A standout product

I had another one of those discussions with one of the Sports guys I work with the other day. Well, it wasn't a discussion as much as it was me talking at him and he, being polite, staring at me like I was some ogre of an idiot.

The Sentinel sports section again ran a bunch of stories of athletes choosing which schools they will attend. This time it was swimming. Usually, it's football and basketball.

These stories trot out the athlete's high school accomplishments in their sport, have a quote from their coach about how great said athlete was in school (the word "standout" will be used at least 2,500 times. If there are so many standouts, is anyone really standing out?) and why they chose to attend this pimple on the butt of this dog, say, over another pimple on the butt of another lesser dog.

Nowhere does it talk about the athlete's other accomplishments -- academics, family, community -- the things that make a person whole or what makes a story more than just a billboard of meaningless accomplishments (Do you want to be like Al Bundy and relive your touchdowns at Polk High School for the rest of your life?).

What drives me crazy about these stories about high school graduates is that they are kids and the newspaper is already treating them like a commodity. They are to be traded, sold, like a car off the assemly line. In fact, sports actually calls athletes "products." Really. A pitcher on the local baseball team is called a "Holland Christian product."

Can you imagine if news wrote stories about the valedictorians as if they were an investment? We could focus on the wage-earning potential of a "West Ottawa product" who is going to Grand Valley State University for business. We'd say they chose GVSU over Hope College because, after graduation, she'd be able to haul in higher five-figures and anticipates being a corporate VP by age 28, and a CEO by 35 with six-figure salary. And they expect to have a lake-front condo with a summer cottage in the U.P. with three cars (one an SUV and other a more sensible BMW or Cadillac with the last being a sports car).

Please.

I'll end this ramble this way: The number of local graduates who go on to make a living solely from athletics is zero. Athletics is a small part of a human's existence. These graduates are humans, they focus on family and community, they are not a product in and of themselves, like a car, even though capitalism treats their labor as such.

Consider this: When one of our local "standouts" is on his or her death bed, are they going to say they were so happy they chose Olivet over Western for swimming when they were 18 years old, or are they going to think of family, community and spirit?

Thought: If I'm a Frontier Central Senior High School product, then I hope my parents kept the receipt.

Sgt. Pepper's: The short version

All the talk surrounding “When I’m 64” on Paul McCartney’s birthday reminded me I hadn’t yet written my long-threatened analysis of “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” for this blog.

Actually, I have written several versions, including a lengthy almost line-by-line break down of the songs, but I think I’ve served humanity by not letting those versions see the light of day. These thoughts were so pedantic that even I got sick of my own work when I was seeking research for the few guitar chords in “Good Morning, Good Morning” when they sing, “It’s time for tea and meet the wife.”

The challenge of “Sgt. Pepper’s” is that The Beatles themselves pooh-pooh their own creation. Both John Lennon and McCartney have said the album is just a collection of songs with some trickery in it. McCartney finally gave in – a little – in a 1970’s interview when he said people interpret whatever they want from the music. So true. Perhaps he was stung by the whole Charles Manson “Helter Skelter” and “Piggies” issues when he was thinking that.

Well, I interpret “Sgt. Pepper’s” as a whole theme album with some outstanding solo pieces. The album is like a novel, or, better yet, a play, so you can’t pull just one chapter or act out without the context of the other parts (thus no singles were released from the album, a radical move for that era from a band that wasn’t touring). Or, the album is like The Beatles themselves – a sum greater than their individual values.

The album itself is set like a play. We are the audience (the entire cutouts on the front of the album symbolize this) watching The Beatles act as psychedelic musical Greek muses. These muses weave themselves in and out of the story of Billy Shears. This character is driven by a fear of loneliness and pure sexual lust to his death.

When I listen to the album, I’ll close my eyes and imagine I’m in a theater watching this fantastic performance unfurl in front of me.

Here’s how the songs play out, in my abridged version:

1: “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.” The opening of the play is when the muses introduce themselves. They say it was 20 years ago that Sgt. Pepper, who is Supreme Being, taught them to play (Billy Shears’ birthday). That means they start the story when Billy Shears is 20 years old.

2: “With a Little Help from My Friends.” This is Billy Shears saying that he has had friendship and now seeks love.

