Monthly Archives: April 2013

Rolling Stone Magazine’s Stupid Lists

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One evening long ago, I was bored with the sites that I habitually surf.  So I went to RollingStone.com. I like RS and I like that I can read some of their better stuff online. (I occasionally buy the actual rag — and miss the original large format.)

I didn’t see anything worth reading on the “front page” so I selected “Music” from the second or third or whatever-level-it-was menu bar.

I don’t know if it was that page or the one after it, but Ho Leek Rap. I couldn’t believe how many “Best Lists” there were. You know: those long ass scorecards of Best Bands, Best Guitar Solos, Best Albums, and Best Best Lists? I can’t stand these things!

All you do (yes, that “you” includes me) is scan the list for your favorites so that you can see where you stand in the grand scheme of Bestness. Bestness is, of course, defined through a democratic voting process whereby People Who Really Know get together and choose what they think is Best.  Your preferences are validated.  Your preferences are ranked on a universal scale of Goodness.  You can put yourself among the Pantheon of Critics and be in a Club of Coolth.

I was all for the Top 100 Albums of the 1980’s back when RS came out with it. The Clash topped the list with London Calling, so right away you figure these guys aren’t suckling at the pop teat, right?  Even if you didn’t like — or know — The Clash, you had to respect the fact that serious rock critics chose it and they explained their choice with authority and eloquence.

So that was a good list to me at the time.  Probably because I was in my 20’s during that decade and it seemed important.  But it wasn’t.  It was just a list.  The kind of list that people waste endless hours of time and breath debating.

But that’s not the point.  The point is that Rolling Stone took a mildly entertaining, occasionally revealing, and always controversial concept and made it … stupid.

Flying

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I grew up near a small municipal airport. The buzz of small planes is ingrained in the sonic memory of everyone who ever lived in that neighborhood and, for me, it’s a pleasant memory.

My dad loved airplanes. The Civilian Aviation Administration taught him to fly as the United States prepared to enter World War II. He was trained as a soldier to recognize military aircraft by their silhouettes. Although he never became a military pilot, he served with the 351st Fighter Squadron near London until the end of the war. He spoke fondly of his time stateside flying Piper Cubs.

I always hoped to learn how to fly so I could take Dad up into the sky again. As with too many postponed hopes for our parents, he passed away before it happened. I received my private pilot license less than two years later.

It was a wonderful learning experience but I found that the process of “flying in the system” that is, under air-traffic control, is a bit oppressive. Wasn’t really as fun as I thought it would be. Aerobatic flying — flying for the pure joy of it — would probably be more satisfying.

I also didn’t find flying to be very practical in terms of getting from place to place. It’s very expensive and you still have to arrange for transport to and from the airport.

In the end, I gave it up and went auto racing instead. Not much cheaper to be sure, but I have more control over the vehicle, getting to and from events, and there’s a lot of camaraderie at the track.

I do miss it though, Dad, so maybe I’ll be back someday. It would be wonderful to get up there again, maybe in a small plane from grass strip out in the country.