carbonation

I look pretty young but I’m just…

updated.

Well I may actually be looking my age, or even older due to the grey-ness of the beard, etc., no big deal, but it occurred to me the other day as I was enjoying a glass of seltzer water – I’m old. For one thing, I’m enjoying seltzer water. For another, I refer to it as “seltzer water” and not what it is commonly referred to today as “mineral water,” “bubbly water,” “sparkling water” “pressurized carb2-0” and a thousand other names I don’t feel like making up. At least I don’t call it “two cents plain” which is what it was called by those older than me, who, I’m guessing, paid about two cents for a glass of it to help them digest their food, which, even back then, seems to be a grossly inflated price for water. (uninteresting note: no more cents symbol on the keyboards anymore, is there?). But I shouldn’t talk since I’ve been known to pay between $1-$2 for a litre of my favorite, Evian, which, contrary to all those who have taken it upon themselves to comment on it, does indeed taste different and better than other water, so leave me the hell alone.

I was feeling pretty old and creaky last week, as I accompanied my minor on an elaborate field trip his class had signed up for, called the Age of Sail, a full-immersion living/learning experience that teaches kids about sailing life in the 1800s. Check it out. There is this “tall ship” docked down in San Francisco called the Balclutha (impossible to pronounce cause it’s Welsh I believe, for a body of water, the Cluth of Bal, I read) (you’re welcome). Its been restored and made into a living museum of sorts, but for the field trip, the kids “sign on” Sunday afternoon and are literally in the service of a group of role-playing ship’s officers, who run these kids ragged, sometimes mercilessly for the entire day, into the night and a good chunk of the next morning. The kids had prepared by learning some basics: knot tying, sea shanties, the jobs that various crew members had, but were certainly not really prepared for what awaiting them on the Bal.  Neither were the parents really, as we were instructed to in no way interact with the kids once we were aboard. We were there for emergency safety only, and were treated, during the role play, as the lowest of the low, peons who could not sit, lean, put hands in pockets, speak, go to the bathroom, etc. without being given an order to do so. Same with the kids, although they were there to learn:  how to swab decks, cook an entire crew’s meal on an ancient iron stove; rig masts, tie ropes, raise and lower boats, keep watch and how to act on a ship.  They were to make their own mistakes, and as long as it didn’t look like it was going to injure them, we had to stay out of it. Not an easy task for a parent.

It was inspiring and amazing to see. The crew took their roles very seriously, and in costume:  a grizzled, gruff and sea-worn captain; a maniacal and frightening first officer; a goofier, troublemaking second officer; and a dumb but sweet cook. All the parts were played by women, and there was no problem with gender confusion or respect on this ship, let me tell you. I, personally was terrified of the first mate. Yet behind the act you could see the patience and passion for this project, they loved what they were doing, and a few times, behind the scenes, we were able to speak with them out of character found them gentle and wonderful, and very knowledgeable about the ships and the sea.

I was more impressed though with the kids. Kids rising to occasions they never knew possible. Being worked to the bone, no resting, no messing about, including waking up at 2 or 4 in the morning to stand watch on a freezing cold deck moored in the San Francisco Bay for two scary hours. Yes, we slept on the boat, in tiny box-like bunks. No hands in pockets for warmth or you would be ordered to carry around a couple of pieces of firewood all day, which many of the parents had to do. Kids in charge of each other, having to work together to figure things out. Kids who normally taunt and harass each other in the classroom, now taking and giving orders from each other, having to get their jobs done or face the consequences. My heart went out to them, it really did.

And so did my knees, tendons, joints, sinuses and all the other shit that complains with age. Glad I was there.

While on deck we witnessed the odd sight of the giant Queen Mary II sailed under the Golden Gate Bridge and into the Bay. This, on Super Bowl Sunday) no less (yes, I missed it,) and still a billion people turned out to watch this happen. That’s kind of a head-scratcher to me, but what can I tell you, people in SF love ships, esp. big ones.

