The war machine looms & thunders overhead. It's a nice weekend to get out of town, but I have to work. This air and sea show, and this Lollapalooza, you see, are great marketing tools for realtors selling timeshares just up the road in Lake Geneva or over across the way on Michigan's W. shore. Your own private beach, folks, to escape straggling mouthbreathers in town to see some ho-hum spectacle for the first time ...
The Lollapalooza thing, yeah, uh ... I keep thinking what a *great* lineup this year's (which also seems to be pretty close to last year's) would have been 15 years ago. You'd get Uncle Tupelo instead of Wilco. You'd get Radiohead when they were just some really good rock band with two really good albums. Then again, when we were kids we weren't really of the $5-for-a-bottle-of-water-to-see-washed-up-acts from-the-mid-90s demographic, were we? I suppose some of us are now, but it's like this account I once read where a guy goes to see Elvis in '77 and opines, "if you half-close your eyes and let your imagination roll, you just might catch a hint of his 1958 self ..." I think I see the devolution of this festival into what it now is as one of the great failures of my generation, or something like that, home in Chicago, the world capital of silver-colored hucksterism.
16 August, 2008
18 June, 2008
this is the week, it was ...
wednesday …
hit on by a man at a 4am bar who’s apparently impressed by my rugged good looks & the way I wear a ringer tee. I normally don’t patronize after-hours establishments so late, perhaps because of the crazies, and I usually don’t mind being hit on by anyone as long as they’re not outwardly aggressive about it. However, when you start telling me, in graphic detail, all the things you would like to do with/to me upon getting me home, well, that’s just creepy, and that’s where this’n’ is going. I gather from his demeanor he is what some would call a “top.”
“I gather from your demeanor you’re what some would call a top,” I say.
“Why yes,” he says. “I am a top.”
“You see,” I say, “it’ll never happen. I’m also a top.”
This prompts a good chortle from the friend I'm with, who reminds me I’m really not into men & why didn’t I just tell him that -- I suppose sometimes it’s just better to let ‘em down easy …
thursday...
near the end of my work day a client breaks the news to me Tim Russert has just collapsed & died. I’m still pretty miffed about Bo Diddley’s passing a couple weeks prior, but at least I suppose we saw that one coming. Russert was just so vibrant and still relatively young.
ordinarily, I take the passing of public figures I’ve never met with the proverbial grains of salt, if even that. These were a touch more personal. I’m a guitar-slinging rock musician who also did quite a bit of politicking and somewhere in between dabbled in journalism. In other words, I suppose I was a pretty big fan of both guys.
On Bo’s passing, I felt a lot like I felt when Carl Perkins died. Similar stories, I guess – good old boys who basically invented this art form, rock and roll, and who never really got the credit (or compensation) they deserved. Bo was playing to the masses & helping the homeless until a recent stroke had sidelined him. I was sad for a good while. He walked 47 miles of barbed wire, wore a cobra snake for a necktie.
On Russert, well, what can I say? Meet the Press is one of the only shows I have never really missed. I don’t even have a TV these days & I don’t miss it (gotta love those streaming rebroadcasts). The guy’s humility & enthuisiasm made him a member of everybody’s family. I mean, my friends & I can be pretty damned jaded & pretty much the minute that news broke the texts started to come in. It was sad as hell watching an entire network news team struggle through thursday night and even worse watching Brokaw & co. attempt to hold it together on Sunday. He loved his rock & roll & his hometown sports teams & would rather shoot the shit over beers than guss it up at some white-tie event …
friday…
My mum’s visiting from Ohio, so the plan is to do tacky tourist things, like get deep dish pizza. There’s a great place around the corner where you can get a large pie and a pitcher of beer for $20, but she insists upon Uno, even though she could drive the 50 minutes or so to Pittsburgh for the same thing whenever she desires. Sigh. It’s, OK, though, because it’s Mum and I haven’t had a good pizza in a while. I’m wearing a t-shirt with one of my old bands on it & the hostess asks me about it & I’m temporarily struck w/this weird nostalgic sense of failure until I realize I’m still keeping on musically.
