I have just posted a new essay re: my recent experience buying tickets for a baseball game online to Medium.com
Follow the link to read:
Category - commentary
Acerbic observations on the state of the world, art, politics, and culture.
I have published a new article to the Medium website: 
It’s called Crazy/Healthy
“Dude, you are crazy healthy,” the anesthesiologist said after examining my chart. That’s also pretty much what the nurse said who had taken down the medical history. That’s what the doctor who was going to perform my procedure said.
First, to dispel any alarm: I was at this clinic early on a Wednesday morning in May for a routine ‘screening’ procedure — the sort of thing that a man in his mid 60s will have to endure as a consequence of having lived into his seventh decade, provided he harbors serious aspirations of living in to an eighth or even a ninth decade…
Killing some time before heading to the Portland airport for the return flights to Nashville last week, we stopped at a place called Blue Star Donuts in the trendy North Mississippi Avenue section of the city. We split an apple cider donut, and then I saw this on the wall:
Social Media Donut Code #Portland #MississippiAve
Last night, a rogues gallery of characters from Nashville’s business and creative communities assembled at the Belcourt Theater to deliver what could be considered a start-of-the-New-Year self-assessment:
There were three parts to the evening that did a surprisingly good job of hitting any number of moving targets.
The first part was a short documentary film describing the origins, history, demise and resurrection of a band called “The New Dylans.” The film was the final, compiled installment in a year long effort to document the reconstitution of a group that broke up in the mid 1990s – and uses their tale as an object lesson on the State of The Music Industry in Nashville in the Digital Age. Read More
…and welcome to your first edition of The Weekly Digest.
The Troubadour Logo – it’s a long story…
(Oops. I got so wrapped up writing this this morning that I forgot to tag the relevant posts for this week’s digest – I thought I’d done that already. It should have included the first two posts below (Jeff T and Melrose Abbey) Doh!)
I’m sure there’s a better name for this recurring missive, but despite my vaunted creative genius that’s the best I’ve been able to come up with so far.
I am pleased to see that there have been a notable number of new subscribers to this list in the past week – which is even more notable because I don’t know who any of you are.
Most of the subscribers to this list are friends and family – people with whom I have had some form of personal contact since I started the list several years ago. But lately, I’m seeing new subs from people I don’t know, whose e-mail addresses I don’t recognize,
I[tweetable alt=””] recall reading somewhere that your ‘fan base’ isn’t really growing until it begins to spread beyond the people that you know personally [/tweetable]– so it is gratifying to see that my reach has begun to grow organically beyond a certain inner circle.
I am involved in several realms of creative endeavors. My most recent business card (I make up new ones all the time) identifies me as:
Paul Schatzkin
writer·photographer·musician·artist
…and each of those categories represents some measure of both accomplishment and aspiration.
Spoiler Alert: Seasonal Misanthropy (aka “bah humbug”) ensues:
If you are a sentient creature who actually leaves his domicile during this time of year, I’m sure you’re familiar with this experience: you walk into your favorite restaurant, store or coffee shop, and your ears are immediately pierced by a familiar recording emanating from the store’s sound system. It’s familiar because it’s the very same song you heard in the last shop you were just in. And will hear again in the next shop you go to…
Hey Santa, can I borrow your headphones?
And so it goes for, oh, about two months at the end of every year. Or as one friend observed as I was composing this screed, “I audibly groan when I hear the first Christmas song when I’m strolling by the Halloween candy…”
I realize that it’s a stretch, but by the middle of December, my own apocalyptic mindset finds it hard to separate the expressions “Christmas music” and “fascist conspiracy.”
It may just be that “fascist” is my default descriptor for all things grating or unpleasant. Calling something “fascist” is one of the easiest and most and dismissive epithets our language offers. But, rightly or wrongly, that’s kinda where I go when I observe repetitive conventions that are practiced in the service of commerce: I feel like I’m being subjected to not-so-subliminal thought control.
So while I readily acknowledge that calling Christmas music a “fascist conspiracy” may be a tad over-wrought, there is still something genuinely disturbing about the Teutonic lockstep by which we are subjected to a redundant torrent of (mostly) insipid music everywhere we go during this reflective time of year.
Tell me you don’t agree: that there is nothing like hearing Paul McCartney’s “Wonderful Christmastime” over and over again to take all the wonder out of Christmas. Why, just the mention of that tedious tune is enough to send a malevolent ear-worm eating its way into your brain, isn’t it??
