Before you gag and stop reading this column, allow me to explain. This thought first occurred to me when I was at Ozzfest one year. I didn’t know the songs by most of the bands. It was only after Ozzfest was over and I was curious, and asked my daughter for some of the songs, that I began to enjoy them.
Some background: My parents were classical music fanatics and they more or less shoved it down my throat. I listened to rock ‘n’ roll, though, and after many years realized that I didn’t like classical. My tastes in rock moved slowly from softer stuff to metal, and there I have remained.
Despite my having left classical in the dust, my background has persisted in plaguing me at times, and so the comparison between opera and metal popped into my mind, whether I liked it or not.
I was taught by my parents that before attending an opera, you must listen to a recording of it, and read the libretto (the music and words). You have to if you want to have any idea at all what’s going on. Even if you’re fluent in the language of the opera, it’s impossible to make out any words because of the way they sing.
Cynical World would be hypocritical if it were not completely honest, and so, with a sigh, I admit that before I go hear a band I’m not so familiar with, I listen to as many of their songs as I can. Given the decibel level and the often less-than-perfect acoustics at many venues, sometimes it’s hard to know what’s being played, unless you are familiar with the song.
The other thing I learned from my mother, is that even if I don’t think I’ll like a band very much, if I haven’t heard them, I still feel it’s important to go. Even if my mother did not care for a work of music, or if she’d never heard a particular ensemble before, she would go. As a professional in classical music, she felt it important to know as much music and as many ensembles as possible.
I feel the same about metal. Although I’m not a professional in the field, I want to hear as many bands as possible. Partly because I love the music as a whole, even if a band may not be among my favorites; partly because I feel like I can’t be a true metalhead if I only know a few bands’ work. (The difference between my mother and myself, however, is that often I get to like a certain band and its music after I’ve listened to them a few times.)
Another similarity with opera is the theatrical productions. Every metal band I’ve seen has dramatic props and risers for the musicians to jump off and on, or at least some sort of outrageous backdrop. My own favorite band, Iron Maiden, had a hell of a set during its recent tour. I do have to admit that the most beautiful set I ever saw was Heaven and Hell’s, during this summer’s Mayhem tour. Although it was grim and grotesque in some ways, I thought it was absolutely gorgeous at the same time.
(By the way, the excellent documentary “Heavy: The Story of Metal” features an expert stating that 19th century composer Richard Wagner might have been the heavy metal artist of his day, given the size of his orchestras and the amount of bass instruments he used. I’m sure many Wagner devotees would be utterly horrified by this pronouncement.)
But a metal band doesn’t really need the accessories; the power and all-consuming nature of the music reaches down your throat, grips you and doesn’t let go. Perhaps some opera lovers would say the same about their music, but opera needs the props to be able to stand it. Sometimes my parents took me to performances in which the singers appeared simply before a symphony orchestra, not in costume, no backdrops or props. They stood there and sang the opera in regular ball gowns and tuxedos. There was nothing more boring than this. Not only could you not understand the words, there was nothing else to look at.
That’s where the similarities end, though. I don’t ever recall seeing any headbanging at concerts and operas. There are no mosh pits at classical music performances. No-one in an audience at the opera is the least bit interested in hearing you sing along with the vocalists or watching you play air-violin or air-trumpet. I’ve never seen a conductor crowd-surf. Never saw an opera singer tear off his wig and throw it to the pit (which in the case of opera is not concert-goers, but an orchestra). No double-bassist has ever tossed his bow to the crowd. I never saw anyone drinking beer during an opera, in the audience. Well, this is their loss.
My conclusion: be of good cheer –- opera is opera, and heavy metal is heavy metal, and never the twain shall meet.
© Naomi Godfrey 2008
Monday, December 1, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
Bust on a Leash
During a recent chapter of my life, I had occasion to be a regular visitor to a hospital cafeteria. One of the other regular visitors I noticed, in particular.
It was a beautiful young woman, endowed with an enviable bust. She persisted in wearing shirts that prominently displayed this feature. As my father used to say, those were nice shirts she almost had on. Her behavior, too, clearly indicated that she wanted to show off her business to its best advantage; I felt like I should go over and say, “damn, girl, congratulations on the rack!”
Whenever she leaned over her table to set her tray down, those babies were hangin’ out there perilously, risking complete exposure. For some reason, I began to fear that they might even create more danger. I began to have a vision . . .
. . . One day leans over to set her tray down, and those boobs hang lower…and lower…until they have a bungee-cord effect. And sure enough, DAMN if those suckers don’t bounce all the way down to the table, snap back up just like a bungie jumper off a bridge, and smack her right in the head!
. . . Paramedics are called; the girl is out cold for at least 10 minutes. But the paramedics can’t handle this situation, and even fear to approach the dangerous objects. A HazMat team is called in, and they arrive wearing full protective garb. This also proves inadequate, and the hospital puts in an urgent request to FEMA, the Federal Emergency Management Agency. . .
. . . Between the lot of them, the situation is soon, er, in hand. But the owner of the Bust suffers a concussion, and a crane is used the haul away them right next to the gurney on which the young woman is laid. . .
. . . The United Nations sends representatives; they assess the existence of a new weapon capable of wiping out a small city. The Russian ambassador to the United States issues a statement that his nation will soon develop a similar weapon, to encourage mutual deterrence. . .
