thank you, Jimmy Fallon, for all this and more

jimmy fallonOne of the little joys Andrea and I have been sharing lately is Jimmy Fallon’s weekly thank-you notes. They are such harmless sources of momentary diversion. His “slow-walking family walking in front of me on the sidewalk” is one my favorite bits of my favorite waste of time. With his ridiculously goofy observations and musical mimicry Mr. Fallon has reminded us it is possible to be funny without being mean, tasteless and vulgar.
So on this beautiful and totally tasteful Memorial Day, I’d like to send out my own thank-you notes just because it’s probably the only day I will have time to do so for the next six weeks.
* Thank you, John Sinkevics, for playing with me in the Honeytones all these years and also having a May birthday. Do you think Arcade Fire would sing “Month of May” just for us?
• Thank you, West Michigan, for providing us the most gorgeous Memorial Day weekend in memory. I spent every waking minute outdoors, and some of the sleeping minutes as well.
• Thank you, Jimmy Fallon, for making it impossible to say “thank you” without thinking of you. I even say it like you now, although without the melancholy piano backing.
• Thank you, The Both, for reviving my faith in power pop. If Aimee Mann’s voice plus Ted Leo’s guitar doesn’t make you believe, you might as well hold onto those Todd Rundgren CDs until the day you die.
• Thank you, driver approaching my side street at 30 mph, for not using your turn signal so I had to wait 10 minutes before pulling out.
• Thank you, maple trees, for covering my lawn with your tiny offspring. I wish I could let every one of them grow up straight and tall, but alas, I must mow.
• Thank you, girl in Pet Smart, for saying “Even those people who love winter are over it.” It’s true, I am.
• Thank you, Cheerios, for never changing. I love you just the way you are.
• Thank you, earth, for shooting up all these flowers, plants and weeds and leaving me to figure out the difference. Why didn’t you make poison ivy with warning labels on it?
• Thank you, Pope Francis, for making all us non-Catholics feel good about the Catholic Church again. Now can you do the same for the Protestant church?
• Thank you, Monica Lewinsky, for reminding us you exist. We hope someone hires you.
• Thank you, Marshall Crenshaw, for recording “Fantastic Planet of Love,” so I could drive around listening to it this morning and feel cool.
• Thank you, men and women who died in battle, so that we could enjoy a beautiful Memorial Day and I could write silly blogs like this. And thank you, friends, for reading them!

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and now, back to those golden oldies … from the ’90s

Garbage  Courtesy photo

Garbage
Courtesy photo

In a class I was teaching at Grand Valley State University a couple of years ago, I presented a segment on rock stars who had died at age 27. I focused on Kurt Cobain, figuring my room full of 18- to 21-year-olds would relate better to the Nirvana front man than to Jim Morrison.
How wrong I was. Most of them looked at me with blank stares when I cued up “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” Maybe some of them had heard the Weird Al Yankovic version but they sure didn’t know anything about Kurt Cobain. Of course not, you dope, I said to myself – these kids weren’t even born in 1991 when “Nevermind” came out. Kurt Cobain meant about as much to them as Tony Bennett.
With Nirvana’s recent induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, signifying 25 years since the release of their first recording, the point was brought home to boomers like me: The ‘90s are no longer a modern decade. “Smells Like Teen Spirit” is now an oldie.
Think about it. If you were 15 in 1967, digging Sgt. Pepper, the Stones and the Doors, an oldie was a record by Chuck Berry or Buddy Holly from the 1950s. A song 25 years old would have been recorded in 1942. We’re talking Glenn Miller and Dinah Shore.
This does not compute. I just can’t think of “Smells Like Teen Spirit” as in the same category as “In the Mood.” But generationally speaking, there we are.
The ’90s, despite giving us the first Iraq War and the rise of Newt Gingrich, also revived rock. The Seattle grunge scene brought back the electric guitar from those cheesy ’80s synths and drum machines. So in an attempt to put the ‘90s in their proper perspective and my mind in a sunny mood, I hereby offer a few of my golden oldies from the decade of we-didn’t-know-how-good-we-had-it:

