Social Distortion's Delicious Pie

Social Distortion just saved my life!

Last night I was ripped out of the gaping, hollow abyss of war and bombing and hopelessness. Standing at seat 113, row 30, overlooking the beautiful city lights below, I thought to myself, "At least we have this. They may be bombing the hell out of Lebanon, but we can stand here, 9,000 strong, screaming along to the best rendition of "Ring of Fire" ever produced, hopping up and down together!"

Civilization is still intact!

All hail rock and roll!

Yesterday I went to the Social Distortion show at Red Rocks with my friend Cookie. There were three other bands playing, so we got there early to hear them all. We had reserved seats. It was 100F. I, of course, was in black. There was a gentle puff of breeze every once in a while. I didn't start drinking beer until the sun was almost down. Up in row 30 we were pretty much the only folks around for most of the day. The place didn't start filling up until around 7:30 or 8:00. Below us, the general admission seats were filled with the die-hards. It was a sea of delicious pie!

Rockabilly boys are the sexiest men in the world. Chain wallets and tattoos and slicky back hair. Wife beaters and Levi's. They have the confident manliness of an old Cadillac. Big and powerful, with an elegant presence. They eat red meat they grill themselves and know the unassuming glory of American beer out of a can. These men can fix things. These men swagger with a sexiness known to them -- studied and mastered early. These men know how to pull their friends out of a bar fight. These men know how to look at a woman when she's talking.

And last night -- there were thousands of them! Thousands! Everywhere. Like hope. Like some kind of evidence that all is not lost in the sniveling victimhood of minivans and pastel golf shirts. Here stood the men of my America. The America I want to live in. Here stood the godless, the thinking, the drunk and disorderly Rockabilly men of motorcycles and body shops and animation and whatever else they do for a living. Here stood the shamelessly tattooed, each paired with their own Bettie Page. Many with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths. Some with their children, small and be-mohawked, wearing earplugs, dancing to the gospel as told by Mike Ness!

These are the songs of the middle-man, not the high and not the low. For fuck sake, they're from Orange County. How truly oppressed could they be? But the songs are about small triumph and grabbing life by the balls and throwing it to the ground and stomping it to death. These songs are about feeling other and embracing it like a gift. These songs are about going forward anyway, even if you are a royal fuck up.

I love this band. I love the Rockabilly boys who follow them. I have decided to lose a bunch of weight, cut a short, straight row of bangs in my hair, and get way more tattoos! A whole arm of them! I'll need surgery for the FULL Bettie Page. Can plastic surgery make you taller? That may have to come later. And, even so, I may never be as cool as Them. But now I remember they are out there -- like a raw, bold, bloody ray of good old American hope. Hope in the face of all that would crush us and tell us we're nothing.

These people live in the America I want. These people live in the America I will help make.

Godless heathens bless us, every one!

On my way to the cardboard box

For the past how many years America has been occupying countries we don't belong in. Last week, North Korea tested some missiles. This past week, Israel started bombing the shit out of their neighbors. Then their neighbors started to bomb back. Now everyone is bombing everyone all in the name of . . . what, really? What is this about? Democracy? Religion? That's too easy. Oil? Politics, maybe? National power and identity? Little tiny men who think power comes from ownership and muscle? You know what? Who gives a shit why they are doing this. The fact is they're doing it -- for all their complicated reasons -- and mostly I just think they're stupid. What I want to do is just turn my back on the whole mess. Walk away from all their stupid dick-swinging and bomb throwing and close the door behind me. Fuck off, little men. Bomb your neighbors and preach and steal and build governments and overthrow them. Do your worst. I'll be over here, curling invisible in my cardboard box . . . off the grid with a windmill, some vegetables growing out back, and a sign that says, "KEEP OUT. I'M NOT INTERESTED IN YOUR PETTY STUPID BULLSHIT."

Didn't we invent language so we could learn how not to behave this way? Didn't we start writing and thinking and painting and singing and communicating so we could live next to people we don't necessarily agree with? Peacefully? Helping everyone get along? Didn't we watch Sesame Street to learn how to share?

