Things Ain’t What They Used to Be

Oscar Emmanuel Peterson b: 15 Aug 1925, Montreal, Quebec, Canada d: 23 Dec 2007, Mississauga, Ontario, Canada

Oscar Peterson has died. There will be numerous obituaries in the coming days, lauding a “jazz giant,” “one of the greatest jazz pianists of the 20th Century,” or even “the best damn jazz pianist in the whole world,” and while all these tributes will be well-placed, they don’t sum up the loss I’m feeling tonight.

For me, Oscar Peterson is (not was –his recordings live on) the jazz piano. I don’t know for certain what the first jazz record I ever heard was, but if I was pressed to guess, it would have been Oscar, heavily favored, with the Modern Jazz Quartet or a Stan Kenton as distant, dark horse alternatives.

Though I’ve grown to love jazz and jazz piano beyond Oscar, for me he’s the touchstone, the Ark of the Covenant, something that I can always count on, the tower at the center of my ever-widening circular exploration of some of the greatest music ever recorded. No slight is intended to Art Tatum, Fats Waller, Jelly Roll Morton, Mary Lou Williams, Duke Ellington, Thelonious Monk, Dave Brubeck, George Shearing, Bud Powell, or Horace Silver, but the small world that is my outlook on jazz will always be framed by Oscar and his piano. In particular, Oscar’s album Night Train spoke to my soul in some fundamental way at a crucial point in my musical development, and if it wasn’t for him, I might never have begun my love affair with the greatest musical form of the modern age.

I also owe my love of jazz to my step-dad, who, though he banned rock and roll from the house, was more than willing to share with me his knowledge of jazz, both as a brass instrumentalist and a life-long concert-goer. Kevin’s enthusiasm for Oscar’s work sparked my own interest well over a decade ago. Our relationship had always been a little strained, a little uncomfortable when I was a kid, and Oscar’s music was the first bridge between us. Nights spent in the living room listening to Oscar really brought Kevin and I closer, something I’ll always be thankful for.

Kevin’s seen Oscar a few times in his life, probably at least once in each decade of the Seventies, Eighties, and Oscar’s post-stroke Nineties revival. I have never seen Oscar live, nor will I ever have the opportunity now.

No matter how long I live, this will be one of my greatest regrets.

Farewell, Oscar. You helped me build two relationships I’ll have for the rest of my life, and so your contribution to my family is never forgotten, I’ll try to build these same relationships with my children.

Ergonomic Poetry: The Anti-kody

Describing Václav Havel’s Anti-kody as “graphic poetry” almost seems to sell the genius of these constructs short. Each individual piece is a small, tightly-wound riddle, ingeniously simple and yet conspicuously complex, simultaneously amusing and enthralling. Reading the Anti-kody brings pleasure similar to reading poetry by e. e. cummings or William Carlos Williams, but Havel lavishes a beguiling citron twist to his poetry.

There’s some real artistry and mediation that is appreciable with even a very limited understanding of Czech.

The mirth of the ISMY (-isms) series puts human eccentricity on the page in a sort of word-photograph. So incredibly fresh is the way the picture created by the printing of a word is enough by itself to communicate Havel’s frame of mind, his amusement and unfiltered distillation of our mass peculiarity.

Consider the following:

The vpřed (forward!) poem isn’t so much a slap in the face as it is a Python-esque thumbing of the nose at Communist ideology:

I wonder precisely what Havel was thinking about when he wrote the slova/slovo (words/word) poem. Was this a clue to the Anti-kody as a whole? A meditation on the power of a single word?

It seems so complexly simple that the original meaning must be buried beneath sedimentary layers of (perhaps unintended) inferred meaning, requiring some sort of paleo-linguist to unearth.

My favorite, however is “VZNIK A PRŮBĚH MANŽELSTVÍ “ (“The Start and Progress of a Marriage”):

This poem meant more to me than the others because at the moment I’m very much living this poem. In a little over a year I’ll be getting married, and already I can see how the two parties in the marriage slowly merge across the page and become one entity. My fiancée and I are making our own progression from on/_ona_ (he/she) into oni (they, or in our case, us). We’ve had our occasional disagreements and doubts, but whenever we enter into dialogue with one another (just as the words to on the page) we wind up confirming our oni identity. The way Havel mapped this intricate relationship out on a page so straightforwardly is brilliant.

A Walk Down Memory Lane/Riding the Wave

Sunday night was a time for reflection. My buddy Vinny and I sat down with a bunch of the new guys to watch a Marine Corps boot camp documentary. The documentary was filmed in San Diego roughly at the same time I was there. It follows the training of Platoons 1137 and 1141 from Charlie Company. I was in Platoon 1146 of Bravo Company, meaning I was just behind the recruits in the film. One of my other buddies from my deployment, Rivera (who I call Duncan because he’s about as big as NBA star Tim Duncan), was in 1141.

