Memory Corner #10

Love is but a Dream

Phobe was my new girl. Woman, not girl. Mother of two toddlers. Divorced. Witty. Damn, she could make me laugh. That was a whole lot of beautiful to me. And she was beautiful. In a Latina way. She drove a rebuilt Mustang, '66, which she won in the settlement. Her ex wanted his freedom, and it cost him his classic car, alimony, and the house. 

I think she liked me because I was in college. You know, good influence on the kids. Got a future. Good for the community. And I was a sucker for a good joke. Some women get a man by filling his belly with good vittles. She got one with a quick one-liner and some running gags that we kept building on every time we had a date. 

It was that last date I remember most. We went to see Emerson, Lake, and Palmer at the Inglewood Forum. As usual, the band gave a great show and capped the concert off with cannon fire. That's the only part of the show Phoebe remembered. I knew she didn't care for "Rock music" as she and her ex-old man listened to the Eastside sound: Los Lobos, El Chicano, Malo, and such. But she played along with the concerts I selected and never once mentioned a band she'd like to see. Still, I got to see the bands I liked and got to drive her Mustang, stick shift. Baroooom. 

I drove her home so she could let the baby-sitter know that she was dropping me off and would be right back in a few minutes. She checked on the kids, who were sleeping, and the sitter went next door where she lived to let her parents know the time-table. She asked me to tell Phoebe. 

I was sitting on the sofa, and Phoebe returned from the bedroom down the hall. She asked if I wanted a beer or a soda. Nothing for me, thanks. I told her the sitter would be right back. She nodded and sat next to me. I had a nice time, she said. I shook my head in agreement. 

Suddenly, a little boy in pajamas walked into the room. He didn't speak or look around or acknowledge my presence. He went straight to the sofa and squeezed between his mom and me. 

"He's sleepwalking. He must have heard your voice. Notice how he sat between us. He's keeping you from me," she said with a strange grin of pride on her face. "Mommy's little boy."

The kid didn't move. His eyes were open and unblinking. How could he do that? A bug could fly into his eye. I was half-expecting the other kid to get up and enter the room. Who knows what he would have done. 

The baby-sitter came in and Phoebe told her to take Pablo back to bed. She said, "Again? Yay, that boy doesn't like strangers." And they laughed as Pablo stood and walked back to bed with the baby-sitter walking right behind him, trying not to touch him, lest he wake. 

Anyway, that's what I think was going on. I stood up to let Phoebe know I was ready to go. And we went. She couldn't drive fast enough to get me home. She waited for a kiss, but I was out the door faster than she could pucker. I entered the apartment and didn't turn on the lights till I saw she had driven off. 

I blazed a joint and sat in the dark and smoked it. No music. No TV. Just silence with my thoughts. 

"Notice how he sat between us."

"That boy doesn't like strangers."

"Mommy's little boy."

Honestly, I didn't want to call her and talk about it.  

"He's keeping you from me."

That was "cute" to Phoebe and the sitter. Maybe they knew the boy's strange sleepwalking trips better than I'd ever could, or wanted to. To me, that was surreal. Scary surreal. No one escorted the boy back to his bed with a push or even an attempt to carry him. They knew as soon as I was leaving, the boy would return to bed. As if they'd done this routine dozens of times. So routine, it was funny. 

I was creeped out. And stayed creeped out for days. Days that I didn't call Phoebe. Then weeks. Then months. 

About a year later, I ran into her at the college. She was with the sitter, who was registering for classes. Phoebe was just there for support. The sitter did all the talking like we were old friends. She knew I taught part-time at that particular college. But as she talked to me, Phoebe stared at me coldly, somewhere between anger and hatred, with just a dash of disappointment. 

The sitter excused herself when she heard the registrar call her name, took Phoebe by the hand, and almost dragged her to the registration window. She didn't break her stare once. After the sitter went to register, I waited a short moment for Phoebe to say goodbye. Nothing. Just the stare. 

As I walked to my classroom, I felt those old creeps rising on my skin like goosebumps. It was the stare. It was exactly the same face that little Pablo had when he sat between us that night. 

 

The Seven Orbs

Chapter Two

The Wizard's Apprentice

3

Beneath the Castle of King Terria, there was a pathway that formed a cross. The south entrance was designed as an escape for the King (when he was a Governor) should the War of the Three Kingdoms away from Terria's advantage. The west path changed from escape route to a secret entryway to the King's council chamber, an entrance covered by a tapestry of King Terria. The east passage led to the Dragon's Lair, where the creature has slept for ages since the War ended in Terria's favor. The north path led to the Wizard's Chamber, full of bottles, and barrels, and mutated creatures from the forest and mountainside, sea beast who'd lost their way and fallen into the current of the river, only to be tossed into the riverside to drown in air. Eight-legged slugs as big as pigs, fish that were neither water-bred or earth-born, with scales not unlike a dragon's and the capacity to mimic a bird's song, hairless wolves that preferred to walk on its hind legs but used all four limbs for flight from foes, and baby dragons that appeared to be growing into something resembling an old man with sinewy muscle but no skin or scale, more toad than fire-breathing beast. All these creatures, and more, the Wizard had captured, subdued with magic vapors, and stuffed with wood shavings to preserve their appearance and decorate his workplace. 

