Let's Hear It For...

I'm not sure what that saddest thing about James Brown's death is. Fact 1: His death is making roughly the same headlines as Gerald Ford. Granted Ford wasn't an elected President and despite his nice-guy status, his wasn't a particularly distinguished run in office. But he was Commander-In-Chief nonetheless. But I've long resigned myself to the idea that celebrity trumps pretty much anything these days.

Fact 2: Here was a man whose success and talent were visible proof and catalysts for the success of the civil rights movement. And yet in his final years, he was reduced to punchlines about drug and weapons arrests. His wife was already married when they were married. He was arrested and pled guilty to something akin to spousal battery and they sorta stayed together. Where we should be remembering how he helped to make "colored" a word of the past and "black" a proud and defiant definition of self instead we're thinking of juicy tidbits.

Fact 3: His musical legacy pretty much ended in the sixties with much of his hit making, as he descended into the mire that Fact 2 covered. Sure, we all know "Living In America" and it won a Grammy. But we all know "Kokomo" too. The Beach Boys' legacy can't be reduced to that one-off "comeback" hit any more than The Godfather's legacy can be summed up with a gimmicky single.

In the end, legacy is intact and so are the tabloid aspects. Crank up anything from Live At the Apollo (which is weird to write since his body is lying in state there right now) for a good remembrance.

Or reminisce like me: Patton Oswalt recounted J.B.'s appearance at the ill-fated Woodstock '99 in his standup a few years ago. Patton was the correspondent for the event which took place shortly after J.F.K. Jr's plane went down. In between songs, Mr. Brown stopped the band and asked the crowd to "join in a moment of silence to remember, John F.K. Junior." Bewildered at just who John F.K. was, the crowd fell restlessly silent. After a few moments, James broke and yelled out, "Let's hear for the Kennedy's!" He then launched into, "I Feel Good".

Choose your memory. I know what I'm walking away with.

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Dead Presidents Committee.

Post Christmas Clean-Up

Long story short: I can't stand most of my family.

This is why I spent yesterday in my pajamas, intermittently catching pieces of TBS' marathon of A Christmas Story and generally not thinking about the outside world - which is why I did't notice that my cell was going straight to voicemail because it wasnt charged and the home was going straight to voicemail because it's stupid like that. Damn digital phone lines - I'm having the worst luck with technology lately.

I think that the day after Christmas is a lot like the moments following masturbation. In many ways, they're both just something to get through. You have to do it, but it's more out of respect for tradition or to substitute for something else - like your birthday. Sure, the cleanup’s a little easier for one than the other, but you're often still left thinking, “I spent all this time on ________ and all I got was ________?” Both experiences should be more than that. But in the aftermath, all that usually remains is paper to be thrown away - be it toilet or wrapping.

Of course, my cynicism should, as always be taken with a grain of salt. On holidays, I'm an orphan, avoiding extended family like the plague and communicating only with my parents and sister to thank each other for our gifts. For me, Christmas Day always requires a delicate balance of denial, acceptance, and bargaining for me to get through.

And I know what some of you out there are thinking. The answer is: I don’t drink alone or at home if there isn’t a gathering of at least four people.

The moral of the story? Christmas isn't as good as your birthday and a wanking isn't as good as sex. Other than that, I got nothing.

J.

This post was sponsored by the Only 364 Days Left Committee.

I hate goodbyes.

Jeffrey (at left, aged about 3) was my mother's constant companion for a little over 16 years. My dad, my little sister and I picked him out at the pound one day and surprised Mom with him on her anniversary. He started out a backyard dog, moved indoors and became a little brother.

In his 16 years with my family, he survived an earthquake. He survived other dogs moving on his territory. He survived a move to Texas (no small feat considering other family pets didn't last more than a year after the move). But on Tuesday, Mom had to make the decision that no one ever wants to make. Jeffrey was in real pain for the first time in almost 17 years and it was time to say goodbye.

I keep repeating his age because it's one of the things that's supposed to make you feel better. Like, "He had a good life," or "He's in a better place now," it rings a little hollow. They'll sound better in a month, even better in a year. And one day, I'll say those words without choking. For now, I'm reduced to the 13 year old boy who brought his puppy home from the pound.

I'd been expecting the call for what seems like forever now and still it shot me through the heart. How my mother managed alone (Dad's out of town on business), I don't know. She's not famous for her resolve in times like these. She loved him enough to keep it together until it was over. He was never alone, right up until the end. He deserved no less. He never left her side, until he had to.

You were a good boy even when you weren't. Goodnight Jeffrey. Say hi to Jamie and the others for me.

-J.