By ‘Mister Gripes’…………………………………… January 24, 2012

Jefferson Airplane – Growing up on Long Island in the 1950’s, Mr. Gripes could not have had a more benevolent childhood – baseball, Root beer floats, Elvis, Howard Johnson ‘3-D’ hamburgers, Frank Gifford, Soupy Sales and a town ‘duck pond’ –a childhood friend of mine once described the town we grew up in as ‘Eden.’ Yes, there were family crises, and stressful times, often self-inflicted, but for the most part, I led a carefree, unscripted existence. And, of course, that colored my perceptions of my country, its inhabitants and the larger world – I naturally thought that everything would ultimately work out well, and people could be taken at their word. My God, was I mistaken.

Certain occurrences in my life, insignificant as they seem today, irrevocably altered my naïve, innocent perceptions. To the point now that, I am, as my readers know only too well, in a state of permanent dyspepsia. Here’s one particular event I reflected on recently:

The rock ‘n roll band, ‘Jefferson Airplane’, was an immensely successful group in the ‘60’s and ‘70s. At that time, the country was convulsed in its version of a revolution: kids from Coconut Grove and Scarsdale, and other well-heeled towns, children of doctors, lawyers and corporate CEO’s, pretending to be Che Guevara, marched in the streets, chanting for a government overthrow. In retrospect, ‘playing’ at revolution was so childish and amateurish. But, that period of drugs and corrosive rebellion really ruined a lot of lives. Back then, all of that nonsense was taken very, very seriously.

Jefferson Airplane, riding the crest of the coming revolution, created a hit, ‘Up Against the Wall, Mother-f—ers’. Yes, ‘Mother-f-ers’. It was, of course, cleaned up to play on the radio, but that was the song’s name in its original form. And, it became huge, as millions of kids obviously felt a comrade’s camaraderie with ‘Airplane.’ Consider that for a moment: those musicians were actually exhorting their fans to line up some cops against the wall, and – not asserted per se in the song, but insinuated strongly – shoot them. Left-wing Pied Pipers, they might have considered themselves, leading on young kids to kill policemen [and other ‘authority figures’.]

Well, my late brother went to an Airplane concert one night, in Florida, I think. Drugs were rift at the outdoor performance, and the group dutifully pushed all the revolutionary, anti-war slogans during the show, exhorting the massive crowd to take action.

Then, at precisely 11:55 pm, the band, in mid-song, suddenly ceased playing, picked up their instruments, and left the stage. Concert over. No warning. It’s over.

The crowd, stupefied, could not comprehend what had just happened. After yelling for a half-hour, they streamed out of the parade grounds.

It turned out, my brother told me, there was a midnight curfew in effect, imposed on the group by the county in which the concert had taken place. Jefferson Airplane, big tough guys exhorting their fans to kill, leading to a toppling of the American government, were frightened they might play past some candy-ass curfew, and get arrested. ‘God-damn, we might have to spend a couple of hours in jail and pay a $200 fine; the police are coming – I’m so-o-o scared, let’s get out of here.’

What a bunch of wimps. Disgusting hypocrites, too. Revolution and stopping the war were not the true passions and beliefs of Jefferson Airplane. Far from it — it was selling records and making lots of money, which they pulled off by deceiving gullible kids. My brother was appalled, of course, when I spoke to him the next morning.

Of course, in retrospect, Jefferson Airplane couldn’t have believed in an American revolution, not for a moment. They had to be more savvy than that.

But, some synapses in my brain snapped as I finished that phone chat with my brother Tommy. It was a seismic epiphany that I’ve taken to heart ever since: Politicians, entertainers, anyone in the public eye actually: every one of them is all about self-interest, ego, manipulation and the dollar. Be assured none of them can be trusted to tell us the truth.

‘I Am Woman, I Am Strong’… Remember Helen Reddy’s hit? It was horrible music, but certainly a song of its time. Women, after all, were on the march, liberating men-only establishments like McSorley’s Ale House, fossilized university clubs and athletic clubs, demanding equal rights and equal pay, insisting that the supercilious, smug male gender wake up and accept women as equal partners. Those times heralded in the future a true parity between sexes.

I’m afraid not. Jump twenty or thirty years ahead, and, in Mr. Gripes’ saturnine opinion, it sure looks like women as a gender have surrendered up the cause.

The other day on a subway platform, I observed a poster for an upcoming movie, ‘One for the Money,’ starring Kathleen Heigl. The stunning Ms. Heigl, peering out at the viewer in an over-the-shoulder leer, has dangling from one of her blood-red lacquered fingers a set of hand-cuffs. The message is explicit: ‘let’s you and me get it on, in any kind of kinky, sado-masochistic sex game you wanna play, got it, you dangerous, gorgeous hunk of a man.’

It’s overtly disrespectful of women. The poster denigrates the gender, and — I abhor ‘empowerment’ language but I’ll use one such word in this case – it ‘objectifies’ women as sexual beings, and nothing else.

Is there even one tiny tendril of protest from women’s groups? The silence is deafening. The movement appears to have disintegrated. Women still do 80% of housework and child-rearing, and earn less than men for commensurate jobs. Corporations still lean heavily toward men for leadership positions. The Women’s Rights Movement is a joke.

Ah, but women have had huge success in one area: hyphenation. Nowadays, many children are burdened with hyphenated names, undoubtedly foisted on them by mothers who, damn-it, are going to keep their maiden names come-hell-or-high water, even if it’s attached and behind a paternal name. For the record, Mr. Gripes just cannot stand hyphenated names – imagine if you went through life with a handle like ‘O’Brien-Hirshbaum’ or ‘Ruggiero-Spellman’. If I were a kid possessing a name like that, I’d put my head under my desk whenever attendance was taken. There’s nothing pretty or stirring about double-names.

Besides, they’re confusing and difficult to remember. Mr. Gripes lived in Mexico for a short time, and he recalls everyone’s surname was composed of many relatives’ names, piled higher and higher upon each other; I never got the knack of correctly addressing individuals. In fact, I was often tempted to resort to Babe Ruth’s sure-fire mnemonic technique: he simply could not recall anyone’s, so he addressed all comers – eight to 80 – as ‘Kid.’ [The Bambino might have soberly reasoned, “I make big money hitting them monster homeruns, not to remember the name of some jackass.”]

Just imagine the scenario in which a marriage of two hyphenated individuals occurs: the enmity and domestic fury released in deciding the make-up of their children’s last names would create a ton of divorces. An ugly, ugly spat to say the least.

In any event, let’s avoid all that and simplify our hopelessly complicated lives just a little – a ban on hyphenated married names, and a return to the golden years of only one last name, and one last name only. Your children will be forever grateful.

Jim Israel
www.mistergripes.com
January 24, 2012