Respect for a Silly Love Song

(apologies for the bizarre spacing of these paragraphs--blogspot won't let me fix it)

I am an enormous proponent for living seasonally.

I never realized how thoroughly I do this until Kermit’s tutor came to our house, looked around the living room, and said, “What I love about coming here is how seasonal your house is.” When I asked her to elaborate, she explained that most people only decorate for Christmas, maybe Halloween--but at our house, each season gets its own spotlight. She’s right. Not only do we hang early spring garlands that get adjusted for late spring, then a new sunflower theme for summer, but yes, I will admit it, I flipped with excitement when I found pomegranate garlands to hang in early autumn. And that’s just the window treatments...

Nor is this something that limits itself to decorations. Generally, it’s Crikey who illustrates the rest. When I’m making the weekly menu, he’ll offer suggestions, and if it’s close to a seasonal switch, he’ll ask, “Now that it’s October, will you make those spooky cheese balls I like so much?” or “Is it close enough to warm weather to barbeque? Will you make kabobs?”

Yes, baby, it is and I will.

Last week, as we suffered through the end of March--the jerk came in like a lion but didn’t have the good manners to go out like a lamb--Crikey asked me, “Mom, don’t you have a spring playlist? You know. There’s your Halloween list; you have a winter one, and we listen to Jimmy Buffett in the summer--what about spring?”

I did have one, but I lost it when I had to hard crash my phone. However, we were in the car at the time, and I looked to the cd holder on my visor. Wings’ Greatest Hits.

Well, son, I don’t have a playlist, but I do have something even better.

I don’t know if my mother played her Wings’ album more in the spring and summer than at any other time of the year, or if I simply associate it with warmer weather because most of my childhood was spent in a warm climate (I still remember going Christmas shopping in bathing suits, flip flops and shorts while we were living in Texas). Either way--for me--no music shouts springtime quite as enthusiastically as Godspell, Jesus Christ Superstar and Wings’ Greatest Hits.

Now, I see it as my mission in life to impart upon my children a love of good music--and to ensure they’re exposed to a diverse assortment of genius. There are two secrets to smoothly introducing your kid to music that is not in his first choice genre. First, limit the introductions to an artist’s best songs, then work your way down. Second, explain, as the song starts, what makes the song in question so loved.

Or, in this case, absolutely freaking badass. Trust me on this--if you’re trying to catch the interest of a fourteen year old boy, “absolutely freaking badass” is a hook he won’t be able to resist.

But how, pray tell, would one present a Wings’ song as badass? All it takes is an appreciation for subtext.

A few years ago (okay, around fifteen), VH1 made a little movie about John Lennon and Paul McCartney--something to the tune of “what if they’d actually been hanging out on the day that Saturday Night Live invited them to drop by?’ It showed the two guys spending the day together, walking around New York City. Very cute, very cute indeed. However, it had a little subplot that took me by surprise: People were giving Paul McCartney shit for going soft after the Beatles. Specifically, the absurdity of his hit “Silly Love Songs”.

I am a second generation Beatles fan, and therefore a second generation Wings’ fan as well. In fact, since my mother had that Wings album (and for some reason we didn’t actually get any Beatles albums until they were released as cds in the early nineties), I was actually a huge Wings fan before I knew anything of the Beatles beyond “She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah.”.

Quick funny: It’s the mid-eighties and we were on Ft. Benning for Armed Forces Day (think county fair, but with tanks instead of livestock and kid-friendly jump tower ziplines instead of rides). One of the soldiers helping us apparently bore a striking resemblance to…

“Honey, look, doesn’t that guy look like Paul McCartney?”

Well, indeed he did. So, and to my parents’ utter chagrin, my ten-year-old self agreed, “Isn’t he the guy from Wings?”

You can probably guess how they reacted to that. And yes, they still tell that story at parties.

Twenty or so years later, I’m watching that VH1 special, though now with an extensive education regarding all things Beatles. Admittedly, with Wings, I never looked much past their music, and this special aired well before I even knew Wikipedia existed--hell, it probably was pre-Wiki. However, I never stopped listening to, or loving Wings’ songs.

But until I watched that special, I never knew people made fun of them.

What gives me a giggle, if not an outright snort, is that, of all the songs that gets heckled for being fluffy, “Silly Love Songs” seems to get hit the hardest. This is hilarious and let me tell you why.

Actually, I already told you why--the song is absolutely freaking badass. Now would be the part where I explain myself.