Why didn't you call me to help, Old One? wondered Malik the Apprentice to the Wizard. You raised me since the death of my father who died in battle for Lord Terria. You taught me what you could with the time we had. I, not even 20 years of age yet, with so much more to learn, cannot replace thee, my Master. I have only skills to conjure sparks and embers, to freeze an apple, to open a book with my thoughts, at the cost of a nose-bleed, however, and a two-day headache. What am I to do to replace you? What were you tasked with? I, who am not invited to the council, nor given instruction, save to finish what you started. And what was that?

Malik gazed up to face the seven floating orbs just below the ceiling.  

Seven. Only seven before your heart failed you. In the original War, there were 100, each carrying two arbalists, crossbowers. The bolts could exit the sphere, but bolts, spears, or arrows could not penetrate into the walls of the orbs. They floated above the battle. The first arbalist helmed the vessel with concentrated thought, as the Wizard so molded his mind, but he still could fire bolts, one to the free arbalist's three quarrels. The Kingdoms together could not mount an attack while their armies wavered in a defensive posture. What chance had they? Hundreds of small arrows with double the steel and sharper the tips raining down on them, piercing their shields and armor. And on the ground thousands of foot soldiers bearing broad swords and spears struck down any stragglers who couldn't retreat fast enough. But slow or fast, the Dragon's fire charred the armies to ash, as the Governor Terria rode the nape of the beast like a rider on his steed. Yet...here we have but seven orbs. I must study one and try to duplicate it. Battle will soon be upon us. 

Will we be ready? 100 orbs, 10,000 men, and a dragon. I closed my eyes and squeezed out tears of hubris, lest they overtake me. 

The Governors & The Machines

4

The forges in the caverns beneath the Anglican Forest burnt white hot, as bladesmilths, toolcrafters, blacksmiths, and carpenters attended to their mission and task. The molds and casts were filled with molden metal, and when they were cooled in the stream that was redirected to flow through the cavern, the metal parts were passed along to the next group who fit them with the wooden platforms and wheeled structures to build another machine. And another. Till there were dozens of the mechanical weapons. The largest could fire twenty foot spears, three feet thick, with a metal point so sharp, it could pierce a dragon's scales. The boxed weapons had openings in the front for the projectiles and a handle on the side that a soldier could turn to fire multiple circular blades that could slice through any army. The foot soldiers were armed with smaller versions of the boxes, but which fired smaller versions of the blades in higher numbers. One more day and they'd be ready for war. 

Governor Bosque and Governor Aquell strolled about the great cavern, fanning themselves as the heat from the forges fell heavy in the air. "These fans don't help a bit," said Bosque. "As a matter of fact, they make it worse. Fanning oneself with the hot breath of Hades."

"You speak true, my friend," agreed Aquell. "Still, your daughter's idea for the machines also spoke true. Look how her plans fared. We are near prepared. Abora trains the front soldiers in the use of the Spit Box."

"What a silly name? Who would fear such a name," Bosque laughed.

"May they die in laughter then," added Aquell. "It is pure evil. Each machine, from small to large, spits two, three projectiles at a time. They'll be overwhelmed."

"But what of the orbs, and what of the dragon?" Bosque's face was now fully serious. 

"We will concentrate first on the things of flesh and blood that we can reach with the small and large Spit Boxes. Then we'll unleash the Jousters last for our fire-breathing friend."

"Will it work?" Bosque asked with doubt. 

"You should trust the skill of your daughter's designs. I truly believe she sees goodness in these weapons. I truly believe they will surrender and give us our freedom without a fight. But we must guarantee that our freedom will not be taken from us again. They must be eliminated from any future equations. Only then can there be peace." Aguell looked Bosque straight in the eye and still saw doubt there. When the blood starts flowing, he'll believe. They'll believe as well. And then, they, too, will flee. 

Coming soon...

Winsome and Agyle In the Cavern

 5

The Night Before Battle

6

 

Memory Corner #9

Rainbows, Reds, & Yellow Jackets

The late Sixties gave us the Acid Rock of Pink Floyd, the original Progressive music of King Crimson, and the Hard Rock of Blue Cheer and Black Sabbath that was destined to become Heavy Metal. I loved the music scene, but I was a bookworm, so no high schooler took me seriously when I tried to join the conversations about those new albums by Led Zeppelin or Jethro Tull, let alone those by bands they'd never heard of like Blodwyn Pig or Mountain. They got their music from the radio Top 100 hits, which every AM radio station was looping every hour, while I hung around late night FM radio like KMET or KPPC (later, KROQ), where I heard bands like Supertramp, Nektar, Camel, and other (at the time) unclassifiable rock. And all this new music led to promotional tours. And that's when I knew I had to raise enough money to attend those concerts.

