A Cure Thing
David Chelsea, who drew The Dawn Patrol's wonderful signature caricature (at left) writes, "You say you know what you believe is true because it cured your depression. Would you still believe if you hadn't been cured?"

No. Next question.

Seriously, that's almost a chicken-and-egg situation. The nature of my depression, matched with the nature of my religious experience, was such that my religious experience had to cure me.

With the kind of depression I had—what my then-shrink liked to call "existential depression"—I was outwardly rational except that I hated myself and wanted to die. I couldn't see any purpose of living with pain. To that end, I tried very hard to convince myself that there was no afterlife, and therefore no hell, because I wanted to think that I could end my pain by killing myself.

The positive side of belief in an afterlife—that there might be a heaven—was irrelevant to me. Without having a real and imminent sense of God's hand working throughout the universe, I couldn't see the point of enduring real and intense suffering for some intangible, far-off prize of happiness.

Looking back, I think of C.S. Lewis's observation in The Great Divorce that souls who are in Hell believe that Hell began for them on the day they were born, while souls who are in Heaven believe that Heaven began for them on the day they were born.

Although I don't feel particularly heavenly right now—I'm going through a period of personal loss, and not appreciating my blessings as much as I'd like—I do believe that, in a sense that I don't quite understand, I am in Heaven. And I have absolutely no doubt that, during the time when I suffered from cyclical suicidal depression (from about age 17 to age 31)—despite having a loving family, friends, and an often-exciting life—I was in Hell.

So, to return to David Chelsea's question, when I had a faith experience in late 1999 that convinced me both of the existence of God, and that He cared about me, that very knowledge, and the faith it brought, healed me.

One question that David did not ask, but which I think is relevant, is that of whether I would continue to believe in God even if I became depressed again. I think about that sometimes, although it's very frightening and painful to even think of returning to that former darkness. I do believe that, if I were to become depressed again, the depression would not be like it was before, because I know too much. I know that God exists, and I know that, even if my outward circumstances change, there is a truth—God's truth—that transcends appearances.

"For God, who commanded the light to shine out of darkness, hath shined in our hearts, to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ . . . . [T]hough our outward man perish, yet the inward man is renewed day by day." 2 Corinthians 4:6, 16

Winding Up the Clock Analogy: Today I was pleased to receive some friends' thoughtful replies to my last couple of posts. I also received an e-mail containing a sharp comeback to the post on Tanked Michael's Weblog in which Michael explained at length his motives for not returning the bracelet. While I'm tempted to do a Spy and print the e-mail about Michael [remember when Spy used to publish letters to The New Yorker?], I don't feel right printing outside comments about his blog when he himself is willing to consider questions (if not comments) from his own readers.

On a lighter note, people who saw me at Friday's "Outsider Music" show at Fez were treated to a rare sight, as I had boldly experimented upon my hair with a crimping iron. I'd thought it would make me look like a 1984 Macy's Juniors mannequin. In fact, with hair jutting out by my ears under my black leather cap, I looked like nothing so much as Finlay Currie as Magwitch, the convict in David Lean's production of "Great Expectations."

Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is? Having heard from both Tanked Michael and cartoonist (that's his self-portrait at right) Jeremiah Murphy that I failed to fully explain my Lewis Carroll reference, I would like to say a little more. I didn't want to go into too much detail in my earlier post, partly because I wanted to give a sense of my own inarticulateness and frustration in the conversation with J., and partly because I didn't know how to say what I wanted to say without sounding self-righteous. But this is a blog, and trying to fight the urge to champion one's beliefs in this medium is like trying to play a Sixties garage classic without a fuzzbox. So . . .

What struck me the most about Carroll's brainteaser was how brilliantly he satirized the futility of trying to explain a metaphysical concept that one knows is right. Using an example from my own circle of friends, when Tanked Michael picked up a gold bracelet that a woman dropped on the street, most of his friends who witnessed or heard about it believed that it would be right for him to return it. They may or may not have believed in God, but they believed that a higher concept of goodness should influence Michael to go against his desire to keep the jewelry. Yet, no amount of chiding on their part could make him agree that there was such a higher goodness, or that he should follow it. [UPDATE: Michael, who has posted a response to this post on his Web site, writes to me in an e-mail, "Just to be clear, I did not want that bracelet. I didn't want the woman to have it, which is not the same."]

