Apparently it’s “Existentialism Week” here at The Bowl. For the second time in almost as many days, I’m posting about some personal crap affecting my world rather than events affecting the world around me. Perhaps it’s because I’ve had a bunch of garbage rattling around in the attic for a number of weeks that I can finally put into words. Perhaps a couple days in the water is starting to clear my head a bit. Perhaps I’m just trying to pass the time. Regardless, this week, we are a true ‘web-log’ again.

Several years ago, my aunt and I got to discussing how my cousins, my sister and I have changed since we were kids. I told her how, in my mind, I saw us all completely altered from the people we were when we were younger. My aunt disagreed. Having witnessed all of us growing up from her adult perspective, she thought that, but for such growth that life throws upon us, we’re all essentially the same personalities as when we were kids.

After thinking on that comment for a couple years now, I’m beginning to think she was right in some respect, but wrong in another.

With respect to my sister and I, our personalities have always been radically different — she the pragmatic, studious, responsible older sister … and I, the eccentric, searching, risk-taking younger brother.

Our life paths — especially right now — tend to reflect that underlying truth. My sister is happily married, has two (2) gorgeous little girls, a good job, and a nice house in an upper-middle class neighborhood. I obviously have none of those things at the moment, as I wander randomly throughout the bowels of Southeast Asia.

And while we almost always enjoy each others company, the conversations admittedly tend to drag whenever one of us tries talking to the other about what constitutes a meaningful event in our respective lives. She obviously (and rightly so) loves talking about her family, while I obviously love talking about myself the places, people and philosophies I’ve encountered.

But this is where my aunt is wrong, I think. Because every so often, my sister and I expose a depth to our personalities that often goes undetected, even by others in our immediate family.

Yesterday was one of those times.

Yesterday my sister blindsided me with a piece of eccentric profundity I never saw coming from her. And while it was fairly simplistic (sorry Sis), it struck a chord with me because it was perfectly suited to my current state of mind, and it served as proof that she knows me far better than I give her credit for.

I don’t see her enough. And I don’t talk to her enough. But she may very well know me (if not fully understand me) better than anyone. She is the strongest link to my past (even including my parents with respect to some things). And I miss her.

I’ve mentioned several times just how iconic Facebook has become over the past year — and not just for the pimpled high-school masses, but also for me and most of the other ex-pats I know living abroad. It is THE simplest way to keep in touch with all of my friends and acquaintances, and also to find out if any of them will be around in any of the cities and/or countries I’m currently in or plan to soon visit.

In a word, it’s easy. And as such, I’m an admitted addict.

But I think it’s now gone way past the point of mere utilitarianism. Facebook has reached the point where it’s just plain creepy. No, I take that back … it’s really fucking creepy.

Example — over the past month or so, not only have I have been contacted on Facebook by people I used to know back when I was growing up in the slums of West Philadelphia (I don’t care what anyone says, a neighborhood can still be a slum regardless of race, income or social status — hell, just look at the entire State of New Jersey), but I’ve also been contacted by my older sister’s former schoolmates and several PARENTS of people I used to know back in the ol’ hood.

I don’t care what others say, but for me, that’s just plain wrong.

It’s kind of like clothes that have become fashionable — as soon as you see your mom wearing a ‘FRANKIE SAYS RELAX’ t-shirt, you know it’s all over.

The problem in this case is that I never actually liked my ‘FRANKIE SAYS’ t-shirt (assuming, arguendo, I ever owned one). In contrast, I use Facebook on a daily basis … I am a SLAVE to Facebook. In fact, it’s gotten to the point where my ACTUAL friends and I sit around and brainstorm about what we should write for out online statuses the moment we all return home. It’s just THAT BAD.

This presents me with something of a conundrum: can I release my Amy Winehouse-like addiction to Facebook for long enough so that those people I’ve been avoiding for the past 20 years will either spill their troughs of bourbon accidentally onto their computers or, alternatively, so that they’ll just forget about me (which I admit isn’t the most likely scenario, considering it’s already been 20 years and they’re still harassing me)?

Yeah, it’s pretty doubtful.

Now don’t get me wrong, being put back into contact with all there old acquaintances hasn’t been ALL bad. Shit, I admittedly joined a Facebook group especially for my old neighborhood. I did so voluntarily, perhaps out of a sense of morbid curiosity — something akin to slowing down at the scene of a car wreck.

Part of it was in furtherance of my own personal introspection. I’m keeping the contacts because I wonder if these people I grew up with see me now the same way I still see them — 20 years gone. And I wonder if they’ve any concept of what I’ve been though and how I see them in their lives. Does it really fucking matter?

Also, I recognize that I’m looking at the old pictures they post, not with a sense of melancholic nostalgia and regret, but with a return of the grim determination I had when I first left for college — to prove what I already knew was true — that I was better than they were.

And while that selfish determination has mellowed a bit over the years, I am admittedly enjoying this resurgence from the past just a bit too much.