Which brings us to the other scene: The Drug Scene. 

It was just a matter of asking around the projects. What was popular with the Cholos? I already knew what was popular with the winos (alcoholics wasn't a word yet); with the winos, fortified wine like T-Bird was what winos wanted. I could probably make a few quarters stealing and selling the cheap booze, but it'd take a lot of quarters to buy a concert ticket. And too much risk doing multiple T-Bird runs. I could get shot or arrested, and shot or not, my dad would kick my ass. That left the Drug Scene as my other choice. Risky? No way. If they ain't real drugs. 

*********

There was a vitamin store at the mall, right next door to the pet supplies, across from the American Records Shop, where I bought all my import records, band like Barclay James Harvest and the Renaissance. My swimming coach always recommended supplements, that is, over-the-counter drugs to replace the nutrients lost during workouts and that prepared you mentally and physically before a swim meet. Even though the coach never did it, I could see the "wink-wink" in his eye and the "nudge-nudge" in his nod. Yeah, supplementals. Uppers, downers. You know, vitamins. NTA-approved. Well, close enough, right?

I walked up and down the well-lit aisles, the smell of sandalwood incense wafting in from the Head Shop down a few stores. "May I help you?" asked the pretty college-aged girl who looked like she worked out a lot in her spare time. I wondered what supplements she was taking. "I'm looking for some helpers my coach recommended for my swim meets and to get a good night's sleep," I said like the liar that I was. "Over here," she said, and I followed.

Down one aisle for some yellow pills, another aisle for the reds, and the rainbows, she had those behind the counter. "The yellows are your workouts, but be careful, not too many," she advised, "they can keep you awake longer than you'd like." She glanced at me, and when I didn't ask any questions, she continued, "The reds are for sleep, and you should be careful with those as some people complain that they have trouble getting up in the morning. Most people love the lucid dreaming though, a nice side effect of the reds." Another glance, but this time I nodded that I understood. "And last, the rainbows. When you have to concentrate, like for tests or study, take two, and only two, in the afternoon. Keep the reds and rainbows at least four hours apart. You want to sleep, not crash." That time I didn't understand, but I nodded anyway. 

She bagged the product in one of those shiny white store brand plastic shopping bags and handed it to me along with my change from a twenty. "This is about a month's supply. Good luck with your swim meet." And I was out the door. One more stop. 

********

The Maravilla Pet Shop, Pets and Supplies, smelled like rat urine. Their biggest selling item was rats, then mice, fish, and the food you feed them. It all stunk up the store. They never seem to sell any of the puppies in the window. I must have seen three puppies grow up and get replaced by a new cute puppy. I wondered at the possibility of inbreeding going on just to keep a puppy in the window, since it was the puppies that brought in new customers, who when they saw the price of the dogs, bought a mouse or a rat instead. 

The store owner was a stoner, like Chong from Cheesh and Chong. "Hey, Man, where's the capnip," I said rather than asked. "You know that shit don't get you high, right?" He waited for an answer. "It's for my cat." "Yeah, right," he smirked. He reached under the counter and pulled out baggies of catnip. Damn if it didn't look just like the big MJ. "How many bags, man?" he asked. "I'll take what you got." "Five it is, my Man." He rolled the sandwich bags into burritos and folded each burrito into the fold of each bag. He added the bags into my vitamin bag because he didn't want to waste a brown paper bag. I paid the man, said, "Till next time," and headed for home.

*********

At home I sorted the pills and sorted them into snack bags, pill bags, and aluminum paper. I used the card slots of my baseball card sheets in my folder to organize the assortment of drugs and "pot". I came up with a price for each item, calculated what I had to sell to paid for a concert ticket, transportation, and souvenir T-shirt. The whole folder, if I sold everything, would net me four concert tickets. Not all at once. I knew how to save money for upcoming shows. This whole drug thing was strictly for the music scene, I had to remind myself. 

Time to get to work. First and only stop. Martian's house.

You know, I didn't even know his real name. He looked like one of those Saucer Men from Invasion of the Saucer Men, and all the kids since middle-school have been calling him Martian. He was a nice guy, and lived in a big house a few blocks from the projects, more in the better neighborhoods with trim lawns and colorful gardens. I rang the doorbell, and a woman answered. We didn't say a word to each other, as if we were communicating telepathically. She nodded, called a name I didn't recognize, and Martian appeared. "Hey, Man," he said. "My mom thinks you're weird. Wanna see my room?"

In his room, I opened the folder. His eyes glazed over. "How much?" he wanted to know. "Which ones?" I asked. "Everything." And that's all it took. He opened a fake encyclopedia with hollowed pages, took out my asking price, and paid me. I slid out the product from each sleeve and watched him place the goods into another hollowed out encyclopedia. I thought, He must have the whole set. Deal done. I went home and hid the money. 