. . .The hundred or so patrons of the cafeteria have one of two reactions: Strong men faint and upon awakening, swear only to date A cups or less. Women run to nurses in the room and beg for Ace bandages to wrap over their chests.
End of daydream. But I wondered what the young woman was trying to accomplish by displaying her assets so prominently. Sure, we all want to show off something we’re proud of, but safety must be considered. As the owner of a set that is much larger than I’d prefer, I can vouch that they are indeed a hazard (but I knew I was losing weight when I had to shove them out of the way to see my stomach). Performing certain stretching exercises, you are in danger of suffocation. That one stretch where you lie on your back and bring your legs up and over your head until your toes touch the floor behind you, for instance. Your boobs flop back on your throat during this maneuver and you can’t breathe.
Then there’s the body armor any woman with cup size B or larger often feels the need to wear during high-impact exercise, if you don’t want your breasts to bounce around so much you feel like they’re going to rip right off your chest wall. Dressing in one of these evil garments is like trying to cram 10 pounds of organic fertilizer compound into a 5-pound bag. The manufacturers should really rate these things for degree of difficulty in putting them on. When they finally are on, it’s almost impossible to breathe due to the pneumatic-press constriction.
On my way to a martial arts class one day, I was running late, so I put on my exercise bra while I was driving, when stopped at traffic lights, somehow wriggling into it under my tee shirt. I finally got the blasted thing on, and my chest was mashed as flat as Play-Doh under the grubby fist of a four-year-old.
But when I got out of the car, the car wouldn’t let go. Seems I’d fastened the bra on over the seat belt. Fixing this problem made me even later for class and got me into trouble with my instructor, as my classmate fell over laughing when I told her what had happened.
Men are also endangered. More than once I’ve seen emergency workers attempting to get cars down out of trees, which their drivers drove them up whilst distracted by a buxom display on nearby sidewalks.
Concussion. Public panic. Suffocation. Auto accidents. And just plain old inconvenience. These are only a few of the potential hazards for which we women might be responsible. So, for the safety and well-being of the general public, ladies, take a hint from some signs in the city: Leash, curb and clean up after your bust.
TODAY’S QUESTION: What other dangers can you imagine from Busts not kept on a Leash?
© Naomi Godfrey 2008
It was a beautiful young woman, endowed with an enviable bust. She persisted in wearing shirts that prominently displayed this feature. As my father used to say, those were nice shirts she almost had on. Her behavior, too, clearly indicated that she wanted to show off her business to its best advantage; I felt like I should go over and say, “damn, girl, congratulations on the rack!”
Whenever she leaned over her table to set her tray down, those babies were hangin’ out there perilously, risking complete exposure. For some reason, I began to fear that they might even create more danger. I began to have a vision . . .
. . . One day leans over to set her tray down, and those boobs hang lower…and lower…until they have a bungee-cord effect. And sure enough, DAMN if those suckers don’t bounce all the way down to the table, snap back up just like a bungie jumper off a bridge, and smack her right in the head!
. . . Paramedics are called; the girl is out cold for at least 10 minutes. But the paramedics can’t handle this situation, and even fear to approach the dangerous objects. A HazMat team is called in, and they arrive wearing full protective garb. This also proves inadequate, and the hospital puts in an urgent request to FEMA, the Federal Emergency Management Agency. . .
. . . Between the lot of them, the situation is soon, er, in hand. But the owner of the Bust suffers a concussion, and a crane is used the haul away them right next to the gurney on which the young woman is laid. . .
. . . The United Nations sends representatives; they assess the existence of a new weapon capable of wiping out a small city. The Russian ambassador to the United States issues a statement that his nation will soon develop a similar weapon, to encourage mutual deterrence. . .
. . .The hundred or so patrons of the cafeteria have one of two reactions: Strong men faint and upon awakening, swear only to date A cups or less. Women run to nurses in the room and beg for Ace bandages to wrap over their chests.
End of daydream. But I wondered what the young woman was trying to accomplish by displaying her assets so prominently. Sure, we all want to show off something we’re proud of, but safety must be considered. As the owner of a set that is much larger than I’d prefer, I can vouch that they are indeed a hazard (but I knew I was losing weight when I had to shove them out of the way to see my stomach). Performing certain stretching exercises, you are in danger of suffocation. That one stretch where you lie on your back and bring your legs up and over your head until your toes touch the floor behind you, for instance. Your boobs flop back on your throat during this maneuver and you can’t breathe.
Then there’s the body armor any woman with cup size B or larger often feels the need to wear during high-impact exercise, if you don’t want your breasts to bounce around so much you feel like they’re going to rip right off your chest wall. Dressing in one of these evil garments is like trying to cram 10 pounds of organic fertilizer compound into a 5-pound bag. The manufacturers should really rate these things for degree of difficulty in putting them on. When they finally are on, it’s almost impossible to breathe due to the pneumatic-press constriction.
On my way to a martial arts class one day, I was running late, so I put on my exercise bra while I was driving, when stopped at traffic lights, somehow wriggling into it under my tee shirt. I finally got the blasted thing on, and my chest was mashed as flat as Play-Doh under the grubby fist of a four-year-old.
But when I got out of the car, the car wouldn’t let go. Seems I’d fastened the bra on over the seat belt. Fixing this problem made me even later for class and got me into trouble with my instructor, as my classmate fell over laughing when I told her what had happened.