Mort likely than not I am enjoying the cruel satisfaction that comes from hearing about all these people who peaked in High School (and with whom I never really got along with) — just hearing about how … mundane and … well, ordinary their lives turned out. While mine (for now, at least), in contrast, has and continues to be a journey and adventure that I absolutely treasure.

There is also another bright side to the whole Facebook creepiness that satisfies my more Buddhist tendencies, which is that, in addition to most of the knuckle-draggers I knew from back in the day, there are scattered about them several other gems who also took their lives into their own hands after ‘back in the day’ ended and they focused on bettering themselves (through travel, advanced education, or otherwise).

And who knows, maybe these folks make all the other nonsense tolerable. Or maybe Facebook IS just really creepy … it’s still too early to tell.

KB and I drove down to visit with my folks in Philly last weekend.

Being in Boston for the month, I would have been an even worse son than I already am had I neglected to visit the parentals after traveling half-way back around the world to a city only a couple hundred miles away without making a visit. Plus, at this point in my life, I’m pretty sure the whole ‘jewish-mom” guilt trip thingy gets more powerful the closer you get to it’s source.

My parents were never that thrilled in the first place with my decision to give up a fairly cushy legal existence in favor of residing in various chicken coops throughout Southeast Asia — that’s just a given. However, that disapproval was compounded by the fact that my folks are … hmm, how would you say it? …

well, … they’re old.

In particular, gven a superior intellect, my dad remained single until he was 41, and he is now well into his 80’s. But even now, he’s still as healthy as a horse (last April before I left the States, the battery on my Jeep went out while my folks were visiting, and in response to my statement that maybe we should attach jumper cables, my dad told me that he would push-start the Jeep and that I should ‘just get in the car, ya’ pansy’).

Regardless, given their age and locale, it was recently brought to my attention that my parents, in their retirement, now resemble — creepily so — Jerry Seinfeld’s parents from ‘The Seinfeld Show.”

One particular event last weekend — one of many, unfortunately — drove that point home.

My folks still live in the small West-Philly row home where I grew up. And after living in the same place for so long, with a drop-off in the number of long-term house guests (to about none), my parents have let the house fall into a level of repair suitable to them.

The house is not in disrepair by any stretch, but there are certain things my parents have grown accustomed to living with that I (and perhaps other people) would change or fix.

One of these items is the lock on the door to the main bathroom (immediately adjacent to the 3 upstairs bedrooms). It’s not that the door doesn’t lock, it’s just that it doesn’t lock as well as it maybe should. As such, given the proper motivation — oh, like pulling on the door handle, for instance — the lock will disengage and the door will open.

This isn’t that big of an issue as my parents have been married for 45 years and I’m guessing there are no more sacred places (or scents) left to shock either of them. So … no issue.

But now you’ve got your (prodigal) son visiting from Southeast Asia with his new girl, and it would probably be a good idea to at least try to maintain an illusion of bathroom privacy. So, house rules: if the door is closed, it’s pretty much in your best interest to leave it closed.

To this end, when I went to use to bathroom early the first morning after we arrived, I saw the bathroom door shut. Not a problem, I would wait a few minutes until the current occupant was finished. However, for the first time in my life, I saw a new, hand-printed sign tacked onto the bathroom door, reading (and I shit you not – no pun intended):

I was, for a change, rendered relatively speechless as I went back into the bedroom to tell KB that her urinary options had been surreptitiously reduced in half whilst we had slept.

Given the fact said ‘downstairs bathroom’ is without a shower, we decided to expand our bladders through rhythmic breathing and meditation, and wait for 15-20 minutes until said ‘bowel movement’ was no longer ‘in progress.’

As we sat there talking, we lost track of time for a bit. But about an hour later, I decided to make another check on the status of my dad’s (or my mom’s) ‘movement.’

I found the door still shut, with the ’sign’ still firmly tacked onto the bathroom door. Apparently, there had yet to be any ‘progress.’ We decided to keep waiting a bit longer rather than brave the cold depths of my parents basement bathroom,

KB: “No worries. Let’s give your dad 5-10 more minutes.”
Me: “Okay.”

And then, 10 minutes later,

KB: Umm … do you think your dad’s okay? Maybe you should check on him.”
Me: Uhh, okay.

