Category: Life

Lucky for you I couldn’t finish the post I started the other night.

I was trying to say I felt kinda bad about not posting, then I got to explaining why I wasn’t posting, and part of the reason was my crummy job, so I had to go into details there, and that was bringing me down (and it would have brought you down, too), and then I was going to explore just why I should feel bad about any of this, or why I would be explaining it to my imaginary friends, and, well, let’s just say lucky for you I got too sick and tired of myself to finish, and I went to bed and now I don’t feel like any of it needs to be said.

The short version is, I’m not cut out for any kind of real job. I have one, and I do it well, but I don’t care about it and it’s taking up too goddamned much of my life.

As if the crummy job isn’t enough of a time sink I’m organizing a band in my spare time, which means I don’t have any spare time. I’m picking songs, learning them, making charts, booking rehearsal time, geeking with the electronics — it’s like a second job that I do for free. I know, you want to know more about the band. My Craig’s List ad for a bass player should cover it:

Do you play bass?
Can you sing?
Do you appreciate rock/R&B/blues/pop/country music?
Have you been around for a while? (i.e., do you remember Rick Danko?)
Do you love to play, but you’re too busy with job or family to devote full time to a heavy rehearsal and gigging schedule?
Are you NOT down with hip-hop, grunge, death metal, emo and the latest fad-rock?
Are you too old to play kid stuff, but too young to quit playing?
Do you have a sense of history AND a sense of humor?

If you see yourself in there even a little, give us a call. We’re putting together a working-class band of like-minded players to make some noise, work out a few sets, jam a bit, play some parties and do an occasional club gig. Right now we need a bass player. If you can sing, even backup, it’s a big plus. Male or female, we don’t care (but you’ll have to carry your own gear).

You’re busy — we’re busy too, so it won’t be too intense. We’re serious about the music, but we’re in it for the fun and the escape. We might make some money, but if you need a gig to pay the rent, this isn’t it.

Ready to rock? Leave a message at (XXX) XXX-XXXX.

This yielded a couple of calls and the first guy we jammed with was the guy we went with, so now we are two guitars, bass and drums. I’m loving it, but I don’t have time to blog. I’m reading your blogs, though, and I expect you to keep up the high standards I’ve grown accustomed to.

So, you slackers with only one job: Get busy with the keyboard, OK?

A few thoughts, that I may keep in touch with everybody:

• Valerie Plame — an articulate, telegenic celebrity spy, now unemployed. The networks must be drooling over the prospect of signing her up. How long before she has her own TV show, or is at least a regular commentator somewhere?
• Halliburton is moving to Dubai! Where do you think Dick Cheney will be when the subpoenas start to fly?
• Alberto Gonzalez. Hey, his initials are A.G., just like in Attorney General! President Bush is saying he fully supports his boy, so maybe it also stands for Almost Gone.
• Note to Presidential Primary voters across the nation: Just send your choices to us here in California, as we will now be selecting your candidates. Also, if it gets a little quiet in your state for the next 20 months, it’s because all the candidates are here.
• This was the warmest winter on record, since they started keeping records in 1880, but there’s really nothing to worry about at this time.
• Who thought it would be a good idea to fire all the U.S. Attorneys at the same time? The other day White House Press Secretary Tony Snow said it was Harriet Miers, but now he says “At this juncture, people have hazy memories.” I take this to mean that at some later juncture, after they’ve had a sitdown and worked out what they’re all going to say, their memories will become clear.
• I tried to find a bass player on Craig’s List recently, and I’ve decided that I will be one in my next life. Those guys are rare! They must be working all the time, and naming their own price, too.
• I’ve entered into a suicide pact with a woman at work. Don’t be upset — it will probably prolong my life. Here’s the deal: If either one of us becomes so fed up with the job that we feel we simply can’t go on another day, that person has to kill the other one first. This means no suicide for us, as neither of us would ever shoot the other. At least I don’t think so.
• Today in my glorious hometown we had exactly 12 hours of daylight, and tonight we’ll have exactly 12 hours of darkness. It doesn’t get any more symmetrical than that, my friends.

As always, my love knows no bounds.

I feel like I’ve lived too long.

Like a guy who has made a deal with the devil. I get to live as long as I want. Heh, heh — only eventually I discover what Satan knew all along: that immortality is hell, and after a few hundred years I’ll be begging to end it.

I started this blog just a couple of years ago, so you’d think I’d have some reasonable expectation that my magical, invisible, virtual “friends” that I made in the early going would still be with me. And some of them are. I won’t list them — you know who you are, and you are the wind beneath my wings.

But my mind keeps wandering to the friends I’ve lost. Some have simply vanished, leaving no way to reach them or find out how they are. Some have made announcements, ranging from “I’ve been discovered at work and I have to shut down” to “I have nothing more to say,” to “I’ve got a book deal, so long, suckers!” Some have deleted their blogs and pornographers have taken their blog names and planted pages of nasty links where once were the writings and art of people I sort of knew.

