Ouch. That’s Hot.

(Thanks to Kingtycoon Mathoslah for the tip.)

Whether it left a soft spot or a sore spot, there’s no doubt that anyone who slid through the 70s could do so unfazed by the smooth sounds of Southern California’s Yacht Rock. Sailing a swath of pure stereo bliss from the cool waters of Santa Barbara to the spicy shores of San Diego, Yacht Rock was more than a sound: It was a mindset, a philosophy, and a takin’-it-easy way of life.

And now at YachtRock.com you can relive the adventure through the struggles of a young Kenny Loggins and Michael McDonald as they wrestle with life, loss, and the urge to rock. Every episode is worth watching (and hey, they’re only 5 minutes or so each), and each one tackles a new angle of the Yacht Rock story. From its 60s hippie roots, to its 80s dalliance with Pop Metal, to its sampled-resurrection in 90s hip-hop, every line cast into this sea of cheese lands a catch of AM Gold.

Give it a try. And be sure to keep it smooth.

Perhaps I’m going about things all wrong.

In the last GQ there was an article about the necessities and excesses of the hyper-trendy green movement. It was mostly fluff, bouncing between the dire results of every Indian & Chinese owing an internally-combustible car, and the ridiculousness of buying a shiny new hybrid-SUV because somehow you’re going to save the earth by stretching each gallon of gas another mile or two.

Nothing new there, but there was a quote from one Bjorn Lomborg that made me wonder about my approach to life:

“The reason we’ve done so well as a civilization over the past 300 years is specialization — I don’t fix my own computer, I don’t produce my own TV programs. I do very few things, but hopefully I do them well.”

And then there was this quote from my friend John’s blog:

“When I grow up, maybe I’ll learn to say “no” to things that fall outside my talents, skills and giftings. I know for a fact that God has not equipped me to be a travel agent. I shall never again be the one responsible for flight plans, fund collections or any of those kinds of details related to a missions trip. I’m just not good at it.”

I’ve always been one to try to go it alone, fix it myself, make it happen on my own terms. But when I look at both my domestic and professional life, I see mostly loose ends that I could fix if I had the time, but I don’t have the time. I’ve got no time for anything. And then these self-inflicted responsibilities just start stacking up and choking out any space to do what I’m actually kinda good at.

For instance, I’m massively behind in my attempts to get a new e-commerce platform up-and-running. It would/could/should be a good thing to do, and it’s plum necessary in my line of work that I continue to evolve this “solution” to keep up with the times. However, I’ve never felt any desire to hang out with a database, let alone tweak the code to get it to jump through my hoops. Now, I’ll stay up all night tweaking the layout of the user interface. I think that’s fun.

Am I less of a man for hiring some help? Why my lack of faith in the word “team”? Does this all go back to a childhood kick-ball game gone bad? The blacktop broiling under the summer sun. The bounce of the ball, the dodge, the jump the crash, the burn, the Sears Toughskin corduroy jeans not tough enough. Argh!! The iodine!!

Feeling better… I think I’ll go make some calls. Go team!

At least 10 years have gone by since I’ve read a little Waugh. And that, my friend, is simply no good. I’d forgotten more of Evelyn than I’d remembered. From what I could recall, he was a serious writer with serious stories about the decline and fall of a way of life. The sort of writer who picked up the last handful of dust and pondered loss with a heavy heart and civilized snifter of sherry. And when Tony wound up in the jungle, I always found it odd, over-the-top, goofy.

Fact is, the jungle made sense. I’d forgotten just how Wilde he could be. Nonsense is not just another element of his writing, it’s a critical component of his continual commentary, a Yin to his Catholic and Cultured Yang.

In Put Out More Flags, Waugh applies the same deconstructable style to the most hallowed of recent human endeavors: the Greatest Generation’s Band of Brothers who laid down life itself to bash back against the buzz-bombing Nazi threat. His descriptions of the inner workings of Her Majesty’s Royal Forces are Kafkaesque; his soldiers are well-meaning but ill-informed; his recurring characters are by turns self-centered, aloof, removed. But things do turn serious as the war heats up, and there is maturation and growth all around. And things do turn serious for Waugh as he introduces and replays a new theme mid-novel:

“Culture must cease to be conventual and become cenobitic.”

Waugh sketches out a contrast between the mind of the modern European man (excited to be wrapped up and bound up and swept away by the latest line of thought, be it Nazism or any other sort of less-destructive fashion or fever) and the the life of a Chinese monk content to think his own thoughts in solitude without being chained to the greater collective (un)conscious.

Applied to the present conflict, he continues:

“The great weapons of modern war did not count in single lives; it took a whole section to make a target worth a burst of machine-gun fire; a platoon or a motor lorry worth a bomb. No one had anything against the individual; as long as he was alone he was free and safe; there’s a danger in numbers; divided we stand, united we fall…”

To sum, the cenobitic culture would not form an army, would not drop a bomb, would not round up the Jews, and would not Put Out More Flags. However, it would produce plenty of snarky fiction and the time to really read it.

Perhaps we all just want to re-create the world in our own image.

Interesting article in The Other Paper last week focusing on our (Democratic) Governor Ted Strickland’s marksmanship and subsequent high marks from the NRA. Although I’ve got an opinion or three on the issue, it’s not really an issue for me. What fascinated me was the unabashed contrarian position taken by The Gov vis-a-vis his party’s line. So rarely does this happen!

For instance, I can’t find a single Hillary supporter who thinks that Florida and Michigan should be excluded from the delegate vote. I can’t find a single Obama supporter who thinks that they shouldn’t. Back in 2000 there was nary a Democrat who thought that Florida and the courts were on the path to Truth after the election. There wasn’t a Republican to be found who thought otherwise.

Doesn’t anyone think for themselves anymore? How can we trust people with guns when we can’t even trust them to think? For that matter, how can we trust them to raise children? Even in Texas?

Anyway, the real reason for this post is just for a chance to post this:

The moral of the story: Like a pink Kalashnikov, the Trigger of Truth might be a mash-up we’re all afraid to fire.