saturday …
I’m playing a U. Utah Phillips memorial/benefit at the Heartland. I have mixed feelings about the venue. It spins itself as some hotbed of leftist populism, but it’s, like, $15 for a freakin’ hamburger. Apparently, the part of leftism about sharing the wealth lost its way somewhere s. of Lunt St. It’s a noble enough cause, though, and turns out being a good time. One of the other performers has engineered for Dylan & the Band. There’s a good us v. them feel to the night. I didn’t realize other performers would play their own songs, too, so I just play songs Utah used to. It’s still pretty cool to get any audience singing along to “Dump the bosses off your back.” Anyway, I’ll get to play several of my own on Fri., 20/6 at the Horseshoe (insert shameless self-plug here). Somehow, Larry Dean is part of both gigs …
sunday …
as mentioned already, I come pretty close to tears watching today’s Meet the Press. Maybe it’s my hangover. Maybe it would be better if it were football season already. Mum gets to the airport & back home intact. I take a long walk.
monday …
I give a guitar lesson on mondays. This student’s more of a friend, so we usually wind up having drinks, shooting the shit, making a night of it. We’ve both had out-of-town guests for the weekend & are both pretty tired, but it’s a good time nonetheless. She relates the story of how this morning at 5 she was awakened by the noise of two men beating up some woman in the deserted lakeview dawn. Another Pleasant Valley Monday.
tuesday …
On the s. edge of the abandoned cemetery now called Lincoln’s Park, I notice some dork on a Ducati gunning his engine so as to prompt his female passenger to grab him tightly. This inspires a song I write in about 5 minutes & call “Hesitation St.” It’s a Petty-meets-Elvis Costello thing in my own head & more than enough to shake the funk of a hundred lousy weeks.
hit on by a man at a 4am bar who’s apparently impressed by my rugged good looks & the way I wear a ringer tee. I normally don’t patronize after-hours establishments so late, perhaps because of the crazies, and I usually don’t mind being hit on by anyone as long as they’re not outwardly aggressive about it. However, when you start telling me, in graphic detail, all the things you would like to do with/to me upon getting me home, well, that’s just creepy, and that’s where this’n’ is going. I gather from his demeanor he is what some would call a “top.”
“I gather from your demeanor you’re what some would call a top,” I say.
“Why yes,” he says. “I am a top.”
“You see,” I say, “it’ll never happen. I’m also a top.”
This prompts a good chortle from the friend I'm with, who reminds me I’m really not into men & why didn’t I just tell him that -- I suppose sometimes it’s just better to let ‘em down easy …
thursday...
near the end of my work day a client breaks the news to me Tim Russert has just collapsed & died. I’m still pretty miffed about Bo Diddley’s passing a couple weeks prior, but at least I suppose we saw that one coming. Russert was just so vibrant and still relatively young.
ordinarily, I take the passing of public figures I’ve never met with the proverbial grains of salt, if even that. These were a touch more personal. I’m a guitar-slinging rock musician who also did quite a bit of politicking and somewhere in between dabbled in journalism. In other words, I suppose I was a pretty big fan of both guys.
On Bo’s passing, I felt a lot like I felt when Carl Perkins died. Similar stories, I guess – good old boys who basically invented this art form, rock and roll, and who never really got the credit (or compensation) they deserved. Bo was playing to the masses & helping the homeless until a recent stroke had sidelined him. I was sad for a good while. He walked 47 miles of barbed wire, wore a cobra snake for a necktie.
On Russert, well, what can I say? Meet the Press is one of the only shows I have never really missed. I don’t even have a TV these days & I don’t miss it (gotta love those streaming rebroadcasts). The guy’s humility & enthuisiasm made him a member of everybody’s family. I mean, my friends & I can be pretty damned jaded & pretty much the minute that news broke the texts started to come in. It was sad as hell watching an entire network news team struggle through thursday night and even worse watching Brokaw & co. attempt to hold it together on Sunday. He loved his rock & roll & his hometown sports teams & would rather shoot the shit over beers than guss it up at some white-tie event …
friday…
My mum’s visiting from Ohio, so the plan is to do tacky tourist things, like get deep dish pizza. There’s a great place around the corner where you can get a large pie and a pitcher of beer for $20, but she insists upon Uno, even though she could drive the 50 minutes or so to Pittsburgh for the same thing whenever she desires. Sigh. It’s, OK, though, because it’s Mum and I haven’t had a good pizza in a while. I’m wearing a t-shirt with one of my old bands on it & the hostess asks me about it & I’m temporarily struck w/this weird nostalgic sense of failure until I realize I’m still keeping on musically.