Men are also endangered. More than once I’ve seen emergency workers attempting to get cars down out of trees, which their drivers drove them up whilst distracted by a buxom display on nearby sidewalks.
Concussion. Public panic. Suffocation. Auto accidents. And just plain old inconvenience. These are only a few of the potential hazards for which we women might be responsible. So, for the safety and well-being of the general public, ladies, take a hint from some signs in the city: Leash, curb and clean up after your bust.
TODAY’S QUESTION: What other dangers can you imagine from Busts not kept on a Leash?
© Naomi Godfrey 2008
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Barium Enema
Ever had a barium enema? If not, you owe it to yourself to have one, just so you can live through life’s most uncomfortable experience. My doctor had recommended it for me, because he couldn’t see my whole large intestine during my prior colonoscopy and endoscopy. Those are easy. You get put to sleep for them.
The barium job, not so. You have to be wide awake. I think barium enemas must have been discovered during their use as torture devices for prisoners of war (in nations that did not adhere to the Geneva Convention.) Barium sulfate, the compound used in my procedure, can be highly toxic, although the nature of the compound is such that the body absorbs only a little of it. What a relief. That makes me feel so much better. It’s a very useful substance, actually, also used for pigment in paints; in pyrotechnics; in oil-drilling rig machinery; on brake linings; and in acoustic foams. I’d need a chemist to explain to me how that all makes it still ok to inject it into my body.
After donning a hospital gown (opening in the back), a youngish technician brought me into a room and had me lie down on a cold, bare-as-bones metal table on my side. They can’t knock you out because during the procedure, you are required to roll over from side to front to back to side. Plus the table rolls side to side, stands you on your feet, then on your head.
They strapped my ankles down so I wouldn’t slide off the table. The tech then announced that he was inserting a garden hose into my rectum, to inflate the intestine so that it could be seen better. He seemed like a pretty nice guy, kept calling me “hon;” so why was he in a job where he got to inflict such pain? He also inflated a balloon at the end of the nozzle, “to keep it from coming out,” he said. Oh, good. I was worried about that.
After living through this procedure, I am certain that you, like myself, will wind up firmly believing that this particular orifice is most assuredly an exit only, and never an entrance.. A one-way street, with a cop sitting at the end of it to give you a big fat fine if you try to go the wrong way.
Tech Guy went over to a sink, took a two-gallon-sized jug, and started mixing up something whiter than the whitest snow. Then he came back to the steel table and started pouring it down the tube. The tube that ended in my insides.
At this point, The Radiologist came in, seemingly untroubled by my screams. Have you ever noticed that? Doctors and nurses and health care professionals in general are very unimpressed with screams. Crawling into an emergency room pouring out quarts of your own blood, holding one of your own unattached limbs, barely rates a glance, let alone a wheelchair.
I tried appealing to his human nature by begging him to stop the procedure. My very loud protestations that I didn’t want to do it any more fell on deaf ears. I was ordered to roll over, lie on my side, back, hold onto the table while it stood me on my feet and then on my head (really).
OK, they are doing this procedure because they want to look for things that aren’t supposed to be there. I did not go to medical school or even technician school, but I’m pretty sure that nozzles, balloons and radioactive substances are all things that weren’t supposed to be in your large intestine.
About a quarter of the way through, they started telling me “We’re almost done, hon.” Welcome to the world’s biggest lie. But you believe it anyway, because you’re desperate to hold onto some hope, no matter how flimsy. When it finally was over, the tech removed the garden hose and announced that I could now go to the bathroom. Hearing this ranked right up there with announcements like, “Your flight will be landing one hour early” and “school’s out forever.” Legs clamped together tighter than an Olympic gymnast’s, I shuffled into a bathroom that had not been remodeled since it had been built decades before. I knew this because modern bathrooms, even in hospitals, are no longer built with brown cinderblocks and bile-green tile. No soft, pretty, comforting surfaces for the poor sods who just endured The Enema.
I quickly attended to other matters, however, and was startled to see that what I passed was startlingly white. The beauty of that whiteness led me to wonder ...
... What if what came out of our intestines were always snow-white? Maybe that’s what’s wrong with the world. Our bodies’ byproducts are so disagreeable, perhaps this colors humankind’s entire behavior. After all, many negative words describe these products. For instance: He beat the crap out of him. She looks like crap. It’s a crappy situation. That’s a load of crap.
But what if we produced that unearthly barium white? Would people feel they had produced something beautiful? Would the characters of dictators, corporate raiders and generally irritable people change? Would they turn from evil beings into benevolent, kindly ones?
It could mean the end of war in the Sudan, and maybe the Taliban would have let women out of the house more often, and people wouldn’t want to torture anyone. Perhaps evil would never have existed: the Ku Klux Klan, murderers, the Holocaust.
And instead of negative associations, the end-products of food consumption would become positive ones. Gardening catalogs would feature new, pure white roses, called the Shit-White Rose. People would say things like, “what a beautiful, shit-white wedding gown!” And, “doesn’t she have the loveliest, shit-white complexion.”
Humankind would have to produce a new term for waste matter. Perhaps there could be a worldwide cooperative effort to come up with a name, headed by the United Nations or World Court. I wish I had a name to suggest, but I’m still busy recovering from that enema.
