Feeling anxious about Dallas? How about Hillary’s e-mail scandal? Or are you still too busy bitching about Apple Maps.

Forget your faux pas. Don’t even bother apologizing, especially if you don’t think you’re guilty and you’re only doing it for the crowd. What we admire most these days are those with a backbone who keep soldiering on. Taylor Swift may be a two-dimensional phony creating content for a brain dead audience but she knows the game, you’ve got to keep on creating, stay in the public eye, or you’re forgotten.

This is so different from the old three year album cycle. If you’re staying at home creating an opus to drop on the public you don’t realize that classic acts’ albums last a day, not even a weekend, and if you’re not already famous, you’re putting out your work to crickets, it’s your audience and your audience only. You need an awareness campaign, but the truth is in moments you’re no longer new, and please, only have that campaign when you’re selling, advance press is for dummies, if I can’t click and buy it immediately you’ve lost, kind of like the book business, which issues all its reviews a week or more before retail availability, WHO CAN REMEMBER?

And then you’ve got the Republican Congress that just can’t believe they got beaten, that the FBI director did not favor indictment for Hillary Clinton. They want change, they want justice, they want someone to pay… THAT’S AN OLD STORY, FORGET ABOUT IT!

As for Dallas, et al, in the back of our minds we’re thinking it’s bad to be black in America, and no rational person wants cops dead, but we’ve already moved on to making our living, updating our Facebook page, watching Snapchat stories…

If you think today’s paradigm is all about world domination, you’re still living in the seventies. No one has a sustained hold on the public consciousness, NO ONE! At best you can own the dialogue for a week. Like Beyonce did with “Lemonade.” But was that really just a press story? I know about it, but I didn’t listen to it, and the real story is not that many did. Old wave media needs something to trumpet but we go more for the spontaneous, the new, that which we adopt as opposed to having shoved down our throat, like Pokemon Go.

And speaking of Go, you don’t collect $200, you’re now just in the game. Releasing a record is like walking into first grade. Okay, now you’re in school, but how are you gonna get traction, how are you gonna pass? And he not busy learning is dying. But the great thing is you can adjust on the fly, because no one is paying attention. And if they are, they’ve already forgotten your mistakes anyway.

So forget gotcha moments. They’re so last century, so Republican in a world where that party’s clock was cleaned by outsider Donald Trump, who speaks to their rank and file better than they do. We want what resonates now, we don’t care about playing a game of tag in the past.

And are you in the news business or the career business anyway?

If the latter, don’t worry about hitting a peak, don’t worry about starting off slow. Just know if you’re willing to do the work you can make it, assuming the indicators are there. If your listens and views aren’t climbing, you missed the target. Publicity won’t help. Subsequent to launch it’s all about word of mouth and you’ve got none. Better to go back to the drawing board.

And now creation is your full time job. You come to bat as much as a baseball player. Who hits .300 and is a superstar. Not everyone knows Drake’s deep tracks, but his hits are more ubiquitous than anybody’s and he puts out multiple projects a year, he gets it.

And the young do too.

It’s only the old farts still playing by the old rules, demanding the game change back as they put their head in the ground, who don’t. Tech eats itself. And so does entertainment. Don’t fight the last war, establish a new front. WME owns the UFC, it may not pay off, but sitting in Beverly Hills trying to package movies in an industry that’s moribund…that’s death.

And he not busy being born is dying.

“The Voyeur’s Motel”

It’s an easy read and it’s fantastic.

Ignore the controversy, within its pages Mr. Talese ponders the unreliability of his voyeur narrator. Hell, even if the whole thing were made up, and it’s not, Gay visited the motel and saw the viewing posts and looked in on the action himself, the insights would be intriguing and illuminating.

Especially the ones about people on vacation.

Gerald Foos, the proprietor, the voyeur, checks couples into the motel who are lovey-dovey, dignified and nice. And then they retire to their rooms and don’t stop arguing. One complains not enough sights were seen, the other stares blankly at the television set, and Foos muses on the backstory of their lives.

We have no idea what’s really happening.

I have no idea what’s really happening with you. Never mind your fantasies, but your everyday activities. I assumed everybody sat on the toilet the same way, but not according to Foos. Some people sit backwards!

And he finds lesbians make the best lovers, it’s not just wham, bam, thank you ma’am, they care about each other and take time and I’m always worried about satisfying my female partner, I have no idea what she’s feeling and what she wants, and despite protestations and advice, directions and advisements, there’s still an incredible gulf between us.

