rock and roll musings by Tim Byrnes

Britney

     It was back at the end of the 20th Century when some of the ladies I worked with at this telemarketing joint were discussing, of all things, Marilyn Manson. Manson had been booked on the Denver stop of Ozzfest that year and a coalition of local church groups were attempting to have him banned from the show; a proposition that these ladies approved of strenuously. 

   Happily it took an act of our State Assembly to uphold the 1st amendment and Manson was allowed (imagine!) to appear. However, listening to these chickens cackle I, of course, had to chime in w/my own 2 cents:   

  " Everyone," I said, " is all over Manson who, as far as I can see does nothing worse than urge folks to think for themselves. Am I the only one here worried about the social implications of a 16 yr old girl, dressed like a hooker, singing a song called "Hit Me Baby, One More Time!?"

     I spoke, and speak, of course of Britney Spears. Long reviled in the media - and this reporter's mind - as an emblem of all that is wrong w/America - not on a Donald Trump scale, of course, but close - perhaps it's past time to stop treating this young woman like a spectator sport and recognize her for the victim she is.

     Now I hate the whole victim mentality as much as the next curmudgeon and Spears has certainlybeen complicit in her teen whore marketing, not to mention how difficult it is to muster sympathy for the super rich in the 1st place, but even just a little research reveals that as far as having a 'normal' life goes, this poor kid never stood a chance.

     I remember seeing her 1st big profile in Rolling Stone years ago. Along w/the requisite, professionaly shot suggestive photos there appeared an earlier shot, taken of the singer at the age 15, so provacitively posed as to border on child pornography. This photo had been taken by her father.

     Spears, obviously a gifted child, talented and beautiful, has been groomed and packaged,trained like a racehorse and reduced to little more than a lovely commodity by those who could only benefit since she was, like, 9 years old. Beauty pageants and talent shows etc., all leading up to the devil that is Disney and the Mickey Mouse Club, her meteoric rise to the peak of popstardom and now the sadly inevitable trainwreck detailed on newschannel crawls across the world.

     Anyone else out there reminded of Michael Jackson?

     Perceived by those closest to her as more gravy train than person, Spears has apparently been pushed over an edge while those who should know better stood by watching. Breakdowns like this don't come out of the blue, either, I'msure there were signs - a 55 hour marriage, perhaps? - that this girl was in trouble, but everyone from the record company, her management, her family all the way down to her fans prefeered to let this show go on as long as it was profitable and, in the fan's case, entertaining.

     Anyone else out there reminded of Sid Vicious?

     When I last checked Ms. Spears was still in rehab which is, as they say in the Recovery Industry, righ where she belongs. I say that w/no malice. I mean to say that anyone so sad and confused as to be that self-destructive while, for all intents and purposes, sitting on top of the world, needs to come to a full stop and address these problems. Problems that not only can, but, left unchecked, will result in nothing less than a beautiful corpse in an early grave.

     Anyone else out there reminded of Kurt Cobain?

     If I could somehow gain the attention of Britney Spears through the magic of cyberspace this is what I'd say:

     Britney,

     Hi. My name is Tim and I'm an alcoholic and as one drunk to another, nothing more or less, I am begging you to step away from the rock and roll circus for the time being and take whatever time is neccessary for you to get better. The music industry has proven that it is not yr friend, nor does it have anything resembling yr best interest at heart.

     Screw yr career darling, this is yr life at stake here.

     Yr fortunate enough to be able to afford the best help available. Ask for that help. Hell, demand that help because you deserve it. Listen to the people who really care. Listen to the other drunks trying to get sober one day at a time. Sure 70% of 'em are gonna be assholes. That's just the national average. But, even abroken clock is right twice a day and by that I mean it might be one of those assholes who says the one thing that makes it click, that makes life maybe just that little bit easier that it gets you through the day.

     And the day is all any of us, popstar or pauper, has. I implore you to seize yrs today. Work for yrself instead of some band of salivating vultures for a change and work through whatever demons- and I'm betting there are many - that stand in the way of the peace and happiness that are, as a loving and feeling human being, nothing less than yr due.

     And when yr ready to record that 'fuck you', hate rock comeback record email me at timbyrnes@antimusic.net

Posted by: timbyrnes at 18:01 | link | comments (2)

Ain't No Place Like a Hole in the Ground

     So apparently, James Cameron's funded a documentary which examines an ancient Israeli tomb, first discovered in 1980 which - again, apparently - held ossuaries (small stone caskets for holding the bones of the dead) allledgedly marked w/some pretty familiar names. Names like Jesus, Mary, Joseph, a form of Mary purported to signify La Magdalene, James etc. The documentary I saw made no definite claim that this absolutely, positively is the tomb of that Jesus; or that it's discovery 'proves' that Jesus was married, had a son etc.

     The documentary I saw put forth the possibility, perhaps the likelihood, that this could be so - in that the probaility of all those famous names being buried together and NOT being the Jesus family ("The Christs?" Now there's a reality show!) is something like 600 to 1 against.