First, a note on Sir Paul, and his bread and butter. An image of gentle romance, his voice almost always flows through songs as a warm sheet of soft-brushed silk. Every once in a while, he’d pull out his tough-guy voice for song’s like “I’m Down”, “Birthday”, and “Back in the USSR”, (to name a few) but no, not really his hallmark. Personality-wise, the four lads were portrayed quite clearly, Quiet One, Funny One, Cute One, and… Really, if any of them was to be considered Badass One (though I’m pretty sure they phrased it differently), anybody, anywhere with any familiarity with the Beatles would hand that badge to John Lennon. Let’s be honest. When John told someone to piss off, that person knew a off-pissing had been suggested. No two ways about it. What people seem to forget, is that there were all four grown-ass men, and even if they had different communication styles (or images to maintain), each of them was perfectly capable of calling someone out.

Paul may be cute. He may be sweet. But let me tell you, when we listen to “Silly Love Songs”, we’re seeing (hearing) another side of the “Cute One”. He’s making a point. He may be making it gently, but it’s there, alright. And if I didn’t know better, and if the music itself weren’t so darn cheerful, I’d say he’s pissed.

Or at least fighting back. He might have too much class for his actions to be accurately described as “pissed”. But still. This song is a “stick-it-to-ya” if ever there was one.

Don’t believe me? Let’s look at the evidence, shall we?

*fiddles with dials on old fashioned projector, adjusts the reflecty-mirror-thingy to shoot those lyrics onto the pull down white screen*

Silly Love Songs, written by Paul McCartney, performed by Wings

You’d think that people would’ve had enough of Silly Love Songs

I look around me and I see it isn’t so.

Some people want to fill the world with Silly Love Songs.

And what’s wrong with that?

I’d like to know.

‘Cause here I go again...

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

I can’t explain--the feeling’s plain to me.

Say, can’t you see?

Ah, she gave me more; she gave it all to me.

Now can’t you see?

What’s wrong with that?

I need to know.

‘Cause here I go again...

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

Love doesn’t come in a minute.

Sometimes, it doesn’t come at all.

I only know that when I’m in it--

It isn’t silly.

Love isn’t silly.

Love isn’t silly at all.

How can I tell you about my loved one?

How can I tell you about my loved one?

How can I tell you about my loved one?

(I love you)

How can I tell you about my loved one?

(I love you)...

(this goes on for quite a while, with lots of repetition, so I'm leaving it like this)

You’d think that people would’ve had enough of Silly Love Songs.

I look around me and I see it isn’t so.

Oh no.

Some people want to fill the world with Silly Love Songs.

And what’s wrong with that?

Okay. So, if this is supposed to be a love song, sure, it’s pretty weird. Simplistic. Goofy, even. And what the hell is with the final line?

BUT.

What if it isn’t a love song at all? Let’s get wild and crazy, and give Paul some credit for a) intelligence, b) talent (he did belong to that other group, wrote a few songs with them), and c) sense of humor. Lastly, let’s keep in mind that he was and is a lover, not a fighter. If there’s a way to tell someone off without being coarse, this man will find it. Let’s break it down.

First, the title. “Silly Love Songs”. Songs. Not song, songs. Plural. Right there, in the title, he’s telling us this isn’t a love song itself, it’s a song about “silly” love songs. This is meta, baby. Meta before meta was trendy enough to be a term used in casual pop culture.

And now, the verses.

“You’d think that people would’ve had enough of ‘silly’ love songs?”

Yes, that is what his critics pummeled him with.

“I look around me and I see it isn’t so.”

As in, he’s making obscene amounts of money from people who continually pay him to make these “silly” songs. Right there: he’s the supply, and hell yeah, the public demands. Hey critics, your argument is invalid.

“Some people want to fill the world with ‘silly’ love songs.”

Like him.

Okay--I must pause and point out something.

To me, and even as a child, these next few lines always sounded less defensive, more, dare I say condescending? You know, since folks were so nasty to him (and, as I’m about to demonstrate, so mistaken) about it, I do dare. They earned some condescension. Imagine an annoyed parent patiently questioning a naughty child: “And why do we not put forks in electrical outlets?”

“And what’s wrong with that?

(no really, we’re all  interested. What IS wrong with that?)

I’d like to know,

(if you’ve got an explanation...no? Alright, then. Watch this),

‘Cause here I go agaaaaaaain…

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

(see that? just made this the silliest, most nonsensical love song EVER, and it’s still going to sell ka-zillions--wonder why?)

Oh yeah, in my head, as he delivers those four “I love yous”, his eyebrows are raised, his speech quick and he’s rocking his head a little, sheer attitude dripping from each word. Seriously, I can almost see his thumb under his chin as he waggles his fingers at the critics while singing.

However, the killing blow comes later…

“Love doesn’t come in a minute.

Sometimes it doesn’t come at all.”