People, they’re all that matter. Even though our puritanical society keeps score via money and believes that’s all that really counts. If you look good and you’re rich, you’ve got it made. But do you?

And how repressed are you? How uptight? Some guests parade around nude, keep the bathroom door open, others are never seen naked and insist on sex in the dark.

But less interesting than the behaviors is the interactions. How do we interact? Some seem so suave and debonair, are they confident or just covering up? And is it best to reveal your warts or hold them back?

And if you’re looking for normal, it doesn’t exist.

I wasn’t on the Gay Talese train. I read “Honor Thy Father” back in the seventies, during an interlude when mononucleosis left me with so much free time. It didn’t evidence any zest! This was the era of “The Godfather,” I was expecting Mafiosi to be anything but boring.

But maybe that was Talese’s point.

And the writing here is heavily observed. As in there’s more description of the surroundings than necessary, because that’s Talese’s style, he takes copious notes. To the point where emotion is absent, but then you’re just left with bodies and actions and…

We all have a secret life. All of us have urges and desires, behaviors and aberrations. And we’re yearning to share them, but are usually too inhibited to do so.

Then again, some of the couples Foos observes are quite happy. Sex is good, he posits they’re winners.

But then there’s the nurse who drains the doctor in the motel and then goes home to place these same lips on her husband, as her kids swirl around them. Does he know? Does he want to know? Are they sexually mismatched? Will they stay together?

And then there’s the fiftysomething widow who’s paying for sex, but the ruse is she’s helping the gigolo with his bills. She’s overweight and depressed and are such individuals unable to meet people the natural way or is Foos just judging them. Are they too unattractive and too shy to connect in regular life or…

I don’t know.

And I don’t expect you to tell me.

And I don’t expect you to read this book either. Because then you’d have to admit you’re a sexual deviant.

Not really. You’d just be really interested in people. If it’s just sex you’re looking for, Google is your friend, you’ll get better visuals and better descriptions than you’d ever find in this book.

But you wouldn’t get the insight into humanity.

Gerald Foos is a voyeur. He bought a motel to spy on people. He broke not only taboos, but the law.

Yet his documentation of his experiences is utterly riveting.

This is real life folks.

And it’s only real life that matters.

“You can never really determine during their appearances in public that their private life is full of hell and unhappiness. I have pondered why it is absolutely mandatory for people to guard with all secrecy and never let it be known that their personal lives are unhappy and deplorable.”

Surfing the new paradigm or tone-deaf?

I’m not sure.

Bernie Sanders captures the youth vote by appealing to millennials’ lack of opportunity, their mountains of college debt in a land of income inequality. The modern economy losers voted for Brexit and Trump won the nomination by appealing to those left out. Yet Twizzle Stick is jetting all over the world with her new star boyfriend after having a July 4th party so over the top, shot by a professional with the results distributed on all platforms online, that one has to ask if she’s winning or losing.

Is America just aspirational? Do we all believe something better is gonna come? And when we see winners, do we venerate them, adhere to them, because we view ourselves as victorious soon?

Or, are we sick and tired of the b.s. and want a revolution.

Is everybody content with their mobile and flat screen or do black lives really matter?

Forget Rudy Giuliani. He’s from an over the hill generation. That’s what this election cycle has taught us, the oldsters are out of touch and while they were asleep the game changed and those speaking truth, or perceived truth, ascended to power. And the media has gotten it so wrong for so long that it’s become untrustworthy, another elite denigrated and tossed on the scrapheap.

But Taylor Swift keeps rolling right along.

Or does she?

It’s all about perception. And one thing about pollsters and research, they can tell us where we’ve been but not where we’re going.

On one hand TS owns social media. Her brand is bigger than her music. She never disappears and despite saying she’s doing it all for her fans, she seems to be doing it mostly for herself. She surrounds herself with elite celebrities, mostly women, and she is lauded for her girl power but it’s hard to sit at home and not feel left out. And the manipulation is self-evident. There are cameras everywhere, nothing is secret. Is she laughing all the way to the bank, with a bead on today’s culture, or is she as out of touch as the politicians?

I don’t know.

Music used to be the cutting edge, it defined the culture. But now an ancient video game comes out of retirement to steal the social scene more than any track in memory, no one’s got the mindshare of Pokemon Go. Makes the uninitiated want to play, the same way they used to buy the work of Grammy winners after viewing the telecast, before all popular music became so niche that most people tuned out. How can it be that a video game can cross all lines?

