As Part of the '25 Days To Dudes' promotion, I will be posting an entry here about each of the 25 featured songs every day until DUDES official release November 15. If you have not already, please download the collection from the widget to your right. It's free!
Like a lot of suburban kids, I was perpetually unsatisfied with my beginnings. My family moved around more than most but, whether in Atlanta, Saint Paul, Birmingham or Nashville, we always ended up in a calm neighborhood where the houses, cars and people were rarely indistinguishable from each other. A big reason I wanted to get into the show biz was to shed what I perceived to be the boredom of a middle-class upbringing, the eternal weight of sameness and White America’s general lack of notoriety.
I had became aware of Rufus Wainwright in 1998, falling hopelessly under the spell of his debut album about eight bars into the lead-off track. Rufus and I were the same age, but his songs were about a world that I had only dreamed of living in, a far-off universe populated by neo-Victorian dandy’s traipsing the streets of New York, Montreal and L.A. A lifetime devotee of opera, Rufus was fluent in a complex melodic language that I had grazed the surface of but never fully grasped. He was good-looking, he dressed like a champion, he was friends with celebrities and seemed to be everyone’s favorite new version of The Real Deal. On top of all this, he was openly and flagrantly homosexual, which seemed to me like a pretty brave and mysterious way to be.
“Claws” was my attempt, by imitation, to gain entry into Rufus’ private musical universe. Like a teenage girl who dresses like Justin Bieber, I thought some accomplished mimicry might lend me some of his street cred.
After moving to New York, I ended up running in some of the same circles as Rufus for awhile. I even socialized with his family on several occasions, one of which was a late gathering in a room above a bar called Nightingale following the release party for his second album, Poses. There weren’t many people there, just Rufus’ band, his sister Martha, his mother Kate, and a few hangers-on.
It was a long night. At some point, someone put Schubert on the stereo. Rufus abruptly stood up, took his mother’s hand and expertly waltzed her around the grimy room, weaving in between thrift store couches and fold-up chairs, both of them laughing, brown cigarettes dangling from their mouths.
There was something so effortlessly cool about this, so easy and genuine, that all my suburban envy simply drained out of me. Suddenly, I had nothing to covet anymore. Rufus and Kate, with a few lazy turns around a makeshift dance floor, showed me that nothing real will ever be accurately imitated.
Everyone has their own story to honor, their own truth to live out. Life is too short to waste energy attempting to be anything other than yourself.
Showing posts with label Experience. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Experience. Show all posts
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Friday, October 21, 2011
24 Days To Dudes: "Touch Of Mascara"
The United States’ Interstate Highway System has existed since 1956. It services nearly every major city in the contiguous 48 states. Once you spend a fair amount of your life on it, as I have, the entire thing begins to feel like a network of veins and capillaries, a vascular web in which you are merely a passive participant, one lone blood cell being carried along on its way to yet another bodily destination.
Whether you do or do not jive with this particular analogy might have a lot to do with your personal driving technique. To many Americans, our automobiles symbolize freedom. Most of us earned our driving licenses at age 16. To a teenager, the license to operate a motor vehicle offers, for the first time in life, the option to go wherever one wants, whenever one wants, however the fuck one wants to go there. If any feeling encapsulates The American Dream, this might be it.
Many of us carry this sense of vehicular entitlement into adulthood. Despite receiving tickets, enduring accidents and going into debt paying for scheduled and unscheduled maintenance, we cherish and nurture the idea that we own the road. “Screw those highway fatality statistics,” we tell ourselves as we careen into the left-hand lane, writing a text while abruptly stopping in front of a line of traffic behind us. “I want a burger.”
We think we can control things. We make goals, set deadlines, plan, execute, overachieve and triumph. And then a mini-van comes smashing into our rear bumper, pushing us out into oncoming traffic, right in front of the goddamn Burger King.
I wrote “Touch of Mascara” when I was 22 years old. Originally, it was intended for Trisha Yearwood, the country singer. At some point I realized that there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of her ever recording it. Awash in disappointment, I came to the conclusion that, although there were plenty of macho ruminations about The Great American Road, very few dudes had sung about the highway and the application of cosmetics. I thought I could corner the market. This was well before the appearance of the hit television series, ‘Queer Eye For The Straight Guy.’
Whether you do or do not jive with this particular analogy might have a lot to do with your personal driving technique. To many Americans, our automobiles symbolize freedom. Most of us earned our driving licenses at age 16. To a teenager, the license to operate a motor vehicle offers, for the first time in life, the option to go wherever one wants, whenever one wants, however the fuck one wants to go there. If any feeling encapsulates The American Dream, this might be it.
Many of us carry this sense of vehicular entitlement into adulthood. Despite receiving tickets, enduring accidents and going into debt paying for scheduled and unscheduled maintenance, we cherish and nurture the idea that we own the road. “Screw those highway fatality statistics,” we tell ourselves as we careen into the left-hand lane, writing a text while abruptly stopping in front of a line of traffic behind us. “I want a burger.”
We think we can control things. We make goals, set deadlines, plan, execute, overachieve and triumph. And then a mini-van comes smashing into our rear bumper, pushing us out into oncoming traffic, right in front of the goddamn Burger King.
I wrote “Touch of Mascara” when I was 22 years old. Originally, it was intended for Trisha Yearwood, the country singer. At some point I realized that there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of her ever recording it. Awash in disappointment, I came to the conclusion that, although there were plenty of macho ruminations about The Great American Road, very few dudes had sung about the highway and the application of cosmetics. I thought I could corner the market. This was well before the appearance of the hit television series, ‘Queer Eye For The Straight Guy.’
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Dudes' Facebook Chat, September 22
5:31pm
W: how do I get dudes. just a quick answer. pls.
D: NOv. 15 it's everywhere. Dude.
W: awesome can't wait. 2 sentence description?
D: "Music worth getting sued over." Right up your alley, Esquire.
W: that's 1 sentence.
D: "Music worth getting sued over, spat upon and licked like a kitten. Like a shaved kitten, that is."
W: sweet that shit is usually my JAMZ!
D: I knew you'd be down.
W: you know it brosef, I've been outta the loop working two jobs to try and save up for school for the past year and a half so I was bummed that I missed out on all the DUDEs hype and kickstarter.
just started seeing info. about it when school started and I was spending more time around computer.
D: that's what they all say. brosef, that's strong
W: listen here scooter britches me and the ol' lady is up to our eye-balls in babies and I had to do something quick so I had to get a couple of jobs that were awful.
in addition to the job that I kinda liked.
D: sweet jesus you are fertile bunch. I applaud your move towards the decent life. and more ginger offspring.
W: thank you, I've always been interested in law and if I felt like music could support my family even just pay the bills I'd still be doing it.
D: tell you what, i'll trade you a copy of dudes for one of them carrot children.
W: done and done.
D: sweet. can ya'll fedex that shit?
W: actually we only have one ginger but we might have another one cooking we'll know in a cupla months.
I just opened the door and put a brown bag in his hand and pointed him the direction of Nashville.
Tell you what he'd probably appreciate it if you met him half way.
D: Tell him there's a good titty bar on the west side of knoxville...
W: he's already crying...sweet moses...that's gonna be a looooonnnng walk.
D: I can be there in a day or so
W: contact I can call at the titty bar? he's got his name pinned to his shirt.
D: Mona 347-666-PONG
W: perfect. there's no holes in this one its air-tite. Listen you don't feel the need to put the hurry up on the disc. I know yer good for it.
D:10-4.
W: peace. Oh...WAIT! did t-swif call yet?
D: 23 goddamn times. think it means anything?
W: as your lawyer Imma tell you DON"T answer her calls. Text her these words: "paper. you get the song when I get my paper."
she's industry savvy she'll know what it means.
D: sounds air-tite. You know what that means.
W: I don't.
D: Aaaiiight picklenuts I gotta dash off a piece about that very thing for AMerican Songwriter
W: for the mag?
D:this has been damn enjoyable
yeah the mag
W: What's the best way for me to keep in touch?
as far as what you're up to?
D: Imma bout to release a holy onslaught of shit that will be impossible to ignore
you got my everything, hit me up whenever you feel blue
and thanks
W: I don't get blue. Imma future lawyer I just clip coupons and smile dawg.
lates.
D: over and outs
W: peace.
W: how do I get dudes. just a quick answer. pls.
D: NOv. 15 it's everywhere. Dude.
W: awesome can't wait. 2 sentence description?
D: "Music worth getting sued over." Right up your alley, Esquire.
W: that's 1 sentence.
D: "Music worth getting sued over, spat upon and licked like a kitten. Like a shaved kitten, that is."
W: sweet that shit is usually my JAMZ!