Love isn’t some instant, easy thing. And some people go through their entire lives without falling in it. That’s not silly--that’s tragic. And shame on you for belittling it.

Note how he switched from sweet, cuddle-bug voice to badass belting. A fitting delivery to what is clearly a scolding. Back to the parent analogy, he switched from the carefully worded, slowly delivered, leading question, to the part where the parent says, “That’s right. Getting electrocuted is bad. Now go to your room and don’t let me catch you doing that again.”

Now watch, and listen (if you can get the link to work), as he chooses to reemphasize his point here. More emphatically with each line, and supported by the musical crescendo-lead-to-climax accompaniment:

“I only know that when I’m in it

It isn’t silly.

Love isn’t silly.

Love isn’t silly at aaaaaaaaaaaaaall.”

The feeling here is something between calling out the critics for being so callous as to make fun of people who either enjoy the concept of sweet, cheerful love in their lives, or buy his music because it’s the closest they’ll ever come to experiencing that kind of pleasure--and pity that, perhaps, the reason they’re heckling is because they are among those for whom it hasn’t come at all. Maybe that second possibility is why he chose to make this particular stand in a non-confrontational manner?

Last verse, almost the same as the first:

“You’d think that people would’ve had enough of “silly” love songs.”

As clearly, you’re still ragging on his body of work.

“I look around me and I see isn’t so, oh no.”

Watch him as he laughs all the way to the bank.

“Some people want to fill the world with “silly” love songs.”

Like him, and just try and stop him, because…

“And what’s wrong with that?”

Are you seriously trying to tell him that adding love, in any form, to this world is a bad thing? Didn’t think so.

So what is wrong with that?

Nothing, Paul. Not one damn, silly thing.

One could argue that I’m reading too much into the lyrics. However, I say that the subtext here is barely, barely “sub” at all. Critics were either too quick to forget his abilities, to compartmentalize Paul as something confined to his manufactured-for-the-Beatles image, or too lazy to take his intelligence and talent into account, choosing instead to take the song at face value. Perhaps the sheer amount of affection you can feel coming off of him in the video added to it--the man is bursting with love, and it comes through in his singing.

But, in all fairness, other than the vast amount of love pouring from him to his fans in this video, lyrically it is a fairly lousy love song.

But seriously, it’s a lousy love song for the same reason it should be considered a lousy Christmas carol. The closest it comes to being a love song? It’s an “I got your back” from Paul to his fans. As he was criticized, so were his fans for for liking his work from that era. In “Silly Love Songs”, he simultaneously destroys his critics’ argument and tells them all to piss off, and does this while blowing kisses to the people who either understood the song on both of its levels, or only got it on the subconscious level, but simply loved it and him unconditionally.

He did all of this in one piece of music. Far from being “silly”, that song is damn well genius.

Well played, Sir Paul. Well played.


Silly Love Songs

Dear Robin:

First things first. Regarding Robin Williams, most people are still either in shock, or in sorrow. This is not the kind of post that will cater gently to either of those emotions. You've been warned.

First of all, I wasn't shocked. After the initial "WHAT?!?!?", I actually nodded my head. My brain, in its delightfully Asperger's way, replayed every little hint he'd given us over the years. Fun viewing.

"What hints?" you may ask--and well you should. But I'll get to that.

Grief? Sure, I'm feeling that. None the least of which because I literally cannot explain to Crikey what the big deal is. He certainly gets the tragedy of untimely death, and the sorrow people feel over it (he was on the front line when I came unglued over Davy Jones, after all). I simply couldn't convey the enormity because no one in his generation's celebrity world is comparable.

But everyone is talking about how Robin was one of a kind. It would just be redundant to do that here.

So. Grieving. In my experience, the stages of grief give you a little time in each stage before bucking you to the next.

But every time I start to cry, I wipe away the tears and get angry.

Dear Robin,

My heart breaks for you, but no more or less than it ever has, for you have always seemed an emotional dichotomy to me. 

I don't remember the first time I saw it. The transformation. Robin Williams and transformation--the terms are almost synonymous. For anyone reading this, I'm sure I don't have to list out his chameleon talents. The man could present himself as anyone he wanted to be at any given moment.

Out of curiosity, and I may just be a little crazy here, but did anyone else notice how seldomly he chose to be himself?

Chameleons usually use their appearance-changing abilities to blend in, to hide from sight. Robin did that. Always hiding, but hiding in better-than-plain-sight, because holy shit, you couldn't miss him.

Yesterday, a friend and I were speaking about him, and I honestly can't remember what she said that triggered the train of thought I'm about to share, but it was something along the lines of "why didn't (rehab, therapy, sobriety, etc.--whatever--"help" of some sort) work?"