“One of Us” by Joan Osborne: I swoon over the grinding guitars and Joan’s soulful voice contemplating God as a slob on the bus. Even if she no longer sings it, my band the Honeytones does, so there!
“1979” by the Smashing Pumpkins: A groove that hooks me like a pike in Lake Superior and pulls me along for a 4-minute thrill ride. Billy Corgan’s rat-in-a-cage snarl is under control in the service of a gloriously transcendent chorus.
“Stupid Girl” by Garbage: An early bit of sweet nastiness from the decade’s best band. They’ve never been huge, but fans of the mesmerizing Shirley Manson and co. will never understand why.
“Basket Case” by Green Day: The definition of irresistible. Punk purists sneer that Billie Joe and the boys sold out with this full-throttle joy ride of adolescent angst. Poppycock. It was just so damn good that lots of people liked it. Horrors!
“Follow You Down” by the Gin Blossoms: A three-minute trip to jangle heaven. If you don’t smile at this song you need regression therapy, back to the days when all you needed was a sweet tune on the radio to make you feel on top of the world.
“Breakout” by the Foo Fighters: Not one of their better-known songs but certainly one of the best with which to bang the head. They come no cooler than Dave Grohl, who can scream with the best of them while gamely playing the dork on video.
“She’s So High” by Tal Bachman: He seemed to have learned some nice licks from his father, Randy, but it’s Tal’s gorgeous falsetto that lets him get away with hitting notes as high as the ledge from which the winged damsel leaps. Whatever happened to this guy anyway?
And now for two entries from our guest star John Sinkevics, my bandmate and maestro of the music blog LocalSpins.com:
“Losing My Religion” by R.E.M.: Perhaps the perfect R.E.M. single, a brilliantly compelling nugget that not only represented the heart, soul and sound of one of the era’s most important rock bands, but also struck a chord with mainstream audiences, reaching No. 4 on the Billboard 100 — their highest charting U.S. hit. And to think it featured a mandolin …
“Smooth” by Santana with Rob Thomas: For a few years, it seems, this song was omnipresent — on radio, TV, you name it. And it deserved that sort of treatment: It’s a unique and catchy pop tune starring an iconic guitarist and a captivating rock voice.

Hey, you know what? That was a pretty darn good decade of music. I’d love to hear what you thought of it, and what you listened to.

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sweet photos and fragrant flowers: a Mother’s Day eulogy