D: I knew you'd be down.
W: you know it brosef, I've been outta the loop working two jobs to try and save up for school for the past year and a half so I was bummed that I missed out on all the DUDEs hype and kickstarter.
just started seeing info. about it when school started and I was spending more time around computer.
D: that's what they all say. brosef, that's strong
W: listen here scooter britches me and the ol' lady is up to our eye-balls in babies and I had to do something quick so I had to get a couple of jobs that were awful.
in addition to the job that I kinda liked.
D: sweet jesus you are fertile bunch. I applaud your move towards the decent life. and more ginger offspring.
W: thank you, I've always been interested in law and if I felt like music could support my family even just pay the bills I'd still be doing it.
D: tell you what, i'll trade you a copy of dudes for one of them carrot children.
W: done and done.
D: sweet. can ya'll fedex that shit?
W: actually we only have one ginger but we might have another one cooking we'll know in a cupla months.
I just opened the door and put a brown bag in his hand and pointed him the direction of Nashville.
Tell you what he'd probably appreciate it if you met him half way.
D: Tell him there's a good titty bar on the west side of knoxville...
W: he's already crying...sweet moses...that's gonna be a looooonnnng walk.
D: I can be there in a day or so
W: contact I can call at the titty bar? he's got his name pinned to his shirt.
D: Mona 347-666-PONG
W: perfect. there's no holes in this one its air-tite. Listen you don't feel the need to put the hurry up on the disc. I know yer good for it.
D:10-4.
W: peace. Oh...WAIT! did t-swif call yet?
D: 23 goddamn times. think it means anything?
W: as your lawyer Imma tell you DON"T answer her calls. Text her these words: "paper. you get the song when I get my paper."
she's industry savvy she'll know what it means.
D: sounds air-tite. You know what that means.
W: I don't.
D: Aaaiiight picklenuts I gotta dash off a piece about that very thing for AMerican Songwriter
W: for the mag?
D:this has been damn enjoyable
yeah the mag
W: What's the best way for me to keep in touch?
as far as what you're up to?
D: Imma bout to release a holy onslaught of shit that will be impossible to ignore
you got my everything, hit me up whenever you feel blue
and thanks
W: I don't get blue. Imma future lawyer I just clip coupons and smile dawg.
lates.
D: over and outs
W: peace.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Friday, July 29, 2011
Don't Call It A Comeback
Morning blasts the windows lining Belmont Blvd., flashing the panes into a thousand runway lights, a suburban invitation to chaos and opportunity. I have been waiting, Martha; waiting weeks for a goddamn spark of inspiration. I wonder why the Universe keeps beating the hell out of my friends, driving the dinner dogs into mad frenzies over rawhide bones, the Congress getting nowhere in Washington, oblivious to any obvious conclusions.
Squinting back at it all, I slip on a pair of Air Force sunglasses and evacuate my bowels, heartily. The coffee is still warm in the French press and smoke permeates my fragile lung tissue. The back yard sun feels good on my bare chest. You could sweep all of these limbs and dead insects off the deck or just live your life, I reason. Three long moves into my catalogue of online Scrabble matches and suddenly I am 37, standing on my back deck, staring into a mobile device, clad only in sunglasses and a pair of patterned bikini briefs.
“Fuck it.” An hour later I am following Deakin through channels of furniture into the kitchen of his 80 year-old Tudor. His two children and three dogs are all gathered around Spiderman on a laptop, the kids eating sliced fruit, the dogs wagging and panting. “Davey, all I can say is, I’m alive.” A tattoo crawls over his deltoid like black ivy. Posting up behind the counter, he folds his arms and scrunches his shoulders. The turtle. “I’m just alive, you know? That’s all I can guarantee anybody at this very moment.” The smaller child lets fly a strawberry that lands on the floor about two feet from the closest dog. Deakin gives him a look. The kid raises his arms in triumph. “Fuck it!” screams the child.
Virgomama367, you dirty whore. My recent gaming successes have attracted a certain amount of attention in the online Scrabble community, the sort of acclaim that accompanies elevated win/loss ratios and the search engines that feed on them. I have been punching throats up to this point, handily discarding a series of anonymous guest players along with the jfreiberg51’s, the nmolgren’s and wurdkitten069’s of the world. These have been small triumphs, unseen by most, shots never heard round the world.
But virgomama367 is a different breed entirely. She attacks even my most ingenious 3-letter multi-word plays, birthing strange, Welsh-looking words, her disjointed consonants enveloping my vowels like a pair of Gypsy thighs. She refuses to take the bait of a juicy H laid in careful proximity to the Triple Word Score. She, most likely from the comfort of a well-organized cubicle in Nebraska, is currently beating me by 21 points. And then… HWYL. 42 points. What?
“Nice hat.” Tommy, now arranging himself in the chair across the table, is a pillar of my existence, six feet one inch of immaculate grooming. Eyebrowing the mobile device I have just tossed into a condiment caddy, he blows across the surface of his coffee. “What seems to be the trouble?”
“Chicks are smarter,” I reply. “Always have been.” I register an approaching pair of milk-heavy breasts swaying in a pink tank top. “They are superior, evolved…” The mammaries come to rest at a table of children with sticky buns. “The givers of life. What have we got?”
“Disappointment,” smiles Tommy.
“Prostate cancer,” I counter.
“Erectile dysfunction.”
“I am officially switching my allegiance from Jelly Belly’s to Good n’ Plenty,” I say. “It’s the mature thing to do. It’s an age thing. We get older, we care more about definition, specificity, noticing the details.” At the table next to ours, a pack of Christian indie rockers in cut-off’s and fedoras join hands, bow heads and begin to pray. I continue, “Jelly Belly’s are clearly the adolescent choice: over a hundred different flavors, millions of potential combinations. These days, I can’t make it through a bag of Jelly Belly’s without feeling completely overwhelmed. It’s like a gang bang in my mouth.”
“Hmmm.”
“Good n’ Plenty, however, is the pursuit of purity. Two colors. One flavor.” The Christians break from their huddle and noisily tuck into their breakfasts. “Things like freshness, environment, even the quantity of consumption… yes, three Good n’ Plenty in your mouth at once is totally different than five, or one... The finer details are not overwhelmed by the total onslaught of artificial flavoring and sugar.”
“Good n’ Plenty: the Dao of Candy,” Tommy offers, his teeth gleaming.
“Jelly Belly’s remind me that the good times are fleeting. That I’m going to die.” Suddenly, I feel better. “Good n’ Plenty… well, the journey is endless.”
Squinting back at it all, I slip on a pair of Air Force sunglasses and evacuate my bowels, heartily. The coffee is still warm in the French press and smoke permeates my fragile lung tissue. The back yard sun feels good on my bare chest. You could sweep all of these limbs and dead insects off the deck or just live your life, I reason. Three long moves into my catalogue of online Scrabble matches and suddenly I am 37, standing on my back deck, staring into a mobile device, clad only in sunglasses and a pair of patterned bikini briefs.
“Fuck it.” An hour later I am following Deakin through channels of furniture into the kitchen of his 80 year-old Tudor. His two children and three dogs are all gathered around Spiderman on a laptop, the kids eating sliced fruit, the dogs wagging and panting. “Davey, all I can say is, I’m alive.” A tattoo crawls over his deltoid like black ivy. Posting up behind the counter, he folds his arms and scrunches his shoulders. The turtle. “I’m just alive, you know? That’s all I can guarantee anybody at this very moment.” The smaller child lets fly a strawberry that lands on the floor about two feet from the closest dog. Deakin gives him a look. The kid raises his arms in triumph. “Fuck it!” screams the child.
Virgomama367, you dirty whore. My recent gaming successes have attracted a certain amount of attention in the online Scrabble community, the sort of acclaim that accompanies elevated win/loss ratios and the search engines that feed on them. I have been punching throats up to this point, handily discarding a series of anonymous guest players along with the jfreiberg51’s, the nmolgren’s and wurdkitten069’s of the world. These have been small triumphs, unseen by most, shots never heard round the world.
But virgomama367 is a different breed entirely. She attacks even my most ingenious 3-letter multi-word plays, birthing strange, Welsh-looking words, her disjointed consonants enveloping my vowels like a pair of Gypsy thighs. She refuses to take the bait of a juicy H laid in careful proximity to the Triple Word Score. She, most likely from the comfort of a well-organized cubicle in Nebraska, is currently beating me by 21 points. And then… HWYL. 42 points. What?
“Nice hat.” Tommy, now arranging himself in the chair across the table, is a pillar of my existence, six feet one inch of immaculate grooming. Eyebrowing the mobile device I have just tossed into a condiment caddy, he blows across the surface of his coffee. “What seems to be the trouble?”