It was amusing to watch, both because of the intense memories from that period of my life and because I can remember how hard everything seemed at the time. Of course the filmmakers couldn’t show all the insane stuff that happened (it would give away the surprise to future recruits and I’m sure many watchdog organizations would have collective heart attacks), but the film was enough to send me on a stroll down memory lane.

A few days before I went to boot camp my buddy Arliss and I were watching Full Metal Jacket. I hadn’t seen the film before and Arliss felt it was necessary for anyone about to do what I had planned. I remember not being able to stop laughing at the antics of R. Lee Ermey as he whipped (literally) his rag-tag bunch of draftees into men about to go off to war in Southeast Asia. I’m sure it wasn’t meant to be funny, and what I went through certainly wasn’t funny to me at the time, but looking back on it all now I’m able to laugh because it’s a process necessary for every Marine to go through. My grandpa likely feels much the same way about his time in Navy boot camp 52 years ago. In fact, we swap stories occasionally, talking about how crazy our instructors were and the even crazier stuff they made us do. During boot camp I was even interviewed by a reporter for a newspaper from New Ulm, MN, who happened to be visiting the depot.

A lot of the guys from my platoon are probably in their last week of work or on leave and waiting to go home like I am. It’s strange to think that the thirty or so of us that graduated (out of an initial platoon of 88, I believe) are at the same crossroads together. And yet, just like in boot camp, we’re a team, forever bound by those thirteen weeks of insanity, sweat, and heartache.

I was sorting and packing old address books this weekend when I came across one I had during boot camp. In it are names of guys from that platoon I’ll never forget — Shawn James from Indianapolis, my closest friend and fellow scribe. Spencer Quiner, the quiet guy from Homer, Alaska, who looked almost exactly like me. Billy Vorhies, the kind-hearted, tough-minded kid from Itasca, IL, who reminded me so much of my cousin Teddy. I wonder what they’re up to, how their enlistments have treated them. Billy and I went to Infantry training together, but I haven’t seen him since. The last time I saw Shawn or Spencer was in March of 2003 as they left for their occupational training. Guys, if you find your names popping up in a Google search with a link to this site, drop me an e-mail. I’d love to hear how you and your families are doing.  I think about my drill instructors, SSgt McLaughlin, Sgt Maciel, and Sgt Brown. I haven’t seen SSgt M or Sgt Brown since 2003, but I recently ran into now-SSgt Maciel when I was down at the lake on base. We chatted briefly before returning to our respective runs.

It’s strange to be leaving it all behind. Sometimes I feel like “Red” n The Shawshank Redemption, wondering how I’ll adjust to life on the outside. I worry about being institutionalized, the lack of a steady paycheck, the uncertainty of no health insurance. I wonder what my place in the world will be like, if I’ll ever fit back into the society I left four years ago.

I’m ready for the past to be a bunch of memories, scattered on the beach of my consciousness like sea shells, but the future looms above me like an enormous wave I have to surf. In my experience you fall often when you surf, and you have to maintain a sharp look-out for sharks. However, standing here on the edge of the sand, I’ve got to say the water looks inviting.

Not the words of one who kneels

“Then he [Grant] looked toward Lee, and his eyes seemed to be resting on the handsome sword that hung at that officer’s side. He said afterward that this set him to thinking that it would be an unnecessary humiliation to require the officers to surrender their swords, and a great hardship to deprive them of their personal baggage and horses, and after a short pause he wrote the sentence: ‘This will not embrace the side-arms of the officers, nor their private horses or baggage.’”

— Horace Porter, Brevet Brigadier General, United States Army

Reverend Clayton (Ward Bond): Well, the prodigal brother. When did you get back? Ain’t seen you since the surrender. Come to think of it, I didn’t see you at the surrender.

Ethan Edwards (John Wayne): I don’t believe in surrenders. Nope, I’ve still got my saber, Reverend. Didn’t beat it into no plowshare, neither.

— The Searchers_ (1956)

For the past week the two quotes above have been swirling in my head. As quite a large group of Marines in my battalion (including myself) are getting out of the Corps in the upcoming months, I’ve been talking with a number of guys about mementos.

In my platoon it is customary to give a departing Marine, whether he leaves through a change of duty station, retirement, or simply the end of his enlistment, a plaque with his current rank, name, duty assignment, dates on station. We accompany that information with a brief quote or favorite remark uttered by that Marine to tie him to a specific time and place, a sort of crystallization of his character.

Quite a few of the Marines I’ve talked to said they’d like to put together a shadowbox as well, full of their medals, ribbons, citations, and rank insignia. For my own personal purposes, I’ve been somewhat lukewarm to the idea of a shadowbox. With one exception (my Good Conduct medal, which I had to continually strive for), to my line of thinking medals and ribbons aren’t much if there isn’t a chest behind them to fill them out. Citations and promotion warrants invariably look better framed.