How do we know the time? We get it from our clocks, which get it from the Atomic Clock or some such construction, which gets it from calculations which are ultimately based on the movement of the earth in relation to the sun. When we believe what our clock says, we allow ourselves to take on the clock's knowledge, so to speak.

Likewise, how do we know when we are right? If you believe in God—and this goes for Jews as well as Christians—then you believe that God is the source of rightness, and that being right means placing ourselves in a position where we admit God's knowledge, either by acknowledging it, or, as Christians would put it, allowing ourselves to take on his knowledge—to set ourselves by His clock, as it were.

But, as Carroll points out, using a transcendent metaphysical source for rightness strikes rational materialists—like J.—as a tautology. J. doesn't believe in a transcendent metaphysical source, so J. believes that those who point to that source are merely interpreting the world by their own rules—or by rules that other people made up. So J. is frustrated by my propounding a tautology, and I'm frustrated by my inability to make it seem like anything other than a tautology.

Put Your Second Hand in the Hand: What do people mean when they say, "Even a stopped clock is right twice a day?"

I think one of the things they mean is: Motives matter. The way that one reaches a conclusion has an importance all its own.

There is another way that a clock gone awry exemplifies an aspect of human behavior. Yesterday, I spoke with someone—I'll call this person "J."—who told me that everyone who held a certain belief—one near to my own heart—was "off." Not entirely crazy, J. said, but "off."

As J. spoke, I looked beyond to the clock on the wall of the diner where we sat, with its neon sign reading, "TIME TO EAT". It made me think of Lewis Carroll's brainteaser about which is more accurate—a stopped clock, or a clock that loses a minute every day. The answer is the stopped clock; the other one is right only once every two years.

I thought about what it meant to be "off" compared to J. If J. were set to the right time, and I were off by just one minute, such a seemingly small difference would gradually pull us farther and farther apart.

It wasn't until the next day, when I reread Carroll's brainteaser, that I realized just how much it chimed true. Perhaps I'm reading too much into it, but it strikes me as a painfully brilliant satire of all manner of apologetics:

THE TWO CLOCKS

WHICH is better, a clock that is right only once a year, or a clock that is right twice every day? `The latter,' you reply, `unquestionably.' Very good, now attend.

I have two clocks: one doesn't go at all, and the other loses a minute a day: which would you prefer? `The losing one,' you answer, `without a doubt.' Now observe: the one which loses a minute a day has to lose twelve hours, or seven hundred and twenty minutes before it is right again, consequently it is only right once in two years, whereas the other is evidently right as often as the time it points to comes round, which happens twice a day.

So you've contradicted yourself once.

'Ah, but,' you say, `what's the use of its being right twice a day, if I ca'n't tell when the time comes?'

Why, suppose the clock points to eight o'clock, don't you see that the clock is right at eight o'clock? Consequently, when eight o'clock comes round your clock is right.

`Yes, I see that,' you reply.

Very good, then you've contradicted yourself twice: now get out of the difficulty as best you can, and don't contradict yourself again if you can help it.

You might go on to ask, 'How am I to know when eight o'clock does come? My clock will not tell me.' Be patient: you know that when eight o'clock comes your clock is right, very good; then your rule is this: keep your eye fixed on your clock, and the very moment it is right it will be eight o'clock. 'But—,' you say. There, that'll do; the more you argue the farther you get from the point, so it will be as well to stop.

And We Danced: Last Friday, Todd (sans trademark) and I went to see the Smithereens at B.B. King's with Forgotten New York king Kevin Walsh and his friend Mary Beth [sp.?]. Kevin's written a review of the 'Reens' excellent performance for his blog, but I'd like to add here that the opening act was also a real treat: Eric Bazilian, the hit songwriter ("One of Us") and former member of the Hooters (making a point in the photo at left).