Fuck your nationalist man honor and grow a real set of balls, you destructive freaks.

For fuck sake.

I really wish that somewhere in the world there was a small plot of land, surrounded by happy fairies and lollipop trees, where I could grow a vegetable or two -- and live in my cardboard box.
I just hope it's near a library.

Family, Fire and Fine Art

So much happened this week.

The Government Agency that hires us went insane. They were teetering for a while -- years perhaps. But this week they finally toppled over the precipice. The head dude has had his head God knows where and now is being a demanding monster person and my coworkers have been jumping through hoops re-preparing information that they have re-prepared and re-presented 100 times before. This time the monster may actually listen. He'll have guests in the room. But, it made for a trying and exhausting week for those around me.

My sister is in town! Yay! She is here visiting for a few weeks. It has been wonderful and delightful to have her around. It is far better to have your sister near than not. I truly believe it. For the first few days, she was very jet lagged and I was working, so our interaction was primarily over dinner at my parents' house. Friday night we went to see the Garrison Keiller movie with my Mom and our Auntie. Very fun. And that night she came home with me to stay. We sat up and talked about heart break and had a wonderful time. In the morning I carmelized her egg (unintentional) and we had yet more nice chatting. Next weekend I get her more all to myself and I very much look forward to it.

Yesterday, the family went down the Cherry Creek Art Festival for the day. Now, there are plenty around who find this festival over-priced and exclusionary and all about "sofa" art. These people are wankers. The Cherry Creek Art Festival is far far better than that. It is about being really good at your craft. Everything is really really well done. No matter what the style of work, the craftsmanship is extraordinary. Not everything there will match a sofa, I guarantee you.

My family gets excited for this festival. We all grab out sun hats, and barrel downtown so we are there when it first opens. We walk up the streets, excited and giddy to explore all the booths and see beautiful, beautiful things. This year, the first booth we came to really caught my father's eye. We stopped. My mother chatted with the artist. My father admired all the paintings, and we came upon the bin for cheaper work . . . the prints of some of the paintings. When I looked down at the prices, I thought for sure I saw a $200 tag. Turns out, it was $20.00. My father bought two. At that moment, I knew we were on to a fantastic show!

My favorite artists were there again this year. A guy from MA who paints the most wonderful long, thin landscapes. I have wanted one for years. The egg tempera dude from AL who paints chalkboards with weird little words on them, and light coming through darkened doors. Bill Amundson, my local hero, who draws my landscapes -- flat nothings featuring track houses with stupid names and Walmarts flying through the sky. He's a genius of epic proportions. I own five of his. I will own more. The glass work was gorgeous -- really really gorgeous this year. There was a dude from Chicago that photographed REALLY minimal scenes -- like the barest sliver of the top of a milvan with a white sky. #6. He has taken minimalism to a new extreme.

My favorite was a painter who painted storms. He had a "tempest" and a "storm" and a "tornado." What made these works so beautiful was the artist's ability to capture a rather painterly representation of a tornado and make it feel absolutely soundless and still. If I had several thousand dollars, this is the piece I would buy.

There were so many amazing things. We may be going back tonight. The family is definitely going back tomorrow while I'm at work.

The thing about the Festival is that it's a celebration of everything great about living. They have bands playing. They have restaurants serving food in booths. They have a whole street for kids to go and make stuff and get their hands dirty. They have bike parking. They have acrobats. And they have art. The best art in the nation. The best crafted art they can find.

As my sister said yesterday when I asked why this festival made me so very happy, "Well, it's the pinnacle of human achievement."

Simple as that.

By now you may be thinking, "Fire. What about the fire part of your title, Beth?" Well, to all great pinnacles of human achievement there will be counter balance. The arsonist is back in my neighborhood. It hit the other end of the townhouse row this time. The fire started in the garage and lapped up the side of two of the units . . . burned through the outside wall of their bedrooms. I don't know if anyone was hurt. The houses are most probably unlivable. God knows the damage.

And so with greatness comes destruction. Always in balance. Appearing in two's. Amazing how one weekend will bring you both extremes . . . the glory and the evil that humans do.

At least my sister is around.