My sister often reminds me that I see things other people miss. I guess that's fair, since I miss most things other people see (and get in corresponding trouble over it). So maybe most people didn't notice it. The repetitive hints. Hints to the inherent frailty of the man.

Honest to God, folks, I seriously believe that's why we love him. Present-tense intended. The talent, the imitations, the comedy--all of that came from his frailty.

My best friend posted a clip of Robin performing for the troops. It ended with a little video of him casually hanging out with a couple soldiers, relaying what it was like to be up on stage during Retreat.

To be precise, he was in a situation where he had to interact with individual humans, rather than a crowd, an audience. He acted out the same (hilarious) reaction he performed, ad lib, on the stage at the moment, and it was adorable. They talked a little more, and as the group began to disperse, he turned to one of them and quietly asked, "Did you get your picture?"

Where seconds before had shown us bombastic, at that instant, his voice was soft, tender, shy.  You almost had to lean toward the screen to hear him--I did, actually, even though it was perfectly audible.

There. There it is. Just at the end. I admit, there are better examples in the great big body of video footage featuring him, but I simply don't have the heart to go looking for any right now.


No, I've never met the guy. I suppose it's unfair to make these assumptions. Because these are PHENOMENAL, COSMIC ASSUMPTIONS based on itty, bitty personal knowledge of him.

But here's the thing...

Dear Robin, 

I'm not shocked at what you did. I'm not confused. I'm angry. And, for the record, I'm not angry because I can't empathize with what you were going through--it's because I can.

It was neither sloppy writing, nor an error, to give that little intro to the talk I had with my friend and then tangent like I did. To quote another comedian, "I told you that story, so I could tell you this one." It needed to be in the back of your head, the question of why all that therapy, rehab (etc.) didn't work.  I wanted that to be percolating while I rambled.

I guess I was also doing a little homage to Robin as well. Two for one.

Here's the payoff. 

What if it did work? Not to be unkind, but he, like most of Hollywood, was a drug-addled mess for a while. He got help, got clean. Made a wonderful life for himself, and in so doing, made the lives of millions of others a better place to be. Stand up, shows, movies, Comic Relief, USO. To name barely a few, because the man I saw ask that soldier about pictures was undoubtedly the type to also do plenty of good without people seeing, knowing.

And if he hadn't cleaned up, we would've hardly had any of that, because we would have lost him decades ago. Rehab, therapy, sobriety--it did work, it just wasn't enough.

I've always admired the obvious research J.K. Rowling put into the Harry Potter series. The little references, the big ones, the obscure, the obvious. One of the things she touched on hit me like a brilliant ton of bricks, because some way, somehow, that woman understands depression fantastically.

Unsurprisingly, I'm about to mention dementors. You know, those Grim Reaper types who suck all the happiness out of a person's immediate vicinity? Including any memory of joy, success, love, any ability to remind oneself of the genuine, tangible good in the world?

Her brilliance wasn't in describing depression. I think everyone feels it from time to time. The brilliance was in a little throwaway comment from Sirius Black, when he explained how and why he never went insane. I'm too lazy (or, let's be generous and say I am too focused on what I'm doing) to get up and look for the exact quote. So paraphrasing it is.

There were two things.

First, he spent most of his time with the dementors in dog form; being able to separate from his human awareness, even a little, helped, provided a certain measure of salve.

Second, he knew he was innocent. But how did that make a difference? Knowing he was innocent gave him no joy, so the dementors couldn't take that knowledge from him.

If I hadn't loved her stories before, I would have fallen in love then, because holy fucking shit, that's so goddamn, precisely accurate. Ms. Rowling, I salute you.

But back to Robin. Or, more appropriately, back to everyone out there shaking their heads, wondering how someone so buoyantly funny could be depressed. How someone who had so much to live for, and did so many wonderful things for--hell, for all of us, himself included--how he could despair to such an extent that suicide became the choice?

Clinical depression is like being a turtle without a shell, unable to find joy in anything good, terrifyingly vulnerable to even the most minor of Life's curve balls. When you have it, survival means finding surrogate shells. Like turning into a dog. Or a genie. Or a genie with dozens of personalities...

Dear Robin,

 
I'm sorry you had to hide, that interacting without your posse of personalities made you feel like a turtle without its shell.

With depression, the first instinct, ordinarily, is self medication. Usually starting with alcohol, since lots of perfectly healthy people have a drink now and again when they've had a bad day. It's the same thing, right?

Of course, then there's drugs, sex, or physical/mental/emotional abuse, sleep--any form of escapism will do.

