The Column That Never Was
The column that I was hired to write for a certain Queens weekly has been canceled before the first piece was even published. That piece, a critical look at the fall-out from Congressman Greg Meeks’ support for CAFTA, did not appear in this past Thursday’s issue, although an editorial lavishing praise on the Congressman for his championing of banks over people, was featured rather prominently.
I called to find out what happened, and was told the next day that Rep. Meeks had called the newspaper to complain about the previous post that appeared on this blarg. That’s all, she wrote.
The managing editor – who hired me – explained over and over that “integrity” is really important to the paper, and that I had really crossed a line by posting the Congressman’s voicemail message to me, without explaining that I had called him first. Of course, I explained that I hadn’t called him, and that that’s what made his personal phone call to me so noteworthy, and odd. She explained that she hadn’t actually read the piece so much as glanced at it over the shoulder of the publisher, who was livid about the whole affair. (The publisher, it should be noted, was hectoring me about how labor’s position on CAFTA was “illiberal” within seconds of my being hired and explaining my first column.) She also hadn’t read the actual submitted column itself.
Again explaining how “ethics” were so important to this paper, she asked me if I understood their position. I said, well, no, I didn’t, really, since nothing was misrepresented on my website or in the column (neither of which, again, she had read), to which she finally answered something along the lines of “well, I guess you’re just not a good fit for this paper.”
This, finally, was an answer I could accept. This is a paper that does not endorse candidates, that takes no strong positions on controversial matters (aside from that perennial controversy of curbing one’s dog). This is a paper that wants opinion writers who have no strong opinions. That’s me out, comrades.
I hold no ill will towards the paper, although I am annoyed at having been jerked around all summer. I would rather have been rejected from the start, so I could focus my energies on writing for a newspaper that has enough backbone to withstand an angry phone call from an amateurish Congressman, and genuinely wants to drive home to their readers three lanes of political traffic, instead of just the middle of the road.
He Ain’t Never Caught a Rabbit.
I think I’m over the dog thing. My parents are away this weekend, at a family reunion that I am boycotting, so I volunteered to dog-sit Alfred. I drove by my folks’ place in the late afternoon to pay the neurotic pup a visit and then take him to my apartment. I took him for a quick run around the backyard in order in order to expend some of his pent up energy from being cooped up in the house alone for the previous ten hours, and then for a nice long walk around the neighborhood in order to answer the call of nature.
Now, Alfred can be rather clever when it comes to sneaking food or prying open doors, but he can be a bit of a dummy when it comes to basic doggies duties. Still, it was a new one on me when I caught Alfie absent-mindedly peeing on his own front leg, and an even more disappointing surprise when I had to point out to him that he was missing his targeted tree by a good six inches.
I took the opportunity to hose him off in my folks’ backyard before we finally drove to Kew Gardens. Back at my place, Alfie took awhile to get comfortable in less familiar surroundings, but amused himself by barking and whimpering at the neighborhood dogs out my second floor window.
During dinner (mine), the excitement became too much for him and he started throwing up in the corner of my living room – on my stereo speaker! I needn’t have worried too much about that particular part of my home entertainment system as Alfred, always busy, set about a brief tour of my living room, pausing occasionally to spew a little more.
Both of our meals now dispensed with, and Alfred sitting contentedly with that same look on his face that we all get after a violent protein spill, I’m taking the opportunity to jot down this note to myself: Do not get a dog while you still live in an apartment.
Alfred is now nudging my arm. He wants a walk. Don’t forget to spay or neuter your pets, folks, and if you have a backyard, please consider adopting one of the adorable mongrels at the North Shore Animal League.
Get Back In Line
Today is May Day, the international holiday of the working class, a celebration of our labor unions and our rich history of struggle. I marched, along with 40,000 comrades, past the United Nations, across 42nd street and back up 6th avenue to Central Park for nuclear abolition and an end to the war in Iraq.
Back home, spinning a Kinks CD, I am inexplicably drawn to an anti-union song, “Get Back In Line.” Ray Davies, the lead singer and chief songwriter of the Kinks, is a curmudgeon. He’s also one of the greatest songwriters of the rock-n-roll era. He infuses his songs with a dry wit and clever character studies, as well as a supernatural sense of melody, that all his songs are likable, even when he’s bashing socialism or criticizing labor unions.
Back in 1964, in the first great wave of the “British Invasion,” the Kinks scored a #1 hit on both sides of the Atlantic with “You Really Got Me,” an infectious rave-up that employs the first integral use of feedback in a rock song. The Kinks were stars, but they were denied the opportunity to tour America while all of their compatriots were making the Ed Sullivan Show their first stop in lucrative and career-enhancing tour of the states. The exact reason for the Kinks Ban is murky. It had something to do with Ray’s tendency to get into fist fights on stage with his brother Dave. Many, Ray Davies chief among them, blame the American Federation of Musicians for banning the Kinks from America.
I find it hard to believe that the union ever had the kind of power to singlehandedly prevent famous rockstars from touring. They certainly don’t have that power now. My friend Elana works for Local 802 AFM now, and she is investigating this mystery.
Whatever kept the Kinks out of the US, it ultimately enhanced their art and helped define their career. While the Beatles and Rolling Stones were getting sick of playing concerts for arenas full of American girls whose screaming drowned out their music (both eventually quit touring for much of the 60’s), the Kinks were embracing their distinct Britishness.