I must admit, at the time of the Hooters' hits, I was too busy becoming a '60s garage snob (and following similarly-styled new acts like the Mosquitos) to fully appreciate them. Hearing Eric play ringing Big Star-via-Replacements chords on his Gibson and singing new, heart-on-sleeve tunes like "Ella Fitzgerald" and "Insomnia" (both of which may be heard on his MP3.com site), I realized I'd overlooked a genuine talent. Not to mention the goosebump feeling of hearing "And We Danced" live and realizing it was one of the most exhilarating pop tunes of its time—a feeling accentuated by lindying with Todd. Outrageously, it was the first time we'd danced together outside of wedding receptions. Great power pop, with its defining quality of wistfulness, was made for moments like that.

The Gus That Was: I was recently invited to a memorial gathering for Gus Dudgeon, who died last year along with his wife, Sheila (with him at right), in a car crash. Although I am sadly unable to attend—it's in England—the invitation made me go through some of my old e-mail from Gus, whom I met at the Zombies-box record-release bash and with whom I corresponded for a while afterwards. I was especially touched by the two paragraphs that I've copied below.

The first paragraph came after I'd asked him how he and his wife had managed to sustain a relationship for so long. He was so generous with his advice. Reading it, I wish very much that I could talk to him now.

As for the Glyn Johns story, you can tell that, for someone whose productions had sold over 100 million copies, he was remarkably unaffected. No wonder his friends are gathering for a second time since his death. I'm sure they all miss having his sympathic and understanding ear, not to mention his delicious wit.

How's your lurve affair going...swimmingly I hope. As to your question about Sheila and me....well it's a very involved business. Suffice to say [....] the fact is that I'm Damn glad I married her, 'cos all the others were airheads in one way or another...and although we drive each other totally BONKO every now and again, she's still the only one I could have lived with all this time. I have absolutely no idea exactly what love is, (which doesn't help you much I'm afraid), but....I do love her dearly. It's something to do with caring, sharing, and always wanting to make it work, however bizarre the circumstances. Get it? I'm not sure I do.

And, from another e-mail:

Don't be concerned about the Lennon thing. Why on earth should I expectyou to know that I had worked with him? If it makes you feel any better, I ran into Glyn Johns awhile back, and we were sharing a table at a bistro. For some reason the name Bill Wyman came up and I was telling
him what a great bloke Bill is, and then asked Glyn if he'd ever met him!!!! Stupid boy Dudgeon...for Chrissakes, Glyn used to produce The Stones!!! We all drop boobs at times....cheers....Gus.

Smiley Smile: Here's a wonderful image from the WFMU Web site. Maurice is on the left. I was alerted to this by my neighbor Irwin Chusid, who also gave me the headline.

[Note: I have removed this post's link to the video clip mentioned, as my Web server charges me each time it's downloaded. However, the clip's still up on my site, and, if you e-mail me a request, I'll send you the link.]Mutual of New York Never Sounded So Good: Thought I'd share a video clip sent to me by the very fine English singer-songwriter Bob Kelly. The clip, from December 2001, shows him in concert at Ira Rosen's My Dining Room, where he called me onstage to sing backup on his last number, a classic Tommy James tune. I should warn you that the clip in question is poor quality?Bob and I are practically in silhouette, it takes a very long time to download on a dial-up connection, and it's incomplete (I cut out the last few "Monys" to save disk space and download time). But if you have a good Net connection and a few minutes to spare, it's fun and gives you a taste of Bob's excellent performing ability (more of which may be heard on his label's Website).

On a related note, clicking on Bob Kelly's name above will take you to a review I wrote of one of his albums for Fufkin.com. At the time I wrote it, I was a little self-conscious about it, as it had a personal style more like what I use on this blog than what I would normally use in an album review. Now, with a year's distance, I'm surprised to discover that it's probably one of the best things I've written about a power-pop artist.

Valli Girl: I haven't forgotten about posting readers' Beau Brummels/Four Seasons responses—those will probably go up tomorrow night—but, in the meantime, I just have to share the following note from Kevin Walsh which bridges that topic and another Dawn Patrol entry:

I wonder if Cole Porter ever forgave Frankie Valli.