********

The concert was fantastic. Black Sabbath opened for Grand Funk Railroad at the Inglewood Forum, Home of the Lakers. At the show, I bought some hashish, a few buds. some yellows, a few real reds, and five hard-to-find blues (they'll calm you down in case you have a bad trip). I saw Martian at the show with some of his rich friends. They were smoking the 'nip, partying on caffeine pills, antihistamines, and diuretics. The music was great, but watching Martian and his friends was even greater. I was King of the Assholes. 

But what did I win?

The following day Martian came to my door, and I stepped outside to talk to him. He wanted more, you know, baseball cards for his encyclopedia. I don't know why but I asked him, "What's your real name?" He laughed. I mean, like uncontrollable laughter till I thought he'd choke. "You're funny." I told him to wait by the big tree in my yard, and I went and got the MJ bud, a few yellows and some reds. I kept the hashish and blues. 

Martian eyed the product suspiciously. I told him that this was better than the last stuff, same price, for you only. Fair? Yeah, fair, he said. 

And my conscience was clear. I was only King of the Assholes for one night. 

********

I was the envy of the high school rockers when I wore my Black Sabbath T-shirt. I told them all about the concert, the light show, the cloud of MJ smoke in the arena and how everyone inside the place had a contact high. We all laughed about it. For the first time, I was noticed. I wasn't the bookworm. I was the concert goer. And I had to let them know that I had my sights set on the upcoming David Bowie concert. Who? they asked, interested. Are they like Sabbath? Different. Lots of good different Rock out there. Wish I could go, said a pretty girl. I looked her in the eye and said, I'll tell you all about it. In the meantime, look up Bowie at American Records. Man, oh, man, things were happening. It didn't quite make sense.

So off to home I went to think about it, full of myself for impressing a bunch of people I'd never spoken to before. Who were they? Who was I? Man, what was I becoming?

*********

I walked through the park toward my house across the street. Martian was waiting for me by the baseball field bleachers, which were empty. He probably wanted more goodies. He took a bud out of his shirt pocket, tossed it to the concrete floor, and smashed it underfoot into powder and kicked it away. "This isn't the good shit, like you promised," he said like really pissed off. "My friends thought I was trying to rip them off. I want the old stuff. By tomorrow. Bring it to my house. If you don't, I'll tell your friends at school you're a phony. Tony phony baloney." And off he stormed. 

What the hell just happened? Was this one of those famous ironies of life? Was I the only one who was staring into the shocked face of the audience in a moment of fifth wall chicanery? Was the audience booing Othello and cheering Iago? 

So be it. 

I went to the mall. did some shopping for vitamins and pet supplies. I even stopped to pat the puppies on the head. Soon these puppies would be supplying the display windows with their inbred offspring. What goes around. I took Martian "the good stuff", and he thanked me and begged for forgiveness because he lost his temper. He even paid me extra for the goods and made me promise to bring him and his friends more stuff. I promised with all my heart.

At home, I hid the money, calculated how many more concerts I could afford, and decided to open a bank account. I bet if I planned it right, I could take that girl to the Bowie concert. So, why did I hate myself? Oh, yeah, because I was King of the Assholes. Why did everyone love me then? Same reason. It's good to be King. 

 

The Teen Tragedy: The Pop Music of Death

On September 30, 1955, famous movie star James Dean crashed his Porsche 550 Spyder on U.S. Route. He was killed by the collision with another car at State Juncture 41. His posthumous fame rose with the release of the popular Rebel Without a Cause (1955), and to this day, Jame Dean, like Marilyn Monroe, became tragic icons of the 1950s. For the next ten years or so, Popular music turned grim: fatal accidents, suicides, murder became the topic for hit songs. This era became known as the Era of Teen Tragedy. 

There are many songs to choose from, but I selected the ten that I most like as opposed to the most popular ones.  Songs range from the sublime to the ridiculous, so I'll explain a bit about them. But the best way to experience them is to hear them and read the lyrics, because those lyrics, they're from another age where death was the most precious expression of love.

Let's get to our songs.

1. Teen Angel--Mark Dinning (1959)

Teenage couple's car stall on railroad track as train approaches; they get out of the car safely but the girl runs back for the high school ring that he gave her. The ring was still clutched in her hand when they pulled her corpse from the car wreck. Song ends with a burial.

2. Tell Laura I Love Her--Ray Peterson (1960)

Youth races his car in a stock-car tournament to win enough money to buy his girl a wedding ring. He crashes and is fatally injured. His final words as they pull him from the burning wreck, "Tell Laura I love her". Song ends with a burial. 

3. Strange Things Happen (Laurie)--Dickey Lee (1965)

Boy meets girl at dance, walks her home, lends her his sweater. Leaves her at her door, forgets sweater, returns, and man answers door. Turns out the man's daughter died a year ago this very night. The boy rushes to the graveyard and finds his sweater on her grave. This is more a popular local legend ghost story that has traveled around to many towns and neighborhoods. Not really Teen Tragedy. He did get his sweater back, after all. 