Therapy is like going to the store and finding a healthy, though still artificial shell. Does the same job, but since it was never organically part of you, it's not permanently attached--and your body may not recognize this "shell" as help, instead fighting against it. Either way, you have to work at keeping it secured, and you have to maintain it, so it stays in good shape.

To pause a second--to put into perspective that little "you're body might fight it" bit, and why it's a problem:

People who don't deal with depression already have a shell--they're bodies make it, maintain it as a matter of course--benefiting from its work without any effort or deliberation at all. Just like people don't consciously control their spleens, or livers, or hearts. These folks can go about their lives without having to intentionally do anything to maintain emotional equilibrium.

To have an artificial shell, to maintain its placement and durability, is like having to purposefully control your breathing. It's possible--but how tedious would it be to only breathe when you remembered to inhale and exhale? People who can't do that get put on freakin' life support. I wonder if there's a connection there...

It's easy to be pissy with people who don't deal with depression--especially when listening to the (what seems to be) asinine advice they invariably give. Sure, the advice is useless, but it's innocent. In all reality, they simply don't have a frame of reference on what it's like to only get oxygen when you remember to breathe.

End pause--back to my own little crazy train...

The act of balancing an artificial shell, reenforcing security brackets and keeping it nice and shiny? You'll have to do it every waking minute of every waking day. Forever. Or, at least, for as long as you want to stay sane, stay alive, because if and when it slips off/breaks, you're every bit as vulnerable as if it were never there. 

In other words, there is almost NOTHING in the way of therapy leaving a cumulative effect. If the meds wear off (or you forget to refill), if you fall of the wagon, if you're hit with a curve ball--if the shell is gone, it's gone.

So, with any luck at all, you're not a human being, prone to getting tired. Because you can't afford tired. Ever.

For some, finding the proper meds and taking them is a lovely bit of false fuel--the shell exists, but feeds on the meds instead of them. For others...

Never having done it, I imagine going into rehab, or checking in to a program of similar sort (say, where a person would go to recover from a nervous breakdown) is like taking a little nap, letting other people maintain the position and quality of your shell for a time, so you can safely sleep off your exhaustion.

In my mind, those havens are chock full of naked turtles, resting while their shells are getting tuned up. The havens are safe spaces, created and maintained by the people who run those...institutions? hospitals? centers? You get the point.

Dear Robin, 

I'm desperately sorry your shell broke, fell off, and a goddamned dementor kicked you on that exposed skin while you were trying to find your way to the Fix-It Shop for Shells.

So let's have a little fun with cliches. (Despite the fact that I HATE clinical depression being labeled as a mental illness...)

Mental illness is real--but you already knew that. How about mental illness isn't confined to frothing at the mouth and acting like Charles Manson. Or the Mad Hatter. Or even H.M. (Howling Mad) Murdock and Go-Go Dodo (that last one a little 90s reference for my tiny tooney generation). Well, you probably already knew that, too.

Considering all the memes I see saying so, I suppose you've heard that depression is not a choice. Depressed people can't just "cheer up"--any more than a blind person can just get over that obsessive need to not see, or a person in a coma can't just get off their lazy ass and start walking around again.

Well, damn, then. Maybe the cliches are just too cliche to be helpful.

Dear Robin, 

I'm really sorry I'm mad at you. That you either didn't consider or didn't care about the ugly, horrible hurt you'd cause by leaving your family, friends and fans the way you did. I promise I'll get over it, because while I'm pissed right now, I know what it's like to be bleary-eyed tired from trying to maintain the shell. To find the only laughs available are in the pointlessness in calling some hotline, or even a loved one. To therefore look around, see no help, no hope. No light at the end of the tunnel, no ability to even recognize the sunshine coming in from the opening behind you.

See, it's a wonderful thing, to have that knowledge of good that brings you no happiness. When you can't harm yourself because you have too goddamn much to do, and absolutely no trust that it'll get done properly without you... when the peace and sleep of giving up is disturbed by your mind's image of the look on your child's face if he's the one to find you, the imagined cries and tears from the people you love who'd inexplicably miss you, who'd suffer if you did it.... when you realize, for honest and for true, that suicide is one of the most selfish, narcissistic acts a human can commit...

Those thoughts are too fucking sad for depression to steal away. You're stuck with them, and with them comes the nagging understanding of responsibility... the fucking inescapable burden of it...

And if you're lucky, it forms a kind of spare shell. It's about as useful as a spare tire, and not anywhere near as pretty, but it gets you to the Fix-It-Shop--whatever that may be in your life. And that's where your tired toddler-self takes a metaphoric nap.