     Again, I stress the possibility. This could be so. The documentary introduces the question and invites us all to look, consider and discuss.

      Which, as one might imagine, is anathema to the power brokers and little kings of Christianity. Which is why I watched the film, the critical roundtable that followed and, especially, Raymond Arroyo on ETWN the next morning w/unadulterated glee.

     Do I believe that this tomb is the tomb of the historical Jesus? No, not really. The odds that, of all the burial sites in all the gin joints in all the world dug over the last 2,000 years that anyone would find THAT particular site w/all those names clearly marked are, too me, beyond astronomical.

     However, neither do I believe that an empty room n the Holy Sepulchre is proof that Jesus rose from the dead and ascended into heaven. As god propaganda goes (and that's all there is to god, remember?), I'm more apt to consider Cameron's proposition than Christianity's central article of faith ie: the ressurection because, apart from being the more reasonable of the hypothoses, Cameron at least produces some evidence, no matter how suspect. He puts forth his proposal and leaves it up to us to decide. Not a 'thou shalt' in the script. How democratic.

     But between the snickers of anti-deists such as myself, who admittedly loves anything that pokes a stick at religion and the smug 'can't be bothered w/critical thought' attitude of Arroyo and his crew ofver at the Catholic Channel (both the television network and the mindset) an important question seems to me to have been left unasked. And that's this:

     Who cares?

     Really. Why should it matter if it turns out that this actuall IS Jesus' tomb and that he was married and had a kid and maybe didn't riswe from the dead? What bearing should any of that have on the actual teachings of Jesus? The whole 'love thy neighbor' trip? Not a whit, at least not to me. I've always said I thought Jesus was dope, it's his self-apponted sales staff (the Catholic Church, the swarm of swarmt TVangelists, door knocking JW's etc) that I can't stand.

     Why was it so important for the early Christians, that is Simon Peter and the original Catholic Church, to recast this articulate man of peace as the water-walkin', fish-sandwich multiplyin', risin' up from the dead son of god? Why wasn't his message enough?

     I, of course, have a theory.

     It's my take that Peter and his crew knew that they needed a thrilling story to fill those catacombs and, more importantly, to fill those early collectin plates. Much is made in the Bible of these early church leaders writing epistles and travelling hither and yon to give sermons but precious little is told about how they paid for their supper. Much like today's megachurches, though of course on a much smaller scale - they were, after all, just getting started -I think they accepted payment for telling their Jesus stories. And as well they should. I believe all entertainers should be paid. But, and just ask U2 if you don't believe me, you can't keep selling the same product over and over again (well, KISS and AC/DC can, but that's another post) w/out at least juicing it up a little.

      And, as we all know, one lie - excuse me, exagerration - leads to another and before you know it this philosopher of goodness for the sake od goodness has been transformed by, among others I'm sure, the crony who alledgedly denied even knowing him (Jesus) when it was his (Peter's) ass on the line, into ".... the amazing Christ! Son of God!! Risen from the dead and ascended into Heaven!!! And my best friend!!!! So, give me yr drachma and do what I tell you. Hey, honey, who's yr friend? Ever make it w/an Apostle?"

     Yeah, yeah, blasphemy, I know.

     Bite me.

     The history of the Catholic Church has been one of corruption, oppression and conversion by the sword. The tinhorn mysticism, dress up and smoky mirrir manipulation of the masses has resulted in today's Catholic Church: a massively suspect World Power that deals in Mafia banking, art theft, Nazi assistance and let's not forget institutionalized pedophilia.

     I know, the same old song. Shame that it still needs to be sung, isn't it?

     Anyway, about that empty room in the Holy Sepulchre and that site itself. I find it interesting that 3 major religions Christianity, Islam and Judaism (note: in alphabetical order) all claim this same site to be their Holiest of Holy places, Sounds like a property dispute to me. What's really there that can drive men to murder in the name of a kind and loving god? And why is this church, among many, filled w/priceless art and ornamentation when the faiths it has housed all call for man to renounce the worldly?

     Who knows? We probably never will either 'cause these are the kinds of questions that religious leaders are trained to avoid. Keep asking and, trust me, you'll be shown the way out. My advice is don't confuse these ancient orders' concepts of god w/the good that lies in all our hearts. Screw the Church, love thy neighbor and don't believe the hype.    

Posted by: timbyrnes at 18:11 | link | comments (1)

Dead Mouse Farina Blues

   The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated and probably srated by me in the first place. so let me just state that it's great to be back (in print) and describe the absence.

     It'd been snowing like a madman every weekend for 6 weeks since xmas, so part of my houseboundedness was a reaction to nature, pure and simple. Exceppt for walking Buster me and the cats wisely stayed inside where it was warm.

