Utopian Turtletop. Monsieur Croche's BĂȘte Noire. Contact: turtletop [at] hotmail [dot] com

Thursday, February 16, 2006

After dinner tonight, putting Fon der Choope (From the Wedding) on the CD player, my 3-year-old and I dancing around the living room, he grabs my hands so we can dance in a circle together -- very trad! How did he know? He's never been to a Jewish wedding!

Tremendous music.

Tuesday morning, before heading off on our day, the 3-year-old came back from the neighbors' house. He and Jane frequently draw together; Jane is an artist and an art teacher. The 3-year-old had drawings with him. I grilled him. Did anybody help him with these drawings? No. Did Jane or John (her husband -- it's a common name) tell him what to draw? No. Then my beloved spouse saw the drawings. Exact same interrogation. She called the neighbors. They confirmed the suspect's story. His first drawings of people. This one, he told me, is me. I dig the toes.

* * * *

More on the conservative nature of rock & pop music: fashion fashion fashion & planned obsolescence. Gotta be cool, gotta be up-to-date ("everything's up-to-date in Kansas City!"), gotta keep abreast of What's Happening Baby. Consume consume consume! The relentless destruction of the present -- the mode of capitalism par excellence -- no fashion stays current, no social form remains stable, "All that is solid melts into air" (Marx, on capitalism's relationship to social norms).

Nostalgic geezers like me, boasting of ye Olde Records in my collection, are no different -- merely a different fashion.

Simply because I happen to share the consuming passion . . . doesn't mean I condone it!

A friend in college (and bandmate after we dropped out) used to say that white people have no culture. That's capitalism at work. I've stumbled on remnants of 19th century pop culture in my parents' house, stuff my great-grandparents and their parents and grandparents owned; the connections to that culture died with my grandpa; I keep slim fragments of it alive in my memory, and to an extent, on this blog. The Old Oaken Bucket may not be a great poem, but I'm glad to know it.

Heck, maybe, if I'm lucky, I can start a trend, a fad, a movement, and bring that poem back into popularity, back into circulation, and . . . somebody can make a lot of money from it!

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