No Expectations

by Lonn Friend

"We are we are/youth of the nation"

P.O.D. arrives on the iGod (what I call the iPod on shuffle because of its uncanny ability to read my thoughts and play just the right song at the exact instant its required) just after six straight hours in front of Keith, Chris and the rest o' the MSNBC gang, the bravest voices in network media by a country (China-sized) mile. They get on the soapbox like they've got crystal balls and shields of armor. And they report on the events of the day, of our time. They are sometimes fearless, sometimes reckless, but always, committed to the truth. Because that's what it's all about now. Has been moving that way for quite awhile. Al Franken waxed brilliant on the lying liars, now officially on their way out. The past seven years, reality has jumped to light speed and with it, a thankfully expedited course toward the End Times has manifested. And it is there, at Jim Morrison's 'End' that the truth shall bask in its golden moment.

The lyric has long been the poetry writ as life takes place in the presence of inexplicable wonders. Artists are psychic freaks of nature, tortured beauties and beasts cursed with the ability to hear the beats in between the beats. The faith-based rockers from the bad side of San Diego whose moniker stands for 'payable upon death' received their life force from the other side. Spirit drove dreadlock Sonny and his gang to their instruments. They recorded an anthem in the spring of 2001. They didn't know it was an anthem. Even if you're in the room laying it down and the hairs on all the arms behind the board and in the booth are rising, you still don't know it's an anthem until the PEOPLE make it one. And the people made 'Youth of the Nation' an anthem. The LP, Satellite, was released on September 11th of that year. The day the Earth stood still and a higher power took over.

While the talking heads are astonished and shocked by the last few days' political events, I am not. I am in awe of the proceedings. Miracles? Indeed. Choose your parable. It will find application somewhere amidst the happenings. I got a sign, not too long ago, that nothing was certain and we would all be shown remarkable things.

It's 1:30 am. I'm at a Westside bar in Manhattan, around the corner of the venerable SIR rehearsal studios where the immortal ones have sharpened their axes and primed their pipes. Someone famous owns the dive watering hole but I can't remember his name. Not important. The Bogmen – Billy, Bill, Brendan, P.J., Mark and Clive – are out with their former A&R guy, post tune up for the biggest performance of their career, which by the way, ended as a formal unit several years ago. But who's talking formal? Chance occurrences infused with synchronicity put my Long Island-bred legacy in the palatial Nokia Theater in Times Square the night before New Year's Eve. 

"You stopped making money, Lonnie, because you found God," giggles Billy the captain, the subway minstrel who once said to me in no uncertain terms, "you can say it all in the verse." Obviously, when you're making music for Clive Davis, a man whose success and hyperbolic legend are based on the disposable chorus, the deck is not exactly stacked in your favor. "Have another Guinness," laughs keyboardist Brendan, who lost his wife, Kristy, that ebony day the P.O. D. record hit stores. "We're buying this time." That was huge because when I had the Arista expense account, these boys ate and drank. Well. I spent like $30k a year entertaining comic book characters and chasing ghosts. I haven't cleared that sum for a 12-month stretch since …never mind. That was then. I'm doing the prosperity chant now, every morning, 22-minutes. It's all good.

P.J. starts singing. Then Clive, then Mark, then the Ryan brothers, then the captain, united in their mission to make this moment eternal. "We are nothing but the memory we leave behind," teach the Yogis. I listen and sing along, until a lovely melancholy envelopes me like a down comforter. The revelation is as clear as the frigid New York night. Pilgrim, hear this, and hear this good. You must go forward, into the wild, without expectations. This must be a universal edict. It will not be easy. Hey, who's narrating this now? That blasted 'witness.' Ten years treading sand in the virtual desert, my friends, and I sometimes have trouble seeing the yucca from the Joshua. 

I have no expectations. Therefore, each event, however minute or magnificent in scope, possesses the same potential for action and reaction. Shock and awe, complete disinterest, fully engaged, mildly enraged, the vibration only arrives in the present. This is a script-less state of being. When Barack won Iowa, I was dazzled. Watching it happen was fun. Or as Marsha the mannequin said when asked how it was living amongst the humans for a month in the classic Twilight Zone, 'The After Hours,' "ever so much fun." 

Roommate Rob speaks of the revolution, the 'change.' He was so excited after Iowa. I was tempered. "Dude, it could all be over tonight," he muses. "But then again, Hillary's a fighter. The Clintons don't lose." I echo the pundit sound bites but just to be non-confrontational. Beneath the surface of this shell I lug around in this incarnation's excuse for a body, the inner voice, the only true voice, is back in the bar with the boys. No expectations. 

Keith and Chris are visibly rattled but genuinely impressed. They act and report accordingly, donating props to those responsible for pulling a fast one and shattering expectations. Analyzing the back-to-back seismic political outcomes that are Iowa and New Hampshire, there is a common thread, a unifying element of connection. Youth. The youth of the nation voted en masse, blowing everyone's minds, even their own parents'. The generation who must dig out from under the unconscious landfill left behind by the Free Masons, evil doers, corporate demigods, egomaniacs and just plain idiots that have run rampant amongst the good folks for far too long. The youth of the nation will save us because they have no expectations. It can't get any worse. We are there. We made it to the finish line. "Can you picture what will be, so limitless and free?" Oh yes, Jim. I can. We can. What did Barack roar? "Yes WE can."

The candidate who reveals his (or her) truth will be our next President. The leader with the fragile heart can perform feats of magic. It's how Barack took Iowa and Hillary wooed New Hampshire. Show us your humanity, your sanity, recall your vanity and we'll follow you. Yes we will. Neither of these camps had any expectations going into these respective contests. Or perhaps they did but I'm just too far gone an idealist to believe otherwise. And make no mistake; there is goddess energy at work in tandem with the youngsters. Women and children first – an immortal Van Halen disc and the underground mantra for the oh eight campaign. Color me crazy. I choose to see the world through the physically myopic but spiritually 20/20 eyes I was given. My daughter starts college in September. She is, she is, the youth of the nation. And a goddess to boot. 

Once I was a rich man.
I am still that rich man.

Lonn Friend

Copyright Rumi Enterprises 2007

Lonn Friend is Los Angeles based writer who is the former editor of RIP Magazine, a television personality from numerous VH-1 shows and is a published author whose most recent publication is a rock n' roll memoir; 'Life On Planet Rock'. 

Lonn can be contacted here.

Buy 'Life on Planet Rock' here.

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