Me and Mr. Jones

I spend too much time alone. This has been true all of my life. It started when I was a young boy living in the country, with nothing but sticks and my repetitive imagination to keep me company. Now that I am older I seldom play with sticks, and I live in a city (within a house, within a room, within himself). These changes are merely environmental, however, because I am still often by myself.

The problem with this solitude is not the solitude itself. I think everyone can benefit from some alone time. And it isn’t like I don’t ever socialize with other people, I live with a beautiful man and talk often with my fascinating friends. So there is some balance. What concerns me, then, is the fact that when I am alone it doesn’t always feel like I am. My youthful habit of imaginary friends has become a full-fledged addiction. It seems I am always having some sort of dialog.

First there is the self-critical conversation with the hater. This usually turns in to debate with the part of me that still thinks that I am interesting. Then there is the dreamer, who wishes he were doing more to improve himself, and still believes he will. And the scholar who knows exactly which books to read and what languages to learn and delivers frequent lectures on the subject. And the nymphomaniac who can do nothing but fantasize. And the romantic who can do nothing but compose poems for the boy whom we all love. (The real live boy, mind you, who I am lucky enough to live with.)

These disparate entities in my head are the reason I do not usually like being by myself. Alone time is confusing. Alone time is hard to escape. Alone time makes me feel like a crazy person.

I spend too much time alone.

To be fair, as I plan to leave this city, I should think about some of its positives. Manicured trees, nice restaurants, and this coffee/liquor store right around the corner from my house. Not only is there free wine tastings on Saturdays, but the downstairs cafe has begun purchasing soy milk because I am such a loyal customer and that is what I drink. The same girl, wearing the same earrings, makes my order every morning. And our conversations are never more extensive then “I’d like a large soy latte.” and “That will be $3.” But they don’t have to be. It is one ritual I can depend upon, in an environment that makes me happy every time I visit. Sometime I feel like it isn’t any more complicated than that. Life, that is. Let’s just hope I don’t run out of $3 anytime soon.

Some days, there is nothing else to do but sit at home and drink.

1. An opening in chess in which a minor piece, or pieces, usually a pawn, is offered
in exchange for a favorable position.
2. A maneuver, stratagem, or ploy, especially one used at an initial stage.
3. A remark intended to open a conversation.

Someone wrote me the other day, and I learned a new word. It seems that someone still wants to have a conversation. He wrote me a few weeks ago asking for one. And then he wrote again. He thinks that “…relying on the stories we’ve always told ourselves (those pathetic words that make us feel whole) is as much a prophecy as it is a gambit.” I think he may be talking about self-delusion, which is an important topic and worthwhile for him to explore. But really I think using “gambit” was a perfect choice. I’m jealous whenever I encounter perfectly chosen words. My soul for a poem…

However, someone also said that “…it seems a shame that you feel the need to explore our history with an abstract (internet) audience instead of with me (though i do understand the impulse).” I just want you all, my audience, to know that I don’t think you are abstract. Neither does Tony, although he has described you as “hard to put a finger on.” But who cares what Tony says, he doesn’t even exist.

German Jones, the son of none, has known some good pain. He feels a strong kinship with Athena, as they sprang from similar heads. He wanders often in search of pasture. His books are forthcoming. His intentions are good. And I think at last he’s found a situation you can’t explain.

The question is why? Why didn’t I know hip-hop?

I have spent my more formative years caring about music. Caring may not be the correct term. Maybe obsessing? Yeah, that’s a bit more accurate. I know I have written about the importance of music before, but I may not have explained how profoundly important it really has been to my becoming. Well…”get ready, cause this shit’s about to get heavy.”

Basically, I cannot remember a moment that I was not standing on the shoulders of some musician, finding explication from their lyrics and identity through their images and interviews. R.E.M. was the first and most sustained love affair, but a whole wave of “alternative” bands helped to brand me as their own. Pixies, Jane’s Addiction, The Cure, Violent Femmes, Radiohead, Tori Amos…these were my bread and butter.

The cultural importance of these bands, however, seemed to be limited to outsiders and critics. My peers and I who grew up in our small, midwestern rural town were consumed with things that were different, things that were about more than jocks, beer, and getting laid. We bonded by identifying with “the other”. Little did we know, however, that this other we loved was not the only option out there.

It is hard to believe that we were so unaware. Period. Clueless of all things outside of our miniscule cultural universe, like the burgeoning art form of hip-hop. Although this blossomed during my life time, it is only now I have real appreciation of what it is and what it means.