How about you? Had a barium enema lately? If not, you owe it to yourself to run right out get one. At the very least, if only for a little while, it’ll change your outlook on one thing.
Today's Question: What was the most uncomfortable medical procedure you ever had?
©Naomi Godfrey 2008
The barium job, not so. You have to be wide awake. I think barium enemas must have been discovered during their use as torture devices for prisoners of war (in nations that did not adhere to the Geneva Convention.) Barium sulfate, the compound used in my procedure, can be highly toxic, although the nature of the compound is such that the body absorbs only a little of it. What a relief. That makes me feel so much better. It’s a very useful substance, actually, also used for pigment in paints; in pyrotechnics; in oil-drilling rig machinery; on brake linings; and in acoustic foams. I’d need a chemist to explain to me how that all makes it still ok to inject it into my body.
After donning a hospital gown (opening in the back), a youngish technician brought me into a room and had me lie down on a cold, bare-as-bones metal table on my side. They can’t knock you out because during the procedure, you are required to roll over from side to front to back to side. Plus the table rolls side to side, stands you on your feet, then on your head.
They strapped my ankles down so I wouldn’t slide off the table. The tech then announced that he was inserting a garden hose into my rectum, to inflate the intestine so that it could be seen better. He seemed like a pretty nice guy, kept calling me “hon;” so why was he in a job where he got to inflict such pain? He also inflated a balloon at the end of the nozzle, “to keep it from coming out,” he said. Oh, good. I was worried about that.
After living through this procedure, I am certain that you, like myself, will wind up firmly believing that this particular orifice is most assuredly an exit only, and never an entrance.. A one-way street, with a cop sitting at the end of it to give you a big fat fine if you try to go the wrong way.
Tech Guy went over to a sink, took a two-gallon-sized jug, and started mixing up something whiter than the whitest snow. Then he came back to the steel table and started pouring it down the tube. The tube that ended in my insides.
At this point, The Radiologist came in, seemingly untroubled by my screams. Have you ever noticed that? Doctors and nurses and health care professionals in general are very unimpressed with screams. Crawling into an emergency room pouring out quarts of your own blood, holding one of your own unattached limbs, barely rates a glance, let alone a wheelchair.
I tried appealing to his human nature by begging him to stop the procedure. My very loud protestations that I didn’t want to do it any more fell on deaf ears. I was ordered to roll over, lie on my side, back, hold onto the table while it stood me on my feet and then on my head (really).
OK, they are doing this procedure because they want to look for things that aren’t supposed to be there. I did not go to medical school or even technician school, but I’m pretty sure that nozzles, balloons and radioactive substances are all things that weren’t supposed to be in your large intestine.
About a quarter of the way through, they started telling me “We’re almost done, hon.” Welcome to the world’s biggest lie. But you believe it anyway, because you’re desperate to hold onto some hope, no matter how flimsy. When it finally was over, the tech removed the garden hose and announced that I could now go to the bathroom. Hearing this ranked right up there with announcements like, “Your flight will be landing one hour early” and “school’s out forever.” Legs clamped together tighter than an Olympic gymnast’s, I shuffled into a bathroom that had not been remodeled since it had been built decades before. I knew this because modern bathrooms, even in hospitals, are no longer built with brown cinderblocks and bile-green tile. No soft, pretty, comforting surfaces for the poor sods who just endured The Enema.
I quickly attended to other matters, however, and was startled to see that what I passed was startlingly white. The beauty of that whiteness led me to wonder ...
... What if what came out of our intestines were always snow-white? Maybe that’s what’s wrong with the world. Our bodies’ byproducts are so disagreeable, perhaps this colors humankind’s entire behavior. After all, many negative words describe these products. For instance: He beat the crap out of him. She looks like crap. It’s a crappy situation. That’s a load of crap.
But what if we produced that unearthly barium white? Would people feel they had produced something beautiful? Would the characters of dictators, corporate raiders and generally irritable people change? Would they turn from evil beings into benevolent, kindly ones?
It could mean the end of war in the Sudan, and maybe the Taliban would have let women out of the house more often, and people wouldn’t want to torture anyone. Perhaps evil would never have existed: the Ku Klux Klan, murderers, the Holocaust.
And instead of negative associations, the end-products of food consumption would become positive ones. Gardening catalogs would feature new, pure white roses, called the Shit-White Rose. People would say things like, “what a beautiful, shit-white wedding gown!” And, “doesn’t she have the loveliest, shit-white complexion.”
Humankind would have to produce a new term for waste matter. Perhaps there could be a worldwide cooperative effort to come up with a name, headed by the United Nations or World Court. I wish I had a name to suggest, but I’m still busy recovering from that enema.
How about you? Had a barium enema lately? If not, you owe it to yourself to run right out get one. At the very least, if only for a little while, it’ll change your outlook on one thing.
Today's Question: What was the most uncomfortable medical procedure you ever had?
©Naomi Godfrey 2008
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Note: Confection Deception has been indefinitely postponed.
Chew it Over
A day without something to ponder, one of those Mysteries of the Universe, is usually like a day without sunshine – when you’re someone who hates sunshine. Chewing over an often unanswerable question may not usually be for us metalheads, when it's so much more pleasant to fill our brains with the ear-exploding music we love. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't ruminate on certain very important issues from time to time. They could be sort of the mental equivalent of worry beads, a sort of mind-masturbation when we’re not otherwise occupied. So go forth, friends, and ruminate on these:
If you don’t make the bed in the morning, and no-one enters the room all day, does it still look messy?