Through my dad, my grandfather passed down to me two souvenirs from his naval service — his peacoat, and his Dixie cup (sailor) hat. Both are marked with his last name, first and middle initials, and Service Number. The peacoat fits me extremely well and is incredibly warm and in pristine condition, fifty long years after Gramps was in the Navy. Both are among my most prized possessions. With my enlistment drawing to a close, I’ve been thinking about what I’d like to have as a memento to pass down to my own grandchildren. Unlike Gramps’ peacoat or Dixie Cup, my uniforms have much less personalization. My Service Uniform is merely stamped “SCHUTH WH” and (because it is tailored) probably couldn’t be worn by anyone other than me. My All Weather Coat is simply a grey trench coat, hardly a iconic thing to hand down. I doubt any of my camouflage utilities would make the cut, either.

The question was starting to vex me, until I hit upon the almost 150 year old solution.  From the Marines.com recruiting website:

The sword symbolizes the military virtues and traditions maintained by noncommissioned officers, or NCOs. The sword’s origins are based in the decisions to discontinue the officer’s Mameluke sword and replace it with the Cavalry sword. Unpopular with many officers, the Corps reverted back to the original saber. When the Commandant officially switched the officer sword back, he decided to present the 1858 Cavalry sword to the NCOs in recognition of their leadership in combat. The NCO sword remains the oldest weapon in the U.S. services still in continued use. Only the Marine Corps has this distinction.

At the same exact moment the NCO sword popped into my mind, I remembered the scene from The Searchers where Ethan (John Wayne) gives his nephew (or son, depending on your persuasion) Ben his saber. Ben hangs it over the fireplace in honor of Ethan.

A few moments later, Ethan tells fellow Civil War veteran Reverend Clayton that he still has his sword, and it is clear the sword symbolizes his spirit and dignity. So, too, does the NCO sword symbolize mine. I spent 27 months waiting to become a noncommissioned officer, the single most important step in the enlisted Marine’s life. Those 27 months comprised the hardest struggle I’ve ever faced, a fight to prove my superiors were wrong in holding up my promotion while maintaining my dignity as a man and not a sycophant. I was determined to not to lick a single boot, even if it cost me the opportunity to ever wear that rank.  It seemed like forever, but eventually I made it. On 01 December 2005, my old boss, 1stSgt Fontaine, took off my Lance Corporal chevron and put a Corporal chevron in its place. I’d never been prouder of another personal achievement in my service, including when I was awarded the NAM. Part of that promotion included earning the right to carry the NCO sword. My entire enlistment was a progression to that point, that single moment the central focus of three years of grinding away well beyond the point I should have given up.

So, if I have my way, one day I’ll have an NCO sword to put up above my fireplace for safekeeping. I can tell my grandchildren about how it came to get there, what it stands for, and how much it meant to earn the right to carry it. It can be a lesson in perseverance for them, a tangible one that can be passed from one generation to the next.

The Lost Boys of Echo

On Sunday, three guys from Echo Battery, the unit I deployed to Iraq with, were struck by a roadside bomb. The first, Lopez, sustained third-degree burns over 50% of his body, and is burned a total of 95%. They have already amputated both his hands. Tapia, the second one hit, has third-degree burns over 25-50% of his body, and second degree burns over much of the rest. He also has a broken leg. Lovas, the driver, was the “luckiest,” sustaining only second-degree burns (30%) and a broken wrist.

Lopez and Tapia are scheduled to be flown from Germany to the burn ward in San Antonio, TX sometime this weekend. That is, if Lopez makes it that far. He’s been in and out of the OR the whole time, and frankly, at least according to what my colonel told me, he’s not expected to make it much longer.

So, the waste continues. More lives forever changed by a colossal mistake, a colossal ongoing mistake. Every time I think about it, pictures of Tapia’s little daughter float into my mind, or I see Lovas’ crooked smile. I knew both of those guys pretty well; we deployed together, came back together, drank together a few times, and had a great working relationship. Tapia was there for the third time since the war started. Lopez I didn’t know so well, he’s a new guy who joined up after I’d left Echo. Still, Echo was a family to me for a long time (though a completely dysfunctional one), and it leaves a mark.

I also wonder about my buddy Mike, who, as Echo’s chief Corpsman (the Navy version of a medic) would have treated them. He was on really good terms with Tapia and Lovas, too. I hope he’s holding up, but I have no way of knowing until I hear from him.

If you’ve got a minute and are so inclined, say a prayer for Lopez, Tapia, and Lovas, their families, and the boys of Echo that are left behind in Iraq. If you’re not religious, good thoughts go a long way, too. I really would appreciate it.