“Chicks are smarter,” I reply. “Always have been.” I register an approaching pair of milk-heavy breasts swaying in a pink tank top. “They are superior, evolved…” The mammaries come to rest at a table of children with sticky buns. “The givers of life. What have we got?”
“Disappointment,” smiles Tommy.
“Prostate cancer,” I counter.
“Erectile dysfunction.”
“I am officially switching my allegiance from Jelly Belly’s to Good n’ Plenty,” I say. “It’s the mature thing to do. It’s an age thing. We get older, we care more about definition, specificity, noticing the details.” At the table next to ours, a pack of Christian indie rockers in cut-off’s and fedoras join hands, bow heads and begin to pray. I continue, “Jelly Belly’s are clearly the adolescent choice: over a hundred different flavors, millions of potential combinations. These days, I can’t make it through a bag of Jelly Belly’s without feeling completely overwhelmed. It’s like a gang bang in my mouth.”
“Hmmm.”
“Good n’ Plenty, however, is the pursuit of purity. Two colors. One flavor.” The Christians break from their huddle and noisily tuck into their breakfasts. “Things like freshness, environment, even the quantity of consumption… yes, three Good n’ Plenty in your mouth at once is totally different than five, or one... The finer details are not overwhelmed by the total onslaught of artificial flavoring and sugar.”
“Good n’ Plenty: the Dao of Candy,” Tommy offers, his teeth gleaming.
“Jelly Belly’s remind me that the good times are fleeting. That I’m going to die.” Suddenly, I feel better. “Good n’ Plenty… well, the journey is endless.”
Thursday, July 21, 2011
The Key Wester
THE KEY WESTER
I spend about six weeks a year in Key West playing in a cover band with my friends. Breakfast is a very important meal in the Conch Republic; I have found that it can make or break the entire day. The trick is to get just enough protein to supply the long, slow kind of heat-resistant energy that the day will undoubtedly require, but not so much that you feel pinned to the couch, compelled by nature to watch yet another episode of "Law and Order: SVU." Additionally, you need a little bit of carbohydrate to help massage the protein through your digestive system, to add that touch of pizazz without leaving your belly feeling bloated and tragic. After much trial and error, I feel I have arrived at the perfect Key West breakfast solution.
Imaginatively, I call this thing THE KEY WESTER. It’s calorie-to-protein ratio is about as good as you can get while still actually calling something breakfast, and it’s goddamn tasty, to boot. Try it our for yourself at home or on your next foray to the islands:
Ingredients
2 eggs
2 pieces of Udi’s gluten-free white bread (it’s like having bread without getting that super-full bloated feeling)
2 slices of cheddar cheese
2 slices of organic turkey (yeah, get organic and make sure it doesn’t have any bullshit ‘filler’ in it. Trust me, it’s worth it.)
2 tsp. olive or favorite nut oil
Bragg’s Organic Sprinkle seasoning
The Process
Pour 2 tsp. oil into medium sauté pan. Bring oil to medium-hot heat. Crack two eggs into pan, close together but not quite touching. With spatula, gather whites into shape roughly equivalent to square inchage of toast before whites solidify too much. Leave to sizzle for a moment.
Drop two pieces of bread into toaster set to medium. Toast.
Set a medium-sized plate, the one from which you shall dine, on the counter.
Remove cheddar slices from packaging, leave on plate. Remove slices of turkey from packaging, leave on plate. Return both packages to refrigerator. Take a moment to insure that you have either disposed of egg shells or given them to the dog. (Egg shells are great for animals’ calcium.)
Flip eggs in sauté pan, taking care to not splash any oil. That shirt cost $12.99, for god's sake. With the corner of the spatula, poke two small holes in each yolk. This allows the yolk to spread a bit within the confines of the rapidly-solidifying egg, saving you from future mouth pain. There is nothing worse than having hot lava-like liquid yolk spray the inside of your mouth as you bite into the Key Wester. Be sure that yolk is mushy-to-hard.
Place slices of cheddar over each egg. Melt for one minute.
Place pieces of toast (they should be done by now) on plate. Flip egg/cheese combinations onto toast (cheese side down). Scrunch slices of turkey on top of eggs. Sprinkle with Bragg’s seasoning.
Serve hot with a cup of unfiltered apple juice. Best consumed with knife and fork but hands are fine if you don’t mind a touch of mess.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
The Categorization of Days
Some days just don’t fit into a category or a to-do list or a goal-accomplishment metric. No, they don’t. Some days you just wake up and wonder, hmmm, what the fuck? Time’s a wasting here, what am I doing about it? I’m 37 years old, maybe halfway done, where’s the old carpe diem? Some days it takes so much strength to not dial up more Law and Order episodes on the Netflix that there is little gusto left to accomplish anything else except, possibly, throwing down some wandering language about that very fact.
This morning I passed Spady and his killer Scottish Terrier on the Belmont Blvd. dog walking circuit. He’s apparently 25 chapters into a novel. I wonder about Spady. He kind of reminds me of the Key West dudes, the tiny Hemingways who seem to have surrendered to the pointlessness of it all and are more than content to be carried along on the whims of existence. Experiencing his presence in Nashville is akin to witnessing a dried starfish washed up at the entrance of the Whole Foods Market. Anyway, Spady told me the plot of this book when I saw him out a month ago. Not much about it sticks with me except some allegory relating to numerology and a murder… it all gets hazy in the early-Summer humidity.
Doesn’t it, though? This document can stand as a testimony to the scatteredness of it all. Some days the Universe finds it goddamn funny to pour a vat of molasses straight into your skull and watch you stumble around the house in a sorghum daze, thinking one thing whilst doing something completely different, like trying to come up with a two-letter word that begins with ‘C’ as you take what will hopefully be the first of several dumps today. There is no two-letter word that begins with ‘C,’ you remind yourself, just as there is no particular dietary regimen that will guarantee more than one dump per day at the age of 37.
Men, I tell you. Let’s ponder the endless derogatory remarks made by women about men in certain comedic entertainments these days. If they could only peer into the gooey brains of the species itself… my goodness, the thoughts that men actually have about men. Like women, we are constantly comparing, and perhaps in not too different of a manner. Take Spady vs. Me. I don’t really have any particular desire to beat or one-up Spady in any specific area, but I can’t pass the motherfucker on the street on a perfectly good Wednesday morning without wondering whether or not my life is measuring up to his by some indeterminate scale of which I have little comprehension or mastery of. 25 chapters into a novel? Really? I have nothing to compare to that, in my mind, and here’s why: I feel completely unable to focus on anything that requires the dedication and commitment a novel demands. I have been focused on things that last for three-and-a-half minutes for quite awhile now, as well as the means by which to foist them upon the world, which are probably best suited to people who with even shorter attention spans than three-and-a-half minutes.
Meanwhile, I have male friends whose marriages are falling apart. The dark hours of abandonment and disappointment these folk are currently experiencing crush my piddling piddliness with an iron fist. They are being drawn towards real man-child moments, those seething encounters with the ego that find a dude waving a fist at life one moment and curling up in a corner like a baby the next. Jesus, Buddha, Allah, Ernest… just please make it go away and I promise to either beat it so far into submission or nurture it like a lost kitten, if only to prove a point.
Years ago I was motoring around Bristol, England with my radio promotions guy. We crested a hill in the city and were greeted with the site of hundreds of students sunning themselves on a lawn that sloped down towards the city center. A lawn, that glowing, illuminated green that only occurs when the sun comes out on certain days in England, setting the grass pulsing, aglow with all the stored-up chlorophyll generated by days and days of endless moisture.
Neil (the radio guy) and I had been riding around for days at this point, hopping from station to station, plying my new single. Neil was eternally sparky and blissful, always happy to be doing his job, to be cresting another hill in another city. I was depressed, completely absorbed in the slightly confusing process of attempting to gain acceptance at radio stations and with the British public in general. Had there been a forest, I would not have been able to see it for the crab apple trees. Truly, there was nothing but grass, centuries-old buildings everywhere and young, nubile people relaxing and enjoying themselves. The moment escaped me. I imagine I was wondering how long it would be until we could stop off for our afternoon pints.
Today I have a yard that is in desperate need of cutting and flower beds that could be weeded but should probably just be completely dug up and begun again. I have what feels like an endless list of administrative tasks to do, most of which seem daunting and mindless. I am writing from the confines of the nicest house I have ever lived in, one that needs some attention here and there but is remarkably perfect. Yes, something is telling me that I am, once again, missing a great moment here, but I feel incapable of reaching out and grabbing. Recent experience has taught me that taking small steps towards the goal is the best way to proceed. I suppose that this little missive is the first one of these. However, I am still thinking of Law and Order: SVU and wondering how they will solve the next hideous crime they are faced with. I would still very much like to get through at least one computer Scrabble match. Neither of these tasks would involve engagement with the world on any level and would, I fear, only draw me a little further into a particular hole.
