have a co-author?"
"How old are you?"

I answer as many questions as I can, declining to talk finances but explaining the process by which I found an agent and eventually sold the book. As the group asks clarifying questions, two things become clear to me:

These people do not like me.I am not in heaven.

I explain that after finding an agent, things got a lot easier, as she was able to guide me through the revisions that the manuscript needed. A woman fires back. “How the hell did you find an agent? Did you know somebody?”

“No, I didn’t know anybody.”

I explain the process I went through for finding an agent, and as I do, it becomes clear that the group cannot fathom me writing the whole book before ever finding someone to represent me. Though everyone in the group seems to be writing to one degree or another, they all seem to believe that short stories and flash fiction are they way to go until they find a literary agent. All seem to loathe the idea of spending the time to write a novel before being paid by a publisher upfront.

I begin to wonder how I might leave early, as this meeting is scheduled to last three hours.

In the midst of my interrogation, a woman describes her plan for a three book project: two novels and a nonfiction compendium that would later delve into some of the nonfiction elements of her fiction. She asks me for the best way to proceed in finding an agent to represent and sell her ideas.

“How about writing the first book first?” I say.

It’s as if I have shouted blaspheme from the rooftops of the world. She actually snorts a combination of disbelief and annoyance in my general direction.

Eventually the group turns its attention to the three writers scheduled to be critiqued and their pieces: a science fiction story, a piece of flash fiction, and a short story about a grieving protagonist who eventually drowns himself.

Though I have not received copies ahead of time, the work is passed to me and I am able to read it and make some comments as the group discusses. The flash fiction, 526 words in all, is quite good, but when I make a suggestion for revision, I realize that my critical remark is the first of the evening, and it is met with scorn. Apparently this group is less interested in critical exchange and more interested in congratulatory commentary.

The science fiction is a little overdone but clever nonetheless, and when I suggest adding simulated newspaper accounts to the story, perhaps in a sidebar, to move the plot forward, I am again given the cold shoulder.

Not simply a polite rejection of the idea, but a dismissive wave.

There is no hope for the suicide by drowning story. It's awful. But when I offer a joke referencing Ophelia in Hamlet, it’s met with bewilderment and at least one eye roll.

Thankfully, the meeting breaks half an hour early.

When I arrive home, Elysha greets me with a smile. "How did it go?" she asks like a mother asking her son about his first soccer practice. She's beaming. She's so happy for me. 

"I hated it," I said. "They were mean to me. Angry at me. They didn't like me."

Elysha consoles me. I don't go back next month. 

Two years later, I return to the group for another try. Maybe it just was a bad night. An aberration. Maybe the membership had changed in the two years since I had attended last. Maybe I'm simply a glutton for punishment. 

No change. Same people. Same response.

Oh well.

Impressive vocabulary and outstanding musical taste

Seven year-old Clara told three year-old Charlie, "I only have the capacity to listen to Brass Monkey once at a time, so stop singing it please."

Yes, she used the word "capacity."

And yes, Charlie was singing The Beastie Boys' Brass Monkey. Credit my wife for my children's outstanding taste in music. 

Charlie's response: "You're a funky monkey, Clara."

My kids are killing it today. 

Two Divorces Too Many: Oldie but goodie pops up in an unexpected place

An online acquaintance of mine met with her divorce attorney last week to begin the sad proceedings that will bring her marriage to an end. Included in the informational packet that she received was an article entitled Two Divorces Too Many, which was written by me. 

About twelve years ago, I published an Op-Ed in the Hartford Courant, and it was picked up by the Washington Post-LA Times wire service and published in newspapers and magazines around the country. 

The Houston Chronicle. The Orlando Sentinel. The LA Times. The Washington Post. 

You can still find it online today, in many newspaper archives and on the websites of parenting and family magazines. 

The piece really got around. 

So much so, in fact, that this attorney has apparently made it part of the material that he distributes to clients. And by a stroke of luck, I found out.

Luck, I say, because one never knows how his or her words will be used once they are sent out in the world. 

Believe me. I know this first hand. 

So to discover that a divorce attorney is distributing my piece in hopes that it might provide his clients with some perspective on a difficult situation warms my heart.   

I also want a cut of the action. 

Two Divorces Too Many

This piece was originally published in the Hartford Courant's Op-Ed section in September of 2004. It was my first byline. 
___________________________________

I attended my sister's wedding last year.

Correction: I attended my stepsister's wedding last year.

Still not right. Let me start over.

I attended a wedding last year.

While waiting my turn in the receiving line, an older man standing beside me asked, "So how are you related to the couple?"

I paused, considered the question for a moment longer than usual, then answered, "I'm Meghan's ex-stepbrother. We were actually brother and sister until I turned 18, then we became ... exes, I guess."

"Really?" came the excited reply from the man. "Well, it's nice to finally meet you. I'm Brian, Meghan's uncle from California. I guess that makes me your ex-step-uncle."

"I guess it does," I replied.

As is true of many people today, divorce has left an indelible impact on my life. But what I've found is that it's not the initial divorces that prove most troublesome. It's those second divorces that really hurt.