3: “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” This is NOT about LSD. It’s about falling in love because love is intense and wonderful. Billy Shears falls in love with the girl with kaleidoscope eyes.

4: “Getting Better” shows some time has elapsed in the story and Billy Shears is regretting some mistakes he’s made, including physically abusing a girl friend, but saying the woman he is with is OK: “It’s getting better since you’ve been mine.”

5: “Fixing a Hole” goes along with “Getting Better.” Billy Shears is trying to figure out what to do with his many developing emotions.

6: “She’s Leaving Home.” This is unique because the muses tell the story from the woman’s point of view. She is running away to meet Billy Shears, the man in the motor trade (not a respectable job in England in the 1960s). This is also a depressing song because the characters are selfish. She’s leaving home because she wants to have fun – not for love! The parents are upset because they gave her “everything money could buy” and she still wasn’t happy.

7: “Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite.” This is Billy Shears at work. Imagine smoke, mirrors, magic and a circus show. It’s all to hide a shady business dealing, something we associate with car dealers.

8: “Within You Without You.” I love this song for so many reasons, but the main one is that the muses are actually talking with Billy Shears here. He is wondering if there is more to life than sex and material objects. The laughter at the end tells the audience that Billy Shears was not convinced there is more to life than physical pleasure.

9: “When I’m 64.” This song shows what Billy Shears would like his life to be like – so very middle class – but is not. He’s trying to convince his wife to stay with him, that he loves her and they should make future plans.

10: “Lovely Rita.” The song tears apart the façade of Billy Shears. In the song he has an affair with Rita. The song even has the sounds of them consummating their relationship. The screech of orgasm ends as the rooster crows for the next song.

11: “Good Morning Good Morning.” The affair is discovered by his wife. He accepts it, goes for a walk and tries to have another affair! The animal sounds are designed so that each animal can eat or harm the preceding animal, until it all breaks down in chaos. This signals the end of Billy Shears.

12: “Sgt. Pepper’s … (Reprise).” The muses tell us it’s all over.

13: “A Day in the Life.” Here, the muses pass judgment on the life of Billy Shears. His death is meant with blandness -- thus, how many holes it takes to fill the Albert Hall. Running through this song, though, is the theme of the entire album – sex. The last line: “I’d love to turn you on.”

Thought: For my next trick. ...

This and that

Just a few thoughts:

Typos: I caught some comments for some typos in my last entry. Sorry. I know that copy editing is what I do for a living, but, hey, cut me some slack at home. This blog is casual, done with dogs barking, kids yelling and the phone ringing.

Father's Day: I was glad to see The Sentinel did a nice piece on dads and their feelings about raising children. The role of fathers is over simplified, often villainized and certainly taken for granted in the media. Also, the paper didn't focus on soldiers -- talk about stereotypes! I don't see why manliness must be associated with state-sponsored murder.

Bike riding: I haven't been able to ride for a week, and it looks like I won't get able to get on the saddle for another week! I call it selfish, but I get frustrated by this.

Bike riding II: Tour de France starts July 1. Ian Ullrich won a major race the other day, putting him in a good position for the Tour de France despite his dropping out of the Giro. Even this Lance-less Tour should be interesting.

Reading: A while back I mentioned I was picking up Trotsky's "History of the Russian Revolution." I read the parts I needed to. Then, I read Marv Levy's autobiography. Despite losing all those Super Bowls, Marv left me with a good feeling about life. I'm now reading some more Robert Browning. I've been hitting more obscure poems here and there, and am re-reading the "Flight of the Duchess" now. I want to re-read "The Ring and The Book" soon.

Work: I remain confused about what's going on around me at work, but I've come to the point where I accept the things I cannot control, even though I don't like them, and am happy that I am collecting a paycheck.

Huh?: TV reports the demise of the metrosexual and the rise of macho men in the world. Again, I say, huh?

McCartney: Paul McCartney turned 64 Sunday. Several articles called his song "When I'm 64" a throwaway on "Sgt. Pepper's" The song is very important in the story of the album. It follows the spiritual searching of "Within You Without You," showing an attempt to save a relationship mirrors before the following song, "Lovely Rita" breaks the man's life apart with another affair.

Thought: I read the news today, oh boy. ...