If you headbang alone, and no-one sees you, are you still a metalhead?
If you arrive at an appointment early, can you accrue the minutes to extend your life?
My daughter thought the Heimlich_maneuver was called the Heimlich “Remover.” That’s a much more appropriate name -- after all, you are trying to remove something. Why can’t it be called that?
If you dress 20 years too young for yourself and no-one sees you, do you still look ridiculous?
If you don’t poison your lawn trying to get rid of the dandelions, will they grow bigger than your house and crush it to death?
Is it breaking one of the Ten Commandments (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rCz0-HY1TLU) to covet thy neighbor's babysitter? (For your children! Get your mind out of the gutter!)
Do people who stand silent and stock-still at a concert enjoy it as much as those of us who headbang, jump around, play air_guitar and scream?
Why can’t multi-tasking include chewing gum, running an appliance like the dishwasher, and breathing?
Is your suffering worth it if it makes someone else laugh?
Do you believe in coincidences if you’re driving your kids someplace, they’re fighting like wild animals in the back seat, and Highway_To_Hell comes on the radio?
Why is it that no matter how early you plan to leave, you always end up leaving late?
Why is it that if you don’t R.S.V.P. the moment you receive an invitation, you wind up missing the “R.S.V.P. by” date?
Is women’s inability to lose weight as we get older due not to a changing metabolism and other biological factors, as scientists would have us believe, but to sheer exhaustion from having dieted from age 13 on?
Is Hell having your ideal job but only being allowed to do the paperwork that goes along with it?
Why do birthdays and holidays turn into punishment-fests when people insist on giving you useless and ugly gifts that will only annoy you by forcing you to 1) look at them; 2) care for them; 3) try to figure out when you can get rid of it without insulting the gifter?
Why do people go on vacations, which are for resting up from our regular life, and then spend so much time rushing around sightseeing, which requires energy and concentration – just like our regular lives?
Why do people relax by watching television shows depicting hideously unpleasant events (such as shows about pedophiles and murderers)?
Why, upon the birth of a child, doesn’t Nature endow parents with an endless energy supply, just like milk coming in to your breasts?
Why do we remember bad pop songs (http://www.popculturemadness.com/Music/) at least as much as the good ones? Is it because we didn’t think they were so bad at the time?
How can you enjoy a vacation when you know it’s going to end soon?
Why does society insist on perpetrating such hideous lies on children as, you can be anything you want to be, or keep reaching for the stars? Everyone has limitations, so it’s extremely unlikely that ANY of us could be ANYTHING, and after you get old enough, you know stars aren’t necessarily reachable?
And finally, the ultimate ponderable:
Why are we metalheads torn between frustration at others not understanding our music, not caring if they do, and not wanting them to understand?
©Naomi Godfrey 2008
Chew it Over
A day without something to ponder, one of those Mysteries of the Universe, is usually like a day without sunshine – when you’re someone who hates sunshine. Chewing over an often unanswerable question may not usually be for us metalheads, when it's so much more pleasant to fill our brains with the ear-exploding music we love. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't ruminate on certain very important issues from time to time. They could be sort of the mental equivalent of worry beads, a sort of mind-masturbation when we’re not otherwise occupied. So go forth, friends, and ruminate on these:
If you don’t make the bed in the morning, and no-one enters the room all day, does it still look messy?
If you headbang alone, and no-one sees you, are you still a metalhead?
If you arrive at an appointment early, can you accrue the minutes to extend your life?
My daughter thought the Heimlich_maneuver was called the Heimlich “Remover.” That’s a much more appropriate name -- after all, you are trying to remove something. Why can’t it be called that?
If you dress 20 years too young for yourself and no-one sees you, do you still look ridiculous?
If you don’t poison your lawn trying to get rid of the dandelions, will they grow bigger than your house and crush it to death?
Is it breaking one of the Ten Commandments (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rCz0-HY1TLU) to covet thy neighbor's babysitter? (For your children! Get your mind out of the gutter!)
Do people who stand silent and stock-still at a concert enjoy it as much as those of us who headbang, jump around, play air_guitar and scream?
Why can’t multi-tasking include chewing gum, running an appliance like the dishwasher, and breathing?
Is your suffering worth it if it makes someone else laugh?
Do you believe in coincidences if you’re driving your kids someplace, they’re fighting like wild animals in the back seat, and Highway_To_Hell comes on the radio?
Why is it that no matter how early you plan to leave, you always end up leaving late?
Why is it that if you don’t R.S.V.P. the moment you receive an invitation, you wind up missing the “R.S.V.P. by” date?
Is women’s inability to lose weight as we get older due not to a changing metabolism and other biological factors, as scientists would have us believe, but to sheer exhaustion from having dieted from age 13 on?
Is Hell having your ideal job but only being allowed to do the paperwork that goes along with it?
Why do birthdays and holidays turn into punishment-fests when people insist on giving you useless and ugly gifts that will only annoy you by forcing you to 1) look at them; 2) care for them; 3) try to figure out when you can get rid of it without insulting the gifter?
Why do people go on vacations, which are for resting up from our regular life, and then spend so much time rushing around sightseeing, which requires energy and concentration – just like our regular lives?