 On the few occassions where I'd venture out for cat food and cigarettes our local, volunteer-run library where I type this crap was closed. As I alluded to in an earlier post, the ex and I had decided to p[ut off my moving back - something about me having to get my act together a little more before I show up at her place ('cause it is now, truly, her place) w/no money and boxes of cats. Unfinished business; something shaped like growing up. And that was my side of the argument.

      So w/my unemployment rapidly running out and having rrecently declined rescue from the woman that I love, I hunkered in my bunker as the snow piled higher and higher outside my window telling myself that it'd be alright, that something would work out. Though, as usual, I had no idea what.

     Only this time I didn't let it freak me out. Oh yeah, I was severley dpressed and scared. Still am and probably anyone would be, but what's changed and is still changing is my refusal to panic, to give in to fear, to rant and rave about suicide and the unfairness of it all and to simply have faith that this, too, shall pass. Small potatos to ye readers of faith out there, but trust me -  for a still dead atheist (as oppossed to born again xian, although in my case the proper term is probably 'recovering catholic') this was a major deal.

     I watched a LOT of tv (I hope to post 'essays' on the New York Dolls performance on Soundstage and Dawson's Creek in the near future, but I got to get this personal crap out first 'cause that's how I roll, baby), did some minor repair work around the apartments to pay toward my rent. Ourlittle (10 unit) apartment 'complex' is really a small town w/in a small town. Throughout my stretch of unemployment various neighbors would leave 'care packages' of canned food, powdered milk and (Bless you, Kay) the occaisional cigarette. There was not one day that Buster or the cats went hungry - and I'm counting the outside cats, too.

     There was, however, the Day of the Farina. It was one day before my last unemployment check came and we were out of EVERYTHING except Ramen Noodeles and farina, which is like oatmeal, only evil. I crumbled up som raw Ramen Noodles to go along w/the cooked for the cats and cooked up a pot of farina. I glopped (and that's what it sounded like, kids) a ladleful on everyones plate and took a bowl for myself.

     MacDougal X. Cheese stepped up to the plate first, being the brave King Cat tha he be, and sniffed once, blinked twice, sniffed again, turned his orange head toward me and said  "What the fuck is this?" in clear and perfect English. Well, not really but, trust me, that's what he meant. I muscled down my share of farina and decided I didn't blame the cats for not eating it. Buster, being after all a dog, ate just about everybody's share and spent the night under my bed, his stomach producing sounds that'd make Anthony Braxton proud (look him up).

     Anyway, I let a very disgruntled MacDougal out that night while the girls (I still have Camille, Bottlebrush and the 3 kittens I've sinced named Suzy Jacuzzi, Seabiscuit Smith and Grumpy the Cat. As of this writing Bleeker Street Kitten remains again among the missing, gone almost a month now but hope springs eternal) stayed in, eating Ramen Noodles and making the ugly face at what remained of the farina. Upon waking the next morning I made cofee, put out more noodles while promising that once my check came that afternoon there'd be hot dogs and cat food for everybody and put my coat on to walk Buster in the snow. As I was putting my faithful companion's leash on I heard the unmistakeable meow of MacDougal on the other side of the door. Opening the door, MacDougal hopped over Buster into the kitchen whereupon he spoke to me what sounded like a compund sentence in cat language. I petted him 'cause I love him and steered him towards the noodles, again promising a future feast featuring MEAT!!!

     That;s when I stepped out to find the dead mouse on my doorstep. MacDougal had brought me breakfast!! I had to laugh even as my eyes teared up.

     I've neglected to mention that while all of this had been going on thee convenience store I worked at until it unceremoniously closed last September had been bought and remodeled by a new company and was due to open the day of the dead mouse. I had faxed my worthy of a Hugo Award  resume to their Denver office weeks earlier and had stopped in to harangue the new manager about employment every day for the previous week. Since I'd heard nothing by 'opening day' I assumed someone else got the gig.

     Anyhow, I snuck the dead mose out to Speedy Firbank (our head 'outside cat') after thanking MacDougal profusely and sat down to wait for the mail. 2 O'clock finally rolls around so I reboot (which out here in farm country means I put my boots back on) and trudged through the snow to the mailbox.

      The check wasn't there. Now, I knew it's be there tomorrow and that the snow just made it late, but not knowing how I was gonna feed the kids that day, combined w.the weight of the last 4 months almost got me. I went back into the house for a minute, but realized if I just sat there all I'd get done was feeling bad and I'd had enough of that lately.

     So I trudge out again, no real destination other than 'out into the world' when passing the new convenience store the manager waved me in and hired me for the fraveyard shift starting that night. That was February 8th and I've had but 2 nights off since then - I'm not complaining, just explaining why I haven't been posting since the snow stopped. Life is, once again and as always, good.

     So, al's well that ends well - not that anything ever ends - but I fell like I've ridden out a pretty rough storm here w/something resembling style and a renewed belief that faith can work wonders.

     Stop congratulating yrself, Muglia, I mean faith in yrself.

peace and noise, I've missed y'all,

tb

Posted by: timbyrnes at 17:46 | link | comments (8)