And thinking back on what seems to have been written so far here I am taken with how completely self-absorbed it all is, how I will never care to read it again and how it probably serves no purpose whatsoever. About how Social Media, the most tempting outlet for these labors, would actually accept this load of hooey with open arms as something worth sharing, having contemplated and commented upon. I just can’t get with the ide of airing these thoughts for consumption. We really have to rise above the idea that this crap is worthy of sharing with each other. That is the problem with art today, I believe; we have become utterly convinced that these type of musings constitute a relationship with an audience, an interaction when, in fact, these kind of musings are exactly the shit that we should keep to ourselves, the grist that will (hopefully) propel us to creating something higher, something infinitely more useful, for our compatriots in existence to chew on and to share.
Did someone mention breakfast? Since moving in with Liz three years ago, I have become infinitely more attuned to the needs and goings-on of my body. I know that part of the issue with getting this day going is merely the fact that I have given myself nothing to work with on a cellular level besides caffeine and nicotine. I need protein mixed with just the right amount of carbohydrate to achieve a roper balance that might assist in seeing things in just the right light. That solidity that sets in after a couple of eggs or even a fat dose of almond butter. Meat is a possibility but some days you just don’t feel like thinking through the reality of the death, the slaughter of innocents, the very real possibility that you could just as easily be eating the dog you were so tenderly walking only hours ago. Goddamn meat. Why are you so tasty and wrong.
Our friend Emily Leonard is a startlingly good artist. She gave us a gorgeous print for our wedding, a gorgeous print that I have yet to have framed. A plane of happiness that currently sits furled up on a bookshelf, its joys hidden from me. It is a painting of a forest, oddly enough, one rendered impressionistically enough so that there is not really a hard option of actually seeing individual trees so well. It’s like the perfect existential rendering of woodlands. Just merge with it, don’t let the small stuff get you down. Asshole.
One of my favorite avoidance pastimes is reading The New Yorker. I don’t recall at what point in my life this magazine took hold of me, but goddamn it, it did. Its promise of weekly sophistication and high-mindedness has driven me toward of number of unrealized ambitions, such as being an eminently cool musician, a well-regarded writer, a long-time resident of New York City. All things I have touched upon at various junctures in life, none of which I would say that I have ever really achieved. But the New Yorker still comes every week, still promises and idealized frame of mind that seems achievable somehow. I don’t know why, anymore. I have finally reached a stage in life where I feel comfortable not reading every goddamn word of it; yes, I am now capable of skipping ahead after reading a few paragraphs of the 15,000 word piece on Ugandan sheep hymens without feeling as if I am cheating myself out of some seriously necessary life knowledge… or merely not getting my money’s worth. It’s a step.
I am beginning to question my newfound allegiance to the IPhone. I waited ages until my Verizon contract was up last October to jump on board but, once I did, I was shocked by how it immediately influenced my life. Everything seemed to get infinitely more organized and categorical: blobs of unintelligible ambition aligning themselves into brightly-colored squares on my ICal, legions of unforeseen needs suddenly met by the acquisition of another smartly-programmed app, badly-written emails from other IPhones instantly replied to with my own badly-written email.
But in recent weeks I have begun to wonder if all it has, ultimately, been for naught. If all these perfectly-scheduled new events (with reminders) are actually getting me anywhere or merely serving to fill up all of that undefined white space on my calendar. If these apps that get used maybe once a month are really just filler to camouflage the Scrabble and FIFA 11 games that get most of the action. If those badly-written emails are just going out into the universe attracting more half-baked thoughts and ideas.
I love to look at the IPhone. It brings me pleasure. I won’t be getting rid of it anytime soon; the transition would be way too much of a pain in the ass. Nothing is really that big of a deal, anyway. This I should know by now. All things get done eventually, just don’t get too stupid about it. Right now babies are being born, children are starving, divorce papers are being served. Life is coming to a series of very hard and immediate conclusions, whether I am paying attention or not. You can’t get an app for that shit, no way.
This morning I passed Spady and his killer Scottish Terrier on the Belmont Blvd. dog walking circuit. He’s apparently 25 chapters into a novel. I wonder about Spady. He kind of reminds me of the Key West dudes, the tiny Hemingways who seem to have surrendered to the pointlessness of it all and are more than content to be carried along on the whims of existence. Experiencing his presence in Nashville is akin to witnessing a dried starfish washed up at the entrance of the Whole Foods Market. Anyway, Spady told me the plot of this book when I saw him out a month ago. Not much about it sticks with me except some allegory relating to numerology and a murder… it all gets hazy in the early-Summer humidity.
Doesn’t it, though? This document can stand as a testimony to the scatteredness of it all. Some days the Universe finds it goddamn funny to pour a vat of molasses straight into your skull and watch you stumble around the house in a sorghum daze, thinking one thing whilst doing something completely different, like trying to come up with a two-letter word that begins with ‘C’ as you take what will hopefully be the first of several dumps today. There is no two-letter word that begins with ‘C,’ you remind yourself, just as there is no particular dietary regimen that will guarantee more than one dump per day at the age of 37.
Men, I tell you. Let’s ponder the endless derogatory remarks made by women about men in certain comedic entertainments these days. If they could only peer into the gooey brains of the species itself… my goodness, the thoughts that men actually have about men. Like women, we are constantly comparing, and perhaps in not too different of a manner. Take Spady vs. Me. I don’t really have any particular desire to beat or one-up Spady in any specific area, but I can’t pass the motherfucker on the street on a perfectly good Wednesday morning without wondering whether or not my life is measuring up to his by some indeterminate scale of which I have little comprehension or mastery of. 25 chapters into a novel? Really? I have nothing to compare to that, in my mind, and here’s why: I feel completely unable to focus on anything that requires the dedication and commitment a novel demands. I have been focused on things that last for three-and-a-half minutes for quite awhile now, as well as the means by which to foist them upon the world, which are probably best suited to people who with even shorter attention spans than three-and-a-half minutes.
Meanwhile, I have male friends whose marriages are falling apart. The dark hours of abandonment and disappointment these folk are currently experiencing crush my piddling piddliness with an iron fist. They are being drawn towards real man-child moments, those seething encounters with the ego that find a dude waving a fist at life one moment and curling up in a corner like a baby the next. Jesus, Buddha, Allah, Ernest… just please make it go away and I promise to either beat it so far into submission or nurture it like a lost kitten, if only to prove a point.
Years ago I was motoring around Bristol, England with my radio promotions guy. We crested a hill in the city and were greeted with the site of hundreds of students sunning themselves on a lawn that sloped down towards the city center. A lawn, that glowing, illuminated green that only occurs when the sun comes out on certain days in England, setting the grass pulsing, aglow with all the stored-up chlorophyll generated by days and days of endless moisture.
Neil (the radio guy) and I had been riding around for days at this point, hopping from station to station, plying my new single. Neil was eternally sparky and blissful, always happy to be doing his job, to be cresting another hill in another city. I was depressed, completely absorbed in the slightly confusing process of attempting to gain acceptance at radio stations and with the British public in general. Had there been a forest, I would not have been able to see it for the crab apple trees. Truly, there was nothing but grass, centuries-old buildings everywhere and young, nubile people relaxing and enjoying themselves. The moment escaped me. I imagine I was wondering how long it would be until we could stop off for our afternoon pints.
Today I have a yard that is in desperate need of cutting and flower beds that could be weeded but should probably just be completely dug up and begun again. I have what feels like an endless list of administrative tasks to do, most of which seem daunting and mindless. I am writing from the confines of the nicest house I have ever lived in, one that needs some attention here and there but is remarkably perfect. Yes, something is telling me that I am, once again, missing a great moment here, but I feel incapable of reaching out and grabbing. Recent experience has taught me that taking small steps towards the goal is the best way to proceed. I suppose that this little missive is the first one of these. However, I am still thinking of Law and Order: SVU and wondering how they will solve the next hideous crime they are faced with. I would still very much like to get through at least one computer Scrabble match. Neither of these tasks would involve engagement with the world on any level and would, I fear, only draw me a little further into a particular hole.