saturday …
I’m playing a U. Utah Phillips memorial/benefit at the Heartland. I have mixed feelings about the venue. It spins itself as some hotbed of leftist populism, but it’s, like, $15 for a freakin’ hamburger. Apparently, the part of leftism about sharing the wealth lost its way somewhere s. of Lunt St. It’s a noble enough cause, though, and turns out being a good time. One of the other performers has engineered for Dylan & the Band. There’s a good us v. them feel to the night. I didn’t realize other performers would play their own songs, too, so I just play songs Utah used to. It’s still pretty cool to get any audience singing along to “Dump the bosses off your back.” Anyway, I’ll get to play several of my own on Fri., 20/6 at the Horseshoe (insert shameless self-plug here). Somehow, Larry Dean is part of both gigs …
sunday …
as mentioned already, I come pretty close to tears watching today’s Meet the Press. Maybe it’s my hangover. Maybe it would be better if it were football season already. Mum gets to the airport & back home intact. I take a long walk.
monday …
I give a guitar lesson on mondays. This student’s more of a friend, so we usually wind up having drinks, shooting the shit, making a night of it. We’ve both had out-of-town guests for the weekend & are both pretty tired, but it’s a good time nonetheless. She relates the story of how this morning at 5 she was awakened by the noise of two men beating up some woman in the deserted lakeview dawn. Another Pleasant Valley Monday.
tuesday …
On the s. edge of the abandoned cemetery now called Lincoln’s Park, I notice some dork on a Ducati gunning his engine so as to prompt his female passenger to grab him tightly. This inspires a song I write in about 5 minutes & call “Hesitation St.” It’s a Petty-meets-Elvis Costello thing in my own head & more than enough to shake the funk of a hundred lousy weeks.
01 June, 2008
ok, addressing the real politick
I had a pretty good Saturday. Spent the beginning of the day watching the DNC Florida/Michigan hearings and the evening at the Gallery Cabaret rocking out to my friends, We Make Thunder. But back to the earlier part of my day:
I tend to agree with the notion that changing the rules in the middle of game is cheating. I'm also beginning to see the Clintons as sneaky, ruthless cheaters and sore losers, if I didn't already sort of see them in that light. Your goal is to oust the party in power, one who you believe stole an election -- committed voter fraud, essentially, to install itself, and you belittle your best efforts by stooping to essentially the same level.
I posted the remainder of this entry to Lynn Sweet's Sun-Times blog on Sen. Obama divorcing his church. We'll see if she greenlights it ...
I don't understand the assignation of the word "hate" to this church, Rev. Wright, Fr. Pfleger, Michelle Obama, et al. I don't grasp the American right & those Clinton-backers who call out anything uttered by any of these folks as "unamerican." We are a nation founded in dissent -- armed revolt, to be more specific. We are also a culturally/economically/ethnoracially divided people, a nation of opressors and the opressed. Nothing said by Rev. Wright was 'unamerican' so much as it reflected the way a good number of Americans feel about certain issues. Nothing said by Fr. Pfleger was untrue. I suppose if one has lived a sheltered life, and/or a more privileged life than a good number of us, they may not understand or be able to look at a bigger picture, through the eyes of the oppressed.
It's a sad commentary on our nature -- our system, too -- when public servants are strongarmed into renouncing any person or institution whose opinions may or may not offend a few people. As far as any of us who cannot speak for him can tell, Sen. Obama disowned Rev. Wright and his longtime church out of perceived political necessity. Rack up one for the flag-wrapped reactionaries and a loss for free speech.
---
well, that's it. I had to go and get all sociopolitical on j'ass (j'ass, btw, being a derivative of "your arse," is the basis for the word "jazz," as in the boppin' music would likely find you, "shakin' j'ass..." THAT is an entirely different story).
I tend to agree with the notion that changing the rules in the middle of game is cheating. I'm also beginning to see the Clintons as sneaky, ruthless cheaters and sore losers, if I didn't already sort of see them in that light. Your goal is to oust the party in power, one who you believe stole an election -- committed voter fraud, essentially, to install itself, and you belittle your best efforts by stooping to essentially the same level.
I posted the remainder of this entry to Lynn Sweet's Sun-Times blog on Sen. Obama divorcing his church. We'll see if she greenlights it ...