Why do people relax by watching television shows depicting hideously unpleasant events (such as shows about pedophiles and murderers)?
Why, upon the birth of a child, doesn’t Nature endow parents with an endless energy supply, just like milk coming in to your breasts?
Why do we remember bad pop songs (http://www.popculturemadness.com/Music/) at least as much as the good ones? Is it because we didn’t think they were so bad at the time?
How can you enjoy a vacation when you know it’s going to end soon?
Why does society insist on perpetrating such hideous lies on children as, you can be anything you want to be, or keep reaching for the stars? Everyone has limitations, so it’s extremely unlikely that ANY of us could be ANYTHING, and after you get old enough, you know stars aren’t necessarily reachable?
And finally, the ultimate ponderable:
Why are we metalheads torn between frustration at others not understanding our music, not caring if they do, and not wanting them to understand?
©Naomi Godfrey 2008
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Scream All You Want
Author's Note: The columns in this blog are written with a heavy metal sensibility in mind. Metal is not just music, but a way of observing the world. These posts will be like metal: edgy, angry, sarcastic, with elements of humor, and with some deeper thought, so you won't feel like you wasted your time reading them.
Scream all you want. This should be obvious to anyone at a heavy metal music concert, but perhaps not at other times -- times of difficulty or pain. Often people are admired for remaining silent during excruciating moments. I began pondering this issue years ago, when a friend boasted that his wife had not uttered a sound during the birth of their daughter.
Why is suffering in silence brag-worthy? Is there an award for not screaming when you’re in pain? Does this qualify you for a special engraving on your tombstone? Does that mean it’s shameful to scream even during childbirth? Or does childbirth etiquette clearly state “no screaming,” when in fact you cannot control the sounds issuing from your mouth, sounds that render your straining voice box utterly hoarse?
As Mr. and Mrs. Braggy-head related this tale, I merely smiled and tilted my head in approval. There the object of admiration sat, serenely, demurely, listening to her husband’s boasts.
I wasn’t aware that awards were given for not screaming during childbirth, nor that one could have engraved on one’s tombstone, “she didn’t scream during childbirth.” Years later, the thought of not screaming as I labored with my own children (on two separate occasions) never occurred to me –- even with the possibility of the Didn’t-Scream Award and Didn’t-Scream tombstone-engraving. Well, there are two awards I’ll never win.
When Mr. and Mrs. Braggy’s children had some years under their belts, the couple let it be known that they were divorcing. Maybe if she’d screamed during labor they wouldn’t be divorced. All that repressed emotion would find an exit.
The S/he Never Uttered a Complaint Award next came to mind as my parents lay dying (again, two separate occasions). I thought of others who had died after a disease or unbearable condition. Sometimes their relatives said about them, “they never complained, never uttered one word” about their suffering during their terrible illnesses. Seems to me that if there were another time in life when you could complain all you wanted, it would be while suffering from a terrible illness that would lead to the end of your life.
A dying person of any age must think, hell, I’m not getting to do even half of what I wanted to do! And here I’m going to die, and I feel miserable and can’t even enjoy eating my favorite foods, or smoke a ciggie, or drink. I could be eating like a pig, but this illness has taken away my appetite, my senses of smell and taste and made me throw up constantly. But the one thing that society normally frowns upon that I CAN do is scream.
But even if a posthumous award exists, you wouldn’t get to enjoy being a recipient, and what the hell good is that? I’d want to be feted and honored while I was still alive to enjoy it. On the other hand, if you did receive the award whilst alive, you’d feel too miserable to enjoy it. It wouldn’t matter if there was an honorary Oscar For Not Complaining While Dying, or a special Nobel For Most Silence While Giving Birth. Screaming seems the only enjoyable option.
If we end up Someplace after dying, would you receive an award there? There’s no way to know. Therefore, you might just as well complain. I’m not privy to God’s thoughts, but surely He wouldn’t send you to the Other Place for complaining during illness. God gave us the ability to scream, and that's as big a license to scream as you could want.
If I was dying before I’d lived to a ripe old age, I’d be pissing and moaning whenever I was conscious and strong enough to do so. Surely no-one would dare criticize me for screaming and complaining over this. Though I’m certain plenty of such emotionally stingy people exist out there, people who believe one must strive for perfection even in the midst of agony.
Must admit I had the luxury to think this because, sitting beside my mother in the hospice, I didn’t have to listen to her at all. She had lost most of her capacity for speech. And a year and a half later, my father, dying in the hospital, also could no longer speak. Whatever they were going through, they deserved an award, whether they would have screamed or not.
So I herewith announce that all those who DO scream will be issued awards for Most Fearless Screaming Performance. Let’s strip away the meaningless rules about not screaming and complaining, for they only serve those who are uncomfortable with people who let it all hang out. And as metalheads, letting it all hang out is what we do.
A character in the film Grand Canyon states that if you are alive long enough, you will surely know difficulty. So, with a couple of common-sense exceptions – step outside if you feel like screaming at a friend’s wedding, for instance -- you should get to scream all you want.
©Naomi Godfrey 2008
Coming on Tuesday: Find out why your favorite candy is a "Confection Deception."
Scream all you want. This should be obvious to anyone at a heavy metal music concert, but perhaps not at other times -- times of difficulty or pain. Often people are admired for remaining silent during excruciating moments. I began pondering this issue years ago, when a friend boasted that his wife had not uttered a sound during the birth of their daughter.