One with a brand name, sans promotion, sold by word of mouth, enhanced by the social element outside the house. They keep telling us today’s generation is one of couch potatoes, but suddenly they’re up and at ’em without provocation from adults and traipsing all over the landscape?

Not that there will be a new augmented reality app as big as Pokemon Go in the future, but the paradigm remains the same, we love the unexpected, the different, the limit-testing, and we want to belong.

But there’s been nothing different coming from Taylor Swift since she jumped to pop. She’s just utilizing the best hitmakers, her sound is anything but revelatory, and the lyrics have gotten dumber, but she’s gotten BIGGER!

Or maybe not. Maybe the laugh’s on her. That’s certainly the story of entertainment, of fads, they’re huge and then they crash.

But we do live in a social world where we constantly interact. And we’re all purveying our personal brand, admit it, the reason you post concert and vacation videos is to make yourself special, you were there and your followers were not. And fashion is fast and cheap and everybody’s focusing on their look…

But the have-nots have been left behind. Even though their ranks are swelling. Will they take over or continue to be laughed at?

Or is the Taylor Swift universe really not that big and the media is just saying it’s so.

TS has her finger on the pulse of social media, but no frustration is in evidence, is the national temperature angst and anger, or is the truth that everybody’s happy and wants to party like it’s 1999?

Oxy and heroin are a scourge.

Then again, they make you really skinny. And if you put together the right outfit you too can be a social media star, a world in which followers and likes mean everything.

Or do they?

“Taylor Swift just can’t help herself”

What could be better than hearing “Good Vibrations” on a hot summer night in America’s premier outdoor concert venue?

Hearing “California Girls” for the very first time?

“I Get Around” hooked me. I was an avid bowler. I lived to knock down the pins. I was in a league on Saturday and every Friday Mr. Conley took our sixth grade class to the lanes. Two strings were de rigueur, on Saturdays sometimes I bowled a third, at thirty five cents, before automated scoring, when you were actively involved even if you weren’t mowing down the pins yourself, using that big black marker to write down the totals, something seemingly most people were unable to do, like read a map, we live in a modern world where basic skills are no longer needed, arithmetic anybody? But in the dark ages of the sixties you not only scored, you ate french fries, krinkly things from the snack bar, and after cleaning my ball, as I waited for departure, I was glued to the jukebox.

I remember hearing “Walk Like A Man,’ I was a Four Seasons fanatic. My mother purchased “Big Girls Don’t Cry,” but I was the one who needed “Dawn (Go Away),” that’s still my favorite, although I bought “Ronnie” and “Ragdoll” and the British were invading and obliterating everyone in their wake except for a little old band from Hawthorne, California, the Beach Boys, “I Get Around” held its own on the Nutmeg Bowl jukebox that spring of 1964.

Round round get around, I get around

They played that last night. And when I say “they” I mean Brian didn’t sing everything, his high notes were performed by Matt Jardine, who also sang “Don’t Worry Baby,” his voice was uncannily akin to Brian’s on the records.

But when the assembled multitude backed Brian as he sang about being bugged about driving down the same old strip…

Crickets. The Bowl was quiet. Weren’t they aware they were in the presence of America’s greatest rock and roll songwriter? An icon with so many hits that he can’t play them all in one night? The assembled multitude ultimately warmed up for “Pet Sounds,” but by that time Brian’s voice was ragged, he was struggling, yet before that…

He was the best I’ve heard him in his comeback days.

I’m not saying he didn’t miss notes, but in the early numbers you didn’t need to pull for him, he was carrying the show, and I marveled.

When you get infected by a song your whole perspective changes. Your life makes a left turn. It’s aural dope, you can’t live without it. I rode my bike down to Topps discount department store in July of ’65 to buy “Summer Days (And Summer Nights!!)” because I had to own “California Girls.”

I’d gone back and bought “Surfin’ USA.” “Shut Down Volume 2” and “Surfin’ Safari” previously. Just months before I’d had my dad take me to Korvette’s to buy “The Beach Boys Today!,” with the ultimately ersatz iteration of “Help Me Ronda,” but with “When I Grow Up (To Be A Man)” and “Dance, Dance, Dance” too. But the album started off with their cover of “Do You Wanna Dance?” which I dropped the needle on at the Camp Laurelwood social the first weekend in August and stole Jimmy Calechman’s girlfriend Jill Philipson, just like that, I had the music in me, I was inspired.