I don't understand the assignation of the word "hate" to this church, Rev. Wright, Fr. Pfleger, Michelle Obama, et al. I don't grasp the American right & those Clinton-backers who call out anything uttered by any of these folks as "unamerican." We are a nation founded in dissent -- armed revolt, to be more specific. We are also a culturally/economically/ethnoracially divided people, a nation of opressors and the opressed. Nothing said by Rev. Wright was 'unamerican' so much as it reflected the way a good number of Americans feel about certain issues. Nothing said by Fr. Pfleger was untrue. I suppose if one has lived a sheltered life, and/or a more privileged life than a good number of us, they may not understand or be able to look at a bigger picture, through the eyes of the oppressed.
It's a sad commentary on our nature -- our system, too -- when public servants are strongarmed into renouncing any person or institution whose opinions may or may not offend a few people. As far as any of us who cannot speak for him can tell, Sen. Obama disowned Rev. Wright and his longtime church out of perceived political necessity. Rack up one for the flag-wrapped reactionaries and a loss for free speech.
---
well, that's it. I had to go and get all sociopolitical on j'ass (j'ass, btw, being a derivative of "your arse," is the basis for the word "jazz," as in the boppin' music would likely find you, "shakin' j'ass..." THAT is an entirely different story).
31 May, 2008
I think I lost it -- lemme know if you come across it
I'm always losing things. Normally, said things are books or CDs. Predictably, if I replace these things, they will disappear again. Now, I have possessed some items nearly my whole life, but it's as if some jack-ass external and possibly supernatural force doesn't want me to have certain items. It's usually an ex who winds up with these things, either via thievery or dumb luck, but they are always the same items go missing. These include, but are not limited to, copies of The Sun Also Rises, The Book of Nightmares, Being There, A Hard Days Night and a People's History of the United States. To cope, I replace the books with used paperbacks (they, too, will disappear) and have replaced the music with burned and borrowed tracks from friends.
Reading over the above paragraph reminds me I should have coffee before anything else any morning, and await my home-raid from the RIAA brownshirts. Those are other stories.
Reading over the above paragraph reminds me I should have coffee before anything else any morning, and await my home-raid from the RIAA brownshirts. Those are other stories.
26 May, 2008
that long train west
I am currently without TV or home internet access. It's been a long holiday weekend and I've been a bit removed for the past few days from current events. Accordingly, it was in an email received this morning I was informed of the passing of Utah Phillips. He was a giant in american folk/protest music, though apparently not giant enough to get an obit into the likes of The New York Times or any of those mainstream presses.
I suppose Utah's a guy most of us who work in words & music should know of, though it can take a good, knee-skinned climbing of that old family tree to get to his work. He's been covered by Tom Waits and Waylon Jennings, and nominated for a grammy for a spoken-word and guitar album he recorded with Ani DiFranco in 1995.
I'm pretty sure that Ani collaboration was my first introduction. Mid '90s, some carloaded road-trip with my ex and three friends to some concert in Cincinnati and one of them brought a 'utah and ani' cassette along. I have since become familiar with the man's music, but the one thing still ringing in my ears goes back to that August day. It was a rough and sticky trip -- my girlfriend's car had overheated and we were literally on the verge of pissing into the radiator on the side of I-75 to limp the remaining 20 miles or so to our destination. At some point before or after we were listening to that tape & Utah was rhapsodizing on the bankrobbers of the great depression, on how so many americans back then looked to them as heroes. After all, they stuck it to the very banks who had foreclosed on so many homes, farms, dreams ...
All of this is going through my head about an hour after walking up N. Lincoln Ave., where H-wood folks have redone its 2400 block to look something like it may have in 1934, when G-men chased a man they believed to be John Dillinger down an alley outside the Biograph Theater and shot him in the back. This hulabaloo for a new blockbuster movie with Johnny Depp and Christian Bale. I've not read the screenplay, but have skimmed the book, which comes off as at least mildly pro-G-men ...
All of this on a day when politicians spout talking points on remembering fallen soldiers. That's all well and good, but somehow I'm stuck thinking also of folks who died fighting for other things we take for granted -- an eight-hour work day, job security, a livable wage ...
I suppose Utah's a guy most of us who work in words & music should know of, though it can take a good, knee-skinned climbing of that old family tree to get to his work. He's been covered by Tom Waits and Waylon Jennings, and nominated for a grammy for a spoken-word and guitar album he recorded with Ani DiFranco in 1995.
