Facundo Cabral

"Every morning is good news, every child that is born is good news, every just man is good news, every singer is good news, because every singer is one less soldier."  ~ Facundo Cabral

I knew this guy once.  Actually, we were just acquaintances.  For a brief time, he was dating a good friend of ours.  This was back in the mid 70's.  I'm not sure how they met, but Barbara was in crazy love with Facundo Cabral.  Barbara led a pretty exotic lifestyle back then.  I think they met in Europe.  Anyway, when we were in college Facundo and Barbara were an item for a while.  And any friend of Barbara's was a friend of ours.


When Barbara introduced us to Facundo, she said he was well known in South America and Spain.  He was sort of "the Cat Stevens of the Spanish speaking world".  He was fun and easy to be around and was as interested in learning about us as we were about him.  He had a great folky finger style of guitar playing that I aspired to.  He played a big nylon string guitar with beautiful tone.  And sang... like an angel.  A baritone angel.  


"I'm amazed to form part of this amazing universe and I'm proud of the hunger that keeps me awake. Because when man is full he falls asleep."  ~ Facundo Cabral


His English was not great - which attracted me to him even more.  It was fun for us to get to know each other, albeit on a surface level, with limited common language.  He didn't act famous.  In fact, he was self-depricating, even modest.


He played a couple of songs for us.  And while I don't remember the songs, I think one was in English.  It was probably a cover tune.  The other was in Spanish.  It was a protest song.  I didn't understand it, but I remember it's power.  I think he translated the lyrics for us.  Again, I don't remember the specific topic but I remember loving it.


While we only met a couple of times, he asked me to play some songs for him, which I gratefully did.  I probably played some blues and a couple simple original tunes.  Thinking back, it probably sucked, but he acted appreciative.  He gave specific feedback.  That's what a singer-songwriter likes.

Barbara and Facundo went their seperate ways.  We knew they would.  After all, they didn't even live on the same continent.  


But Facundo was memorable.  He was magnetic, earnest, charismatic.  


"I don't waste time taking care of myself. Life is beautiful danger. From the danger of love, my mother had seven kids. If she had guarded herself against my father and his fervor, a singer would be missing from tonight's meeting."  ~ Facundo Cabral


Years later, when you could Google someone, I looked him up.  He was quite famous.  He was a troubador with a cause.  


[From Wikipedia: Cabral was born in La Plata, (Argentina) having begun as a singer in Tandil, 350 km from Buenos Aires. From the most humble of beginnings, he came to inspire millions around the world through his songs, poems and 66 books. He walked 3,000 km at the age of nine to look for work to support his mother and six siblings after his father abandoned them. When he left his mother told him "This is the second, and last gift I can give you. The first was to give you life, and the second one, the liberty to live it". He wrote music that inspired millions. He met Mother Teresa and Jorge Luis Borges. He performed in over 165 countries in eight different languages.]


It was fun to know that I had swapped songs with someone of his caliber, someone of his importance.  It's cool to remember that I played on his big wide-necked Spanish guitar.  When YouTube came around I listened to some of his songs.  I loved his passion.  He had lived through great adversity and still maintained his desire to make the world a better place through his songs. [From Wikipedia: His wife and one year-old daughter were killed in a plane crash in 1978. He was nearly blind and crippled, and was a cancer survivor as well. He once said^[3] Siempre le pregunto a Dios, ¿por qué a mí tanto me diste? Me diste miseria, hambre, felicidad, lucha, luces... vi todo. Sé que hay cáncer, sífilis y primavera, y buñuelos de manzana (I always ask God, why did you give me so much? You gave me misery, hunger, happiness, struggle, lights... I saw everything. I know there is cancer, syphilis and spring, and apple fritters).  Cabral went into exile in Mexico during Argentina's 1976–1983 military dictatorship. His songs later turned more spiritual and he continued to fill concert halls across Latin America.]


It's not like I thought about him all the time.  I wasn't star struck.  But he was someone I admired from afar.  


So when Barbara told Heidi me that Facundo was killed last summer, I was genuinely sad.  Not sad like I lost a friend, he wouldn't have remembered me, but sad in the knowledge that the world lost a friend.  I Googled him again and learned the story of his murder.  It is still unclear why he was killed.  Some accounts say that the target of the attack was Facundo's promoter.  The car they were riding in was riddled with bullets, Facundo was shot at least eight times.  The others in the car with Facundo escaped with their lives.  He died on July 9, 2011.


