Historical Fiction and Truth

Lately I’ve been reading The Man in the High Castle by Philip K. Dick.  As mentioned in an earlier post, I needed to set it aside for a bit.  But after detouring with a Tony Iommi autobiography and two grim but well-written British crime novels, I’m close to finishing what is my first Dick book.

Published in 1962, The Man in the High Castle is based upon the premise that the Germans and Japanese won World War II.  The novel traces a series of characters and references a novel within the novel, The Grasshopper Lies Heavy,  that describes the actual War result as we know it. Does your brain hurt yet?

At the heart of Dick’s novel, however, at least in my view, is the theme of what constitutes history – the actual event or our various interpretations of the event and its related figures.  This book resonates with me now because our son Ethan has turned into something of a history buff and regularly asks me questions about 1970s and 1980s-era headline grabbers.  Without completely relying on Wikipedia, I field Ethan’s queries on Jimmy Carter, the Iran Hostage Crisis, and Margaret Thatcher, among other figures and events.

Like many of us, I’m my own harshest critic so I regularly try to determine the veracity of my answers.  But the fact is that I am not giving Ethan “answers,” per se.  I’m providing him with my interpretations of history.  And the same holds true with today’s hot button topics.  Whether it’s gay marriage, gun control or the civil war in Syria, it’s a fine line between where the actual history ends and our interpretations, or narratives, of history begin.

One of the bitter ironies of Philip K. Dick’s career is that he never lived to truly experience success, not to mention the respect of his peers and general public.  Dick suffered a fatal stroke months before Blade Runner, the Ridley Scott cult classic based on his 1968 novel, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sleep, was released.  Film adaptations of Dick’s work have today accumulated over $1 billion in revenue and he is widely respected for his prescient futuristic visions.  Yet he died obscure, hobbled by financial troubles and several failed marriages.

It’s a harsh reminder that history is always left up to others to determine.

By Any Other Name

“Daddy, Taylor Swift is your girlfriend!” teased Sasha from the backseat.  I quickly rattled off excuses for why “We Are Never Getting Back Together” remained on the radio.  After all, it was Taylor Swift – an object of ridicule and an artist no self-respecting man would listen to.  I listen to Sabbath, dammit; sometimes even Slayer.  This couldn’t stand. I changed the station, barely hiding my disappointment.

It dawned on me, not for the first time, that so much of our likes and dislikes are based on perception, as opposed to the content itself.  But what if I wasn’t listening to Taylor Swift but rather “Tis.” Instead of small town Pennsylvania, Tis was raised in London and is the niece of Robyn Hitchcock.  After graduating from a prestigious fine arts high school, Tis showcased some of her poetry in coffee shops and pubs, to the accompaniment of an acoustic guitar.  After Uncle Robyn introduced Tis to Rick Rubin, the two collaborated on her debut album.

But why stop with Taylor Swift?  With some simple repositioning, the following would become much more palatable.

• Piston Rod – Formerly known as Bon Jovi, this New Jersey quintet plays arena rock ironically to raise money for the “E Street Project,” a grants program for struggling East Coast musicians.
• Alecia Beth Moore – Borrowing a page from the Johnny Cougar playbook,the former Pink drops the suburban-Philly-faux-rough-kid-acrobat shtick for a stripped down Patti Smith-esque rawness.
• Adam 5 – Why bother with “Maroon” when everyone knows Adam Levine holds all the cards?  Hipsters appreciate the wink-and-nod “Adam 12” reference.  And if Levine left the talent judging gigs and opened up his own tattoo studio, there’s no telling what the future could hold.

Too bad we’ll never, ever, ever know.

Lingering Perceptions

I was watching the Cameron Crowe movie Almost Famous the other night; it had been several years and I forgot how much I enjoyed it.  For starters, the soundtrack kicks ass.  But on a deeper level, the story captures the earnest, dogged pursuit of fame as a key objective.

We’re all familiar with the dark side of fame.  Everyone ranging from Elvis and Michael Jackson to the cast of Different Strokes has had their sordid and heartbreaking tales picked over repeatedly.  But what about the category of artists who find fame, only to have it overshadow their abilities.  True, so many would give anything for a shot, just one, at being famous.  But a quick glance at the list below is a reminder that it’s possible to be famous for the wrong reasons.

• Robert Reed – “Who?” would be a likely reaction, as we identify Reed as his most recognizable portrayal – even-tempered architect Mike Brady.  Reed studied acting at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art and mastered Shakespeare.  He was chosen as Mr. Brady only after fellow actor Gene Hackman was deemed too unfamiliar.
• Peter Frampton – In the early 1970s, Frampton worked as a session guitarist for Jerry Lee Lewis and George Harrison, among others, before beginning a respected but largely obscure solo career.  In 1976, he discovered a voice box and made a live album.  He was never obscure, nor properly respected, again.
• Stephen King – Stephen King might have sold a gazillion books but I can rarely get people beyond his hardcore fans, of which I include myself, to give him a chance.  “Nah,” they say, dismissively.  “Too scary.”  Sure, all those embossed blood-red letter covers and film adaptations helped establish King as a “horrormeister” and household name in the 1970s and 80s. Yet I believe this notierity obscured his mastery of other, more varied genres.