There were hints all through my youth of this powerful music, but I knew without conciousness that it was beyond me. When I was only seven or eight I remember visiting my two cousins, Manuel and Joseph, who grew up in a large city. I stood in their garage while they spread out cardboard and demonstrated their new hobby, “breakdancing”. I wasn’t supposed to tell my mom because she considered this a dangerous activity, one certain to cause my instant demise. They played me the song “Brass Monkey” by the Beastie Boys, and spun around on the floor. This was the same year I snuck off to a flea market with another older cousin and bought George Michael’s “Faith” on cassette tape, only to have it taken away by my mother because songs about sex offended her. (Yeah, it is a digression, but it is funny as hell to me.)

Then in sixth grade I took a liking to Vanilla Ice, and was made fun of by my peers, however the rhythms and samples enthralled me, despite their being completely derivative. I probably liked the simultaneous releases from MC Hammer a bit better, but for some reason I felt like I couldn’t own his album.

Through the years there were other tracks I learned from radio play, No Diggity and Killing Me Softly (Fugees version), that I loved but again felt as though I wasn’t allowed to buy the albums.

Late high school welcomed a resurgence of the Beastie Boys, as their avante garde status improved and I went and bought or borrowed their entire discography. And Rage Against the Machine, that other rap/rock band of mass popularity.

Was there a trend in the music I felt able to purchase? Vanilla Ice, Beastie Boys, Rage Against the Machine…. Unfortunately it is obvious to me now that I had internalized the racial-conditioning of growing up in the rural midwest. Knowing without knowing that I should keep to my own kind.

Now that I have burst this bubble, it is still obvious that so much of hip-hop means so much to people more for what it represented culturally rather than the music itself. I am now a dedicated student on the history of the development of this expressive form, and yet there are still ways I am excluded whereas some of my friends who may not care for the music are still somehow more connected by virtue of where they grew up or the color of their skin.

Now there are things that are more socially constructed to be a part of my background, like the beauty of the five-string banjo or the glory that was Michael Stipe’s slow coming out as gay. But these things don’t carry the cultural weight of the monolith that is hip-hop today. And it seems that unless you grew up in a zone where that was your outlet, the bulk of society could care less. That doesn’t take away from the quality of the music, but it cuts down on the cross-over appeal.

In contrast, there isn’t any sector of society that doesn’t feel the touch of hip-hop culture. And yet, I still often feel like an outsider. A voyeur. A novice in the world of the music of the streets. Is it simply that I wasn’t aware enough of the evolution, or am I an outsider by virtue of my genetic code? Or, as I often do, am I simply blowing this all out of proportion? Probably the latter, but it is still an interesting thing to marinate on.

It is always important to prepare for the future. Someday, when I am published in paper format, I will need to sign a name to my words. This is where you come in–you need to help me choose that name. This is not the first naming contest I’ve held, and it won’t be the last. The last go round I was working for a college radio station, hosting an hour of electronic music, and I needed a name to tell my listening public so they could mail me personal requests (the bulk of the listening public was located at the local state prision). The winning moniker was superb: D. J. Tanner featuring Kimi Gibbler. So as you can see, you have a lot to live up to.

I’ve been playing with anagrams lately, so for the moment these are your options. Feel free to suggest others not on the list, or dispose of the list entirely and come up with something of your own:

1. Bergman Joiners
2. Jameson Bringer (or Bringer Jameson)
3. German Rib Jones

Many thanks for your continuing input.

Tony’s latest lament:

“I am getting tired of opinions, my own and others. I am ready for some absolutes. Some definitive, uncompromised assurance of anything. I would like to divide all of this grey. I want black. And white. Or red, yellow, and blue.

There was a time I loved confusion, and the multitudinous clashing ideas of value and meaning.

Now I find myself pertrubed by those who can’t appreciate the goodness of things. I don’t mind when folks find goodness where I can’t see it, but I am amazed when they are blind to all of the quality I see in my cultural universe.

Be it music, film, or a case of ethical decisions or motivations, there always seems to be a naysayer for something that I choose to champion.

There may be no accounting for taste, but shouldn’t there be some appreciation for my good sense?”

A still life is often a beautiful life. Tony and I are on vacation this weekend. We’ve been watching The Sopranos. Subsequently, Tony is now considering pinstripes for his new stylish sleepwear. However, I don’t think that he’ll get much time to wear them since he is still on his amphetamine kick. Me, I choose the more obvious pleasures, like strong compositions. I like the way certain things work together. Jack and Coke. Jack and orange juice. Jack and crazy pills. You know, the sweet harmonies of life.