Then you wake up and remember you love music, and movies, and spending time with your family and friends. That trips to the ocean are unspeakably amazing and you really want to see your mom's reaction to the Christmas gift you got her. That there is no guarantee of deep dish pizza in the afterlife. That, speaking of the afterlife, there is nothing it could offer that's better than the feeling of your son holding your hand while he falls asleep with his head in your lap.

Wait, the season premier of your favorite show is tonight, right? And shit, don't you have plans to hang out with your best friend next week? That bitch'll kick your ass if you stand her up.

And then you laugh. And your kid comes in and either gives you a hug and kiss, like the denouement of every after-school special, or comes in and throws a tantrum over something so ridiculously stupid, you realize that, just hours (maybe minutes) ago, you looked just like that--and that your tantrum was every bit as unreasonable, your despair unfounded.

And then you laugh again, because you kicked that dementor in the dangly bits, and are back for another round.

And Life is fucking awesome.

Dear Robin, 

Ya know, bud? Not gonna lie--that wasn't the best choice ya coulda made. And now we're all quite a mess. But you gave us so much, and for so much longer than was comfortable for you--it's our turn to do our share. We'll take care of each other, and ourselves, and when shit gets real, we'll put on something you gave us, borrow one of those amazing shells you created for and shared with us, and life will look better. I know you've not really left--you just exchanged an existence without a shell to one where they're obsolete. I'm happy for you. Or will be, once I'm done being sad and angry. But yeah, I'm happy--because I know at least those goddamn dementors can't get to you anymore.

And I'm not going to say goodbye to him. As per my intentional "present tense" way back at the beginning.

The cool thing, though? I had a "let's not say goodby" paragraph brewing in my head, and then thought--wouldn't it be better if I could find an appropriate quote from Peter Pan?

“Never say goodbye because goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting.”
         J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan


Forgetting Robin Williams? Un-bloody-likely. And thank God for that. And Robin.

Dear Robin, 

I can't thank you enough for everything you gave of yourself. But I can wish you sweet dreams. Sleep tight. And don't forget we love you.

In Defense of the Octopus in the Olympics' Garden

There is something to be said about a subject matter getting a girl so fired up that, before she's even had her coffee, she's decided to blow off MOPPING DAY to write a post.  Admittedly, I'm hoping to be done in time to get to the cleaning...let's see...

The day started with finding the clean laundry strewn about the floor and mixed in with the dirty laundry because Kermit just HAD to have his black Servo shirt, and at 0530 in the morning.  Really.  Of all the things for him to go the "age appropriate" route - it had to be the OCD obsession with clothes. 

Back in bed, but not able to fall back asleep, I start toodling around on my phone.

And now we have to back up.

My running (as in repetitive) joke about the Olympics is that while it's a celebration of the amazing things the human body can achieve - it turns the rest of the world into couch potatoes for the ~2 week duration.  Despite my lack of athletic anything, I love watching the Games.  Media/culture geek that I am, I always pay special attention to the opening and closing ceremonies.

This year, I missed the opening ceremony.  Apparently, I missed an extremely interesting one and need to hop onto a You Tube bus ASAP.  I was also unable to watch the closing ceremony, but Marshal had my back and DVRed it for me.

I finally watched it Friday night - it was taking up a lot of space and I was itching to delete it.

It was so amazing, I kept it for Crikey and Marshal.  We watched it last night (well, Crikey and I did; Marshal looked up from his computer when I elbowed him).  For my part, I wanted to make sure Crikey understood what was going on - and I hoped that, a second time through, the one part that bemused me would make more sense.

I am still at sea with regard to the octopus (the pun may be unintended, but I like it).

5:30 a.m. - search engine:  closing ceremony octopus.  I wanted to keep it simple to avoid coloring the selection of results.  Turns out, the results were as murky as the Wile E. Coyote-esque dust (ink) cloud left by a startled octopus.

To summarize:  While the overwhelming majority went with "WTF!?!", the prioritized reactions were: Illuminati conspiracy in the British government, tacky, tacky British stupidity, and devil worship/paganism.

Oh sweet Lord.  So much bullshit, so little time.  I hardly know where to start.  Other than coffee, of course.

In all fairness, as my own reaction to the octopus was also "WTF?!", I can't really heckle that one - though I will say that my reaction was one of delighted fascination.  I do, however, understand why others were (and are) way more confused by it than interested in having it explained.  To those people, I say "Peace - and if you're even mildly interested in an opinion that doesn't involve paranoia, British-bashing and religious ignorance, welcome to my rant, er, blog post."

Let's get the Illuminati stuff out of the way.  Either it's a figment of a massive, collective, paranoid imagination, an organization that has been secretly controlling the cultures of the world for its own diabolical ends, or it's something in between (as in, it exists, but doesn't function quite like Dan Brown would have us believe).