[From Wikipedia: Bolivian authorities expressed their dismay at the death of the Argentine troubadour. Bolivian Minister of Culture Elizabeth Salguero said Cabral's death saddened her because "you can not understand that there are people who want to do much damage to a man who gave so much as a singer, composer, and poet." "He was a philosopher, a fighter for social justice, and to die that way is very painful."


The UN said in a statement: "The United Nations System in Guatemala strongly condemns the assassination of Argentine singer-songwriter Facundo Cabral and adds to the feeling of dismay and frustration of a Guatemalan society that looks beset by intolerable acts of violence. It is painfully ironic that the one who toured Latin America with a message of justice, peace and fraternity lost his life in the hands of a group of assassins. The UN expresses its solidarity with the families and loved ones of the troubadour, as well as the people of Argentina and Latin American that had Facundo as a reference for inspiration."


Guatemalan artists paid tribute to Facundo Cabral on Sunday, July 10, 2011. The Guatemalan artist guild called on all citizens to go Constitution Square to pay tribute to him. Armando Pineda, Alvaro Aguilar Alux Nahual and Rony Hernandez, Alejandro Arriaza, Gaby Andrade, and Manuel Rony were some of the artists who participated in this concert. In a letter to the Guatemalan newspaper Prensa Libre the singer Ricardo Arjona wrote: "As a Guatemalan, I deeply regret the impact this news will generate among international opinion. As a friend and colleague, I will lament the absence of Facundo forever."] 

Here are some early quotes that exemplify his character, his wit and wisdom.

• "I like the sun, Alice, and doves, a good cigar, a Spanish guitar, jumping walls, and opening windows, and when a woman cries. I like wine as much as flowers, and rabbits, but not tractors, homemade bread and Dolores' voice, and the sea wetting my feet. I like to always be lying on the sand, or chasing Manuela on a bicycle, or all the time to see the stars with Maria in the hayfield. I'm not from here, I'm not from there, I have no age, nor future, and being happy is my color of identity."
• "May God want for man to be able to be a child again to understand that he is mistaken if he thinks he can find happiness with a checkbook."
• "My poor boss thinks that I'm the poor one."
• "This is a new day to begin again, to look for the angel that appears in our dreams, to sing, to laugh, to be happy again. In this new day I will leave the mirror, and try to finally be a good man. I will walk with my face to the sun, and I will fly with the moon."
• "Forgive me Lord but sometimes I get tired of being a citizen. The city tires me, the offices, my family and the economy. Forgive me Lord, I am tired of this hell, this mediocre market where everyone has a price. Forgive me Lord but I will go with you through your mountains, your seas, and your rivers. Forgive me Lord but sometimes I think you have something better than this for me. Forgive me Lord, I don't want to be a citizen, I want to be a man, Lord, like you created me."
• "We are crossing through life on the train of death seeing how progress is putting an end to people."
• "And God created woman and she said 'My Lord, if Mary conceived without sin, couldn't I sin without conceiving?'"
•  Highest Lord, don't worry about our daily bread because that is up to us, that's why we are men, but don't leave us without our nightly dream because without it we are nothing, we who are perhaps only a dream that you dream."
• "If I am a thief, it's because of private property."

The world is not the same without Facundo Cabral.  It is not as beautiful, as clever, as full of life.  And social justice is just that much more elusive.  

Rush To Judgement

If Rush had any sense he would think about what he says.
If he had any courage he would discuss issues with someone other than his admirers.  Sandra Fluke is so much more intelligent, that a conversation between them (a debate) would be like a loud, obnoxious, clueless, sexist, (albeit super rich) fool...  Let me get a little help here from thesaurus.com... 

ass, birdbrain, blockhead, bonehead, boob*,bore, buffoon, clod, clown, cretin*,    dimwit, dolt*, dope*, dumb ox, dunce, dunderhead, easymark, fair game, fathead,   goose, halfwit, idiot, ignoramus, illiterate, imbecile, innocent, jerk*,lamebrain, lightweight, loon, moron, nerd*,nincompoop, ninny, nitwit, numskull, oaf, sap*,schlemiel, silly,   simpleton, stooge, sucker, turkey, twerp, twit, victim

...as I was saying a debate would be like leading a rich lamb to his intellectual slaughter.  Rush is clueless.  Ms. Fluke is poised, intelligent, articulate and, by the way, absolutely correct.  There is nothing there for Rush except a lot of hot air.   And a lot of similarly vapid followers who continue to make him filthy rich.