But “Today!” didn’t prepare me for “Summer Days.” It contained my favorite Carl Wilson vocal ever, “Girl Don’t Tell Me,” the hit version of “Help Me, Rhonda,” the indelible “Let Him Run Wild”…

And “California Girls.”

For the month of July, before I went to Laurelwood, I went to the day camp up at Fairfield Woods Junior High, and I slung my transistor over the handlebars and it was there, riding my bike on the asphalt path, that I first heard “California Girls.”

And that sealed the deal, Californ-i-a here I come!

And that’s where I am.

And when I heard that intro last night…

“California Girls” was like nothing else, it started with an extended instrumental, and then started to gallop…

Well east coast girls are hip, I really dig those styles they wear

It was a different era, the world was bigger, melody ruled, singability was key, harmony was transcendent and…

I kept calling to see if “Summer Nights” was in stock and I rode down the day of release, I had to walk my bike up the hill on my way back, but when I got home all sweaty and I broke the shrinkwrap and dropped the needle…I WAS IN HEAVEN!

And I was in heaven when I heard “California Girls” last night, singing along to all the words I knew by heart.

And when Al Jardine sang “Help Me, Rhonda” the circle was complete, my life made sense, I was exactly where I wanted to be.

I know, I know, Brian Wilson is 74. And tech rules the world. And it’s all about personal branding. You boast about your accomplishments on LinkedIn and shoot endless snaps for social media but…

None of that holds a candle to a song.

When it tests limits and pleases all at the same time.

By time Brian cued up “Good Vibrations” everybody was on their feet, singing along, heads aimed skyward in tribute to God, that he delivered such exquisite life-stimulating and life-saving work through his subject Brian Wilson.

We knew it was great back then, but we were exposed to greatness every day. Everybody played the guitar, bands tried to top each other, barriers were to be broken and all we had to do was flick the switch and these mellifluous sounds emanated from our transistors, the iPhones of their day.

Sometimes when I hear these songs I’m just a little boy. The attrition of the years wears off. I’m not only reminded of who I once was, but I’m that same person once again.

It’s like I just finished a string at the Nutmeg Bowl, like I just stole Jimmy’s girlfriend, like I just came home in the July heat and dropped the needle on the best Beach Boys album of all time.

God only knows how Brian wrote this music, how inexperienced and unheralded Tony Asher wrote these lyrics.

Tony was on stage last night. He’s still here.

And so is Brian.

And you know all these songs by heart.

And if you’re looking for fun in the sun, go to the show and you’ll be happy.

But for those of us who went down the rabbit hole, whose lives were changed by hearing this music… When you see Brian Wilson on stage, singing the story of your life…

You leave your phone in your pocket.

You love instead of hate.

And you feel privileged to have lived through this era and to still be standing.

We came on the Sloop John B. You and me. And last night the boat slipped into the dock and we were most definitely HOME!

P.S. Blondie Chaplin sang “Wild Honey” and his signature song, “Sail On Sailor.” And as thrilling as that was, what made me marvel was when he worked out on his Les Paul in between verses, I didn’t know the South African had the chops, and as he was wringing out the notes I realized that one Gibson is more powerful than any computer, any app, through its strings you can pull a noise more addictive than OxyContin, people are gonna pick up guitars and other musical instruments in the future, because there’s no other way to gain that power, plugging your guitar into a bank of amps and dominating those in attendance, making them pay attention.

P.P.S. The best and the brightest made music. The audience lived for it, there was nothing more powerful. It was the soundtrack to life and love, protest and politics too. If you’re younger, I’m not sure you’ll get it. If you evaluate last night’s show through a modern lens you might find it substandard. Today we expect perfection, we expect everything to work right out of the box and never fail. The record never skips and no one ever hits a bad note. Whereas as great as the supporting players were, Brian was imperfect. As are we. He evidenced humanity. He was stiff, albeit less so than recently. He was reading the lyrics from a too-obvious teleprompter, but he was there, with a smile on his face, he knew he’d written these songs, he knew what they meant to us, he was hanging ten on the ocean of our support. It ended up a tribal rite that left you speechless. Because music possesses that power, the ability to take over your brain and transport you to another dimension. And Brian Wilson was definitely somewhere else when he wrote all this stuff, but he brought it back from another planet just for us, without our ears it’s meaningless, with ours it’s more powerful than any gun, any weapon of mass destruction, because it’s all about hearts and minds, and last night Brian had OURS!