I'll admit, I'm inclined to believe it exists and does so in the "in-between" way.  However, to address the panic-driven squawking, let's consider the alternative.  So, it's a group that is either over-hyped or evil.  If it's nothing more than a self-important club, then let's leave them to their secret handshakes and midnight gin rummy games.  If it's an evil empire controlling the world, and has been doing so for as long as it (allegedly) has, then we're done.  I'm not a "lay down and die" type - but worrying about something like that is like worrying about the Apocalypse.  All we can do is keep on with what has been entrusted to each of us in our own little corners of the world.  That, my friends, is how to counter the darkness.  You can't fight darkness by pushing at it with your hands (or with Chicken-Little-Sky-Is-Falling alarmist tantrums).  Just turn on a damn light.  If that's too metaphoric, then try repeating after me:

"Good game, Illuminati.  Enjoy your secret handshakes and midnight gin rummy games.  I have housework to do, kids to raise, blogs and books to write, friendships to enjoy, sunsets to watch...in short, a LIFE to live, also known as 'better things to do than be worried about locating and fighting a secret society that may or may not be evil.'"

In other words, quit hyperventilating about the dark and BE THE LIGHT THAT GETS TURNED ON. 

Deep breath.

Tacky, tacky, British stupidity.

Many of the things I read complained that the closing ceremonies were a missed (or botched) opportunity to showcase all that British culture has given to the world.  There was even something from a BBC affiliated post about how making the closing ceremony a celebration of Great Britain was akin to inviting people to your home and talking about yourself.

*pinches bridge of nose and breathes deeply*

I could go through it, piece by piece, explaining things in excruciating detail, but...

Oh good grief, who has time for that?  So, instead, some broad statements.

Admittedly, reserved modesty is a cornerstone of British sensibility - and it has been said that "BBC" stands for "Better Be Clean". So it's not that crazy for there to be elements of the British populace that are genuinely appalled that t'was one of the other cornerstones that ran this production.  Other cornerstones?  Read on.


First of all, in any Olympics, the opening and closing ceremonies are supposed to be a showcase of the hosting city's culture.  That's the POINT.  Instead of criticizing it as culture narcissism, look at it as a guided tour of a beautiful, famous home that's been opened to the public for a limited time. It's an opportunity for the citizens of the world to take a peek at how a people sees itself, and how it wants to be seen.  These performances represent what a city, a country, wishes the world to know.

Ironically enough, or maybe not so much with the irony, the world is not ready to give up its dearly held stereotypes for Great Britain and its people, its world view, its life.  Some have even said that the British people should be a "wee bit embarrassed" by the spectacle.

Well, I grew up in Georgia.  I understand being embarrassed by the Olympics' host city's performance.  Really, Atlanta?  You want the world to think  "monster trucks and cheerleaders" when they picture southern living?  REALLY? 

But I digress.

One of the things I enjoyed the most about London's closing ceremony was the self-deprecating humor mingled with self-awareness that laced the entire production together.  It wasn't ironic for a choir to perform "Because" while others drummed a heartbeat on the iconic landmarks of London.  Nor was it chaotic for the Massed Bands of the Household Division to march through a street party.

It was an eloquent theatrical performance showcasing the complexity and the richness of London's Life, of British Personality.

Yes, there were serious moments - "Imagine" was done so beautifully, John Lennon incorporated so elegantly, it brought tears to my eyes.  Naturally, this part was universally (as far as I could read, anyway) praised.

It tallied with the world view of Great Britain as serious and reserved.  Thoughtful and wise.

However, like almost every other culture that has made a positive difference in this world, another cultural cornerstone is a sense of humor.  The British are famous for their reserved humor (though often for how hard it is to understand), but those who laud that while criticizing this production have apparently forgotten...

...that the British also have a wonderfully honed sense of the silly and the absurd.

As I explained to Crikey, when a person refers to a comedy as being "very British" - it will, invariably, mean one of two things.  Reserved, deadpan delivery of dry wit (Oscar Wilde being the definitive personification of this) or over the top, wild, slapstick physical comedy (everything Monty Python has ever done, anywhere). 

I am not British.  The closest I come to a connection is being of British Isles' descent.  However, I'm going to make a reach and say that I get the humor, if only to the degree that I get it better than many of my (American) peers.  I base this on the consistency with which I find myself giddy with giggles and wiping my eyes at things that make most of my nearest and dearest blink and stare at me, waiting for the explanation...and still not get it when I tell them.  (seriously, how does someone NOT laugh when a chipper voice blithely sings "a pal said, 'cheer up, you'll soon be dead'"?!?)