Uniforms

When I was a kid I went to Catholic school.  Back then, and maybe still today, uniforms were worn in Catholic school.  Boys wore black dress pants, white shirts and ties.  Girls wore plaid skirts with white blouses.  The little ones, the first and second graders, wore plaid beanies bobby pinned to the tops of their heads.  When I was little, I couldn’t have cared less about the uniform.  Each of the boys in our family had a couple of clip-on bowties and which we changed around if one was missing.  I certainly didn’t object; it was just what we did.  We didn’t know anything else.

These had to touch the floor when kneeling... OR ELSE!

For a working class family like ours, it made a lot of sense.  We didn’t need many school clothes as long as the laundry was done (and with seven kids it was done very regularly).  We wore the same pair of pants for a few days in a row and, unless they got really dirty or stained with food, no one knew the difference.  It was the great equalizer.  Rich and poor – we all looked alike in our uniforms. 

As I got older, I switched from the simple clip-on ties to the kind of real ties my dad wore to work, the kind with real knots that you had to practice to get just right.  I started first grade in ’63 (that’s 1963 you smart alecks) so big fat ties with huge knots were in.  My dad knew all the knots and it was sort of a right of passage for him to show me the knots.  He showed me three different knots, which I still remember today, although I rarely wear ties these days.  It’s funny; I remember that time when my dad taught me the double Windsor.  I think he was just as proud of me for getting it (after many tries) as he was of himself for showing me. I felt so much more like a grown-up (a ‘grup’ as my friends and I called them).

 

Not as simple as it looks.

We had to wear short hair too.  That really did sting because in the 60’s guys were letting their freak flags fly.  Long hair was pretty normal and really short hair was out.  Being out was NOT what a 13 year-old eighth grader wanted to be.  Our hair had to be above our ears and above the collar.  We definitely stood out in a crowd of non-Catholic schoolboys.

Nowadays, there seems to be a trend toward uniforms again, even in public schools. Several schools in my district have a pretty strict dress code.  While not exactly a uniform, most kids have to pretty much wear the same thing.  Our little school still allows personal expression with clothes. 

I assume most kids are like my boys were.  Until they got into fifth grade or so, it didn’t matter to them what they wore.  Jeans when it was cold, any shorts that still fit when it was warm.  Tennis shoes all the time.  The same pair every day suit them fine.  Colin did go through a phase where he wore Hawaiian shirts every day for a couple of years.  He was the only one in his grade to do that.  It was super-cute. 

The other day a first grade class was in charge of Learning Celebration, our end-of-the-week get together (my class next year).  The first graders were up there just being as darling as they could be, singing songs and talking to the school about what they have been learning.  Since our class had just had a discussion about uniforms, I took out my writer’s notebook and jotted down what the little ones had on.

Here’s the t-shirt list:  a big oversized Gamecocks shirt (probably belonged to older brother), YMCA, South Carolina United Way, Eastern Division Champs (we are awfully fond of our USC baseball team), PEACE-LOVE-ADIDAS (that one is a little strange to me), a black shirt with white collar bones and ribs and backbone in stark contrast, tie-dye with yellows, reds and oranges and a big peace sign, another black one with a big skull and crossbones across the front (ARRGGHH!!), a very frilly shirt with glittery hearts, Varsity Basketball Champs (high school), a picture of a teddy bear with lots of glitter, St. Louis Cardinals (that was Ty, Chris), a big blue butterfly, a picture of a fossilized fish, a tight little leotard with a v-neck, a flowered dress, a black turtle neck (or maybe it was a dickey – I’m kidding, those things went out with fat ties with huge knots), a puppy with a pink bow, large horizontal multi-colored stripes, Camp Comanche State Park. 

 

Not my class next year.  Random first grade class from Google Images.

Nothing stood out to me as particularly rich or particularly poor.  In a funny way, the kids’ shirts (and the few dresses) matched their personalities.  Or maybe their clothes represented the parents since they bought the clothes in the first place.  Or perhaps some grandparents who gave them as gifts, or cousins who outgrew them.  It was fun to see those little ones, with such unique personalities, dressed so very differently.  They looked comfortable in their clothes.  They looked happy.

It reminds me of one of my former students, now a seventh grader, who was a tomboy.  She only wore jeans and shorts.  She played hard on the playground with me every day.  Clothes did not seem to be important to her at all.  Until picture day in third grade.  She wore a dress to school for the first time since I had known her.  Her hair was curled too.  She had on hose. 

