Ten Things Without Which...

Hello, Reader(s)!

It's been a while since I did a real bloggy blog post, so tonight, good people, let's get bloggy.  If you know me, you know that I like to complain.  It's one of the things I do best.  I guess you could say I'm a natural.  But it's not ALL I do.  I don't want it to define me.  So here's a list, in no particular order, of

TEN THINGS, WITHOUT WHICH I WOULD LOATHE THIS PLANET

One:  Steve Martin.  Not so much Steve Martin the actor, although even in that regard, he's more skilled than you might think - despite the veritable plethora of sub-par roles he has played, over the years.  Not even so much Steve Martin the stand-up comedian.  Don't get me wrong - he was a genius on stage, and he revolutionized the business.  

When I say the world is a better place because of him, I'm talking first about the writer - a gifted, surprisingly-thoughtful voice who can turn comedy into tragedy and vice-versa.  Second, I speak of the person - at least what we in the public get to see of him.  He's generally the smartest person in any room, but will only admit it when it's funny to do so.  He's a study in restraint, and especially over the past couple of decades, his public persona reminds me of my father.  But above all else, he improves the planet with his banjo-playing.  He's self-taught, I believe, and masterful. 

Two:  Common Sense.  The fact that it is so breathtakingly close to extinction only serves to make it that much more precious and inspiring, when encountered.  

Three:  Animals - particularly wild ones - and the people who fight for them.  Pretty self-explanatory, that one.  Every time we allow another species to become relegated to a captive-only population - or to the history books - the planet becomes a little less good.  And yes, I know that some species, without any human impacts whatsoever, would still disappear on their own, but we've reached the point where that's well-nigh impossible.

Four:  Trains.  I like trains.  In most of the world, they are vitally important, but even in the U.S., they're pretty cool.  To look at a railroad track is to look at a continuum of the history of the industrial age.  Also, hoboes!

Five:  Intoxicants.  From alcohol to Xanax, and everything in-between, when used properly, intoxicants make the world a better place.  Hydrocodone, rum, beer, wine - all great tools, in the right hands.  Sexually-produced pheromones and endorphins - hell, don't forget runner's high!  Tell me the planet wouldn't suck without them.  Granted, we as a species are working overtime to prove that we're about as capable of responsibly handling these chemicals as we are our guns, money, and cars, but still.  Planet-enhancing stuff!

Six:  White Noise.  For those who can't do the intoxicants, or for the times when the intoxicants just aren't a viable option, white noise can be almost as good.  It's like a sonic coffee filter; on one side - gunk, and on the other, heaven/magic/nirvana.  I know some people can't stand white noise, so for them, number six is Silence.  Ahhh....

Seven:  [Maris].  She had to be on this list.  A planet without [Maris]?  Yeah - I would loathe that place, for it would be beyond shitty.  'Nuff said.

Eight:  Sarcasm.  (see number seven)

Nine:  Justin Timberlake.  I don't want to hear it.  Number nine is Justin Timberlake.  Deal with it.  Okay, then - Jennifer Lawrence.  Young, funny, smart, gifted people who manage to at least come off as relatively genuine.  Come on - what's not to like?

Ten:  People Who Are Nicer Than They Ought To Be.  You know the ones.  They comfort others when their own loved ones die.  They smile through the broken teeth of poverty.  They suffer mind-boggling injury, injustice, heartbreak, and just plain bad luck, and still forgive and help and encourage others.  I had Nelson Mandela in mind when I started this one, because he forgave a world of stuff I could never have forgiven - we all know the story.  But I kind of think that people that great aren't the ones I'm talking about, here.  

Oh super - now I can't think of any.  Well, hopefully the point is made.  There are people - lots of them - whose circumstances would turn most of us into bitter husks, but who somehow continue to be forces for good in the world.  The absence of those individuals would ruin this planet, and make me loathe it.

This list is far from complete.  There are whole bunches of things about which I cannot complain.  I figure, if I need to be reminded of that fact, maybe someone out there reading this might, too.  If not, that's cool.  (see number eight)

This here post was prompted by my friends at Studio Thirty Plus, whose prompts for this week are "LOATHE" and/or "PLANET."



 

The Ballad Of No-Banjo Burnes

No-Banjo Burnes had four possessions.  That is, of course, excepting his tattered woolen trousers, threadbare shirt, disintegrating coat and hole-pocked shoes.  And a hat.  And a few other ratty necessities.  Okay, he had only four beloved possessions.

He had the requisite hobo stick and bindle. 

He had a locket containing a picture of his mama. 

He had a pocketful of priceless lint.

And he had his banjo.

He loved his banjo, and rarely put it down.  A friend tried to tell him once that it was an expensive instrument, and its value could be restored, if only he would let someone clean and restring it.  Of course, hoboes were not a trusting lot, and Burnes refused to put it down long enough for anyone to do a thorough assessment.

The banjo had no strings, and its owner preferred it that way.  "Sounded like a damn banjo when it had strings," he would tell his fellow hoboes.  Since it had come into his possession, it had not been played, and as long as he had any say in the matter, it never would be.

No-Banjo Burnes was raised a child of considerable privilege in New York City, by gifted musician parents.  His mother was a mezzo-soprano who often performed at the Metropolitan Opera House.  His father was a conductor with the New York Symphony.  It was the roaring twenties, and the boy wanted for nothing.  His parents employed one of their peers, the world-class first violinist of the orchestra, to teach their son to play.  

Through six years of lessons, the boy never managed to master the art of plucking.  This was unacceptable to his mother, whose approval was the kid's only motivation.  She would scream at him to get his plucking right.  "It sounds like some kind of dirty old hillbilly banjo!" she would rail.  "I'll not have the sounds of banjo music coming from this penthouse.  No banjo.  NO BANJO!!"

The morning after an evening practice session with a string-plucking passage that had been especially banjo-like, Mr. and Mrs. Burnes were walking along Fifth Avenue, their sixteen-year old son sulking along about ten feet behind them.  Six stories above them, a team of burly movers lost control of a hoist, dropping a baby grand piano and crushing the musical couple to death with the thunderous sound of one massive, terrible A-minor chord.

His parents' holdings evaporated when the market crashed a few months later, and the road from there to No-Banjo Burnes' hobo life was a short one.  From odd jobs to the soup lines to rummaging through dumpsters, to following the tracks to warmer climes - all within about a year's time.

No one knew at what point (or how) he acquired his banjo, but anyone who didn't know that it was used exclusively as a weapon needed only be taught that lesson once.  He used it to protect himself from the worst of his hobo brethren (he even chased off Ol' Barb Stab-You-Quick, once), to kill small game, and to enforce his "No-Banjo" rule.

Hoboes, especially in the Appalachians and the deep south, loved banjo music, but word made its way through their ranks that it was not to be played in Burnes' presence.  When he heard it, he flew into great violent fits of rage, and his string-less formerly musical instrument would swing like Babe Ruth's bat, sometimes with deadly results, as No-Banjo would scream and spit and sputter, "No banjo!  Mother says no banjo... NO BANJO!!"

He enforced his intolerance for the sounds of banjos until one cold night in December of 1940, when he was beaten to death in his sleep, with his own non-musical instrument.