Granted, I prefer the dry to the slapstick - but even I can appreciate (if not fully enjoy) the absurdity of a bunch of men, whilst hanging on crosses, bouncingly singing "always look on the briiiiight si-ide of life!!"  Though, now that I think about it, it seems that my favorite part of any Monty Python I've ever seen was a part that went dry...

In short, if you didn't like the performance, that's fine.  Opinion and all that.  If, however, you thought it was chaotic, disorganized, inappropriate and confusing - you just didn't get the joke.  Which is also fine - but not Great Britain's fault.

Finally, the double whammy of assuming that the giant octopus was a Satanic (and therefore simultaneously Pagan) symbol - well, anyone who knows me at all can probably guess (accurately) that THAT was the last straw that broke Mopping Day's back.

I have said it before, and in greater detail, but if you're a first time reader, allow me to summarize:  PAGANISM AND SATANISM HAVE ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH EACH OTHER. (for further detail, explanation, proof, etc., scroll down to the post "Paganism: Myths, Images and Reality")

I'm not a Satanist, so I have no earthly idea if octopuses (octopi?) have anything to do with their pictorial/symbolic culture.

However, as Paganism, at its very core, does revolve around the natural world and everything in it, it's quite easy for me to see octopus as a Pagan symbol (though no more or less than any other plant, mineral or animal).  Of course, Pagan symbolism permeates almost all cultural imagery and practices worldwide.  Christmas trees, Easter eggs (the name of the Easter holiday), stars on law enforcement badges, the wearing of any and all jewelery...

Seriously, that list goes on and on...until forever is over.  Which, of course, is why I giggle to myself every time someone starts panicking over the Pagan symbolism of this that or the other, but hangs wind chimes and brings flowers to sick people. 

But, again, I digress.

I actually do know a bit about the meaning of octopus as a symbol.  Totem work is an interest of mine (from before I learned about Paganism, or even Feng Shui).  Essentially, and very, very simplified, it's the concept that God (Spirit, one's Guardian Angel, etc.) can choose to communicate with us, teach us lessons through the animal kingdom.  The idea is that from each animal, there are lessons to be learned.  If God wants you to learn about freedom, you may be presented with dreams, gifts or even actual encounters with horses.  If He wants you to learn about conserving energy, or maternal nurturing, ditto for bears, and so on.  Therefore, (and I've learned this the hard way), I have found that it really is in my best interest to pay attention when an animal keeps popping up in my world and that I should learn as much as I can as soon as I can once I notice the critter in question.

Over the last couple weeks I have been inundated with octopus imagery and have therefore done a bit of research.  This morning's search engine escapade was to see if there was anything particularly and specifically British about octopus energy - I was looking to add to what I've recently learned.  Of course, what I learned this morning was the stuff from  which rants are born (see above). 

So, since it seems like the right time - and if you're a first time reader, you may have stumbled across this blog for the same reason I went googling this morning:

This is a synopsis of what I have recently learned:

Octopus energy is about approaching problems with intelligence, efficiency and an unorthodox approach.  As it lives in the water but is a bottom dweller, it teaches about staying grounded while handling emotional or spiritual endeavors.  Because it can detach an arm at will (and grow it back), octopus can teach us about letting go of what no longer serves our highest good, while regenerating our own health and well being if we've suffered a loss.  Because of the firm grip of its arms, it represents love.  It can help with the destruction of negative barriers in our lives and how to remove people who are deliberately harming or obstructing us - but as its message is one of strength through softness, gentleness and love,  the removal is not by destroying them, but by moving them to other places.  With its extraordinary ability to transform its appearance to blend in with any and all types of surroundings (plus its ability to shoot ink in order to make a getaway), it teaches us about subtlety, discretion and, if necessary, stealth and how to camouflage ourselves when we need to go unnoticed.  Since (almost all) female octopus die as their young hatch (they starve themselves to care for the eggs), it reminds us to take care of and nurture ourselves so we can be better able to serve those around us.

For the most part, I'm going to take my lead from the ceremony itself and leave it to you to decide how that applies to Great Britain.  I only add that upon my second viewing, I noticed the suckers on the arms were all "kissy" shaped lips.  I'm sure one could choose to take that down a sexual road - but to me it rang more to a "love" type of tune...and if "all you need is love"...

Hmmm....

"We would sing and dance around, because we know we can't be found...
 We would shout, and swim about, the coral that lies beneath the waves.
 Oh what joy, for every girl and boy, knowing they're happy and they're safe.
 We would be so happy, you and me, no one there to tell us what to do.
 I'd like to be under the sea, in an Octopus' garden, with you."

Oh, I do love Ringo.