More fever

I spoke too soon in my last entry. My oldest daughter's fever didn't break. It reconstituted itself to 101.3 degrees and whipped up a soar throat for fun.

I took her to the doctor today, and she has strep throat. This is the first time anyone in the house has had this, at least since the kids were born. At least it's treatable.

Jayne feared Elspeth had the mumps, despite her proper vaccination, because Elspeth was swollen. The gland issue (I thought I had to wait for the teen years to discuss this) is linked to the strep.

Our regular physician, Dr. Mark Stid, was on vacation, so we saw one of his partners, Dr. Russell Dykstra. The last time we saw him was about nine years ago at the birth of Elspeth.

Dr. Dykstra has a great demeanor -- actually, all the physicians at South Washington Family Medicine are fantastic, caring people -- and he looks remarkably like the Rev. Dave Persons from Hamburg, N.Y. He has the short, gray hair, beard and similar thin build. He speaks in similar, calming tones. And, I found out today, Dr. Dykstra also bike rides, as Pastor Dave does.

Leading the Way

Pastor Dave really set me on my spiritual path while I was young. He's a Presbyterian minister, but is open to any road that leads to spirtual enlightenment -- even if it's not through Christ. This has gotten him in some trouble with the deacons at Wayside Presbyterian, but has gained him my unending and sincere thanks. He introduced me to the Gita. In fact, I still have the copy he gave me for a wedding gift more than 16 years ago. He also directed me in my first steps in meditation and the expression of spirituality through art, music, dance and, yes, bicycle riding.

Pastor Dave led the bike tours I took as a high school student. I'm still unlocking all the things I learned on those weeks-long adventures. The few times I felt I touched the essence of Brahman was when I was bicycling.

This came to me because Dr. Dykstra mentioned he was a fan of my bicycle columns in The Sentinel. He said they were inspirational. Wow!

I must add that, at the end of Elspeth's examination, he asked if Elspeth had anything else to tell him. She asked if he could examine her stuffed cow she brought with her. He did, including checking the stuffed animal's heart and ears, just like he did for Elspeth.

The cow is healthy.

Thought: All glories to Sri Krishna.

Life's a blur

We had a visitor Tuesday. Our friend had to spend the day in Kalamazoo, so she dropped off her daughter, who's in Elspeth's class at Douglas, to spend the time with us. Part of the plan was to spend the afternoon at the Holland Community Aquatic Center.

Like all plans, though, this one did not survive contact.

Elspeth got sick with a strong fever. She was tired and didn't eat, but she did a very adult thing -- she told us to go ahead to the aquatic center without her (picture her draping her hand over her forehead and whispering this a la 1940's theater).

We did.

The challenge for me was keeping an eye on Elspeth's friend without my glasses on. When I take off my frames, life becomes a collection of blurry colors until I'm right on top of the object. I know the shape and bathing suit color of my youngest daughter, so I look for that similarly shaped blur in the pools. She has a silver bathing suit, which is pretty unique, so I've got a line on her. But Elspeth's friend? She had a blue one-piece suit -- like every other kid in the entire facility!

I spend most of the time squinting as I scan the water for the children. People must think I have a permanent scowl on my face ... or they think I'm some pervert (not just any pervert!) as I try to figure out which child is which in the blue one-piece suit.

Funny sidelight: Several years ago, we had a party for Elspeth at the aquatic center. My wife gave me the camera to take pictures of the kids in the pool. I didn't have my glasses on. So we ended up with a roll of film plastered with images of kids whom we didn't invite to the party and don't know who they are.

Another situation

The afternoon was going well, but I blundered into another problem that occurs at the aquatic center: Someone I know approached me as I was walking along one of the pools. Without my glasses, he was just another blur. In the echos of the cavernous facility, I couldn't make out his voice right away, so I had to lean right into him to see it was one of my co-workers. Seeing me without my glasses, he quickly understood my awkwardness.

Then, as I always do when I recognize someone I know there, I grow self-conscious of my physical limits. I'm a middle-aged, fat white guy (and, man, is my upper body white!), which is scary enough, but I have a birth defect as well that I'm not happy to point out to those around me. Luckily, it was toward the end of the afternoon, so I grabbed my towel to hide behind as I spoek with him.