4. Patches--Dickey Lee (1962)

This Dickey Lee tackles a true Teen Tragedy. Boy from the rich side of the railroad tracks loves girl from the poor side of the tracks. His parents forbid him from seeing her again. After he doesn't show up to see her for a while, she drowns herself in the river. When he learns of her death, he vows to commit suicide to join her. 

5. Running Bear--Johnny Preston (1959)

Thought about excluding this song for its outdated view on Native Americans, but it's such a great Teen Tragedy song, I had to include it.

Boy and girl from different tribes across the river from each other are forbidden from seeing each other. They swim out and meet each other in the middle of the river and drown. 

6. Last Kiss--Wayne Cochran (1961)

Teens are in a car crash. He survives; as she dies, she asks for one last kiss. Pretty simple and straightforward. This song has been covered by Pearl Jam and Taylor Swift, thus legitimizing the Teen Tragedy genre. I think. 

7. The Water was Red--Johnny Cymbal (1960)

Young teen boy meets young teen girl by the seaside and fall in love. They go for a swim, and a shark kills her. No gory details, just the water was red. The boy retrieves the girl's corpse from the water and sets it gently on the sand. He then grabs a knife, and he kills the shark. The first chorus (the water was red) refers to the girl's death, and the second to the shark's death. The title gives away the story right off. Beach, swim, red water. Ingredients for a Teen Tragedy song. 

8. Call Me Lonesome--Arthur Alexander (1962)

Young teen boy at a dance party with his girlfriend sees another man dancing with his girl. He interrupts the dance as the man gets aggressive with his girl, and he is stabbed to death. What makes this Teen Tragedy song different from the others is that the narrator tells the story of his death and the song fades as he dies while he tells the girl that it's all right with him the way he dies. 

9. Jimmy Love--Cathy Carroll (1961)

Young woman narrates the story of how she met Jimmy, her fiancee, and describes how they will marry at the chapel. As they walk in stormy rain, lightning hits a tree, and it crashes down and crushes Jimmy to death. She completes her walk to the chapel and vows to love him forever. 

9. Oh, Susie Forgive Me--Kenny Karen (1962)

Narrator, young man, describes his reckless driving which results in his driving into a telephone pole, paralyzing his girlfriends legs. The operation to fix her will cost a lot. The youngster robs a store to get the money, but the police arrive and shoot him. As he lays there dying, Susie, his girlfriend, runs up to him, and he says, "Susie, forgive me." So, could she walk or not? The song doesn't explain. I hear there's other versions of this song, but, sorry, no deep dive for me. As Teen Tragedy, please forgive me for including it. 

10. The Pickup--Mark Dinning (1962)

Young man has his first date with a girl that he falls in love with instantly, but he is so overwhelmed by his feelings, that he tones down his feelings so as not to scare off the girl. And when he friends make fun of him for acting so lovestruck around the girl, he tells her that he can't see her again. Later that night, she kills herself by jumping off a bridge, and even as his heart is breaking, he keeps up his facade with his friends that she didn't mean anything to him.

Typical man. Such macho bullshit. This was probably my number one favorite from my deep dive into Teen Tragedy Songs. 

*******************

So, there you have it. The Era of the Teenage Tragedy, from the ridiculous to the sublime. I tried to vary the deaths, as the majority were split between suicide and car crashes (one airplane crash). Lots of broken engagements, breakups, and shattered dreams. From revenge on a shark to murder at a dance, there's a lot here to enjoy. 

Till next time, when Anthony Servante will bring you some more forgotten hits. 

 

The Roots of Irony as Language 

Part I.

Anthony Servante, G.E.D. 

Introduction:

Irony is not funny in and of itself. It is no more comical than a noun clause or a coordinating conjunction. It is a grammatical tool for communication. The problem is, however, that not everyone speaks the language let alone understands the language of irony. Consider your own use of the English language. If I were to ask you what a "predicate" is, you might answer, "It is the part of the sentence that shows what the subject is doing", and then you'd wait for me to give you a gold star for your little Kindergarten notebook with Pikachu on the cover, and yet, your answer would be wrong. Sure you earned a gold star because you know what the correct answer the teacher expects, but you don't know what it means. If you look up "give" in the dictionary, you'll find, "to give"; antonym: "to take". And round and round you go. You have the right answers straight from the teacher and right out of the dictionary, but you don't understand what has been communicated to you. You are learning circular answers that avoid any understanding of the question. 

We have the same problem with "irony": What is irony? Not the answer, but the understanding.

I will try to share my understanding of irony from its use as a tool of communication, as I've learned from my studies over the years, and examine the words of the scholars from Soren Kierkegaard, to Sigmund Freud, to S.I. Hiyakawa, to Wayne C. Booth, and, of course, add my middling two cents worth of knowledge. I will attempt to avoid pat answers and circular explanations. Instead, I shall select a direction and head that way, hoping to meet you at the end of the path. So, even though you are on the reading side of the writing, and I am on the writing side, let's try to rendezvous where the two sides meet. See you there.