More from the oldster files:

Tivo also thinks I’m old, recording last week an airing of the original Woodstock film. Guess I forgot that Martin Scorcese was like an assistant cameraman on that or something. Anyway I will never pass up a chance to see the Who in their prime playing live, and sped through most of the Country Joes, and whatnots to see the Who, looking pretty out of place to me, esp. Townsend in his white jumpsuit (see my Kitchen Sink article, blab la) do some Tommy then Summertime Blues. Townsend (from that era) is still a god to me.  Moon endlessly fascinating, and of course the Ox, who is never shown on camera, but of course, the best bass player ever. (we used to argue about shit like that in high school: who’s better, Enthwistle or Chris Squire? Geddy Lee or JP Jones?) Speeding through more stuff that I’ve seen a million times, while my pause finger slipped off the button for a second just when Santana launched into Soul Sacrifice starting, unsurprisingly with some conga playing, which I was about to fast forward until Michael Shrieve, at the time 19 years old, puny looking white kid, sits down at the drum kit and proceeds to ANNIHALATE all before him. I’m like, “what?” “Who and what the fuck is this?” And he’s just getting started with this song. Santana, also very young (and cool) plays beautifully for a few seconds; then I’m kind of surprised by how bad the bass playing is, but they give Schreive a drum solo (he was reportedly the youngest person to play the festival) and he goes fucking crazy. Check it out: youtube.

Down in the dungeon the other day, I happened to be talking to a guy who was the brother of Greil Marcus. To be sure I axed him: “Oh, is your brother Greil Marcus, the rock writer?” No, he’s Greil Marcus the florist. How many Greil Marcuses do you think there are in the world?  No, no, the brother was not that snide of course, he was quite affable, and was all: “yes, I’ll tell him you’ve heard of him,” and I’m all, “heard of him? Who hasn’t heard of him? I’ve been reading him for countless years.” And the brother goes, “Oh, I’ll let him know, he’ll be so happy to hear that.”  Really? Happy? I’d think by now Greil Marcus would be used to the idea that a lot of people have read and read him. But hey, shouts out to Greil (Lipstick Traces!) if he’s looking for the props. You the man, Greil. (Older than me!! Hooray!)

Sometimes we’re not getting hipper as we age. See David Foster Wallace’s latest story in the New Yawker.  Here in black and white is proof positive that if you’re a “name” writer, you can publish any kind of half-thought, crappy story in a major magazine and why not? That’s the game and those are the rewards. And I’m a DFW fan too. In fact I’d been thinking a lot about his great, Infinite Jest, and a few weeks ago had cracked it open for a revisit. That is some serious shit too. Jam packed with WRITING. Good, funny, erudite, clever, inventive writing. I decided not to read the whole thing, since I still remember it pretty accurately, and feel like I just don’t want to go down those roads again. But I have plenty of favorite parts and read those again. Its on the skir top 10 for sure, and DFW has had dozens of excellent stories and essays in NYKer and elsewhere over the years, and various whatnot and such, so I don’t know what went wrong with this week’s story, and god only knows he, and I, and everyone else writes a ton of shit that should not be published, so the lameness here is not so much in the story, although it is lame, but that the New Yorker, seemingly desperate for anything written by a “name” writer under the age of 100, or alive, and what with poor H. Murakami taking a much deserved break, has given it weight by publishing it.

Also the older we get the more “told you so’s” we utter. And I was on record back in Oct '06  saying Desmond from Lost was traveling in time, and last night that was born out, (kinda sorta, in Lost fashion, it might have just been a concussion, and Desmond is playing a whole “Usual Suspects” game with reality.) I went back to last week’s episode and paused for a sec on the name of the biotech company that was headhunting Juliet (‘cause I heard somewhere it was an “Easter Egg,”) and damn if that don’t prove me out.

Speaking of lost time – which those on the island, and you, and I are experiencing right now at great length, I’ll let you go.  I mean I’m feeling it. We’re not getting any younger.

Comments

[Joe Johnston]

Couldn't agree more about DFW's story in the NYer--just dreck. And I'm a big fan of both DFW and the NYer.

[Geener]

Funny...had my annual review last week and told several of the 'men' in charge that I was not getting any younger and was in fact getting closer and closer to death and that they were to expect less 'production' work out of me that I expected a big raise. I even used the phrase "spring chicken," as in not one anymore.

[sam]

for who viewing, the isle of wright dvd is a must. essentially the live at leeds double----45 minutes of greatest hits, then tommy.