“Wow!  You look… very pretty,” I said, noting her embarrassment and the unusual way she was walking with her knees very close together. 

“Whatever.  I look like a sissy.  How am I supposed to play O-Ball (our playground dodge ball game) in this?” she asked in disgust.

“No,” I said smiling.  “You look great.  I bet your parents think you’re darling.”

“I hate dresses,” she said mater-of-factly.  “They’re gross. 

“Why?  Don’t you think it’s nice to dress up every once in a while?  Something different for a change?”

“Dresses are weird.”  Then she did this little dance, this little shuffle with her knees together and her hands holding down the edge of her dress.    “There’s just way too much air up there!”  Definitely not her uniform.

 

My former third grade student dressed up for school pictures.  "How am I supposed to play O-Ball in this?"

I am no clotheshorse (well, I am compared to some people I guess), but I very rarely buy myself clothes.  I pretty much wear the same shoes to school every day and when I do get a new pair, all the kids notice just as when I let my hair get too shaggy and I get a haircut.  It is nice to be noticed.  We have a dress code in my district, but it is fairly loose and practical.  I play on the playground pretty hard.  I sit on the floor (OK not as often as I used to); I often go from table to table and stand on my knees.  I need to dress casually.  It wouldn’t make sense to wear starched white shirts or pants that needed dry cleaning.  It just wouldn’t be practical. 

I guess in a way we all have our standard clothes that we feel most comfortable in.  We create our own uniforms.  I have these dress shoes that I bought to wear in my brother Dan’s wedding.  They’re coming up on their 23^rd wedding anniversary.   Those shoes look brand new.  I’ll probably have them until the day I die.  And they will look pretty much the same.  They are special occasion shoes.  Not my uniform.

I really do understand the rationale for uniforms.  But, like most of my third grade friends – I prefer the comfort of a very uncontrolling dress code.  I know it sounds like an oxymoron but I like my own uniforms.

UNIFORMS

I love my job, I love my boss

I love my paycheck too, of course

But most of all I love to wear

Those clothes that make me warm

I fit in with everyone

When I’m in my uniform!!

Uniforms!  Uniforms!

Wonderful, wonderful clothes!

When I get up in the mornin’

From my head down to my toes,

I’ve got my uniforms!  Uniforms!

No decisions to make!

I just put on my uniform

And start my day!

Levis or a beach tan

Or a polyester knit

A jogging suit with stripes

Or toe-shoes that don’t quite fit

A cowboy hat, and apron

Phi Beta Kappa key,

I know all about you, yes,

And you know me!  We’re in our,

Chorus

In the Military

You gotta wear your proper suit

Pay attention to insignia

So you know who to salute

And in an altercation

Well you know who to shoot!

If you should die, well, we’ll get by

'Cause there’s lots of substitutes!  In the same,

Chorus

Gray-haired airline pilots

And nurses dressed in white

And even fancy couples

At the opera at night

And sewer workers in their boots

Justa sloshin’ to and fro

Feel safer in a world where

Ev’rybody knows, that those

Chorus

Written by Peter Alsop, ©1980, Moose School Music (BMI)

On Being 82

My mom was pretty amazing in a lot of ways.  One of her strengths was that she was a writer.  After she died, my family and I sifted through some of her few remaining things – she had given most of her possessions away.  I found this little notebook with book reviews in it for the last couple of years.  There were LOTS of books recorded in those pages.  Usually it was just the title, author, who recommended it, if it was shared with members of her book clubs, a very brief summary and a subjective sentence or two.  I never knew that she kept such a notebook.  It pleases me to have a reading list of what she liked.  Gold.  Because as I read her favorites, I will imagine what she thought, imagine our conversations.

I have several stashes around the house of personal stuff including the occasional letter from a friend.  You know how the mail is.  As I approach the mailbox I have no expectations of receiving anything personal.  Those days are gone.  But my mom was a letter writer.  While engaged in a little late winter cleaning this week (consolidating my piles), I collected all of the letters I received from my mom in the last 15 years or so.  I took them out of their envelopes, dated them and put them into chronological order. 