But worse yet is running into these familar people in the shower room. Talk about being self-conscious! Not only am I fat, middle-aged white guy with a birth defect, I'm also no porn star, if you know what I mean. Then add the "Seinfeld" shrinkage factor and my self-esteem just runs down the drain.

A few years ago, I ran into my boss in the showers. This is one of the few times not having on my glasses was a benefit.

Thought: Elspeth's fever broke this morning.

I hear music

I heard my first live mariachi band yesterday.

No, I haven't been living under a rock, thank you. My wife was amazed I'd never experienced the Mexican tradition before.

You see, there weren't a whole lot of mariachi bands in Western New York. The steel mills of Buffalo attracked German, Polish, Eastern European and African American people. I've experienced cultural events from those groups, and attended Native American ceremonies, but the four-part harmonies and strumming of a mariachi group never made it through the blizzards of my youth.

Sunday, my youngest daughter attended a birthday party for a classmate at his home. It was a blast! Her friend's uncle was part of a mariachi band and the group interacted smoothly with the crowd -- like they were family or something.

The woman we sat with shared her memories of the mariachi tradition and what it was like growing up in Fennville in the 1940s and 1950s. Fennville had a movie theater? Spanish movie nights?

Tonight's a more traditional birthday party -- we're off to Chuck E. Cheese for another party.

Thought: At 6 years old, my daughter has a busier social life than I do.

Cha- cha- changes

When I was young and my heart was an open book, I used to laugh at people who bought greatest hits albums. You know I did, you know I did, you know I did. No way was I going to purchase one of these compilations of work. A musical artist’s impact can only be appreciated in context, and that’s an entire album. Greatest hits albums were for lazy old people.

This is how I came to collect, at one time, the entire catalog of the group Yes. I look back at their development and can see the evolution from Beatle-like pop group to theme album kings. This path led me to delve into the works of Richard Wakeman. I loved “Six Wives of Henry the Eighth,” “Myths and Legends of King Arthur” and “Journey to the Center of the Earth.” Then I bought “Rhapsodies.” Ugh.

I did the same with the Beatles, buying up their albums as quickly as my pocketbook allowed. I then branched off into their solo careers. So, I paid a collector too much for an original Zapple label of Harrison’s “Electronic Sound.” I have in my collection “The Two Virgins,” “Life with the Lions” and “Sometime in New York City” from Lennon. I have several Starr albums that, honestly, never should have been made. And I don’t listen to any of them anymore. I don’t think anybody listens to them. Ever.

But this ever-changing world in which we live in made me give up a cry, and I became lazy and old.

I came to the realization that I no longer have the time to experience a performer’s development. Sorry, but I no longer want to spend the money on an album with songs I might not like. I’m lazy, old and fickle.

So, now I have Beatles greatest hits collections, Yes greatest hits collections, Simon and Garfunkel greatest hits collections, Elvis greatest hits collections, Paul McCartney greatest hits collections, Billy Joel greatest hits collections. …

Thought: Live and don't try.

Random news comments

Small thoughts about news items:

-- Sorry to see Billy Preston died. I would have put him on the front page of the paper. Anyone associated with The Beatles gets an automatic A1 bid in my book. Oh, well. Nothin' from nothin' leaves nothin' ...

-- I read here in West Michigan that Fred Meijer, owner of the grocery giant Meijer stores, may finally get his name on a nature trail. He was going to donate a bunch of money to the White Pine Trail project -- it has a bike path! -- but only on the stipulation that his name be put on the trail. The state has a policy against this, so it was a no-go. But now the governor is proposing changing that policy so Fred Meijer can have his ego stroked.

How humble of Fred Meijer! Only giving money if his name can be attached to a public project. Oh, I bow before Fred Meijer! My tiny little existence wilts (like your store's lettuce) before your greatness, Fred Meijer! Please grace me with your name!

Sorry. This is a West Michigan manifestation. You must prove yourself a good Christian by giving your excess money to someone ... but only if you get your name on it. Thank you, Van Andels and DeVoses. I'm not worthy of you.

-- Several shootings on Grand Rapids Southeast side. The victims must be black males because TV hasn't shared their names or photographs. You see, in West Michigan, black males do not get stories on them if they get murdered. It's like it's no big deal. Sometimes a black female will get a story, but her plight must rise above the drug user and welfare mom. White males have a 50-50 chance of a story, but a white female getting shot is full-blown coverage.