Now, if you’ve read this far, you may find it hard to believe that I actually like a lot of the music that comes with this time of year.
[tweetable alt=”Tweet this:”] What drives me nuts is hearing the same blasted songs over and over again. [/tweetable]
So this is not an absolute invective against any kind of seasonal, turn-the-page, peace-on-earth, goodwill-toward-men sonic celebration. I think it’s a good idea to pause for some reflection before the beginning of a new year, and I am entirely capable of getting into the holiday spirit. Hell, I bought my girlfriend a lovely pewter candlestick for Christmas back in 1969 (and she still has it!).
And music certainly has a role to play in prompting that mood of seasonal introspection. But every year, the sonic gates open for a two month deluge of extraordinary popular delusions (and yes, the madness of crowds) that starts the day after Halloween.
Yes, I know Santa Claus is coming to town. And you know what he can bring me? A pair of noise-canceling headphones.
For me, the issue here is not the music itself, but how its constant repetition subverts its benefits.
Before you write me off entirely as Scrooge incarnate, consider this illustration of my quandary: Every year for the past more-years-than-I-can remember (or actually care to count), Ann and I have made a pilgrimage to the beautiful Christ Church Cathedral in downtown Nashville to attend Dave Pomeroy’s “Nashville Unlimited” Christmas concert. This is precisely the kind of occasion for which Christmas music is ideally suited, and over the years this event has raised hundreds of thousands of dollars for the Room In The Inn shelter and programs.
Every year Dave’s show concludes with the Nashville Mandolin Ensemble (RIP, Butch Baldassari) playing a nearly all-mandolin rendition of the traditional “Carol Of The Bells.” And when I hear that, I think to myself, “OK, now it can be ‘Christmas’…”
But that momentary ebullience gets pretty well beaten out of me over the course of the next couple of days, when I go to my favorite coffee shops and restaurants and hear the same half-dozen tunes played again and again.
Let us pause here for a moment to empathize with the hapless souls who work in these establishments, where decrees from their Corporate Overlords leave employees little choice but to endure the aural onslaught or seek employment elsewhere (where, of course, they will be subject to the same oppressively redundant playlist). Every time I’ve broached the subject with somebody behind a counter, the inquiry produces a similar grimace-and-eye-roll.
Why, just yesterday, the guy behind the fish counter at the grocery story was whistling “Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer.” Clearly, his brainwashing was complete. I decided to get chicken instead.
These endless repeats of the same old songs – even with the jazz, R&B and hip-hop variations that are thrown into the mix – serve as a constant reminder to just how out of control the whole season has gotten.
When you hear holiday music occasionally – like at a special, seasonal concert with a charitable purpose –holiday music can be a pleasant reminder of a ‘special time of year.’ But when you hear the same fucking songs over and over again… I can’t speak for you, but I start to wonder if I’m in the middle of a totalitarian nightmare, a sonically-induced Forced March to the Gas Showers of Compulsory Goodwill, where the only viable escape route is to buy something.
Could these objections just be a “boomer thing”? By which I mean: Maybe it’s just that I’m old. I’ve been listening to this shit for 60+ years now. Maybe that’s why it’s wearing a little thin. Maybe multiple decades of the same old songs has made them tiresome. But really, there should be some sort of ‘statute of limitations’ (short of actual death).
Do others in my age bracket, similarly exposed for more than a handful of decades, share any of these sentiments? I mean… is enough enough, or have we not yet had our fill of chestnuts roasting on an open fire?
Maybe we can take a clue from our Puritan forebears: They recognized the pagan origins of the holiday, found no Biblical justification for it observance, outlawed the practice, and put transgressors in stocks for celebrating Christmas.
Locking celebrants in the pillory for observing Christmas seems a bit draconian now, but at least in the 17th century they didn’t have to listen to the music for two months.
If you recognize these people, you’re a “boomer.”
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what might be found under the broad and general heading of “exploring the cultural legacy of the generation born between Hiroshima and Dealey Plaza.”
My generation, in other words. The “boomers.”
There might be more to come on this broad and general topic. For now let me try to put these ruminations in the context of this week’s Big Story: You could comfortably argue that one of the “legacies” of my generation generation (I was born in 1950) is the now undeniably revealed practice of “enhanced interrogation techniques” that has finally and quite rightfully been described as “torture.”
You know, like we only see in movies…. NOT.
We think we are so civilized, with our running water and electricity, our motorized transports, our pockets full of gizmos, our elevated use of language and visual communications.