*******************

The Two Ironies: Concept and Concrete.

What Kierkegaard sought to explain in The Concept of Irony was "the concept". (As we will see later with Hiyakawa, we must distinguish the "map" from the "territory"). For Kierkegaard, the concept is the map of irony. How the map is used gets us to the location we desire to visit. In this sense, we choose to communicate and the other is to whom we choose to communicate. 

The two ironies at work includes the one within our head, formulating, planning, organizing; and the second one, outside ourselves, responding, reacting, understanding. From thought to action. There is the subjective self at work and the objective other as the target. Herein, we communicate. However, because the mode of communication is irony, a unspoken meaning emerges. I think, What a fine morning, and tell my wife, Good morning, my intention being to convey the state of the day as I see it, and my wife can understand that I have have a good opinion of the day; however, she may also understand that unspoken, mysterious meaning: What did he mean by that "Good morning"? beyond the state of the day. 

In Kierkegaard's words, "But just as there is something deterring about irony, it likewise has something extraordinarily seductive and fascinating. Its masquerading and mysteriousness, the telegraphic communication it prompts because an ironist always has to be understood at a distance, the infinite sympathy it presupposes, the fleeting but indescribable I stand of understanding that is superseded by the anxiety of misunderstanding". In other words, the language is comprised of words and sentences with grammatical rules and constructs, yet we see between the lines of the language to acknowledge a "mysterious" meaning at play. Two people communicate yet the meaning of the communication is like a "mask", leaving the subject and the other more distant from each other than before they communicated. Intentions are misunderstood. We cannot see the forest for the trees, so to speak. 

The Joke

Sigmund Freud, in "Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious", discussed how words and ideas could be mixed or reformed to create ambiguous meaning, what he called "metaphoric meaning", that is, a mechanism for the joke to travel between the parties. 

Clear communication indicated, in essence, a direct translation of idea to meaning, such as "that tree" refers to an object that I point to without ambiguity. But if I refer to "that tree" and point to the moon, then I introduce ambiguity. The indirect translation is no longer of the referent (that specific tree) but an unclear or confusing communication of a different object as the referent (the moon). The word "tree" matches "that tree", whereas the word "tree" no longer matches "that moon". The mismatch conveys the joke.

For Freud, the joke communicated contradictions to reach that unconscious level of understanding. The tree/moon mix no longer communicates a clear connection to the right listener. So, the listener is likely to laugh or think a mistake has been made. To the person who laughs, there was some communication at the unconscious level. The person who hears/sees a mistake misunderstands the metaphoric meaning because his conscious interpretation is confused. How can a tree be the moon?! 

Stable and Unstable Irony

Wayne C. Booth in "A Rhetoric of Irony" explains how irony is ambiguous for two reasons: Firstly, "double meaning" can convey a contrast between fiction and nonfiction, or real and unreal. Booth calls this form of communication, "stable irony". For example, if I say, "I will never die", I mean, "I will die". However, the degrees which Booth here calls "distance" comes in the form of circumstances for which the irony is applied. If I were in my 90s, on my death bed, and I tell my loved ones, "I will never die", the meaning "I will die soon" is clearer to the loved ones, whereas, if a teenager told his friends, "I will never die", his youth betrays a cocky confidence that is absent from the old man saying the same thing. The "distance" of meaning for the old man to his bedside family is closer given the circumstances, while the "distance" for the young man and his friends is much farther apart given his age. The phrase "I will never die" has "different rhetorical purposes" for each person who uses it in their particular circumstances. 

Secondly, Booth asserts that "unstable irony" does not communicate its purpose. It is deliberately vague, uncertain, and ambiguous. This definition is closer to Freud view of the Joke, but with Freud, the joke does communicate intent, whereas with Booth, unstable irony engages but does not explain. In the case of saying "the tree" while pointing at the moon, what is communicated? 

To Freud, there was only communication with the person who laughed at the joke (the ambiguity); the non-laugher was puzzled, not deliberately so; they just didn't get the joke. To Booth, true unstable irony does not announce its intentions. Whether you laugh or not, a tree is not the moon. The listener must be willing to have a type of suspension of disbelief for irony for it to be unstable. "Conflicting meanings" holds such irony together for such a listener.  

The Map is not the Territory

S. I. Hayakawa, in "The Use and Misuse of Language", maintains a simple premise for language: Language, in and of itself, is not the intent. Communication is the intent. Just as "the map is not the territory", the language is not the meaning. What we understand is the territory here. For Hayakawa, irony would be the map, for irony was just another form of language. 

For instance, no matter the language, the moon is the moon. La Luna, in Spanish, is not the moon. That thing up in the sky is the moon. In Art, there's a painting that is titled, This is not an Apple (sic), but what you have is a perfectly painted apple on the canvas. For Hayakawa, Art was just another language. 