My magnolia was in full glory on Mother’s Day. The cold spring had kept her flowers only half-open for a week, but Sunday’s onset of summer warmth let her burst forth fMagnoliaully. Glory hallelujah.
I camped under her canopy and drank in the intoxicating fragrance. Then I thought of a day several years ago when I was up in the magnolia doing a spring pruning. I wasn’t sure which branches to lop and which to save. I called Dad from right there in the tree but got Mom instead. Not surprisingly, she proceeded to tell me exactly how to do it, at length.
“Your dad is too soft,” she said, in a familiar vein. “You need to cut off any branch that’s touching another branch. That’s how you help it grow.”
This was typically tough talk from Mom, who came from the Miner clan on Detroit’s northwest side. The Miners were not pansies. Mom loved flowers but she was not going to be soft on the magnolia.
I was happy to have these thoughts of Mom on Mother’s Day, as I no longer had Mom herself. Since her passing in 2011 life has been a little shallower. It never again will include me walking into the living room of the homestead in Williamston, and Mom greeting me from her corner chair with a beaming smile and soft kiss, her hands gently framing my face.
I will never see another smile quite that joyful. Mom always called us kids “the jewels in our crown.” She did have a way of making us feel like royalty.
Sunday was a festive day on Facebook as friends shared photos and memories of their mothers. It was heart-warming to see all these lovely women, often with their children but sometimes solo photos of themselves as ravishing young adults. It was easy to see why their children shared the pictures so glowing with love and beauty.
For some though the beauty was tinged with sadness, a celebration of a life that was but is no longer except in spirit. For one dear friend in particular, there was as much sorrow as sweetness in sharing photos of her mother who had died just a week before. For those of us in the orphanage, seeing families gather for lunch on the patio in their Sunday best is wistful at best.
The traditional tune “Motherless Children” states it a little too baldly: “Motherless children have a hard time when mother is dead, Lord. /Nobody treats you like a mother will …” It’s been recorded by many from the Rev. Gary Davis and Bob Dylan to Eric Clapton and Lucinda Williams. The version I know is by Steve Miller, who softens the lyric to “when their mother is gone.” His dirge-like guitars and soulful vocal plaintively express the loss: “all that weeping, all that crying.”
My Andrea will cry at unexpected times about her mother, who died 11 years ago. A friend told me the other day that she had broken into tears that morning for her mother, who has been gone for 30.
The photo I posted of Mom on Facebook was from Rice’s Resort, a little patch of Eden on Lake Skegemog (then called Round Lake) where we spent many summers in the 1950s. Mom is sitting on a stump, chin perched on hand, smiling softly. She could be looking at us kids playing or just thinking about how happy she feels to be there. Her face says all is well with the world.Mom at Rice's
That is the Mom I think about on Mother’s Day, brimming with life, pregnant with joy. She still talks to me up in the magnolia, and her fresh beauty blooms in the sun.

 

 

 

 

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first the book, then the signing

At Schuler’s on 28th … author promises remarks will be mercifully brief

2014-0508_Charles_Honey

 

 

 

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as I walked out on Easter morning

daffodilsAs I walked out on Easter morning
Daffodils cheered the sunrise
Standing strong and straight and green
Reaching for the good new day.
Canada geese welcomed me
With their sharp exuberant honks
Flying from the river by the park
Over the still sleeping town.
Birds sang life’s most hopeful song
The one that celebrates light
Returning from the darkness
Chickadees and mourning doves
Raising a cantata of joy.
Like a young boy jumping out of bed
His feet hitting the cold floor
His legs carrying him to the ball field
Or to his banged-up bicycle
To toss the morning paper
On a hundred waiting porches:
That was what this day was like
To me, the once-young boy
Standing on my parents’ porch
Clutching a cup of coffee
Hot and strong and sweet
Like grandma always made it
Listening to the song
Looking at the flowers
Smelling the sweet soft air
Watching for the light
Just then breaking to life
Beyond the corn fields.

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how 20 years of life became a book

Front coverThe wonderful Russ Burpee, who used to greet worshippers in our church foyer with a warm hand and beaming smile, told me more than once: “You ought to collect your columns into a book, Charley. People would read it.”
I took his advice seriously, admiring Russ as I did. But I didn’t act on it. After all, my columns appeared every week in The Grand Rapids Press Religion section. Why would people want to read the same columns again just because they were bound together, and pay money for them to boot?
But as the years went by, the idea seemed to gain merit. The longer you stick with something it seems to acquire more value. Being a plumber for 20 years deserves a certain recognition. As I closed in on two score years of religion writing, a greatest-hits package beckoned.
Thus “Faith on First: Thoughts on God, Nature and Sacrifice Bunts,” which collects four score of the more than 900 columns I’ve written since 1994. That was when The Press’ previous religion editor, Ed Golder, asked me if I would like to inherit his job. Incredibly, I said yes, and even more incredibly, I loved it.
I hope that love is evident in the columns I’ve assembled. Truly, in my 35 years as a reporter and editor, no news beat has brought me as much reward as religion. In covering the meaning of life from week to week, I’ve met so many wonderful, interesting and inspiring people, some internationally famous, some who live down the block. It’s been a privilege to write about them, whether it’s the giggling wisdom of the Dalai Lama, the fortitude of Ed Dobson, the pot-stirrings of Rob Bell or the genius of Anthony Torrone and his amazing Lego creations.
It’s been a pleasure as well as to offer my thoughts on issues of the day and questions of the age. Such as: How did the universe begin? Where does the time go when it goes? Why doesn’t God answer when I ask him simple questions? And why do I keep losing my glasses?
The book also includes two of the blogs I’ve written here, a foreword by my friend and fellow journalist Pat Shellenbarger and an entirely made-up commentary by my favorite Detroit Tigers broadcasters.
Indeed, baseball is the colorful thread that ties these essays together, much like the Dude’s rug in “The Big Lebowski.” Baseball’s slow, ritual rhythms comfort my perpetually worried soul like a Gregorian chant. Why “Faith On First”? Because being on first base means you’ve gotten there through good effort. It feels good to be there, with the hope of rounding more bases and possibly coming home – much like the reassurance of faith.
If this sort of thing interests you, my book is available at Schuler Books & Music in Grand Rapids, where I will have a book-signing at 7 p.m. on May 8. If you don’t live in West Michigan, you can order it at http://www.schulerbooks.com, go to “Browse Our Shelves” and click on “Local Authors.”  Or just send me an email at honeycharlesm@gmail.com.
Self-promotion goes against the grain of any self-respecting reporter. But if Russ Burpee felt I should publish a book, that’s good enough for me. I hope you agree.