I'm pretty sure that Ani collaboration was my first introduction. Mid '90s, some carloaded road-trip with my ex and three friends to some concert in Cincinnati and one of them brought a 'utah and ani' cassette along. I have since become familiar with the man's music, but the one thing still ringing in my ears goes back to that August day. It was a rough and sticky trip -- my girlfriend's car had overheated and we were literally on the verge of pissing into the radiator on the side of I-75 to limp the remaining 20 miles or so to our destination. At some point before or after we were listening to that tape & Utah was rhapsodizing on the bankrobbers of the great depression, on how so many americans back then looked to them as heroes. After all, they stuck it to the very banks who had foreclosed on so many homes, farms, dreams ...
All of this is going through my head about an hour after walking up N. Lincoln Ave., where H-wood folks have redone its 2400 block to look something like it may have in 1934, when G-men chased a man they believed to be John Dillinger down an alley outside the Biograph Theater and shot him in the back. This hulabaloo for a new blockbuster movie with Johnny Depp and Christian Bale. I've not read the screenplay, but have skimmed the book, which comes off as at least mildly pro-G-men ...
All of this on a day when politicians spout talking points on remembering fallen soldiers. That's all well and good, but somehow I'm stuck thinking also of folks who died fighting for other things we take for granted -- an eight-hour work day, job security, a livable wage ...
25 May, 2008
gallery cabaret freewrite
for s.m.
always a ghost
on the piano
& the departed I knew
here
too many already
the smoke eater
cracks over a low point
of Thursday’s open-mic, Waiting on a Friend
played badly though
apropos & now a piece
about the ‘muse,’ a notion
I fail to grasp
apart from old myths. We’ve broken up
w/our others
this week &
why else to meet
for beer &
whiskey &
comiserate. The bar closes.
I walk her to the Blue Line.
I want to kiss her
& she tries. I hail a cab
home to Edgewater.
always a ghost
on the piano
& the departed I knew
here
too many already
the smoke eater
cracks over a low point
of Thursday’s open-mic, Waiting on a Friend
played badly though
apropos & now a piece
about the ‘muse,’ a notion
I fail to grasp
apart from old myths. We’ve broken up
w/our others
this week &
why else to meet
for beer &
whiskey &
comiserate. The bar closes.
I walk her to the Blue Line.
I want to kiss her
& she tries. I hail a cab
home to Edgewater.
under the loyola el pkg. goods freewrite #
you were telling me
about yr. dream, the one
begins you wake
@ his place
preoccupied w/leaving
to feed yr. dog
& put off cleaning
write something
go shopping
but he’s not there
when the guests
begin to arrive
uninvited, the couple
fucking in his pantry &
univ. colleagues
small-talking
their theses
sounds like
… yr. overwhelmed, I offer
by the lot of it
it’s late
we’ve nursed liters of wine
watching Jeunet in yr.
living room in un-
folded camping chairs
Wed. night rocking
back in them, taking turns
our mutual, amateur
shrink game you sd.
there were eels
in yr. suitcase
I noticed
yr. boots
on the dumpster
& the snow
hits yr. window
I remember Kinnell’s Book
of Nightmares, his
2ndhand shoes
(each star, ev’ry
1, see
is a magnet.
& the gravity
of these chairs
finds us
in our 30s, here
to sort thru
timing &
years &
define
just what) I’m
singing Dylan
to myself
at the bar -- I wouldn’t
worry about it none, though
those dreams are only in yr. head.
about yr. dream, the one
begins you wake
@ his place
preoccupied w/leaving
to feed yr. dog
& put off cleaning
write something
go shopping
but he’s not there
when the guests
begin to arrive
uninvited, the couple
fucking in his pantry &
univ. colleagues
small-talking
their theses
sounds like
… yr. overwhelmed, I offer
by the lot of it
it’s late
we’ve nursed liters of wine
watching Jeunet in yr.
living room in un-
folded camping chairs
Wed. night rocking
back in them, taking turns
our mutual, amateur
shrink game you sd.
there were eels
in yr. suitcase
I noticed
yr. boots
on the dumpster
& the snow
hits yr. window
I remember Kinnell’s Book
of Nightmares, his
2ndhand shoes
(each star, ev’ry
1, see
is a magnet.
& the gravity
of these chairs
finds us
in our 30s, here
to sort thru
timing &
years &
define
just what) I’m
singing Dylan
to myself
at the bar -- I wouldn’t
worry about it none, though
those dreams are only in yr. head.
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