And we won't even "Try" to imagine what he would have thought of Stan Freberg's take on "I've Got You Under My Skin."

Dearly Beloved, Let's Talk About the Weather: As I was editing the post below, the weather report came on 94.7 FM Family Radio. I have this cynical idea that the same guy who does the weather report in a soothing voice on that Christian station also does it in a devilish growl on the Howard Stern show, but now I'm not so sure. I just heard him say of the current Canadian-borne cold front, "The Lord holds it in his hands as far as the eventual development and movement of the system."

A Lump of Cole: Thought I'd share the following, which my downstairs neighbor, Irwin Chusid (whom I've known for an amazing 20 years), just sent to his friends. The Bob Hope line especially kills me:

Probing the net for some now-forgotten sliver of trivia, I stumbled across these Cole Porter lyrics. I don't share the cynical and oft-expressed opinion that there aren't great songwriters around nowadays. But I submit that there ain't NOBODY—now, then, or before then—what's ever writ lyrics such as these . . .

* * * *

LET'S TALK ABOUT LOVE
/ LET'S NOT TALK ABOUT LOVE
by Cole Porter
(complete lyric -- from Let's Face It, 1941)

Let's talk about love, that wonderful thing,
Let's blend the scent of Venice with Paris in Spring,
Let's gaze at that moon and try to believe
We're Venus and Adonis, or Adam and Eve,
Let's throw away anxiety, let's quite forget propriety,
Respectable society, the rector and his piety,
And contemplate l'amour in all its infinite variety,
My dear, let's talk about love.

Pretend you're Chopin and I'll be George Sand,
We're on the Grand Canal and, oh baby, it's grand!
Let's mention Walkures and helmeted knights,
I'm beautiful Bruennhilde, you're Siegfried in tights,
Let's curse the asininity of tribal consanguinity,
Let's praise the masculinity of Dietrich's new affinity,
Let's picture Cleopatra saying "Scram" to her virginity,
My dear, let's talk about love.

The weather's so warm and you are so cute,
Let's dream about Tahiti and tropical fruit,
I've always said men were simply deevine,
(Did you know Peggy Joyce was once a pupil of mine?)
Let's gather miscellania on Oberon's Titania,
Or ladies even brainier who've moved to Pennsylvania,
(Bucks County, so I hear, is just a nest of nymphomania)
My dear, let's talk about love.

My buddies all tell me selectees
Are expected by ladies to neck-tease,
I could talk about love and why not?
But believe me, it wouldn't be so hot,
So

Let's talk about frogs, let's talk about toads,
Let's try to solve the riddle why chickens cross roads,
Let's talk about games, let's talk about sports,
Let's have a big debate about ladies in shorts,
Let's question the synonymy of freedom and autonomy,
Let's delve into astronomy, political economy,
Or if you're feeling biblical, the book of Deuteronomy,
But let's not talk about love.

Let's ride the New Deal, like Senator Glass,
Let's telephone Ickes and order more gas,
Let's curse the Old Guard and Hamilton Fish,
Forgive me, dear, if Fish is your favorite dish,
Let's heap some more profanities on Hitler's inhumanities,
Let's argue if insanity's the cause of his inanities,
Let's weigh the Shubert Follies with The Ear-rl Carroll Vanities,
But let's not talk about love.

Let's talk about drugs, let's talk about dope,
Let's try to picture Paramount minus Bob Hope,
Let's start a new dance, let's try a new step,
Or investigate the source of Mrs. Roosevelt's pep,
Why not discuss, my dee-arie,
The life of Wallace Bee-ery,
Or bring a jeroboam on
And write a drunken poem on
Astrology, mythology,
Geology, philology,
Pathology, psychology,
Electro-physiology,
Spermology, phrenology,
I owe you an apology
But let's not talk about love.

Let's speak of Lamarr, that Hedy so fair,
Why does she let Joan Bennett wear all her old hair?
If you know Garbo, then tell me this news,
Is it a fact the Navy's launched all her old shoes?
Let's check on the veracity of Barrymore's bibacity
And why his drink capacity should get so much publacity,
Let's even have a huddle over Ha'vard Univassity,
But let's not talk about love.

