Pumpkin Resurrection

Yes, I’ve been derelict in my updating for quite a while. To the small handful of readers who visit, I apologize for this absence (I’m sure your worlds were cast into darkness and confusion during this time). I’d like to say my disappearance was the result of some exciting or dramatic event, but really all that happened was my old computer simply chose to no longer turn on, reducing it to an ugly, twenty pound tan footstool full. In the two months since it shuffled this mortal coil, I’ve had to rely on the generosity of others to even check my e-mail. The only other functioning computer in the apartment is a laptop that not only is not adaptable to the digital internet connection, but suffered some minor stroke in the past, rendering all the keys on the right edge of the keyboard dead. Not only did this mean I couldn’t ask questions or offer quotes, it meant I could not hit backspace, a key I use only slightly less often than the spacebar (bad speller, lazy typist). I tired a few times to manage my sites from the public library, but each time I logged in the graphic of the pumpkin being violated by the strap-on would appear, catching the eye of the honest slobs using the library for more noble reasons than adding puffy nipple links to their blogs.

But all that’s over; Thursday night the UPS driver delivered the new computer, which, after only a few hours of cursing and techno-emasculation, was successfully up and running. As little as I pay attention to the current vogue for gadgetry and built-in instant obsolescence, I know full well that the new computer is not exactly at the forefront of cutting edge (it cost less than a thousand dollars). But since this is not only the first flat screen I’ve ever had, it’s the first system not running Windows 98, I finally feel like a citizen of the Twenty-First century…now all I have to do is wax my genitals and develop cell phone induced brain cancer and I’m really in with the in-crowd. (Side note- this 2003 version of Word is kicking my ass; I tend to write long, multi-clause sentences, which 98 always threw back at me with the complaint of “overly long”. It’s nice to use a computer than can process sentences more nuanced than a ransom note.)

Among the unfinished pieces trapped in the malfunctioning computer, was one about my (then) approaching birthday. Even if I could access the old hard drive, the moment has passed, and it won’t be publishable for another ten months. Not that I had anything profound or personal to say about reaching thirty-six; friends of mine who’ve also hit that age this year are all tortured about its’ meaning, but I came to peace with the unalterable progress toward decay and death years ago. It doesn’t hurt that my looks were never exactly the strong card in my deck…or that my hair is offering no signs that it intends on leaving anytime soon. The torture presented each year as my birth’s anniversary approaches has nothing to do with either the fading echo of youth (there are enough childless, unmarried adults in this city to keep me from being the oldest person at the show or at the bar), nor is it a response to the slow but unstoppable shuffle toward the grave. No, the real problem lies in trying to find a full day’s worth of good albums released in 1970.

Rock was in bad way in 1970: the power and vitality of garage and beat, as well as the ambition and originality of the original psychedelic sound, had all been driven from the rock scene, replaced with both the aimless jamming of roadhouse guitar warriors and gentle weeping of hippie balladeers. This is not to say there were no good albums released that year; “Man Who Sold the World”, “Loaded”, the self-titled Hawkwind debut, “Funhouse”, “Live At Leeds”, “The Madcap Laughs”, “Bitches Brew” and “Paranoid” were released in ’70…masterpieces all. And while these all essential entries into the Rock Canon, they’re all also albums I knew intimately by the time I was seventeen (except Hawkwind). The problem is, my 1970 collection has barely grown in about twenty years. Scrolling though the Wikipedia entry for the albums released that year, I can easily understand why. There’s no great pride in knowing that I entered this world the same year as Emerson, Lake and Palmer’s debut, or that I’m the same age as Bob Dylan’s only lousy pre-Jesus release (“Self-Portrait”).

Really, the blame falls on my mother for this mess. A little bit of forethought and self-discipline on her part, and I’d have a far wider menu of selections to choose from. Holding it in for just two more months would have brought me into the world in 1971. Actually, reading through that list I see that year also saw some truly atrocious records (Carly Simon and Three Dog Night both released two albums). Let’s see, 1972…checking…Okay, I now realize that to have more than a day’s worth of good birth year music to choose from, my mother would have had to be pregnant for about fifty-seven months, which would have greatly traumatized both of us.