Bullshit by the Numbers - part II
As I stare deep into the gaping maw of a dysfunctional society, I wonder….who the hell are these people. Yes, I wonder? I ponder? I cogitate on the issues of the day, and I ask myself “Are we doomed?” Yes, I think so. Maybe not now, but in the not-to-distant future, for sure. Just look around, this is possibly the best-educated generation of all-damned-time—and, apparently, these kids don’t know shit—about anything. At best, they have a few talking points, all of which are mostly nonsense. But it makes them feel special anyway.
Branford Marsalis, the prodigious saxophonist of the Marsalis clan of super Jazz musicians was once asked about today’s youth, as regards the fine art of blues-based improvisation and swing, and he said: “Just about all of these kids today feel like they’re superstars in waiting. They can’t be bothered with learning the art. That takes time. No, these brats want to be told that they’re geniuses, even though they can barely play a basic jazz lick.”
This reminds me of my son’s band, from when he was about 15. They would rehearse, sounding absolutely terrible, then get a gig at someplace like “Dad’s Doughnut Shop” for a one off, no-pay set of badly played, extremely loud rock music—after which, they’d all do solo projects and then go thru the inevitable nasty break up. That was all before the 2nd set.
Yes, these kids understood the way you supposed to act if you were a rock star, even if they couldn’t play to save their lives. The best part (for them anyway) was, no one knew, not even them—just how bad they really were—because they were all youthful idiots, as was their audience. That is the glory of youth. It is also why America is doomed.
You see, this goes much deeper than rock music. It goes to history, that deeply complex, messy gore-filled horror that comprises the story of the human experience.
It goes to politics, which isn’t just about how someone voted for this idea or that, but what these ideas meant in the context of history and how political systems are structured.
It goes to economics, because, when you get right down to it, its money or its facsimile, that drives it all. So, the how of money. The why of money. The what-the-hell-is money? Is the lifeblood of it all, but not for these kids? No, these little know-it-alls, no better. Because geezers can’t be trusted. What is age anyway but a number, plus experience, knowledge, and wisdom? But, past that, what is it?
Now, admittedly, it wasn’t much different in my day, or my parent’s day, for that matter. There was less opportunity to screw things up, however. For my grandparents, there was the 500 hr. work week, which didn’t leave time for much anything else. It was less for horrific for my parents, but only slightly. Add WWII back into the mix, though, and it was no walk in the park. For my generation, there was Vietnam, rock & roll, drugs, sex, rioting in the streets, Woodstock, pretty much the same things our kids indulge in. Which brings us back to square one.
The slippery slope has, over time, become much slipperier (more slippery) leaving us with nothing left to do but wait for the inevitable. Yes, we will meet our maker with an AK47, a couple of grenades, a 5th of Jim Beem, a little weed, maybe some Hendrix or Zeppelin on vinyl, and we will go down gamblin’, like a Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Man. Great God almighty! Hallelujah, I just love her so!
What else can I say except, Goodnight America, it was good to know ye.
Claude Hopper
Branford Marsalis, the prodigious saxophonist of the Marsalis clan of super Jazz musicians was once asked about today’s youth, as regards the fine art of blues-based improvisation and swing, and he said: “Just about all of these kids today feel like they’re superstars in waiting. They can’t be bothered with learning the art. That takes time. No, these brats want to be told that they’re geniuses, even though they can barely play a basic jazz lick.”
This reminds me of my son’s band, from when he was about 15. They would rehearse, sounding absolutely terrible, then get a gig at someplace like “Dad’s Doughnut Shop” for a one off, no-pay set of badly played, extremely loud rock music—after which, they’d all do solo projects and then go thru the inevitable nasty break up. That was all before the 2nd set.
Yes, these kids understood the way you supposed to act if you were a rock star, even if they couldn’t play to save their lives. The best part (for them anyway) was, no one knew, not even them—just how bad they really were—because they were all youthful idiots, as was their audience. That is the glory of youth. It is also why America is doomed.
You see, this goes much deeper than rock music. It goes to history, that deeply complex, messy gore-filled horror that comprises the story of the human experience.
It goes to politics, which isn’t just about how someone voted for this idea or that, but what these ideas meant in the context of history and how political systems are structured.
It goes to economics, because, when you get right down to it, its money or its facsimile, that drives it all. So, the how of money. The why of money. The what-the-hell-is money? Is the lifeblood of it all, but not for these kids? No, these little know-it-alls, no better. Because geezers can’t be trusted. What is age anyway but a number, plus experience, knowledge, and wisdom? But, past that, what is it?
Now, admittedly, it wasn’t much different in my day, or my parent’s day, for that matter. There was less opportunity to screw things up, however. For my grandparents, there was the 500 hr. work week, which didn’t leave time for much anything else. It was less for horrific for my parents, but only slightly. Add WWII back into the mix, though, and it was no walk in the park. For my generation, there was Vietnam, rock & roll, drugs, sex, rioting in the streets, Woodstock, pretty much the same things our kids indulge in. Which brings us back to square one.
The slippery slope has, over time, become much slipperier (more slippery) leaving us with nothing left to do but wait for the inevitable. Yes, we will meet our maker with an AK47, a couple of grenades, a 5th of Jim Beem, a little weed, maybe some Hendrix or Zeppelin on vinyl, and we will go down gamblin’, like a Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Man. Great God almighty! Hallelujah, I just love her so!
What else can I say except, Goodnight America, it was good to know ye.
Claude Hopper