And thinking back on what seems to have been written so far here I am taken with how completely self-absorbed it all is, how I will never care to read it again and how it probably serves no purpose whatsoever. About how Social Media, the most tempting outlet for these labors, would actually accept this load of hooey with open arms as something worth sharing, having contemplated and commented upon. I just can’t get with the ide of airing these thoughts for consumption. We really have to rise above the idea that this crap is worthy of sharing with each other. That is the problem with art today, I believe; we have become utterly convinced that these type of musings constitute a relationship with an audience, an interaction when, in fact, these kind of musings are exactly the shit that we should keep to ourselves, the grist that will (hopefully) propel us to creating something higher, something infinitely more useful, for our compatriots in existence to chew on and to share.
Did someone mention breakfast? Since moving in with Liz three years ago, I have become infinitely more attuned to the needs and goings-on of my body. I know that part of the issue with getting this day going is merely the fact that I have given myself nothing to work with on a cellular level besides caffeine and nicotine. I need protein mixed with just the right amount of carbohydrate to achieve a roper balance that might assist in seeing things in just the right light. That solidity that sets in after a couple of eggs or even a fat dose of almond butter. Meat is a possibility but some days you just don’t feel like thinking through the reality of the death, the slaughter of innocents, the very real possibility that you could just as easily be eating the dog you were so tenderly walking only hours ago. Goddamn meat. Why are you so tasty and wrong.
Our friend Emily Leonard is a startlingly good artist. She gave us a gorgeous print for our wedding, a gorgeous print that I have yet to have framed. A plane of happiness that currently sits furled up on a bookshelf, its joys hidden from me. It is a painting of a forest, oddly enough, one rendered impressionistically enough so that there is not really a hard option of actually seeing individual trees so well. It’s like the perfect existential rendering of woodlands. Just merge with it, don’t let the small stuff get you down. Asshole.
One of my favorite avoidance pastimes is reading The New Yorker. I don’t recall at what point in my life this magazine took hold of me, but goddamn it, it did. Its promise of weekly sophistication and high-mindedness has driven me toward of number of unrealized ambitions, such as being an eminently cool musician, a well-regarded writer, a long-time resident of New York City. All things I have touched upon at various junctures in life, none of which I would say that I have ever really achieved. But the New Yorker still comes every week, still promises and idealized frame of mind that seems achievable somehow. I don’t know why, anymore. I have finally reached a stage in life where I feel comfortable not reading every goddamn word of it; yes, I am now capable of skipping ahead after reading a few paragraphs of the 15,000 word piece on Ugandan sheep hymens without feeling as if I am cheating myself out of some seriously necessary life knowledge… or merely not getting my money’s worth. It’s a step.
I am beginning to question my newfound allegiance to the IPhone. I waited ages until my Verizon contract was up last October to jump on board but, once I did, I was shocked by how it immediately influenced my life. Everything seemed to get infinitely more organized and categorical: blobs of unintelligible ambition aligning themselves into brightly-colored squares on my ICal, legions of unforeseen needs suddenly met by the acquisition of another smartly-programmed app, badly-written emails from other IPhones instantly replied to with my own badly-written email.
But in recent weeks I have begun to wonder if all it has, ultimately, been for naught. If all these perfectly-scheduled new events (with reminders) are actually getting me anywhere or merely serving to fill up all of that undefined white space on my calendar. If these apps that get used maybe once a month are really just filler to camouflage the Scrabble and FIFA 11 games that get most of the action. If those badly-written emails are just going out into the universe attracting more half-baked thoughts and ideas.
I love to look at the IPhone. It brings me pleasure. I won’t be getting rid of it anytime soon; the transition would be way too much of a pain in the ass. Nothing is really that big of a deal, anyway. This I should know by now. All things get done eventually, just don’t get too stupid about it. Right now babies are being born, children are starving, divorce papers are being served. Life is coming to a series of very hard and immediate conclusions, whether I am paying attention or not. You can’t get an app for that shit, no way.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Gathering Steam
The 13-year cicadas are dying off in droves, and I will miss them. They are the rock stars of the insect world, germinating underground for the aforementioned time period before emerging for a very brief (days, my dear) period of singing and fucking. And then it's over. Their offspring, in egg form, will fall from the cracks in trees into which their mothers laid them, make their way back into the ground and then grab onto some root system to find nutrients for the next incubation period. A long time will pass; governments will be toppled, technology will advance, many many dinners will be cooked, cars will be exchanged for newer models, bands will form, bands will dissolve, children will be birthed, children will become overachievers, or junkies, whatever... the cicadas will not care. They will reemerge from the ground again in May of 2024, completely unaware of how the world has changed around them, going right on with making the absolute most of their tiny little lifespans, their song, their sex. Shine on, you red-eyed subterranean commas of nature. It's been emotional.
My new bride and I took a long hike at Percy Warner this morning, breaking a sweat and stimulating our endorphins to a mad wiggle. We saw a crimson skink with an embarrassingly large head poking out of a tree. We passed a couple in their late 50's running up one of the many hills like teenagers on meth. There was light dappling all along the trail in the shapes of hickory and hackberry leaves high above our heads; I noticed the blotch of perspiration between my pectoral and abdominal muscles and wondered if there was a connection there.
Later on at the Nashville Puppet Festival, Davey Ukulele and the Gag Time Gang took the stage at 2:00 and whipped the young ones into a frenzy. My old friend Jill and her husband Chad were in attendance. Jill sat fifteen feet in front of me with her two kids Ollie and Coco and, as I announced that it was time for everyone to do the Rainbow Dance, locked eyes with me for a fertile moment. We shared a good smile about how they time does fly. Professor D.'s song about allergies was particularly effective today, as was Uncle Louis' spoken word about his adventures with cruise ships and meatballs. The ions at the Puppet Festival was bouncing all over the place; it reminded me of the first festivals I ever played with Joe, Marc's brother. There was no pot and no jam bands but the vibe was just as crazy, if not crazier.
Our friends Hal and Kim are cooking us a major dinner this evening. It's a wedding present, and a good one, for what lasts longer than a belly full of beef and a night stuffed with chuckles? Well, fuck me. It has been a royal May in Nashville, one I hope to not forget come next February, when shit goes dark and dingy and moist and morose. I got married to a woman who is, quite literally, the finest specimen I have ever come across. I never quite expected good fortune of this magnitude and my heart verges on the bursting when I step back and get a take a good look at it all.
My new bride and I took a long hike at Percy Warner this morning, breaking a sweat and stimulating our endorphins to a mad wiggle. We saw a crimson skink with an embarrassingly large head poking out of a tree. We passed a couple in their late 50's running up one of the many hills like teenagers on meth. There was light dappling all along the trail in the shapes of hickory and hackberry leaves high above our heads; I noticed the blotch of perspiration between my pectoral and abdominal muscles and wondered if there was a connection there.
Later on at the Nashville Puppet Festival, Davey Ukulele and the Gag Time Gang took the stage at 2:00 and whipped the young ones into a frenzy. My old friend Jill and her husband Chad were in attendance. Jill sat fifteen feet in front of me with her two kids Ollie and Coco and, as I announced that it was time for everyone to do the Rainbow Dance, locked eyes with me for a fertile moment. We shared a good smile about how they time does fly. Professor D.'s song about allergies was particularly effective today, as was Uncle Louis' spoken word about his adventures with cruise ships and meatballs. The ions at the Puppet Festival was bouncing all over the place; it reminded me of the first festivals I ever played with Joe, Marc's brother. There was no pot and no jam bands but the vibe was just as crazy, if not crazier.
Our friends Hal and Kim are cooking us a major dinner this evening. It's a wedding present, and a good one, for what lasts longer than a belly full of beef and a night stuffed with chuckles? Well, fuck me. It has been a royal May in Nashville, one I hope to not forget come next February, when shit goes dark and dingy and moist and morose. I got married to a woman who is, quite literally, the finest specimen I have ever come across. I never quite expected good fortune of this magnitude and my heart verges on the bursting when I step back and get a take a good look at it all.
Video Session : David Mead : LaundroMatinee
I finally found this today. I love Bill DeMain and his pickin,' and I think the guys in Indianapolis did a fine job of capturing us in pretty good form.
Video Session : David Mead : LaundroMatinee
Video Session : David Mead : LaundroMatinee
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Friday, May 7, 2010
Mort n' Lucifer
I spent the first three hours of yesterday assisting Bob in the shoveling of approximately two and a half tons of flood-induced landslide off of a hill behind his house. The offending mess looked and smelled like what might have happened if, after consuming a steady diet of huevos rancheros for the last millennium, the hill had decided to relieve itself, mightily and without reservation.
As I was about to thrust in for my 219th shovelful of funky earth, a small and oily patch of something on its surface caught my eye. The something began twitching, then wriggling, slowly working its way out of the mud and into full view. It was a frog. Once freed of its earthy prison, the amphibian froze and regarded me with one bulbous eye.
"Allright!" I cheered like a mother at a soccer game. "You made it!"