They tell the story of a life well lived.  I did not stop to reread many, but I will read them all again.  Perhaps over spring break or over a long weekend, for there are hundreds of pages.  Some of it is sad, some newsy, some are about dinners with old friends or missing my family.  There are bits about music – which she dearly loved, the weather – which she describes in delicious detail, wildlife – which she appreciated like few others.   Some, not surprisingly, are about books she had read recently.  I love those letters – they are my most prized possession.  Nothing brings back my mom’s voice to me like that tight, neat, slanty handwriting and those clear, spontaneous, but still somehow well-chosen words. 

Three years ago, I received a nice long letter from my mom.  In it she apologizes for her handwriting, describes the music she is listening to (Mozart’s C Major Concerto), and details the weather in Mexico where she and her husband Jim were staying.  She describes this beautiful little scene of watching Huichol Indians sitting near Lake Chapala with their babies painting pieces of bark.  She wrote of many things in that letter and ended with this post script:

This is something I read and loved – Forgive quickly, kiss slowly, love truly, laugh uncontrollably, and never regret anything that made you smile.

I always looked forward to receiving letters from Ruck.  At the end of that letter, she added a little piece she wrote called “On Being 82”.  It is an honor to share it here.

On Being 82

Walking up from the lake one day I passed a pile of branches.  When I got to the top of the bank and looked back I realized what a significant thing that had been.  I hadn’t moved them out of the way!  Why?  I am 82.  I knew it would be hard to do – and my body was just too tired.  At 81 I probably would have moved them - and even found a few more tings to tug out of the way.

I am 82.  Three of my children will soon be over 60.  My baby is 46. 

If I had to choose just one day to last my whole life through it would be…

Maybe I would choose just one of those sunny days spent in and out of the water with my pals Jess and Pat.  Or the very special day my father gave me Lake Eerie. 

If I had to choose one moment to live in my heart it would be that tender time when shy, young Jack O’Keefe repeated his marriage vows and looked at me with love.

The keepsakes of my heart would be the first time I saw each of those seven beautiful O’Keefe babies and stroked their soft skin and held their tiny bodies close.

When I drift off to sleep at night I think sometimes about certain minutes of that day – or different times in my life – or old times of my childhood. I dreamed of having a big family.  So that I always send out the wish that my children will always be O’Keefes – banded by being their father’s children.  I hope they will always be loyal to each other.  That was so important to Jack O’Keefe and now it is to me.

I have lived 82 years now – So there probably won’t be many more years.  The most upsetting thing about being old is knowing I am not going to see how everything comes out.  I would like to know if Obama really changes the US.  I would like to know what happens about global warming.  I would like to know if efforts for peace will  develop in time. 

I would like to know what careers the youngest O’Keefes choose.  I would like to live to see all my children hang together no matter what.  A sad thing about being 82 is that I won’t be around to see everyone’s plan work out.

But no one has to feel sorry for me at 82.  I may not have the energy to move that pile of brush – but in total I have been REALLY LUCKY.  I could have been born poor.  I could have starved to death.

Or I could have been born a fly and been eaten by a frog. 

This is how I feel at 82 – I hope that you get to live until you are 82.  Or maybe 122.

Love, Mom

The Universal Soldier

It is not enough to say we must not wage war. It is necessary to love peace and sacrifice for it.

Martin Luther King, Jr.

Yesterday I went with my class of third graders to the SC Museum’s Confederate Relic Room.  It was one of the most enjoyable and worthwhile field studies we have ever taken together.  In some ways, it was also one of the hardest.

Joe Long, our docent, lives and breathes history.  He went so far beyond the facts, the names and dates of battles and the numbers of people killed.  He told us stories of people’s lives, connected us with journal entries, and anecdotes about the life and death situations of the famous and not-so-famous.  He filled us in on interesting artifacts such as a coffee bean grinder that was used to grind anything-but-coffee since there was no coffee available during the blockade.  He told us of jewelry fashioned by human hair since it would be around far longer than the original owner of the hair itself.  He kept us on the lookout for binoculars with a bullet still lodged in them which no doubt saved the life of the owner as a Union sharpshooter would have surely hit him in the chest had he not carried the binoculars in his vest pocket.  Joe Long made SC History come to life.

But there were moments of sadness there for me as well.  On one wall of the exhibit hung a real musket carried by a soldier in the Civil War, the War Between the States, the war of Northern Aggression.  The gun was in sort of a cradle and was tethered to the wall with a steel cable.  It was not going anywhere. 