My parents divorced when I was in second grade, leaving me in the custody of my mother. As a result, my relationship with my father faded into an occasional holiday visit and a lifetime of guilt and awkwardness. Not long after the split, my mother remarried, bringing a variety of new people into my life, including a horrible new stepfather whom I'd rather forget; seven new aunts and uncles, most of whom came to mean a lot to me; a new, sweet grandmother who lived with us for a time before she passed away; and most important, two new siblings, a stepbrother named Ian and a stepsister named Meghan. For the next dozen years, I grew up with those two redheaded balls of fire and loved them just as much as I did my "real" siblings, Jeremy and Kelli.

But as I said, it was the second divorce that got me. When I was 18, my mother and my stepfather divorced, separating me from Ian and Meghan, who at 13 and 15 naturally remained loyal to their father. So there I was, left with ex-step-siblings whom I did not see or hear from again.

As the years rolled on, I'd find myself in the midst of a story of my childhood (which often included Ian and Meghan) when my listener would stop me mid-sentence and ask, "I thought you said you had only one brother and sister. Who are these two?"

Initially, I'd try to explain: "Actually, I grew up with two brothers and two sisters, but I lost two of them in a divorce." But this response led to confusion and more questions, so rather than dealing with this topic, I simply began eliminating Ian and Megan from these stories, digitally remastering my memories much the same way the guns were turned into walkie-talkies in the 2002 re-release of Steven Spielberg's E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial.

In fact, I became so efficient at wiping my mental hard drive clean that I began to lose track of which stories were still accurate and which had been altered for the sake of conversation.

Like I said, it's the second divorce that kills you.

Now fast-forward several years.

I'm 23 and I meet Kendra, who has recently divorced her first husband, leaving her with a beautiful little 6-year-old named Nicole. I marry Kendra and immediately assume the role of father, handling discipline, helping with homework and providing her with emotional and financial support. In my mind, Nicole is my daughter, and I tell Kendra as much while discussing whether to have a child together. Kendra, Nicole and I live together for a decade before Kendra one day asks me for "space," which leads to separation and eventually divorce.

And once again, it's the second divorce -- not mine, but Kendra's --that kills me.

Suddenly, the girl I considered my own daughter is now my ex-stepdaughter. At first I thought little would change in our relationship. I assumed that I would remain a father figure in Nicole's life, consulted on where she would go to college, when she would get her first car and so on. But when Nicole chose a college without informing me and I did not receive an invitation to her graduation, I suddenly felt like that 18-year-old boy who one day had a brother and sister named Ian and Meghan and the next day did not.

And now, when someone asks if I have any children, what do I say?

"Yes, I raised a daughter from ages 6 to 16, but then her mother and I divorced, so now I'm an ex-stepfather. Does that count?"

Large, lumbering, white men playing basketball. Probably poorly.

You can determine the age of this basketball arcade game that my son was playing by the race of all three players featured on the game (white) and the approximate body mass index of those players (something approximating my own BMI). 

This game must be at least 60 years old. 

It looks like a scene straight out of the film Hoosiers, which was set in 1954. 

Also, thank goodness basketball (and the world in general) doesn't look anything like this today. 

Embrace the snow day. The future is unknown. And possibly deadly.

Snow day! No school!

Many of my fellow teachers surprising despise snow days, preferring to begin summer vacation as early as possible. But I've always felt it fairly presumptuous to assume you will still be alive in June.

Perhaps not one but two near-death experiences and a gun to my head and the trigger pulled have altered my view on this subject.

Maybe even clouded it, but I don't think so. 

Take your days when you can get them. Don't assume anything.

A simple and perfect solution to the "10 items or less" offenders

I picked out a container of pink sprinkles for my daughter's birthday cupcakes in the confectionary aisle of the supermarket.

I took my place in the "10 items or less" line. Standing in front of me was a couple - husband and wife perhaps - with at least 25 items.

Not 11. Not 12. More than twice the posted limit. 

I couldn't believe it. 

Adding to this unfathomable item count was the inefficiency of these two people. The man was bagging the groceries while the woman - who was supposed to be scanning the items - was badgering him about which items should be bagged together.

They bickered throughout the entire process. 

Meanwhile, I stood there with my $2 container of sprinkles, waiting for these two morons who couldn't count to ten to finish and move on.

I almost said something. I wanted to. I needed to.

I refrained. Rare for me, but it happens. I think it was the bickering. For whatever reason, their discord prevented my own wrath from entering the fray. 

But I had a thought. A solution to this problem. A universal fix to this age-old dilemma. 

A new rule:

If a person violates the "10 items or less" sign, he or she (or they) are required to purchase the items for the person in line directly behind them, provided that he or she has the appropriate number of items.

Brilliant. Right?

Not only does this solution offer restitution to victims like me, but it also encourages offenders to move quickly lest someone get in line behind them and earn themselves some free groceries.

In this case, I would hand the nagging woman my pink sprinkles, point to the "10 items or less" sign, and say, "Here you go, lady. Two dozen ain't even close to ten. Tell your man to bag this one separately."  

A solution, both perfect in its vindication as well as its punishment. 

 Can I get an amen?

Boy vs. Girl: Episode 13 - Disney Princesses, Modern Day Uniforms & Tighty Whities

In this week's episode, Rachel and I discuss the state of Disney princesses, modern day uniforms, and the mystery behind the construction of men's underwear. 

You can listen here or - better yet - subscribe to our podcast in the iTunes store or wherever you get your podcasts.

And if you like the show, please consider leaving a review on iTunes. It helps readers find the show, and it makes me feel even better about myself.