Davies wrote about Carnaby Street fops, English pubs, the Waterloo train station, village greens, holidays in Germany, English music halls – all are rather alien to American teenagers. By 1967’s “Summer of Love,” the Kinks’ new album was extolling the virtues of “little shops, china cups and virginity” (That record, “The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society” sounds much more timeless than the Beatles’ “Sgt. Pepper”).
In 1970, Davies wrote the song “Get Back In Line.” Although the yearning ballad is a poetic imagining of a union hiring hall, the clear subtext is that it’s Davies’ shot at the Musicians union in America.
The lyrics, quoted in whole, are:
Facing the world ain’t easy when there isn’t anything going
Standing at the corner waiting watching time go by
Will I go to work today or shall I bide my time
‘Cos when I see that union man walking down the street
He’s the man who decides if I live or I die, if I starve, or I eat
Then he walks up to me and the sun begins to shine
Then he walks right past and I know that I’ve got to get back in the line
Now I think of what my mamma told me
She always said that it would never ever work out
But all I want to do is make some money
And bring you home some wine
For I don’t ever want you to see me
Standing in that line
‘Cause that union man’s got such a hold over me
He’s the man who decides if I live or I die, if I starve, or I eat
Then he walks up to me and the sun begins to shine
Then he walks right past and I know that I’ve got to get back in the line
It’s a beautiful, heartbreaking song, even if it is an ugly shot at unions. It took me a long time to appreciate this song. In fact, it was only recently, finding myself in a similarly powerless situation as the song’s protagonist, that I recognized the song’s meaning for what it was: championing a little guy’s survival from forces that are frequently beyond his control. It’s a standard theme of Ray Davies’ writing, and it’s not so curmudgeonly now that I think about it.
Shaun Needs a Friend
It’s become pretty obvious that I am in desperate need of a new friend; the kind whose friendship and loyalty are entirely dependent on my paying for dinner and providing a place to spend the night, the kind who’ll tear up my papers, scratch my furniture and get hair everywhere. Enough pulling dying cats out of the gutter, it’s time to adopt a pet.
I’ve been thinking for awhile about getting a cat. They seemed like low maintenance. When I’m working, I can be out of the apartment for 12-14 hours a day, and, being an apartment, there’s no backyard here. But I just don’t understand cats. They bite and scratch when they’re playing. They’re finicky. Plus, I don’t have anyone in the neighborhood to take care of them when I leave town for school or work.
Dogs, I know. I’ve had dogs for about as long as I’ve been alive. I miss having a dog. I still drop food on my kitchen floor, expecting a mongrel to hungrily scarf it up. I miss catch. I miss walks. I miss seeing a long nose poking out my window when I return home. Plus, I can drop off a dog at my folks’ place when I leave town; Alfred could use a friend, too.
So, I started looking for a dog today. I went to the North Shore Animal League. I need an older dog, at least six months but preferably older. I think I need a big, lazy dog. My friend Greg says that big dogs get along well in apartments because “all they do is sit around and fart anyway.” I’d prefer a female. They tend to be calmer and gentler, but mainly I’m not fond of the dangling boy bits. The important qualities are calm, gentle and friendly.
North Shore Animal League’s website is impressively up-to-date. I saw almost all of these dogs at the shelter. I spent an hour with Thelma. She was very shy and scared, much like Alfred was when we got him from the shelter. However, after an hour, she still seemed indifferent to me and wanted nothing more than to return to her cage. A dog like that would likely become fiercely loyal after the first night (and meal) spent at my apartment. I got cold feet because I have an appointment tomorrow afternoon, which would only take about three hours, but I would want to spend the first few days at home with a dog like that and get her acclimated.
Plus, adopting a dog is like buying a home or a car in that you don’t want to just snatch up the first one you see.
I didn’t spend time with Samson, but, in his cage, his demeanor reminded me of the quiet nobility of K.C., the dog my grandparents had while I was growing up. Same black and white coloring, to boot.
So, the search continues. There’s a pet adoption event in Astoria next Saturday that I’ll probably go to, and I’ll likely return to North Shore the following weekend.
I know that I have about 30 loyal readers by now, all of them friends, so I expect your help. Leave a comment or e-mail me.
Finally, I want to say a few good words about the North Shore Animal League. My family has adopted two dogs from the shelter, each an integral and long-standing member of the family. The first was Sophie, a sweet, energetic Corgie-mix that my parents adopted when I was still in diapers. I grew up with Sophie, who was my oldest and best friend when she died 17 years later. Below, at top-left, is a picture of a visit upstate, when we were both pups. My grandparents had a working farm at the time, which included a small herd of goats. Still a nipper, Sophie immediately herded them into a circle, but she had no clue what to do with them once in the circle. Natural instinct is an amazing thing. Top-right, is a pic of the two of us when she was much older.
 Me and Sophie, both pups. |
 My oldest best friend. |
Alfred, pretty much as he looks today (I’m not quite as baby-faced).
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 Alfred, as a high-flying puppy. |
A year or two after Sophie passed away, we got Alfie from the same shelter. He is the sweetest, most gentle dog I have ever known, even if he is a bit of a cry-baby weenie. (Above, top-right, is Alfie before he was fully grown, still possessing the energy of a puppy. Top-left is, more of less, what he looks like today.)
North Shore rescued Alfie from a shelter down south that was preparing to euthanize him. North Shore is a no-kill shelter. The staff and volunteers are gentle, caring and knowledgeable. It’s a shelter that deserves your support.