Stan was my PhD thesis advisor at Berkeley. He left a tremendous legacy of professional accomplishment in fields as diverse as applied mathematics, medicine, physiology, and engineering, and he was a dedicated and beloved teacher. Of all the people I have known, he most closely embodied those qualities described by the word “mensch.” For the uninitiated, the literal translation of this is “human being.” In the Yiddish vernacular it describes a person of singular integrity, honor, and generosity. I can’t think of a more perfect description.

Stan was my mentor, but he was also my friend. When we first met, we shared an immediate sense of recognition. We were both members of that unusual subspecies of humanity: the New York Jew. We knew the same jokes without having to explain them. We shared the same sense of doom about right wing politics, the same quirky blend of optimism and resignation about human nature in general. We were part of the same tribe.

Back then, in the mid to late 80s, if you got to know Stan, you got to know his daughters, Shoshana and Maya, of whom he was immensely proud. One weekend night -- and I have no idea what we were thinking at the time because in retrospect it seems like an unusually bad idea -- we decided that the four of us -- Stan, myself, Shana, Maya -- should go to a comedy club in San Francisco. We arrived a bit early and we thought, oh great! Front row seats! Imagine the scene: a very distinguished middle aged gentleman and his younger, scruffy sidekick, accompanied by two very attractive, young teenaged women, smack in the front row at a comedy club. You could almost see the comedian’s eyes light up when he saw us. If I recall, he actually didn’t go as hard as he could have, probably out of kindness to the girls. Certainly not to Stan and me, whose judgment was obviously impaired.

I could say more about our work together, our shared enthusiasm for applied mathematics and the physics of fluids, our travels to conferences together, the sense of inclusion, of mishpocha — extended family — that he imparted to everyone he came in contact with. There are stories to be told, but I’ll just leave it there.

Stan, you were a mensch, a real human being, and you remain so in our hearts, now and forever.

https://engineering.berkeley.edu/news/2013/12/stanley-berger-known-for-his-work-in-blood-flow-dies-at-79/

God picked the wrong 80-year-old

… you’re welcome

One of the reasons we listen to music is that it invokes, when it resonates strongly, a feeling akin to nostalgia but for things that haven’t happened yet. My first thought upon listening to this album was: I’m home.

This is not easy listening music. Imagine a cage fight between System of a Down and Human Sexual Response refereed by HP Lovecraft. Sounds nothing like The Mandibles, but it’s a great thing to imagine.

Every track on this album by the Pittsburgh-based band is good. A few are great (Warm, (I Believe in) Everything, Subterfuge). Every track is also a bit of a dice roll, a risk of some kind. The reach could be lyrics (The Wolves Are Whispering), architecture (Interlude (Don’t Wake Grandpa)), sound palette (Warm), genre expectations (Satyrday Sunlyt Love). The risks pay off, consistently. Listeners from a huge range of allegiances will find something to love here.

The Mandibles reminds me of the recent Phoebe Bridgers post-folk album Lost Weekend. (Excuse me, what? I was stuck behind a 3-car pileup on the Bay bridge for 2 hours yesterday and I listened to both albums while getting bent on carbon monoxide and they couldn’t be farther apart. What the fuck are you talking about?) Stay with me for a second, young padawan. Bridgers is a magpie, relentlessly pillaging any trope system handy that will help her get the song across. I stopped trying to count or even identify the influences I heard in that album. And it doesn’t matter. The result is a unique synthesis, emergent, the way wetness arises from the interactions between water molecules. This is the beauty and power of genre: standing on the shoulders of giants.

The Mandibles do this as well, only in their case, the giant is a Shoggoth.

I hear a lot of influences in The Mandibles. Some old stuff: as noted above, Human Sexual Response and System of a Down. Also Bauhaus, Iggy, Pere Ubu. New stuff too, though: Fontaines D.C., Mk.gee, Tropical Fuck Storm. Like Bridgers’ Lost Weekend, the result is not a just a collage of constituent parts but uniquely its own thing.

The last track, Outro (So Much Success), features what sounds like, I swear to God, a circa 1960’s Farfisa organ, the kind with the keyboard colors on the lowest octave reversed, black for white. It’s an incredibly unique sound. I actually owned one, bought with my Bar Mitzvah money (much to the chagrin of my parents). I was in a band but we couldn’t get any gigs and we broke up after about a year and I developed other interests, like smoking weed in the basement of our Manhattan apartment building and lusting after unapproachable girls, but not before we managed to cut a demo at a tiny recording studio up on West 47th Street. Mr. Fantasy on the A side, Crossroads on the B. Or vice-versa, depending who in the band you were talking to. We each walked away with a copy of the 45. I have no idea what happened to mine. Nor do any of my former bandmates, or they won’t say. I don’t remember selling the Farfisa, but I must have. I’ve always wondered what happened to it. Now I know.

The Mandibles: (I Believe in) Everything
(available on Bandcamp)

You talk a great game. So did Hitler and Mussolini. So does Trump, for that matter, if you overlook the manifest evidence that he’s a pathological liar and a malignant narcissist, a carnival barker reeking of greasepaint, cruelty, and fear. But maybe you’re completely sincere. Maybe you believe every word of what you’ve been saying. Hey, I believed you. Still do, kind of. And I believe in the redemption arc as one of our great trope systems. Who among us hasn’t had a universally recognized symbol of depravity, subjugation, hate, and genocide indelibly carved into our chest after a night of beer pong? A little embarrassing at the 92nd Street YMHA Family Swim Night, but hey, it’s all about the narrative. Who among us doesn’t have a softball team full of exes speaking up to anybody who’ll listen about violent, erratic, drunken behavior? About abuse? About rape?

You’ve fought for our country and left huge pieces of yourself in places I’ll never see, in ways I can only imagine. I honor you and grieve for you, I really do.

But here’s the thing, Graham. I believe the women. Maybe you’re telling the truth. Maybe they’re all lying. All of them. It’s possible, right? But listen: the stories don’t have to be reconciled. The circle doesn’t have to be squared. I believe the women. And given the track record of fifty percent of the human race, that’s the only sane call to make, the only actionable call.

The coming election, and the elections to come after that, and the ones after that, are about one thing, more than anything else. And it’s not policy. It’s character. Fitness to serve. Fitness to lead. And Graham, there’s so much smoke and stink swirling around you that the wake behind a 1979 Dodge Dart burning nothing but engine oil smells like roses by comparison.

So Godspeed with your redemption arc. Truly. But don’t run it on our backs. Of course you have to step down. That goes without saying. But nobody gives a shit who you want to tap to step into your shoes. You’ve given up the right to make that call. Just fuck off and disappear. Please. If you believe one word of what you’ve been saying on the stump, it’s the only thing you can do for us. Fuck off. Go back to your oysters. You can do anything you want to them. Anything. You can grab them by the pussy. You can do anything if you’re a star.

Sincerely,

A Friend

you’re welcome :)

Jeff Tiedrich