Irony, in this sense, still must convey meaning. Otherwise, it would be gibberish. But irony does require a sender and a receiver. Irony cannot work in a vacuum. A map of nowhere conveys nothing, no direction, no territory. How then does Hayakawa explain irony as language? One, the referent and reality (that is, the word "moon" and the round thing in the sky we call moon) contrast (just as "tree" contrasts with our pointing to the moon); two, the speaker and listener are "context-dependent" on communication (the listener must understand "joke" when the speaker says tree and points to the moon); and three, the speaker and listener must communicate with the new meanings of irony consistently, for any language to work, it must be consistent whether by map or territory. 

Irony as Paradox: Neuro-Integrity

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As we have seen, irony as language requires similar uses: Ambiguity, contrast, and context in order to communicate intent. But in the world today, communicating intent is not so clear cut. As we've seen, irony is just not understood by everyone. For some, the ambiguity is mistaken for error or misspoken intent. How many times have you made a joke, for instance, and no one understands it. Yet many of these same people understand puns and other play on words. I once told a fellow teacher in the English department that I was working on a paper on the paradox of paradigms. He responded, "Like a pair of doctors?!" The other teachers laughed and said, "Good one." I stood there in dismay, and they misunderstood my dismay by asking, "Don't you get it? A pair of doctors. A paradox!" Maybe I was the weird one there. 

But no. We were just wired differently. That's what I'd like to address here. The neurology of irony. Why some people get it, and others don't. 

The Brain's Do's and Don'ts. 

The thalamic region of the brain is the relay center for receiving and sending neuro signals; incoming from the five senses come via the sympathetic nervous system; outgoing come from the parasympathetic nervous system. A cold breeze passes over your warm skin, and a cool  sensation is transmitted from your skin along neuro transmitters to the brain, namely, the thalamus. There the signal is translated to a chill and send back to the skin via the parasympathetic system. When the point of origin receives the message, you get goosebumps. Yes, very simplistic explanation. Why? To explain the language of irony via the nervous system and why some people get it and others don't. 

The thalamus doesn't work the same for everyone. There are those who are born with a natural curiosity. As children, they take their toys apart and put them back together because they want to know how they work. But some rebuild the toys exactly as it was before it was taken apart, while others put it back together into a better working toy. Both types of children have the same skills, but one has a better imagination. They can imagine how the toy can work better when they understand how it works. Those who lack such imagination rebuild the toys exactly as it was before the dissection. Same skills, different point of view. But the person with imagination for improvement can picture the toy in a new way and proceed to rebuild it that way, whereas the person who sees the toy only as it was before can only rebuild it as it was before. 

So, where does one's point of view come from then? So, where does one's point of view come from then? It comes from the thalamus, but how the brain center is influenced varies in both culture and neurology. If a child is punished for taking the toy apart, his skill at dismantling is suppressed by punishment for "breaking" the toy. The child can put the toy back together, but he will never get the chance since it is considered broken. The child who is given only one toy and no more learns to disassemble the toy and reassemble it into something new, something better. One child fears punishment, the other appreciates preservation as reward. The former learns taking the toy apart is bad, while the latter learns that he can make the toy last longer by caring for it and modifying it. 

The child who fears punishment develops neurological pathways that may lead to pain should he use his skill. The child who rewards himself by using his skill to create new toys from the old develops neurological pathways that lead to pleasure. They are both born with a thalamus but circumstance, context, and emotion influence the development of the pathways that suppress or encourage the flow of neuro input and output to and from the thalamic region. 

A suppressed background of punishment can lead to "defense mechanisms" triggered by fear when certain neuro pathways are crossed. For instance, "denial" and "repression" block unwanted thoughts by calling them false. To recall the spanking we received for "breaking" our expensive toy may prevent us from trying to fix that flat tire, saying it's the job for a professional. Though he may have that skill to fix a flat, change those bathroom pipes, or repair that stove, that same skill is buried beneath a culture of punishment and a lifelong neurological enforcement of avoiding this skill. 

The child who grew up without these type of "defense mechanisms" may have a more developed skill and a more active imagination. The combination of skill and imagination trigger the neuro pathways leading creating something new from the old. He has no trouble fixing a flat, doing the plumbing work at home, or repairing the stove, because, like the improved rebuilt toy, you extend the life of the old toy, just as you improve the car, the pipes, and the stove. Why buy new ones when you can fix the old. 

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Coming soon...

The Use of Irony as Language 

Part II

 

Things Can Only Get Better Tour Review

by Anthony Servante

 If you look closely at the small print on the sign for the Howard Jones, Wang Chung, The English Beat, and Modern English concert, you'll see the words, "Featuring Full Performances By".  With an all 80s music line-up, and a start-up time of 6:30 p.m., I figured that each band would play a traditional set common to what they performed in their time for the fans that have kept up with them till this day. What a treat. 

Instead, we got a typical 80s Pop Band Package concert, that is, 80s bands that tour together for the older nostalgia crowds. Each band does around 3 to 5 of their most popular songs, and the closing band does about a 30 minute set (the headliners tend to have more hits than the openers). 