The children I was near picked up the gun.  It was long.  Longer than some of my students are tall.  It was heavy, probably 10 or 15 pounds.  They took turns hefting it and were able to swing it away from the wall just a bit.  I held it too.  As I lifted it, there was this eerie feeling of touching and instrument that may have been used to cause the death of other soldiers in that long-ago conflict.  It may have been held by a boy who was running for his life in a battle where he witnessed the death of his friends and comrades.  It was very likely owned by a kid who would rather have been anywhere but where he was ordered to be, protecting the ideas and "honor" of men he would never see, defending an indefensible way of life where the wealth of a few depended on the enslavement of many.  It was probably carried by a young man, maybe not much more than a child, whose family did not own slaves and may have been very poor himself, for although there was a draft, the wealthy could pay someone to take their place in the war.

 

You can probably guess what my students did.  Almost every boy tried to point it at someone (blessedly the cables were too short) and made well rehearsed shooting noises.  Of course they did.  They were imagining shooting someone with it.  They were staging in their minds themselves as soldiers.  When I was that age I would have done the same.  How could I not?  So much of my little-kid life I spent playing with toy weapons. 

When I was nine or ten I wanted nothing more or less for my birthday than the deluxe Man From U.N.C.L.E. spy kit which included the same kind of fully automatic machine gun used by my hero, Ilya Kuryakan.  And when I did get said gun, which made some pretty realistic shooting sounds, I shot everyone I knew, my parents (who gave me the gun with all of the cool spy gear), my brothers and sisters, my best friends.  For a while I was the kid with the coolest gun among all of my peers.  But then my friend Mike got a similar, but even cooler, Man From U.N.C.L.E. weapons kit used by the other even cooler hero of the show, Napoleon Solo.  Between us, we could have killed every Russian spy, every enemy of the state, every bad guy and bank robber around.  But we just organized games around killing our friends.

 

Heidi and I were careful when we raised our own boys never to get them wartoys.  And when they did get these as gifts from well meaning friends and relatives for birthdays and Christmas presents, we hid them and soon got rid of them.  We didn’t want our children playing at killing.  But you know they found a way.  I remember vividly being amazed at finding them blasting away at each other with L-shaped sticks or even their fingers.  It seems that a good imagination will do when realistic plastic replicas aren’t available. 

Think of all of the conflicts all over the world.  From local gang killings to large-scale oppression of entire peoples, violence seems to be a way of life for humans.  It is easy to think that it is simply the leadership of countries who draw us into these messes.  That, for reasons of religion, or history, or land ownership, or natural resources, we follow-the-leader into situations that ensure that we sacrifice our youth in our efforts to dominate. 

Consider the notion of the universal soldier.  What if people simply refused to fight and kill?  What if as a people we shouted “NO!” to our leaders who would have us go overseas and do our best to kill the soldiers of our enemy leaders?  What if citizens all over the world said we should wage peace, we should seek ways to overcome our differences, our prejudice?  What if the universal soldier just quietly said “no”?  What if, instead of viewing patriotism as blindly following our leadership into the cycle of violence perpetuating violence, we saw patriotism as working hard for peace and social justice? 

The other question that haunts me after seeing my students pretending to blast each other with that musket is - are we hard wired to kill each other?  Is that simply the way we are made?  Or do we create situations in which children grow up being comfortable doing that?  Are wartoys, violence on TV and movies, violent videogames, at least partly responsible for this positive reaction our children have to killing?  Is our fascination with violence and the availability of real guns contributing to the willingness of people ready to kill or be killed? 

My hippie-sister Ruthie turned me on to Buffy Sainte Marie way back in the 60’s.  A song she sang (written by Donovan), “The Universal Soldier” comes back to me as I write this piece.  Imagine how the violence in this world might be diminished if they held a war and nobody came.

He's five foot-two, and he's six feet-four,

He fights with missiles and with spears.

He's all of thirty-one, and he's only seventeen,

Been a soldier for a thousand years.

He'a a Catholic, a Hindu, an Atheist, a Jain,

A Buddhist and a Baptist and a Jew.

And he knows he shouldn't kill,

And he knows he always will,

Kill you for me my friend and me for you.

And he's fighting for Canada,

He's fighting for France,

He's fighting for the USA,

And he's fighting for the Russians,

And he's fighting for Japan,

And he thinks we'll put an end to war this way.

And he's fighting for Democracy,

He's fighting for the Reds,

He says it's for the peace of all.

He's the one who must decide,

Who's to live and who's to die,

And he never sees the writing on the wall.

But without him,

How would Hitler have condemned him at Dachau?