So if you’re reading this post and waiting for your moment to arrive, then please reconsider.  Moments come and go.  But perception has a way of lingering.

An Iron Man Endures

Editorial note: Opinions expressed here are solely those of the blogger

As referenced in one of my earliest posts, I fall victim to enjoying the idea of something more than the thing itself.  So it was in this spirit that I began reading a novel by Philip K. Dick.  About halfway through, I was fascinated but not interested.  So I bailed and quickly devoured Iron Man: My Journey Through Heaven and Hell with Black Sabbath by Tony Iommi.

You may not recognize the name but if you’re 35 or older, you’re probably familiar with Tony Iommi.  He’s the tall, mustachioed guy in Black Sabbath who isn’t Ozzy Osbourne or Geezer Butler.  Black Sabbath is considered by many to be The Beatles of heavy metal.  And Iommi’s sludgy, distorted riffs, prominently featured in songs  such as “Paranoid,” ‘Iron Man” and “N.I.B” are imitated by many but never quite replicated.

My barometer for a good biography is how willing the subject is to expose warts.  We all have them, naturally and Iommi has plenty.  He was fond of dangerous pranks that included lighting band mates’ beards on fire, seemed to consider cocaine a major food group, and has married four times.

But underneath Iommi’s glib “Blimey! I crashed me Lamborghini!” first-person narration lies a story of grit and determination.  There’s overcoming adversity, when after losing the tips of two fingers in an industrial accident, Iommi essentially re-learns the guitar.  There’s commitment, as he carries on the Black Sabbath mantle, playing clubs and second-rate theatres while former Sabbath lead singer Ozzy Osbourne sells out arenas during his “Crazy Train” heyday.  Oh, and did I mention he was once engaged to Lita Ford and currently is married to Swedish rocker babe Maria Sjoholm.  Clearly, he’s doing something right.

Last year, while recording a Black Sabbath reunion album, Tony Iommi was diagnosed with Lymphoma.  He currently is undergoing treatments while finishing the album and rehearsing for an upcoming tour.  I wish him a speedy return to full health but he’s well on his way.  After all, Tony Iommi has proven that a true Iron Man endures.

 

Image credit: Blabbermouth.net

I Need Somebody…Not Just Anybody

“Help” is a mantra at our house.  If not sooner, it starts at breakfast (Daddy, can you help me open the refrigerator?  Dad, can you help me pour maple syrup on my waffles?).  It continues on the way to school (Can you help me buckle my seatbelt?  Can you help me close the door?).  And then it starts right back up the second I walk in the door (Can you help me pour the ketchup?  After dinner, can you help me with my homework?)

Now don’t get me wrong; it is rewarding to feel needed and I’d of course give our kids  the world.  But I’d be lying if I did not admit to the aggravation kicking in once in a while. While I always drop what I’m doing, when possible, to give them a hand, my internal monologue often doesn’t align with my accommodating demeanor.  These thoughts might include: Wow, I can’t wait until your arms grow and you can reach those Cheerios.  Why must you always ask me to help you right when I sit down? and I think you were more self-sufficient as a newborn.

Of course, the type of assistance I’m offering Ethan and Sasha now is just the tip of the iceberg.  One of the countless paradoxes of parenting is the vicious cycle of help.  We want to be there to help our kids, yet hope they gradually become self-sufficient.  But when they actually become self-sufficient is the time when they’ll need our help the most.  That’s when help will involve not just reaching for a cereal box but calling upon life experiences, emotions both pleasant and unpleasant and reliving multiple mistakes, just to help them chart a clearer path.

What was that I said about speeding up the process of self-sufficiency?  Better scratch that; it will happen soon enough.

Just Ask Miley

If any of you parents out there currently have to struggle through Dora The Explorer or Thomas The Tank Engine, trust me; it gets worse.  Ethan and Sasha now are in the grips of a genre I can only refer to as “manic tween fantasy.”  It makes Dora’s snide self-importance and Thomas’ dour industriousness quite palatable by comparison.

In shows such as The Suite Life of Zack and Cody and Victorious, among others, brightly attired tweens bleat vapid dialogue within plotlines that make The Brady Bunch seem like The Jim Lehrer News Hour.  So Ethan and Sasha, if you’re reading this blog post someday, and you’re asking yourselves “Why did my parents let me watch this crap?”, it wasn’t just to provide you with an electronic babysitter while we caught up on Facebook.  It was to remind you of all the ways television isn’t always reflective of real life.  By now you’ve probably learned that:

• There’s No Laugh Track – Laughter is a weird thing.  Sometimes it’s genuine, other times its nervous and sometimes you do it just so you won’t cry.  But it will hopefully never sound as frantic and canned as it does on TV.
• Diversity Does Not Mean Caricature – Unlike the shows you’re watching, blondes aren’t dim, African American boys do more than play the piano and sing, Asian girls aren’t always tarted up and Jewish boys do more than science experiments and throw out the occasional one-liner.
• Respect is a Two-Way Street – The kids on the shows you are watching ridicule adults and go unpunished.  Yet the adults in turn show the kids zero respect; in fact, treat them like one-dimensional objects, which enables the bad behavior.

So there you have it.  Life, not surprisingly, is way more complicated than it seems on TV.  And if you don’t believe me, you can go ask Miley.