After going back outside and seeing the bathroom door still adorned with my mom’s (at that point, apparently woefully optimistic) signage, I finally broke down and called out to my mom downstairs,

Me: Hey, MOM! Are you downstairs?
Mom: Yes, honey? What do you need?
Me: Uh mom, do you know when dad is gonna be done in the bathroom?
Mom: What do you mean, sweetie? Your father’s down here with me reading the newspaper.
Me: (Silent reflection)
Me: Uh, well there’s that new sign on the bathroom door that says … uh, well it says … it says the bathroom is busy.
Mom: I know, but didn’t you try the door?
Me: (Additional moment of silent reflection)
Me: Well, no mom, given the condition of the lock, I didn’t think it a prudent course of action at this juncture.
Mom: Don’t be a wise-ass. You could have just knocked on the door.
Me: (Slipping into meditative trance to contemplate situation)
Me: Well, yeah sure, but why is the sign up in the first …; uh, why would I have to knock if there’s a … what I mean to say is ‘why was the door …’
Mom: Yes, sweetheart?
Me: Uh, never mind, we’re gonna use the bathroom now.
Mom: Okay, we’re not going anywhere.
Me (halfway under breath): Of course you’re not, you’re old.
Mom: I heard that – don’t be a smart-ass.
Me: Okay, okay … I gotta go (running to bathroom in classic ‘gotta pee’ posture)

And while that whole episode — and the remainder of the weekend, for that matter — reminded me of just why I sorely needed to move halfway around the world to avoid my parents debilitating ‘quasi-jewlogic’, the whole thing just reeked of ‘Seinfeldian cuteness’ to KB.

Indeed, when we finally made it downstairs and I ignored my parents reminding me – over and over – that I ‘could have just knocked,’ KB was grinning like a little school girl, whist I sat there in silence, trying not to listen to the coffee-stirrer from Starbucks that was loudly urging me to ram it into my eye-socket.

I used to think Seinfeld was so funny. But now? I saw a commercial for an episode earlier this week, and I could literally hear my mom berating me for not knocking on the bathroom door.

Ugh, Where the fuck is the nearest Starbucks?

Okay, I’ve had issues with the new AOL video, but in this case I’ve got no choice. There’s a song that came to my attention earlier today that I want to discuss while I’m still thinking about it. Unfortunately, the video isn’t on YouTube or anywhere else that allows embedding other than AOL.

I was born and raised in West Philadelphia, inside the city, but still very close to the old money part of town located in the suburbs of the “Main Line.” We were a bunch of city punks, and the ‘burbs had something we did not – the “Cabaret” music clubs. There were, to my recollection, three such clubs – the Chestnut Cabaret down near the University of Pennsylvania, as well as the 23 East Cabaret and the Ambler Cabaret. Although the latter two clubs were in the ‘burbs, they attracted some of the best local music that came out of Philly for 30 years. In fact, I remember sneaking into the 23 East and the Ambler to see the Hooters, Southside Johnny and the Jukes, and Tommy Conwell and the Young Rumblers.

If anyone recalls, the Hooters were by far the popular favorites, and they eventually went on to receive the most (albeit still fairly limited) national recognition in the mid-1980’s. However, my personal favorite was Tommy Conwell. Although he was born and raised on the Main Line, Conwell’s voice and guitar sounded as if they had been rubbed raw through years of blue-collar turmoil. As such, they seemed to embody the lower working class environment that existed in my neighborhood at the time. By the mid-80’s, they had already established themselves as a major draw in the Philadelphia clubs, – to my recollection, second behind only The Hooters. The local music scene then hit the roof when they released “Walkin’ on the Water” in 1986. The album had nine songs and was produced by Andy King, the bass player from the Hooters. Philadelphia singer/songwriter, Robert Hazard, also wrote a couple of the songs on the album, “Love’s on Fire” and “Everything They Say is True.” Conwell himself wrote another two great songs on the album, “Walkin’ on the Water”and “Million Pretty Girls.”

Then in 1988, probably seeking to capitalize on the recent success of the Hooters, Columbia Records signed Conwell & the Rumblers and nationally released the band’s major label debut, “Rumble.” The album was produced by Rick Chertoff, who had also worked with Cyndi Lauper, Patty Smyth, and the Hooters. After Columbia exposed the Rumblers to a huge national audience, two singles from the album received heavy airplay, a new version of “I’m Not Your Man” as well as the Jules Shear tune “If We Never Meet Again.” Columbia estimated sales of Rumble at 300,000 nationwide. The band eventually returned to play for large audiences back in Philly for some time, but never again really established themselves as a national act. Conwell is now apparently a DJ with one of the two local Philly rock stations on which I grew up, 94.1 WYSP.

Of their songs, my personal favorite is “I’m Not Your Man.” The good news is that there is, in fact a video for the song. The bad news is that the video is only for the second, cleaner version of the song, produced by Chertoff after the band was primped and polished by Columbia. The original version, which was actually produced through the 23 East Cabaret itself, was rawer and much more powerful. Although something was definitely lost in translation, it’s still a great song.

Tommy Conwell and the Young Rumblers – I’m Not Your Man

UPDATE: It appears that AOL is still intent on maintaining its longstanding title of “Most Overhyped Useless Provider of Internet Services.” I’m not sure about anyone else, but apparently the embedded video is no longer working (jackasses). If you’re interested, here’s a link to the same video on Google, which does not allow embedding: Tommy Conwell & The Young Rumblers – I’m Not Your Man.

And on a personal note, I just remembered having gone and seen Conwell at a club in Tempe when I was at Arizona State. I was still underage and snuck into that show too.