Pulling the Lever

Here's to sanity. Here's to checks and balances. Here's to humbling the incoming loudmouths. Here's to Election Day, a cold cup of coffee for a national hangover and a great excuse for my union brothers and sisters to make time-and-a-half before they hopefully head home and pull a lever.

BlaiserBlog began as an outcropping of post-election euphoria two years ago. It's been a bumpy road, but overall I've found ample opportunity to continue believing in zany optimism, continue believing that every day is another chance to get it right, continue believing that the Yankees just aren't interesting as a concept and that forgiveness--or at least acceptance--gives one far better traction in the muddy cornfields of life than just about anything, especially a jacked-up '69 Chevelle.

I'm unsure that BlaiserBlog will survive these midterm elections. Production has tailed off. Attentions are shifting, seasons are shifting, scenes are shifting. If you pay attention to the fashion world, shifts are shifting.

It gives one pause and begs the question, What's it all about?

Here's a humble offering of what it might be all about:

it's a Midwestern Grandmother having a blast in a studio audience in Manhattan,
it's watching a child sleep, through the rear-view mirror
it's the spice of October on a damp, sylvan floor
it's the quiet enthusiasm of a lawn frog
it's the sweet silence of a lost lover
it's the je ne sais quoi behind a stranger's wink
it's having the determination of the oak while waving like the willow
it's standing on a beach, applauding the osprey
it's a pork tenderloin roast, filthy with rosemary and oil.
it's astonishment in the ordinary
it's stagehands playing stringed instruments
it's a rally in the Mall

it's a first date in Iceland
it's straddling the ladder
it's twenty-two sevenths
it's stalking the Heffalump
it's de-pilling the sweater
it's exceeding expectations
it's opera on vinyl
it's what Rock-n-Roll's doing to them kids, Emma.
it's an image of a mage
and every once in a while -- not often, but enough to keep hope alive -- it is, in fact, the Sprite in you.

image: http://www.etsy.com/shop/johloh 

Thanks for reading. Leave a comment. Get out and vote, whenever possible. And please remember -- just because the World Series is over, we do not have to lose the sweet spot of the artistic bat.

When He's Sixty-Four

When I finally got the progeny all tucked in last night, a quick check on the Intehnets brought joyous tidings from the South--New Orleans had stunned the Pop-Jock Colts, and I'm sure Bourbon Street is flowing as I type, merely 10 hours later.

Here's my take: The Saints watched living legends Pete Townshend and Roger Daltry putting all men to shame in 12-minutes flat, and then came out 50-some-strong to answer one of rock's--and teendom's--ineffable questions: "Who the bleep are you?" Who the bleep are we? We're survivors. We're onside kick at the top of the Second Half. We're Special Teams, and we want our goddammed football back. Who the BLEEP are YOU?

When I was hanging out in college radio land, there was this guy named Holmsie (and not for nothing, isn't there always a Holmsie?), who went on and on about The Who. Tied up in Tears for Fears as I was, I didn't get it, and I never understood the sheer power of The Who until adulthood. Like the Fab Four, two of them have rocked on to the next life, and after last night's Super Bowl Halftime Show, I'm thinking of accepting Pete Townshend as my personal Lord and Saviour.

Cagey in Matrix-styled mirrored shades and topped with a cheeky porkpie hat, the lead guitarist for the greatest rock band ever was a walking wink; ever the sly one, Pete Townshend has consistently been up to no good, his whole life. The cat can play. He can still sing. He's 64.

No one can top him. Let's just run down the list.

Sir Elton's candle has flickered into Pop-Musical Theatre Irrelevance, Age 62

Aerosmith's Steven Tyler is back in rehab, and once he dries out needs to get back to the business of presiding as Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives, Age 61

Pauvre Guillame Joel... you will always be the man, but for now, see Tyler. Age 60

Sir Paul. I'm so sorry, Sir Paul. You are THE living legend. A pharoah amongst songwriters. Your music is scripture. But you fell from grace quite a bit when you released a pro-war song for pity's sake. And then the one-legged lady hopped away from you. Honestly, what are we to make of that? Age, 67

Mick. OK, in fairness, this guy is a close second, but he doesn't play guitar. At least not like Pete. Age, 66.

Keith Richards. Title of Greatest Living Rocker only open to the living.

Robert Matthew Van Winkle. Thank you for tipping your Wal*Mart of Pensacola Valet Parking Attendents! Age, 42.

Pete Townshend oughta get the key to New Orleans. I may be the only one who knows, and I'm giving him full personal credit for motivating last night's dreamy deliverance. It was every bit as good as Prince singing Purple Rain *in* the rain. Hypnotic lights. Ejaculatory fireworks. Transcendent rock, nearly every lick a line of poetry. God Bless the British Invasion.