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a trillionth of a trillionth of a trillionth of a second

That’s how long it took for the universe to get started, or even less. So say really smart astrophysicists after having detected “gravitational waves” left over from the Big Bang 13.8 billion years ago. Some say it might be one of the biggest scientific discoveries of all time.

To which I say, wow, hallelujah,Image and what was that again?

First of all, if no band has yet taken the name of “Gravitational Waves,” I hereby claim it should the Honeytones ever disband. (That will never happen, but I’ve still got dibs.)

Second of all, this is mind-blowing news of the first order, and of much higher quality than most of what passes for such. For this news points to how we actually got here, or, as one helpful video with a lovely British accent puts it, the beginning of everything.

But is it really the beginning of everything? Or if it is, what was there before the beginning? And who began it?

That is, what or who could take a “submicroscopic speck of primordial energy,” as The New York Times put it, and blow it up in the space of a trillionth of a trillionth etc., thereby starting a universe that now measures 14 billion light years across? And that’s just what we can see.

The discovery of little swirls in the universal background of microwave radiation – don’t ask me to explain it – by scientists camped out at the South Pole is breathtaking news. It’s almost like someone took a selfie of Genesis (the book not the band).

Reporters struggle to explain it to us mere laypeople. It’s like the ripples of sand left by the waves. It’s like seeing the same coffee cup cooled at the same rate wherever you look. It’s like a 40-minute jazz odyssey by Spinal Tap (that one is my contribution).

But what does it mean, exactly? Does it mean that the universe, or the un-universe, just sat there cold and dead until one day it decided to snap to life? If so, how long was it cold and dead before it snapped to life? And just how does cold, dead matter “decide” to snap to life?

With apologies to Neil deGrasse Tyson, who explains such things much more elegantly in the reboot of “Cosmos” now showing on Fox, these questions get my brain working overtime. These gravitational waves pull me toward the idea that there must have been a creator who got the waves rolling.

I was roundly slapped for posing that really unradical thought in my recent column on “Cosmos,” by an online commenter who said I might as well say a pink unicorn created all the flatulence on Earth. (Clearly this man has not read the Gnostic Gospel of the Pink Unicorn.) But Tyson himself, an agnostic, admits science doesn’t know the answer to Where It All Came From.

Certainly, a universe created by chance is at least as implausible as a universe created by a creator. The latter makes more sense to me. As the Jewish physicist and author Gerald Schroeder had posited, the universe could have started as an idea – God’s idea.

I don’t know about you, but to me a trillionth of a trillionth of a trillionth brings to mind a familiar phrase: Let there be light. 

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