Monday, 16 June 2014
Rhythmic Union's Gentle Awakening (USA, 1980) and Happy Fathers Day to everyone, procreative or not
I generally find these technologically manufactured holidays somewhat consternating, but it having been Fathers Day yesterday, which is at least one unfortunate descriptor that appertains to me (along with so many other adjectives equally or perhaps more unfortunate), I decided to suspend the usual Diogenic cynicism for once and enjoy the occasion, which, as is well known, is a religious one in many Islamic countries: not only are fathers not allowed to do any work at all on this day, apparently in some parts of United Arab Emirates, each is given several virgin females from nearby tribes with which to entertain themselves. The mother then has to wear her veil backwards all day so she can't see anything. If she wears one of those full-body coverings (burka or chador) she must replace it with one of the bedsheets that has no eye holes. So for females, it's a day of fasting too, and also, a day of no speaking. What a wonderful holiday they have there for Fathers Day!!
Unlike Mothers Day, which some years back I remember we celebrated by buying a large pinata at the dollar store shaped like a mammary gland, which the toddlers in attendance would batter with very large dildos, until it finally broke open and spilled milk all over the heads, as well as aged cheese, at which point they began to cry and wail like never before (and it turned out quite a few were lactose intolerant)-- as usual the mothers had to clean up all the mess. My wife nixed the idea I had last year of celebrating it with some toy iv bags and iv stands and pretend epidurals and strawberry jello shaped like bloody placentas for the kids to eat. She completely cut me off when I started talking about representing the torn, bleeding vagina that is the inevitable accompaniment to the heartwarming, magical, and beautiful process of birth. I recall another time some years back when my company sent me on a self-help seminar/retreat in the wilds of Colorado that by sad coincidence fell on Mothers Day. The lifecoach guru, who had appeared on Oprah numerous times, told us to call up our mothers and tell them everything they did wrong when they brought us up. I was forced to call my mom long-distance on speaker phone before the assembled group and relate how I couldn't help it when I wet the bed and it was wrong for her to spank me in the middle of the night when it happened and install an electric eel next to me to shock me whenever my bed got wet. She denied it all, of course, and asked me if I wanted her to bring some wiener schnitzel next time she came over to visit her grandkids. Later we walked on some red-hot coals, took swimming lessons in a pool full of liquid nitrogen, then stayed all afternoon in a tent that was kept at 160 degrees F in order to sweat out all the toxins in our body. One poor obese man couldn't take it, he died of prostration and heat stroke. His unfortunate mother was forced to claim his body and bury it after being told by the entire group she was a nasty bitch-- what a terrible Mothers Day she must have had that year! I have some confidence she won't be celebrating it ever again, but one never knows, mothers will forgive anything.
Really, unlike Mothers Day which is a day of atonement in some religions, of wailing, gnashing the teeth, and wearing sackcloth, cursing the day you were born, a day that most men would rather try to forget and often succeed in doing, Fathers Day is universally a day for happiness and apparently such a celebration it appears in every culture known to man (notice I don't say woman) and to every tribe, even the remotest amazonian ones which have never been contacted, although it is known they nonetheless celebrate it. And the reason is obvious: it's completely angst-free. So yesterday I decided to celebrate both the fact of being a father, and the fact that I wasn't a mother, and informed all the women to leave us men alone with several bottles of wine and champagne, steak and lobsters, and of course copious quantities of Belgian beer. And because it was Fathers Day they were forbidden from going shopping at the mall, which inevitably led to at least one panic attack in the group. As is perhaps befitting, it's all about alcohol rather than hormones for us men. So we decided, each time we sat down, we'd drink three shots: one for ourselves, one for our dads, and one for our grandfathers (all of whom were still alive). We did the same at lunch when we gorged on barbecued meats. At dinner however my friend, after speaking with his highly agitated wife, sat down and informed us to only pour two shots this time for him. I almost wanted to cry, I said to him, so you mean-- something happened to your grandfather? He said, no, she just told me I have to quit drinking completely.
Now have a listen to "Klein Aber Fein" [i.e. small but excellent], the second track, and enjoy its deliciously relaxing summery sound with perhaps a beer for me:
You'll agree this is another wonderful discovery from my friend, progressive fusion along the lines of the Clareon I recently posted, with chamber elements and flute, and it goes out to all the poor fathers out there who just can't seem to convince their wives that there's a difference between women and men when it comes to caring for children: for them, it's instinctive to cater to their every need, love them, spend hours and hours playing baby games with them, for us men, it's just pure hell. And same for cleaning: I will never ever clean my house. But women seem to really love cleaning. Funny, isn't it? My wife spent the whole weekend cleaning the house for our Fathers Day extravaganza. I told her to stop, it was making me feel guilty, as I sat there reading the paper and listening to music. But still she went on vacuuming. "You're so selfish," I said, "you continue even though I'm telling you I'm really feeling guilty here-- it makes me feel bad. Don't you care about my feelings? Do you not even care that I feel bad? That I'm feeling horrible watching you??" I asked her, but she persisted in ignoring me. "Cut it out!" I said-- "quit vacuuming, I can't hear this record!!"
Unfortunately her silence did not last long after that.