Without him Caesar would have stood alone,

He's the one who gives his body

As a weapon of the war,

And without him all this killing can't go on.

He's the Universal Soldier and he really is to blame,

His orders come from far away no more,

They come from here and there and you and me,

And brothers can't you see,

This is not the way we put the end to war.

Have You Ever Noticed?

We would be appalled, crushed, angry and unforgiving if we thought our phones were tapped.  And rightly so.  No one has the right to hear our private conversations, our intimate thoughts with loved ones, our business transactions or professional talk.  We have a fundamental right to privacy.  Right?

So then why do people talk on their cell phones in public like they are in a cone of silence?   I’ve written before about overheard conversations where the speaker at my end seems oblivious to her surroundings.  But it happens all the time. 

When I was in the airport over the holidays, I couldn’t read and had lots of time to wait.  So I sat at the end of a row of chairs near my gate and wrote down snatches of conversations I heard from people walking past.  Yes, I admit I was eavesdropping.  But it was a challenge not to.  People are talking in a normal tone of voice, some even louder than that, as they stroll or rush past speaking to distant friends or relatives on their cells.  All I did was try not to ignore them.  I wasn’t prying – I just stopped for a few minutes trying to filter them out.  

“I have to call my broker because that totally sucks!

That’s exactly what I’m talking about – the frikkin’  bum!

We’ll figure it out, Mom, I promise.

Oh God, she’s a mess.   But what can we do?

She’s just plain weird – TOTALLY weird...  Where does she get off?

My mother lives in a different world from the rest of us…  I know, right?

Be serious, for God’s sake!  I’m getting on an airplane.

I HATE these small planes.  Can you believe they are making us ride in these things!? 

God, I miss you already. 

When I get back there’ll be HELL to pay!...  Whatever.

WTF (the words, not the letters) does he think he’s doing?  I’ll fix his @$$.

I know it’s not a good time, but I’ve got to go, baby.  It won’t be that long.

You don’t have to meet me.  I’ll just get a cab…  Really?  You’d do that for me?  You don’t have to.

They’d better be on time.

Give the kids a kiss for me.  Tell them I love them…  Love you too, honey.

(This one – a business suit – looking at his phone and actually shaking it then speaking)  Have you lost your mind!?  It better be straightened out before I get there.


I got all of this and more in about 5 minutes.  And just think, ten or fifteen years ago as people walked through airports (or down the street, or at restaurants, or waiting in line at the post office or the DMV) they spoke to the people around them, or just thought thoughts in their heads.   Don’t get me wrong, I am all for open and honest communication. 

But WTF?  (The letters not the words.)  Would you want your phone tapped?

Walk Off The Earth

These guys are freakishly good.  The schtick with the five of them on one guitar is just a tiny taste of their musicianship.  They are all so different, so talented.  This is a cover of a Gotye song called "Somebody That I Used To Know".  The original is amazing too.  But Walk Off The Earth has this connectedness among the band members that is almost haunting.  You may have already seen it.  44-and-a-half million views so far.  About a hundred of them are mine.

What do you think?

"Somebody That I Used To Know"
(feat. Kimbra)

[Gotye:]
Now and then I think of when we were together
Like when you said you felt so happy you could die
Told myself that you were right for me
But felt so lonely in your company
But that was love and it's an ache I still remember

You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness
Like resignation to the end, always the end
So when we found that we could not make sense
Well you said that we would still be friends
But I'll admit that I was glad that it was over

But you didn't have to cut me off
Make out like it never happened and that we were nothing
And I don't even need your love
But you treat me like a stranger and that feels so rough
No you didn't have to stoop so low
Have your friends collect your records and then change your number
I guess that I don't need that though
Now you're just somebody that I used to know

Now you're just somebody that I used to know
Now you're just somebody that I used to know

[Kimbra:]
Now and then I think of all the times you screwed me over
But had me believing it was always something that I'd done
And I don't wanna live that way
Reading into every word you say
You said that you could let it go
And I wouldn't catch you hung up on somebody that you used to know

[Gotye:]
But you didn't have to cut me off
Make out like it never happened and that we were nothing
And I don't even need your love
But you treat me like a stranger and that feels so rough
And you didn't have to stoop so low
Have your friends collect your records and then change your number
I guess that I don't need that though
Now you're just somebody that I used to know

Somebody
(I used to know)
Somebody
(Now you're just somebody that I used to know) [x2]