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A Much Quieter Riot

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"And, when he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of Heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun." William Shakespeare

"He who has gone, so we but cherish his memory, abides with us, more potent, nay, more present than the living man." Antoine de Saint Éxupéry

The news hit me like a ton of hair product… or, as if a giant, bitchin’-lookin’ metal mask had been dropped directly onto my crotch; Kevin DuBrow, leathery-lunged lead singer of Quite Riot, dead at age fifty-two. “No…” I murmured. “No, no, no, no!” Rocking back and forth in my chair I felt a cold dark chill envelope me. It couldn’t be… the man who taught me the difference between rockin’ and raawwkin’ gone? I still can’t get my mind around it.

As of this writing, no cause of death has been released (though I suspect nothing less than Kryptonite or perhaps a bizarre gardening accident better left a mystery!) I feel how weak and fruitless must be any words of mine which should attempt to beguile his adoring public form the grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot refrain from tendering to you the consolation that may be found in the body of work and fond memories this cherished troubadour leaves behind.

Kevin DuBrow and Quite Riot came along at a critical juncture in history; heavy metal was transforming our society. Men could wear spandex and make up, yet still remain refreshingly misogynistic. It was a time of cod-pieces and hair as big as adolescent dreams of adequacy, an era defined by innovation, by mixed tapes and smokable cocaine.

I was a squeaky-clean thirteen-year-old when I discovered Riot and my paradigm shifted so radically my head nearly exploded. You see, up until that time, my idea of fun was a double-header on Saturday or maybe shooting pellet guns at lawn ornaments. I didn’t understand that the real kicks were on the other side of the tracks from where I lived in Squares-ville.

As I write this I am overcome by a torrent of memories of that defining time in my life. I can feel the noiz… “C’mon, feel the noiz…” I am transported… to Mike “Flapper” Raab’s garage… “Girlz rock your bo-oy-oys…” We are crouching behind the garbage cans, drinking orange extract and tang out of a canteen… “We’ll get wild, wild, wild…” smoking Copenhagen out of a soda can… “Wild, wild, wild…” and vomiting as quietly as possible into the lawnmower’s grass attachment… “C’mon feel the noise…”

I think about those days now, of running with the cool kids… of “banging our heads…” of drinking Old Crow from a bota bag on the ski lift… “Metal health will drive you mad…” and splitting my septum with the tip of my ski… “Bang your head…” and vomiting into a pool of my own blood… “Metal health will drive you mad…”

Such good times. Thank you, Kevin DuBrow… thank you and good night.

We Simply HAVE to Do Better

Disgusting
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/21882843/

Just Plain Sad
http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/21882976/?GT1=10547

“Everybody wakes up in the morning with the hope they will end the day with their dignity in tact. Your responsibility, son, is to help them along that way.”

“Everyone is cared for, nurtured, protected, and given their livelihood by the community in which he or she lives and raises their families. It is each of our responsibilities to give back to that community in a meaningful and caring manner.”

Quotes from my Grandfather, who worked every work-day for forty-four years for the same company, standing in the same spot, running the same machine, while serving for those same forty-four years as an Auxiliary Policeman, raising to the rank of Deputy Chief in Holyoke, Massachusetts, where he raised four children who in turn also were dedicated to serving the communities in which they lived.