Why is suffering in silence brag-worthy? Is there an award for not screaming when you’re in pain? Does this qualify you for a special engraving on your tombstone? Does that mean it’s shameful to scream even during childbirth? Or does childbirth etiquette clearly state “no screaming,” when in fact you cannot control the sounds issuing from your mouth, sounds that render your straining voice box utterly hoarse?
As Mr. and Mrs. Braggy-head related this tale, I merely smiled and tilted my head in approval. There the object of admiration sat, serenely, demurely, listening to her husband’s boasts.
I wasn’t aware that awards were given for not screaming during childbirth, nor that one could have engraved on one’s tombstone, “she didn’t scream during childbirth.” Years later, the thought of not screaming as I labored with my own children (on two separate occasions) never occurred to me –- even with the possibility of the Didn’t-Scream Award and Didn’t-Scream tombstone-engraving. Well, there are two awards I’ll never win.
When Mr. and Mrs. Braggy’s children had some years under their belts, the couple let it be known that they were divorcing. Maybe if she’d screamed during labor they wouldn’t be divorced. All that repressed emotion would find an exit.
The S/he Never Uttered a Complaint Award next came to mind as my parents lay dying (again, two separate occasions). I thought of others who had died after a disease or unbearable condition. Sometimes their relatives said about them, “they never complained, never uttered one word” about their suffering during their terrible illnesses. Seems to me that if there were another time in life when you could complain all you wanted, it would be while suffering from a terrible illness that would lead to the end of your life.
A dying person of any age must think, hell, I’m not getting to do even half of what I wanted to do! And here I’m going to die, and I feel miserable and can’t even enjoy eating my favorite foods, or smoke a ciggie, or drink. I could be eating like a pig, but this illness has taken away my appetite, my senses of smell and taste and made me throw up constantly. But the one thing that society normally frowns upon that I CAN do is scream.
But even if a posthumous award exists, you wouldn’t get to enjoy being a recipient, and what the hell good is that? I’d want to be feted and honored while I was still alive to enjoy it. On the other hand, if you did receive the award whilst alive, you’d feel too miserable to enjoy it. It wouldn’t matter if there was an honorary Oscar For Not Complaining While Dying, or a special Nobel For Most Silence While Giving Birth. Screaming seems the only enjoyable option.
If we end up Someplace after dying, would you receive an award there? There’s no way to know. Therefore, you might just as well complain. I’m not privy to God’s thoughts, but surely He wouldn’t send you to the Other Place for complaining during illness. God gave us the ability to scream, and that's as big a license to scream as you could want.
If I was dying before I’d lived to a ripe old age, I’d be pissing and moaning whenever I was conscious and strong enough to do so. Surely no-one would dare criticize me for screaming and complaining over this. Though I’m certain plenty of such emotionally stingy people exist out there, people who believe one must strive for perfection even in the midst of agony.
Must admit I had the luxury to think this because, sitting beside my mother in the hospice, I didn’t have to listen to her at all. She had lost most of her capacity for speech. And a year and a half later, my father, dying in the hospital, also could no longer speak. Whatever they were going through, they deserved an award, whether they would have screamed or not.
So I herewith announce that all those who DO scream will be issued awards for Most Fearless Screaming Performance. Let’s strip away the meaningless rules about not screaming and complaining, for they only serve those who are uncomfortable with people who let it all hang out. And as metalheads, letting it all hang out is what we do.
A character in the film Grand Canyon states that if you are alive long enough, you will surely know difficulty. So, with a couple of common-sense exceptions – step outside if you feel like screaming at a friend’s wedding, for instance -- you should get to scream all you want.
©Naomi Godfrey 2008
Coming on Tuesday: Find out why your favorite candy is a "Confection Deception."
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
It’s a Cynical World After All
Welcome to It’s a Cynical World After All. This blog will examine the world with a cynical, if not outright jaundiced, eye. Think George Carlin meets Jonathan Swift (writer of “A Modest Proposal: For Preventing the Children of Poor People in Ireland from Being a Burden to their Parents or Country, and for Making them Beneficial to the Public,” a satire written by Jonathan Swift in 1729. Swift seems to suggest that the impoverished Irish might ease their economic troubles by selling children as food for rich gentlemen and ladies).
So get yourself a nice mug of battery acid, and of my own writings, take what you like and leave the rest. But first, why the title of this blog?
When we were at Disney World’s Magic Kingdom about 12 years ago, my then-four-year-old daughter (now a 16-year-old headbanger) refused to ride the classic Disney adventure It’s a Small World. On this unbearably innocuous ride, little boats carry you about a track next to which dolls sing about how we all share the same feelings (hopes and fears, etc.). My daughter had refused to go on many of the rides in the park, and Small World was my last gasp effort to recoup some of our day.
Like the six-months’-pregnant Mother from Hell that I was, I tried everything, including yelling at and pulling on her, to get her on a boat. No dice. She wouldn’t go, and after I had sufficiently embarrassed both of us by making a small child cry at the Happiest Place on Earth, I gave it up.
But it’s impossible to have any contact with this ride and not think about the meaning, or at least the song that will never leave your head.. I believe it is indeed a small world, but the “small” part is the one about love and peace. Those truly exist in our world in small quantity. Also sensitivity towards young children, ahem. (But if we metalheads are anything, it’s sensitive, right?!) It’s a cynical world after all, folks -- a world where politicians seek to divide and conquer; where skin color, nationality, religion and political affiliation are ample reasons for hatred and murder.