And yet, when fear takes center stage, as it did after 9/11, we devolve into practices that are positively medieval. We have met Ramsay Snow, and he is us.
And here’s the truly disturbing thing about these revelations from my perspective: these reprehensible practices were encouraged, sponsored, developed, and implemented by elements of the same generation that thought they were going to “Give Peace A Chance” (i.e. George W. Bush, born July, 1946).
This is the kind of paradox that can only be observed with a slap to the forehead and a loud “Whathefuckingfuck??”
And of course, I’d like to think that I, personally, am above such atrocities that are committed in the name of my safety and security. But the fact of the matter is that while all this was going on, Ann and I were avid fans of the TV show “24” – a program that went to great lengths every week to justify precisely the forms of conduct we are condemning now. You can’t help but feel that makes you complicit on some level.
The same generation that gave us “C’mon people now, smile on your brother.” has also given us water boarding, stress positions, sleep deprivation and the latest incomprehensible vulgarity to be injected into our vernacular – dare I say it? – “rectal feeding” – two words that should probably never been seen in the same sentence, let alone the same phrase.
How do you reconcile these contradictions, other than arriving at the conclusion that decades may pass, but ‘nothing really changes’ ?
Technology marches right along. The humans that create it still dwell – emotionally, at least – in caves.
I think my wife succinctly expressed the consternation – failure? – of my generation recently when, in response to some item in the recent news – ISIS, drones, some other malevolent force – she simply said, “you know, I really expected that by the time I got to this point in my life we’d have some kind of world peace…”
I think a lot of us expected that, in the 60s and parts of the 70s. And then the 80s came along and we all went off to Wall Street (or it’s Main Street equivalent).
On the one hand, I suppose I can argue that my generation laid the ground work for whatever progress has been made in civilization. On the other hand… well, just read a newspaper.
This is progress?
I don’t really have any answers. Sometimes you just have to take a few minutes and ponder the questions.
I wonder if any of my contemporaries are wondering the same things. C’mon, all you high-school classmates on Facebook… tell me: are you thinking about these things too?
December 4, 2014, 11:43AM:
Sunrise, Cedar Key FL – September 2014 – click to embiggen
The mornings
always seem so promising
I start every day
with a clear slate
that means
I can get straight to my work
but first I have to do this
and that
and then
another thing
and then
something else
pops up suddenly
that needs tending to
NOW
and before I know it
the morning is almost gone
and I’m thinking
“the afternoon looks promising…”
Greetings, Faithful Readers…
That’s my shadow, cast on the walls of the ruins by the lights at Fountains Abbey
You know that announcement you hear just after your flight has landed? The one that says “please remain in your seats until the plane has come to a complete stop… be careful when opening the overhead bins as your luggage may have shifted…” ?
That’s kinda what the last week has been like. The “re-entry” was rough for a number of reasons. It has taken until this the past couple of days for the jet-lag to wear off. This experience makes me wonder how my traveling troubadour friends really do it. I mean, there were several occasions when all I wanted was to put my head on my own pillow and wake up in my own damn bed…
I have finally started going through the photos. Yes, there are more than 15,000 files but among them are many duplicates, since I both bracketed (multiple frames at different exposure values) and applied my camera’s “Art Filters” features to record a variety of effects with each exposure. So sometimes a single ‘set up’ would result in as many as 10 files.
As I’ve been going through the files I’ve been posting the ones I like to Instagram, which in turn posts them here and then to Facebook and Twitter. When you see a post with the header ‘This Just Caught My Eye’ – that’s one that has found it’s way across the digital ether from Instagram to this website. What I’ve typically done is go in on Wednesday mornings before the “Digest” goes out and editing those entries with a more useful subject line and body copy than Instagram typically allows.
There’s a LOT more to come. And, for those of you who have joined this list since seeing my work at the “O” Gallery in the Arcade during the First Saturday Art Crawls, you may be pleased to learn that I have returned with a LOT of material that will lend itself quite nicely to the ‘Portals of Stone’ theme you have seen hanging there.
So bear with me, the plane has come to a complete stop now and I’m starting to unpack the bags in the overhead storage… I’ve got a LOT of stuff to share with you over the weeks ahead, so hang on to a few of your holiday shopping shekels… there should be quite a bit of new work to show at the Crawl in December…
One of my favorite shots from this whole excursion… this couple peering avidly through the window, listening to the choir performing in the cellarium… 