Let's wish him good luck, let's wish him more pow'r,
That Fiorella fella, my favorite flow'r,
Let's get some champagne from over the seas,
And drink to Sammy Goldwyn,
Include me out please.
Let's write a tune that's playable, a ditty swing-and-swayable
Or say whatever's sayable about the Tow'r of Ba-abel,
Let's cheer for the career of itty-bitty Betty Gra-abel,
But let's not talk about love.

In case you play cards, I've got some right here
So how about a game o' gin-rummy, my dear?
Or if you feel warm and bathin's your whim,
Let's get in the all-together and enjoy a short swim,
No honey, I suspect you all
Of bein' intellectual
And so, instead of gushin' on,
Let's have a big discussion on
Timidity, stupidity, solidity, frigidity,
Avidity, turbidity, Manhattan and viscidity,
Fatality, morality, legality, finality,
Neutrality, reality, or Southern hospitality,
Pomposity, verbosity,
You're loosing your velocity
But let's not talk about love.

http://www.sas.upenn.edu/~dfox/porterlyrics.html

Sad:

Todd and I broke up last night.

I don't feel like going into detail on The Dawn Patrol right now, and probably won't at all. We are still on friendly terms, and are even planning to go to a concert soon. There was and still is unquestionably a great deal of love between us, but it did not work out. I am very, very sad about it.

[Note: The following two posts were originally made on January 11 and 10, respectively, but the dates got messed up while I was trying to fix bad HTML.]

Hollywood Arms: Well, actually, the December 27 photo above features just My Boyfriend Todd™'s New York City arms and mine, but it's from the night we saw the tragicomic, multi-generational play Hollywood Arms. The photo was taken by my old friend Bill Pitzonka (right, twixt D&T, in flagrant violation of posted city codes), a former New Yorker who has relocated to the real LA-LA-Land, where he faces the sometimes tragicomic situation of overseeing album art for persnickety old and no-longer-megapopular music acts—not that I have anything against old music acts, of course. Bill and I also worked together on several liner-note projects, including the Sunshine Days series for Varese Vintage, which we penned under a classic pseudonym that he devised (which would make a great Tuesday Night Trivia team name): Man Cherry & Candy Date. (For a list of many of Bill's CD covers, as well as his liner-note achievements, see this page from the All Music Guide.)

Soon to Come: I've hardly been home this past week, adjusting to my new work sked and spending my free time with My Boyfriend Todd™, but will have lots to post next week, including a night at "Hollywood Arms" (click here for a lover-ly preview), Pat DiNizio's speech to the New York Young Republican Club, and the whopping four responses, all interesting, to my "Laugh, Laugh" post.

"... Don't Know Everything There Is to Know": I just read Alec Palao's liner notes to the Beau Brummels' Autumn of Their Years and was surprised to learn that Ron Elliott penned "Laugh, Laugh" after hearing a verse of a Four Seasons song on the radio in the spring of '64. Now that I think about it, "Laugh, Laugh" really does sound like a Four Seasons song, in a weird way. It's definitely got that Crewe-Gaudio thing going. Could anyone tell me which Four Seasons song might have inspired it? The group's biggest hit that spring was "Dawn (Go Away)," but I can't hear any connection.

Can You Stomach It? When I posted on Sunday night, I was so excited about the toy-gun headline that didn't make it, that I completely forgot about a good one I wrote that did. It was in yesterday's paper, atop a story about a cook making haggis in honor of Robert Burns's birthday: Scots chef takes his Burns to heart."

Would That Be License Number H₂Double-0? If the story doesn't get cut or moved, tomorrow's paper will contain my headline about an outrageous New York City council resolution that would ban all toy guns, even water pistols: "Toy-gun ban may remove kids' license to squirt".

'Baugh-ing Out: I was surprised to learn just now, reading an article from Monday's Times, that New York Press has just been purchased by new owners—and that their first act was to fire John Strausbaugh. While I had my differences with John towards the end of my year and a half at the Press (late '94-early '96), overall he was a good editor—fun to work with, intelligent, and insightful.