With a pithy look worthy of George Costanza, the frog hopped away.
For a moment, I reveled in this small victory. In the face of the destruction and despair that has swept through the Middle Tennessee over the past week, any sign of life amongst ruin was cause for some celebration. Then I reconsidered: That frog might have really been enjoying himself down there. Maybe he was already happy. As I got back to shoveling, I imagined a conversation that may or may not have occurred a few weeks earlier:
"Gotcha!"
Mort had been in mid-flight, stretched out to Olympian lengths above the surface of the pond, milliseconds from contact with the water, when something odd happened. Instead of the cool familiar slap of the water on his belly, he felt rough, hot ridges, callousy and crinkled. His entire body was squeezed by hot fingers, tight enough to constrict any movement while allowing just enough room to breathe.
Mort opened his eyes to find two very large orbs staring at him from a close distance.
"Hello, Mort," the voice assaulted him on warm, garlicky breath. "Going for a swim?"
"What. The. Fuck." Mort glared into the big eyes and urinated with all his might.
"Well, then." The man set Mort down on the bank of the pond and shook the liquid off of his hand. "I see you're staying hydrated."
"Actually, no." Mort collected himself. "It's been getting hotter and hotter. Short Spring this year."
"Ah, you don't know hot, my little friend," smiled the man, his face creasing into a hundred tiny wrinkles. The eyes glowed crimson under the brim of a ratty porkpie hat. Black hairs curled out from his wide nostrils. A black wool suit with ragged sleeves wrapped around him like a sarcophagus, revealing a shiny black shirt unbuttoned at the neck. His skin was chalky and, in spite of the sweltering heat, bore no hint of perspiration.
"Excuse me," said Mort, turning to leap back into the pond.
"Don't move." The man's voice took on the rumble of thunder, the shades of hell. "I need to speak with you."
Mort slowly turned himself to face the man again. "OK, I'm listening."
"I have a proposition," drawled the man. He extracted half a joint from the breast pocket of his jacket and breathed on the black end of it. It immediately ignited in a tiny burst of flame.
"You shouldn't smoke that stuff," said Mort. "It will make you emotionally unavailable."
"Huh," the man snorted before taking a long, searing hit off the joint. "Imagine that. Listen. I've got a little something planned for Nashville in a few weeks, and I'm going to need your help."
Mort noticed that the man never exhaled any smoke.
"I'm going to take care of your little hydration problem, lickity-split. This is going to be big. Water everywhere. You'll love it." He held the remnants of the smoking joint down towards Mort. "Want a hit?"
"Uh, no thanks," said Mort, closing his eyes against the cloud of smoke suddenly surrounding him. It was a pointless exercise; the amphibian's highly-porous skin absorbed the THC in the air like a wet sponge and, within seconds, Mort was high as a kite.
"I'm talking flood, little fellow. Apocalyptic shit, as much as I hate to use the expression. Now," the man paused to flick the joint into the woods, "you may not think that a tiny little frog is going to matter much in the middle of all this mayhem. But if a butterfly can set events into motion, you certainly can. Mort? Mort. Are you listening?"
Mort did not say anything.
"Mort!"
"That's correct," said Mort.
"Sour Jesus," said the man. "OK, so. Here's the deal. On May 1st you're going to see a lot of rain. On May 2nd, it's going to get really crazy. You'll need to be positioned at the top of that hill," he pointed to the hill behind the house. "About three in the afternoon, a good portion of that thing is going to go running down the slope like chocolate pudding. I need you to be smack in the middle of it."
"Pudding," said Mort. "Puuuuhddd-eeeeng. What is it?"
The man snapped his fingers on either side of the frog's head, eliciting slow, mucousy blinks from both. "Come on, Mort! Pull it together."
"OK," said Mort, sleepily. "Why am I doing this?"
"Mud, baby." The man grinned. "The sweet, healing properties of earth. You'll be under for a couple of days, max. You'll be nourished by the abundant minerals, the comfortable flow of moisture. Think of it like a weekend in Sonoma."
"Been there," yawned Mort.
"My ass."
"I just mean, like." Mort rolled over onto his back and let the sun warm his yellow belly. "What's the purpose of my participation at all? Like, what does it mean?"
"No one knows what any of it means, little guy," said the man. "I don't really do meaning. I've always been into chaos, misdirection, smoke, mirrors, that kind of thing." He rotated his chin and cracked his neck. "Meaning is for humans. I gave it up a long time ago. Look," he poked Mort's shiny belly softly, "just be there on Sunday."
"Cool," said Mort, turning, with a little difficulty, back onto his belly. "I'll let you know how it goes."
"Don't worry about it," said the man, repositioning his hat and dusting off his trouser legs. "Word gets around."
And, with a loud sizzle, he dove into the shallows of the pond and vanished.
As I was about to thrust in for my 219th shovelful of funky earth, a small and oily patch of something on its surface caught my eye. The something began twitching, then wriggling, slowly working its way out of the mud and into full view. It was a frog. Once freed of its earthy prison, the amphibian froze and regarded me with one bulbous eye.
"Allright!" I cheered like a mother at a soccer game. "You made it!"
With a pithy look worthy of George Costanza, the frog hopped away.
For a moment, I reveled in this small victory. In the face of the destruction and despair that has swept through the Middle Tennessee over the past week, any sign of life amongst ruin was cause for some celebration. Then I reconsidered: That frog might have really been enjoying himself down there. Maybe he was already happy. As I got back to shoveling, I imagined a conversation that may or may not have occurred a few weeks earlier:
"Gotcha!"
Mort had been in mid-flight, stretched out to Olympian lengths above the surface of the pond, milliseconds from contact with the water, when something odd happened. Instead of the cool familiar slap of the water on his belly, he felt rough, hot ridges, callousy and crinkled. His entire body was squeezed by hot fingers, tight enough to constrict any movement while allowing just enough room to breathe.
Mort opened his eyes to find two very large orbs staring at him from a close distance.
"Hello, Mort," the voice assaulted him on warm, garlicky breath. "Going for a swim?"
"What. The. Fuck." Mort glared into the big eyes and urinated with all his might.
"Well, then." The man set Mort down on the bank of the pond and shook the liquid off of his hand. "I see you're staying hydrated."
"Actually, no." Mort collected himself. "It's been getting hotter and hotter. Short Spring this year."
"Ah, you don't know hot, my little friend," smiled the man, his face creasing into a hundred tiny wrinkles. The eyes glowed crimson under the brim of a ratty porkpie hat. Black hairs curled out from his wide nostrils. A black wool suit with ragged sleeves wrapped around him like a sarcophagus, revealing a shiny black shirt unbuttoned at the neck. His skin was chalky and, in spite of the sweltering heat, bore no hint of perspiration.
"Excuse me," said Mort, turning to leap back into the pond.
"Don't move." The man's voice took on the rumble of thunder, the shades of hell. "I need to speak with you."
Mort slowly turned himself to face the man again. "OK, I'm listening."
"I have a proposition," drawled the man. He extracted half a joint from the breast pocket of his jacket and breathed on the black end of it. It immediately ignited in a tiny burst of flame.
"You shouldn't smoke that stuff," said Mort. "It will make you emotionally unavailable."
"Huh," the man snorted before taking a long, searing hit off the joint. "Imagine that. Listen. I've got a little something planned for Nashville in a few weeks, and I'm going to need your help."
Mort noticed that the man never exhaled any smoke.
"I'm going to take care of your little hydration problem, lickity-split. This is going to be big. Water everywhere. You'll love it." He held the remnants of the smoking joint down towards Mort. "Want a hit?"
"Uh, no thanks," said Mort, closing his eyes against the cloud of smoke suddenly surrounding him. It was a pointless exercise; the amphibian's highly-porous skin absorbed the THC in the air like a wet sponge and, within seconds, Mort was high as a kite.
"I'm talking flood, little fellow. Apocalyptic shit, as much as I hate to use the expression. Now," the man paused to flick the joint into the woods, "you may not think that a tiny little frog is going to matter much in the middle of all this mayhem. But if a butterfly can set events into motion, you certainly can. Mort? Mort. Are you listening?"
Mort did not say anything.
"Mort!"
"That's correct," said Mort.
"Sour Jesus," said the man. "OK, so. Here's the deal. On May 1st you're going to see a lot of rain. On May 2nd, it's going to get really crazy. You'll need to be positioned at the top of that hill," he pointed to the hill behind the house. "About three in the afternoon, a good portion of that thing is going to go running down the slope like chocolate pudding. I need you to be smack in the middle of it."
"Pudding," said Mort. "Puuuuhddd-eeeeng. What is it?"