The TV media is racist beyond belief and continues to victimize minorities by dehumanizing crime victims and those who commit crimes and assuming that minority males are all bad, in need of some state program to help them, or recovering from alcohol or drug use.

Thought: Will it go round in circles. ...

Biking home

Oh, to be in Allegan County now that spring is here.

Sorry all you Browning fans (that's you, Roel), but I couldn't resist after such a good bicycle ride this morning.

I had to drop off my mother-in-law's van to be repaired -- a smell of gas permeates the cabin whenever it's driven. The various folks we've called say it's a catalytic converter problem, a fuel pump issue or gnomes and pixies mixing meth in the muffler.

So, I dropped the van off in Holland and cycled home. I had forgotten how different city riding is compared to the countryside I usually traverse.

Holland is not a huge city, but the number of traffic lights is numbing. And there are many "right turn only" lanes, meaning I have to maneuver into the center lane to go straight. I think this may be illegal -- I was reading that the state code says I should stay in the right-turn lane and go straight. No way! That's a recipe for a crash, and the cyclist always loses that confrontation. There is a bill in the state Senate stating cyclists can go into a center lane when needed. Duh.

All the traffic lights and stop signs make the ride through Holland slow and taxing on my legs. Writing of stop signs:

A columnist in Sunday's Sentinel lamented about cyclists who don't stop at stop signs. I can symnpathize from a driver's standpoint. I know that, when I cycle, I should come to a complete stop at these intersections, but I often don't if the road is clear.

Here's my analogy: When you drive your car and come to a stop sign, turn off your engine. Then, restart it to move through. That's what it's like to stop on a bicycle. When I pull my foot out of the toe strap and set it on the ground, I've just turned off my engine.

Back on the road

Once out of Holland and through Graafschap, the ride turns enjoyable. No wind today, little traffic and not too hot.

I went across the New Richmond Bridge -- man, does it rattle even with just a bike on it. This time, I smartly shifted early before the steep incline out of New Richmond. The last few times, I shifted late on the front sprockets and threw the chain.

And Fennville Street is now completely repaved. This is the last few blocks of my ride and keeps me off M-89. Nice new sidewalk, too.

Thought: School's out so the kids are home. Dad, whatcha doing? Dad, can we have cookies for breakfast? Dad, 'Lyssa spilled her juice. Dad. ... When does school start again?

Let sleeping dogs. ...

Let it be known that I have stayed up all night partying in my youth. Let the world hear that I have studied from dusk until dawn and still failed my Russian exam. Let all humanity shake with humility as I comforted sick children through long, cold winter nights only to go to work until 1 a.m. that very day.

Oh, let the three readers of my blog (hi, mom!) sing my praises for the heroic deed two nights past. I slept with the dog so he wouldn't be scared during a thunderstorm.

Poor Milo. For the years we've had him, the 100-pound freakishly large chocolate Lab has never been spooked by thunder before, but late Tuesday night, the rumbling of thunder and crackling of heat lightning sent the massive canine lumbering upstairs and into the bed where my wife and I were preparing for sleep. Yes, sleep. I'm old, remember! Geez.

Milo takes up the entire bed when he sprawls out, so I told my wife I'd take him downstairs and stay with him.

In the TV room, I hopped on the couch and Milo followed, but the old couch is too small for his girth. He was still upset by the heavenly bowling, so I grabbed a Winnie The Pooh pillow and sprawled out on the floor. Milo cuddled up next to me and laid his panting, drooling face on my shoulder. He was content. I was damp.

Finally, he got up and stretched and wandered to a cool spot by the front door (remember, it's Africa hot outside. Tarzan couldn't sleep in that hot). Seeing my chance, I tried to tip-toe upstairs to bed, but Milo caught me and tried to follow me.

Sigh.

Back to the floor where I laid with the panting, drooling dog resting his head back on my shoulder. Ick.

The rumbles finally faded away and Milo again wandered back to the cool tile at the front door, but he had one Lab eye stuck on me. What else could I do?

I crawled back on the couch, me and Winnie The Pooh, and I stayed there until the kids got up for school.

Thought: It's a dog's life and the cats are angry.