Much of the time, we pretend to get along with others, but deep down, if you get into one of those little boats and travel through the dark, what lurks there, really? A worker comes to your house to install something. Nice fellow, hard worker, but deep down, if you two knew one another’s thoughts about social issues, you might go at each other hammer and tongs – or plumber’s auger and wrench.
I have thought about selling Disney on cynicism. I wonder how many families would line up to vacation in a park where the theme is bitterness and anger? I’ve even saved Disney the trouble of coming up with new rides. It’s a Cynical World, of course. The Angry-Go-Round. You’re-In-My-Space Mountain. Pirates of Wall Street. Taunted Mansion. Dumbo the Lying President. And, of course, the first thing you do when you get to the Tragic Kingdom, take a stroll down Pain Street.
In a sense, theme parks with those towering, terrifying roller coasters are more honest than sweet Disney (which does have a few scary rides) – the world is a towering and terrifying place. So do we visit theme parks to get away from everyday life, or to show ourselves that we can come out of a realistic, terrifying experience in one piece, and maybe the better for it? Which version is the less cynical?
I would be remiss if I did not also address music in this column. Is heavy metal music more honest than other forms of rock, particularly pop? Was its harshness born out of the direction the world has been taking? I believe it is more honest. Metal is to music as scary rides are to life in general. Real, hard and cynical.
But for Momfrhell, truth will out, and I have to admit that Disney is my all-time favorite vacation, even without the cynicism. We have to escape from reality when and however we can, because otherwise the world will take its toll on us. So perhaps pretending we all have much in common is a start – such pretense is better than no peace and love at all.
And since here at Cynical World Blog fantasy always takes a back seat to reality, I’ve managed to convince myself that Disney won’t go for bitter and angry. But if anyone else is interested, the concept is available -- for a modest fee. After all, I’m a cynic and a realist, folks.
©Naomi Godfrey 2008
Coming this Friday: Learn why it’s important to…"Scream All You Want."
So get yourself a nice mug of battery acid, and of my own writings, take what you like and leave the rest. But first, why the title of this blog?
When we were at Disney World’s Magic Kingdom about 12 years ago, my then-four-year-old daughter (now a 16-year-old headbanger) refused to ride the classic Disney adventure It’s a Small World. On this unbearably innocuous ride, little boats carry you about a track next to which dolls sing about how we all share the same feelings (hopes and fears, etc.). My daughter had refused to go on many of the rides in the park, and Small World was my last gasp effort to recoup some of our day.
Like the six-months’-pregnant Mother from Hell that I was, I tried everything, including yelling at and pulling on her, to get her on a boat. No dice. She wouldn’t go, and after I had sufficiently embarrassed both of us by making a small child cry at the Happiest Place on Earth, I gave it up.
But it’s impossible to have any contact with this ride and not think about the meaning, or at least the song that will never leave your head.. I believe it is indeed a small world, but the “small” part is the one about love and peace. Those truly exist in our world in small quantity. Also sensitivity towards young children, ahem. (But if we metalheads are anything, it’s sensitive, right?!) It’s a cynical world after all, folks -- a world where politicians seek to divide and conquer; where skin color, nationality, religion and political affiliation are ample reasons for hatred and murder.
Much of the time, we pretend to get along with others, but deep down, if you get into one of those little boats and travel through the dark, what lurks there, really? A worker comes to your house to install something. Nice fellow, hard worker, but deep down, if you two knew one another’s thoughts about social issues, you might go at each other hammer and tongs – or plumber’s auger and wrench.
I have thought about selling Disney on cynicism. I wonder how many families would line up to vacation in a park where the theme is bitterness and anger? I’ve even saved Disney the trouble of coming up with new rides. It’s a Cynical World, of course. The Angry-Go-Round. You’re-In-My-Space Mountain. Pirates of Wall Street. Taunted Mansion. Dumbo the Lying President. And, of course, the first thing you do when you get to the Tragic Kingdom, take a stroll down Pain Street.
In a sense, theme parks with those towering, terrifying roller coasters are more honest than sweet Disney (which does have a few scary rides) – the world is a towering and terrifying place. So do we visit theme parks to get away from everyday life, or to show ourselves that we can come out of a realistic, terrifying experience in one piece, and maybe the better for it? Which version is the less cynical?
I would be remiss if I did not also address music in this column. Is heavy metal music more honest than other forms of rock, particularly pop? Was its harshness born out of the direction the world has been taking? I believe it is more honest. Metal is to music as scary rides are to life in general. Real, hard and cynical.
But for Momfrhell, truth will out, and I have to admit that Disney is my all-time favorite vacation, even without the cynicism. We have to escape from reality when and however we can, because otherwise the world will take its toll on us. So perhaps pretending we all have much in common is a start – such pretense is better than no peace and love at all.
And since here at Cynical World Blog fantasy always takes a back seat to reality, I’ve managed to convince myself that Disney won’t go for bitter and angry. But if anyone else is interested, the concept is available -- for a modest fee. After all, I’m a cynic and a realist, folks.
©Naomi Godfrey 2008
Coming this Friday: Learn why it’s important to…"Scream All You Want."
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