The man snapped his fingers on either side of the frog's head, eliciting slow, mucousy blinks from both. "Come on, Mort! Pull it together."
"OK," said Mort, sleepily. "Why am I doing this?"
"Mud, baby." The man grinned. "The sweet, healing properties of earth. You'll be under for a couple of days, max. You'll be nourished by the abundant minerals, the comfortable flow of moisture. Think of it like a weekend in Sonoma."
"Been there," yawned Mort.
"My ass."
"I just mean, like." Mort rolled over onto his back and let the sun warm his yellow belly. "What's the purpose of my participation at all? Like, what does it mean?"
"No one knows what any of it means, little guy," said the man. "I don't really do meaning. I've always been into chaos, misdirection, smoke, mirrors, that kind of thing." He rotated his chin and cracked his neck. "Meaning is for humans. I gave it up a long time ago. Look," he poked Mort's shiny belly softly, "just be there on Sunday."
"Cool," said Mort, turning, with a little difficulty, back onto his belly. "I'll let you know how it goes."
"Don't worry about it," said the man, repositioning his hat and dusting off his trouser legs. "Word gets around."
And, with a loud sizzle, he dove into the shallows of the pond and vanished.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Water Conservation: Keep It Cool
Due to this weekend's flooding, Nashville is currently undergoing a shortage of drinking water. Two of the city's water treatment plants were compromised because of their proximity to the now-mighty Cumberland River. The call is out to conserve. Adapted from a very informative list on CoolPeopleCare.com, here are some quick and fairly painless ways to cut your consumption, possibly in half:
1. Don't wash your car. Splattered grass and dirt are, reportedly, "flood chic." Think of your car as one of those ridiculous t-shirts at Urban Outfitters. Get out there and make something of yourself.
2. Cut off your sprinkler system at home and at work. Again, culture has been trending toward Middle Asia for the past couple of years; a little brown on your ground will only enhance your street cred.
3. Don't shower unless absolutely necessary. This, a decidedly French affectation, is not particularly cool nor pleasant but at least your house didn't float away down the river.
4. Don't wash your clothes unless you're out of underwear. Or, if you are of the "freeballing" persuasion, simply wait until the crotch of all of your pants take on the texture of a well-used dish sponge.
5. Let the dirty dishes stack up. Nashville's restaurant industry could always use a good kick in the pants. As always, be wary of spending more than $13.00 for an entree anywhere except Margot, Marche or 1808 Grille. This town runs on cheap local indigenous and immigrant fare; get into it, and give that money you would have spent at J. Alexander's to these people.
6. Use and reuse the same drinking glass all day. Enjoy the unexpected blending of flavors, the aroma of surprise, the texture of pure "otherness."
7. If you must shower, get in and out in four minutes. Set a timer. Be diligent. Yes, you might be thinking, "I'm, like, French now; what do I know about managing time?" But we know you can do it.
8. Don't shave. Armpits, legs, face, back, crotch or knuckles. Pretend you're running amok in a Hustler shoot from 1977.
9. Don't let the water run in the sink. Think when you turn the faucet on. See how little water you can allow to go down the drain. It's a little game, like Parcheesi.
10. Don't use a hose to clean off debris and dirt from your sidewalk. Let it dry and use a broom. Again, tres chic. If you missed the brooms on the runway at the Dolce Gabbana show in Milan recently... well, seriously, what were you thinking?
11. In regards to toilet etiquette, let's quote the Eminient Ed Koch: "If it's yellow, let it mellow; if it's brown, flush it down." Let's take a moment to reflect: Actually, if it's brown, you just ate it four to ten hours ago. Don't hate it so much. But, you know, go ahead and flush it.
1. Don't wash your car. Splattered grass and dirt are, reportedly, "flood chic." Think of your car as one of those ridiculous t-shirts at Urban Outfitters. Get out there and make something of yourself.
2. Cut off your sprinkler system at home and at work. Again, culture has been trending toward Middle Asia for the past couple of years; a little brown on your ground will only enhance your street cred.
3. Don't shower unless absolutely necessary. This, a decidedly French affectation, is not particularly cool nor pleasant but at least your house didn't float away down the river.
4. Don't wash your clothes unless you're out of underwear. Or, if you are of the "freeballing" persuasion, simply wait until the crotch of all of your pants take on the texture of a well-used dish sponge.
5. Let the dirty dishes stack up. Nashville's restaurant industry could always use a good kick in the pants. As always, be wary of spending more than $13.00 for an entree anywhere except Margot, Marche or 1808 Grille. This town runs on cheap local indigenous and immigrant fare; get into it, and give that money you would have spent at J. Alexander's to these people.
6. Use and reuse the same drinking glass all day. Enjoy the unexpected blending of flavors, the aroma of surprise, the texture of pure "otherness."
7. If you must shower, get in and out in four minutes. Set a timer. Be diligent. Yes, you might be thinking, "I'm, like, French now; what do I know about managing time?" But we know you can do it.
8. Don't shave. Armpits, legs, face, back, crotch or knuckles. Pretend you're running amok in a Hustler shoot from 1977.
9. Don't let the water run in the sink. Think when you turn the faucet on. See how little water you can allow to go down the drain. It's a little game, like Parcheesi.
10. Don't use a hose to clean off debris and dirt from your sidewalk. Let it dry and use a broom. Again, tres chic. If you missed the brooms on the runway at the Dolce Gabbana show in Milan recently... well, seriously, what were you thinking?
11. In regards to toilet etiquette, let's quote the Eminient Ed Koch: "If it's yellow, let it mellow; if it's brown, flush it down." Let's take a moment to reflect: Actually, if it's brown, you just ate it four to ten hours ago. Don't hate it so much. But, you know, go ahead and flush it.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Heartbreak Weather
As many of you have probably heard, it was a pretty horrific weekend in Nashville. The Cumberland River swallowed a good portion of downtown before finally beginning to ebb today, officially shedding its status as a minor waterway generally ignored by the city's good citizens. To the West, the Harpeth performed a similar feat, leaving us with weird aerial depictions of unfamiliar things like a Publix grocery store sign barely protruding from its brown water. All over the city, smaller creeks and forgotten tributaries flowed freely into basements and home studios, quickly overwhelming rusty sump pumps and destroying mountains of memorabilia. The official body count stands at 19 so far.
As my friend Matthew Ryan once sang, it's heartbreak weather. Facebook walls are chock full of despairing reports of loss, reassurances and general offers of help. News channel sites are purring along with multiple amateur and professional videos of the general mayhem. The Internet is an oddly isolating environment in which to be commiserating over a natural disaster occurring right outside your door, but at least it's dry.
Me and mine were fortunate enough to be shacked up in a sturdy bungalow positioned on a favorable angle to a downhill slope. It was kind of amazing to watch the waters run around us, through the back yard and into the alley, which began to resemble a really ugly and powerful water park ride by Sunday afternoon. Besides a loss of electricity and a few trickles of water in the basement, we were completely untouched. Even the new brick sidewalk remained intact. Nature is a finicky lass.
There's no easy way to clean up such a massive pile of shit, but donations never hurt. Please throw some cash Nashville's way here if you feel inclined.
I had planned on posting some new sunshine songs this week, but I think I'll give it a couple of days out of respect for the victims of all this. Let's hope the eerily gorgeous weather predicted for the coming week dries this nightmare up sooner than later; 'til then, please join me in staying dry and being thankful.
As my friend Matthew Ryan once sang, it's heartbreak weather. Facebook walls are chock full of despairing reports of loss, reassurances and general offers of help. News channel sites are purring along with multiple amateur and professional videos of the general mayhem. The Internet is an oddly isolating environment in which to be commiserating over a natural disaster occurring right outside your door, but at least it's dry.
Me and mine were fortunate enough to be shacked up in a sturdy bungalow positioned on a favorable angle to a downhill slope. It was kind of amazing to watch the waters run around us, through the back yard and into the alley, which began to resemble a really ugly and powerful water park ride by Sunday afternoon. Besides a loss of electricity and a few trickles of water in the basement, we were completely untouched. Even the new brick sidewalk remained intact. Nature is a finicky lass.
There's no easy way to clean up such a massive pile of shit, but donations never hurt. Please throw some cash Nashville's way here if you feel inclined.
I had planned on posting some new sunshine songs this week, but I think I'll give it a couple of days out of respect for the victims of all this. Let's hope the eerily gorgeous weather predicted for the coming week dries this nightmare up sooner than later; 'til then, please join me in staying dry and being thankful.
