Dennis Hopper narrated a Nike shoe commercial sometime in the 90s that had a memorable tagline: “Bad things, man.” Hopper was (ahem) “fondling” the shoe of the Buffalo Bills’ fearsome defensive end, Bruce Smith. The commercial touted Smith’s skills, noting that he did “bad things” wearing those Nike shoes. Hopper’s character asks and answers the question of what would happen should Smith find him touching his shoes: “Bad things, man.” I used to joke with co-workers at my job in St. Louis whenever there was a bump in the advertising department’s production road by saying, “Bad things, man.” A phone call from a friend made me remember that phrase.
My friend asked me how I had celebrated my birthday, and I told her of the grand finale, when my friends and coworkers, Paula Nicewanger and Ethel Winslow became immersed with me in the art of Vincent Van Gogh. “THE LUME: Van Gogh” is a magnificent demonstration of van Gogh’s art, projected onto the walls, floors and ceilings of one of the Newfields’ exhibit spaces. And onto the bodies of the attendees, as well. I marveled at the exhibition of Van Gogh’s works and was astounded by the artistry of those who labored to digitize, storyboard, and project the images. When I got home that afternoon, I paged through my giant 317-page book, “Impressionism,” looking for the paintings that I had so recently admired while sitting on the floor at Newfields. The phone call that evening from another friend gave me a chance to relive the birthday weekend, which included messages from my children and grandchildren, my first and second brides and relatives and friends on a social media site. I shared my recent joys with her and as I wound down in my story telling, she grew more pensive, and eventually wandered into the topic of “world affairs.”
In this country in the 1960s, there were those among us who understood what it meant to “groove.” In 1967 the rock band The Young Rascals cut a record called “Groovin’” which sang of “Groovin’ on a Sunday afternoon.” Early in that decade, my first brother-in-law coined the term “groove-knocker,” which translated as being knocked off your groove by something or someone. (In my Shorter Oxford English Dictionary, groove is an intransitive verb, meaning to “please … get on well with,” and to “play well; please someone.” Most of those definitions are tied to music.) When the Sunday evening conversation with my friend wandered into the possibility of the start of World War III, that was a definite groove-knocker.
William Wordsworth’s sonnet “The World Is Too Much With Us” laments the eroding effects of the Industrial Revolution, which he felt was contributing to mankind’s separation from the benefits of nature. When you have heads of state posturing with nuclear weapons, this is not an “OK Corral” type of standoff, or shootout. Neither .38 caliber slugs, nor .45 caliber slugs will be launched toward “enemy” combatants, but planet-poisoning, life eradicating nasty-bombs. This is the sort of disregard for the nurturing that nature gives us, the ultimate example of the world being too much with us.
I tried to guide my conversation with my friend into a more hopeful field, one with roses and tulips and tomatoes and corn, new babies, and older ones, hope and joy and delight, but when the call ended, I was left with the foreboding thought:
Bad things, man.
cjon3acd@att.net