Richard Blade is the host for these Package shows in Los Angeles as it was his radio show on KROQ (pronounced K-Rock) that first introduced these mostly British bands to the California Southland. Blade played snippets from the top five KROQ songs from 1980 through 1989 between sets. The crowd went crazy each time the opening notes of a song started and booed when Blade cut short the snippet. You'd have thought that this was the concert. 

But the real concert started with Modern English, who performed a rudimentary set that only hardcore fans would recognize. Their final song, I Melt With You" livened things up a bit, but not much, as the band was happy to let the audience sing the song over their instrumentation. Karaoke 101, I like to call it. 

Personally, I always attend these Package shows, even though they are often hit-and-miss. Karaoke 101 is part of the problem. Some bands are strictly there to accommodate the crowd and encourage the crowd to sing along, but at least they sing too. That is what I paid to hear: The band sing the song. (Roger Daltrey of The Who actually stopped singing a song when the crowd joined in; he yelled, This isn't karaoke!, and the sing-along stopped. I've never heard any singer do that before or since. Daltrey was the only one I know of who did it. And good for him). We can do with less K-101.

On the other side of the coin, we have The English Beat (aka, The Beat, All the Young Cannibals, and General Public). They thought it would be a good idea to play all their five songs in Reggae style with a hint of Rap (not Hip-Hop, but old time Rap). Sorry, but I came to hear 80s New Wave. But the crowd outvoted me and danced along to the music. Right, from sing-along to dance-along. I wisely used my time to refill my Pepsi Zero and bought some Truffle Fries, which were soggy like I like them. 

Then there's the New Wave bands who have new albums out. Wang Chung was promoting the reissue of Live and Die in L.A. and played songs from it. Great set. That's when 5 songs is too short a set. The band used the two huge screens on either side of the stage to showcase clips from the 80s versions of their set to run along with their live set on-stage. That was a treat. That was a real concert set. Yes, of course they closed their show with "Everybody Have Fun Tonight". This was the winner band of the package. 

Howard Jones closed the show. I apololize, but I was unfamiliar with his music. I didn't even know who he was when he played keyboards for the 2001 Ringo Starr's All-Star Band line-up of Roger Hodgson of Supertramp, Ian Hunter of Mott the Hoople, Greg Lake of King Crimson and Emerson, Lake, and Palmer, and Sheila E., Pete Escovedo's percussionist daughter. With that strong a line-up for this Prog Man, it's little surprise that Howard Jones was lost in the crowd. A friend of mine who also attended the All-Star concert commented that Jones seemed subdued and didn't play any of his hits. Sadly, I wouldn't have known if he did. The Jones show seemed out of place, you know, like post-Genesis Phil Collins: More syrupy pop than heavy Prog. Still, the crowd liked it. There were singalongs and dance-alongs in his 11 song set. 

So, all in all, it was a Wang Chung show for me, with Richard Blade as DJ playing 10 years' worth of 80s New Wave hits, even though they were only snippets. I enjoyed myself. I really loved the crowd-watching. They were consistently entertaining throughout the evening. Folks old enough to be grandparents (I'm one), and kids in their teens. Blade called a young man over to the front of the stage and asked his age. He was 17. Blade pointed out to the crowd that this kid was singing all the words to all the songs that were playing. 

Great. Another karaoke generation on the way up. 

 

In Dream... #1

In dream..., 

my friend picks me up from work at the factory and drives me north to the university. Along the way, I spot that old corner grocery store where they sell comic books from the 60s and 70s for cover price, still brand new condition. 

I tell my friend to pull over. He tries making a left hand turn, but we encounter some street construction. A large miller clawing up black chunks of the asphalt. 

We U-turn and now head south, back through the factories and the smell of burning tar and smoldering wood. In a few more miles we will be at the beach. We've gone too far. I tell my friend to turn around, but he is gone. I am driving. I U-turn into that damn street construction. 

The asphalt miller has dug away most of the street save for a small thin strip that I carefully drive on. I fear the car will fall if I sway one inch too far left or right, so I stop and get out of the vehicle. I climb down the wall of that thin strip of street, using bits of asphalt as a ladder to the bottom. I look up and see the car balanced on the impossibly thin strip of street. 

I should be by the corner grocery store, so I climb up the west end of the ditch. The store is indeed there, but it is not the same inside. There is no comics section. The lights are too bright. I leave under the suspicious gaze of the owner and his wife, the cashier. 

The ditch is gone. The car is gone. The construction of the street a thing of the past. 

If I turn left, to the university, I may make it to class in time. If I turn right, to the factory, I could work a few extra hours. There is no west. And so I head east, into the glare of the sunrise.

I am blinded awake. My left eye still closed, my right eye glances at the clock. 6:00 a.m. sharp. 

A strange depression settles over me, as if the day were over, and it were time for bed. I get up, turn on the coffee machine, and hope that that first long sip of the hot morning brew will salvage this lost day. Though I know in my heart, it never will.