David Henry Braves The Flood
The TrueTonian spotted in the vicinity of yet another flooded basement. Photo by Rann Russell
Thursday, June 11, 2009
The Importance of Being Earnest
My friend Jay Odenbaugh blew back through town earlier this week. I was able to catch him for breakfast and a hike on Tuesday. As we crested the Mossy Ridge at Percy Warner Park, he informed me that he had recently attained tenure at Lewis and Clark University. I was damn near misty-eyed as I contemplated the ramifications and the long road to his achievement: At the age of 15, when I had known him for three or four years, Jay stated his desire to become a Doctor of Philosophy, a feat he achieved quite handily in the subsequent decade. After countless exhibitions of pride and determination, I can't say that I was surprised to find out that he had finally grabbed tenure out of the hands of defeat; I just wish I could remember more of the details about his rise to the top.
This morning I met my father for breakfast at the Pancake Pantry. I had not seen him for a month or so and there was plenty to catch up on. He and Vicki have sold their house, not before winning a Nashville Historical Society Preservation Award for their fine renovation/restoration efforts. They are soon moving into another house that Dad has renovated, a Cape Cod that was on the verge of collapse this time last year. We went to look at it this morning, and I was truly stunned. It is one of the finest home renovations I have ever seen anywhere; the floor plan flows beautifully and old and new aesthetic details have been married with nary a flaw. It is the seventh house my dad has renovated in my lifetime, and by far his crowning achievement. I am looking forward to visiting and, as always, very happy to have such a sweet place to hit rock bottom, should the need ever arise again.
I went straight from Dad's house to Bill DeMain's apartment, where we wrote a new song called "Philosopher Dog," recorded the two remaining demos for 1908 Division and then mixed all of the demos. Listening back, I am pleasantly surprised. The songs are alternately more complex and deconstructed than most previous efforts. The implied apartment building narrative allowed for the use of various styles and dynamics that I would normally not include on one album, but all in all it holds together pretty well. Then again, what wouldn't sound good to ears tweaked on high-grade organic peyote? Before the carpet began slithering up my ankles I was able to detect a few arrangement issues here and there, but nothing major, nothing that won't be easily dealt with the minute these goddamn fruit bats stop flying out of my nostrils.
Word on the street is that I have my third home-cooked supper of the week to look forward to this evening. Liz is on a real culinary tear and I am supremely grateful. Tonight is Quinoa and vegetables, I believe. I would like to go for bike ride in the meantime, but feel obligated to hang with Stan for a bit; he endured a terrible thunderstorm today alone. He seems shaken but did managed to avoid relieving himself on the floor, which is certainly what I would have done in his position.
This morning I met my father for breakfast at the Pancake Pantry. I had not seen him for a month or so and there was plenty to catch up on. He and Vicki have sold their house, not before winning a Nashville Historical Society Preservation Award for their fine renovation/restoration efforts. They are soon moving into another house that Dad has renovated, a Cape Cod that was on the verge of collapse this time last year. We went to look at it this morning, and I was truly stunned. It is one of the finest home renovations I have ever seen anywhere; the floor plan flows beautifully and old and new aesthetic details have been married with nary a flaw. It is the seventh house my dad has renovated in my lifetime, and by far his crowning achievement. I am looking forward to visiting and, as always, very happy to have such a sweet place to hit rock bottom, should the need ever arise again.
I went straight from Dad's house to Bill DeMain's apartment, where we wrote a new song called "Philosopher Dog," recorded the two remaining demos for 1908 Division and then mixed all of the demos. Listening back, I am pleasantly surprised. The songs are alternately more complex and deconstructed than most previous efforts. The implied apartment building narrative allowed for the use of various styles and dynamics that I would normally not include on one album, but all in all it holds together pretty well. Then again, what wouldn't sound good to ears tweaked on high-grade organic peyote? Before the carpet began slithering up my ankles I was able to detect a few arrangement issues here and there, but nothing major, nothing that won't be easily dealt with the minute these goddamn fruit bats stop flying out of my nostrils.
Word on the street is that I have my third home-cooked supper of the week to look forward to this evening. Liz is on a real culinary tear and I am supremely grateful. Tonight is Quinoa and vegetables, I believe. I would like to go for bike ride in the meantime, but feel obligated to hang with Stan for a bit; he endured a terrible thunderstorm today alone. He seems shaken but did managed to avoid relieving himself on the floor, which is certainly what I would have done in his position.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Schedule Of Events
SCHEDULED:
7:00 Tennis with Paul Deakin @ Maryland Farms YMCA
9:30 Breakfast with Jay Odenbaugh and unknown lady friend
10:30 Songwriting session with Jason White
3:00 Lunch with Jay Odenbaugh and unknown lady friend
6:30 Dinner at Peter Collins' house
ACTUAL:
7:00 Arrived MFYMCA seven minutes early, stretched, chewed fat with Deakin, proceeded to lose 7-5, 4-6, 6-4. Serve impressive, ground strokes horrible-to-professional, with exception of lob, which is nonexistent, allowing Deakin, the shithead, to execute weird drummer monkey-run to net with no fear of serious retribution. Draw small amount of pleasure from estimate that Deakin has dropped somewhere between $500-600.00 on new gear, apparel and lessons since becoming interested in game six months ago. My expenses thusfar: $19.72, for one can of balls and court fees. Suck it, Deakin.
9:30 Breakfast canceled. Back to house to check on the ill and complain about various things over which I have no control.
10:30 Rode bike to J. White's. Started something vaguely Henley-esque that eventually transmogrified into Randy Newman/Leon Redbone-esque song about canine's: "A Dog's The Nicest Person You're Ever Going To Meet." My favorite song I have written in awhile, truly lovable and catchy as a cheerleader. Drank fresh apple juice, ate beef jerky from California and Gouda from Kroger. Smoked. Observed vegetable garden, very impressive and inspiring.
3:00 Rode bike to Fido to meet Jay and Karen, his friend from San Francisco. They are driving across the country in a U-Haul moving things. Karen is a dancer, very enjoyable. Odenbaugh better get his game right on this one. Ate chopped salad called 'Chop Salad,' very good.
6:30 Dinner at Peter's, heartily anticipated. We're bringing a bottle of port and some flowers that Liz bought. Looking forward to telling more people to go see Anvil: The Story of Anvil, the feel-good movie of the decade.
7:00 Tennis with Paul Deakin @ Maryland Farms YMCA
9:30 Breakfast with Jay Odenbaugh and unknown lady friend
10:30 Songwriting session with Jason White
3:00 Lunch with Jay Odenbaugh and unknown lady friend
6:30 Dinner at Peter Collins' house
ACTUAL:
7:00 Arrived MFYMCA seven minutes early, stretched, chewed fat with Deakin, proceeded to lose 7-5, 4-6, 6-4. Serve impressive, ground strokes horrible-to-professional, with exception of lob, which is nonexistent, allowing Deakin, the shithead, to execute weird drummer monkey-run to net with no fear of serious retribution. Draw small amount of pleasure from estimate that Deakin has dropped somewhere between $500-600.00 on new gear, apparel and lessons since becoming interested in game six months ago. My expenses thusfar: $19.72, for one can of balls and court fees. Suck it, Deakin.
9:30 Breakfast canceled. Back to house to check on the ill and complain about various things over which I have no control.
10:30 Rode bike to J. White's. Started something vaguely Henley-esque that eventually transmogrified into Randy Newman/Leon Redbone-esque song about canine's: "A Dog's The Nicest Person You're Ever Going To Meet." My favorite song I have written in awhile, truly lovable and catchy as a cheerleader. Drank fresh apple juice, ate beef jerky from California and Gouda from Kroger. Smoked. Observed vegetable garden, very impressive and inspiring.
3:00 Rode bike to Fido to meet Jay and Karen, his friend from San Francisco. They are driving across the country in a U-Haul moving things. Karen is a dancer, very enjoyable. Odenbaugh better get his game right on this one. Ate chopped salad called 'Chop Salad,' very good.
6:30 Dinner at Peter's, heartily anticipated. We're bringing a bottle of port and some flowers that Liz bought. Looking forward to telling more people to go see Anvil: The Story of Anvil, the feel-good movie of the decade.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Blogger.com; What A CrapFest.
Imagine my surprise when I was finally able to beg my friend Brannon to post a
"splash" page for me on the internet at davidmead.com, complete with link to a "blog," only to be notified that my new "blog" was no longer in existence. I would say "goddamn these people" but they seem to control the keys to this particular "kingdom" and I will endeavor to not offend them again.
Anyway, welcome to the newly refurbished blog. I hope you like it.
"splash" page for me on the internet at davidmead.com, complete with link to a "blog," only to be notified that my new "blog" was no longer in existence. I would say "goddamn these people" but they seem to control the keys to this particular "kingdom" and I will endeavor to not offend them again.
Anyway, welcome to the newly refurbished blog. I hope you like it.
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