Each time one of them departs I get that “deal-with-the-devil” feeling: I seem to be going on and on, even if a bit sporadically lately, but my bloggin’ buddies are departing the blogosphere, leaving me behind, feeling lonely and a little desperate. In self-defense I become more withdrawn. After all, why make friends if you know they are going to leave you? This is a little weird and pathetic of me, I know, so I’m trying to buck up.

In the meantime, I hope all you lost sheep are OK.

In another room, a glass shatters.

Jarred from my work, I am angry, jangled. It’s nothing, really, just a broken glass, but heat rises in me anyway. Why isn’t she more careful?

I resist the urge to go see what happened. It’s nothing, but seeing it would only make me grind my teeth. And I’d have to clean it up.

I should have run off with the circus when I was seventeen. Except I can’t do any circus tricks, and clowns give me the creeps. What’s up with the crazy makeup and the big shoes? Is that supposed to be funny?

Maybe clowns are pathetic people, so desperate for attention that they will wear big rubber noses in public and put on baggy suits in outlandish colors, just to keep all eyes on them.

But no — they must be hiding. Hiding in plain sight. They must be horribly, painfully shy, and they are hiding under the heavy makeup and oversized costumes. Why do they want to be clowns, then, doing pratfalls, tooting their little horns, cramming themselves ten at a time into impossibly tiny cars? There’s a sad, frightened little person in there, isn’t there?

I guess in a way I did run away with the circus. I ran away with a rock band. Actually, a series of rock bands. They took me first to the homes of friends, where we tried to figure out the songs we were hearing on the radio, using pawn shop guitars, all plugged in to one overloaded second-hand Standel amplifier, everybody sharing a single six-dollar Radio Shack microphone.

We graduated into backyard parties in the next town, where we played crude versions of the songs we had taught ourselves, using borrowed and rented gear. We played “Battles of the Bands” for cheesy prizes at car lots and shopping centers. Some of us disappeared along the way and newcomers who played better (or had better equipment) were recruited to replace them. At some point we found ourselves organized into groups that actually sounded OK and had real gigs at real parties and dances and nightclubs and saloons and pizza joints.

We got more sophisticated and more into it and inevitably some of us hit the road, which I guess might be a little like running away with the circus. You go to strange towns far away, and you have only the stuff you brought with you and the people you work with as touchstones to your old world. You stick out as aliens. The locals treat you bad, or they treat you good, but you can’t ignore the fact that they treat you different. Because you are different.

You live with the band, maybe not in trailers or circus tents, but when you venture into the street during the day you might as well be wearing a bright red wig and a clown suit, because everyone knows you are not one of them.

At night you stand up in front of them and do your act, and most of the time they let you do it. Sometimes they show you a little love, sharing that small part of themselves that can be shared with someone who won’t stay long, can’t be part of anything. You will be there only a short time, and the End of Your Gig waits there at the stage door that opens on the alley, smoking, patient, persistent. The End of Your Gig says there are other bars and bandstands, other sights, other women in the next town, and now that you have run away, the deal is that you have to keep on running, even if you can’t remember why you’re doing it.

Justin Timberlake: WTF?

This morning I am beat up of body and hoarse of throat

…because yesterday I played and sang loud, high-speed rockabilly for three hours, seriously thrashing my Strat and my Deluxe (and me), and then stood in the cold, windy parking lot for an extra half hour, reliving the fun with the guys.

My voice is deep and resonant today, though, and I’m sure I could sing some of those old Leonard Cohen songs, whose range has escaped me in the past.

Lesson for this weekend:

OK, so it turns out that if a great big cockroach manages to get into your house and you want to, you know, kill it, and you whack it with something that flexes a little, something that’s not hard and brittle, like a rolled-up newspaper, what you get is a great big dead cockroach, usually on it’s back. Then you quickly cover it with a paper towel, pick it up and throw it in the trash.

But if you step on that great big cockroach — assuming you are fast enough to get it — what you end up with is a great big, disgusting splat! and a thick puddle of white and brown goo on the floor and no one in the house can suppress their gag reflex long enough to pick it up and dispose of it but somebody has to do it and you know it’s going to be you.

Oh, and the tacky pus-like mess is also on the bottom of your shoe, and you’ve got to do somethiong about that, too.

So a word to the wise: use the rolled-up newspaper.

I’ve been feeling a little down lately, partly about my crummy job and partly around the issue of self-worth.

Sorry to anyone who reads here and is tired of my more-and-more frequent whining. I love to laugh and have fun, but I haven’t been doing as much of that as I want. So here’s what I’m going to try:

I’m going to have hope. I’m going to hope that none of my selfish coworkers pull any annoying stunts that will make my job harder. I’m going to hope that my latest (and most obnoxious) boss moves on soon, leaving Upper Management chastened about their hiring practices, and looking for someone with more insight and compassion. In fact, I’m going to expect these things, which would be just the opposite of what I have been expecting lately.

Furthermore, I’m going to hope and expect that I will somehow find more time for playing music, and that I figure out how to hook up with like-minded musicians to play with. I’ll be hoping and expecting that the creative ideas I have inside me will pop out when I need them, when I’m stuck for a line or a rhyme, when I’m jamming and I don’t know where to go.

I’ll also be hoping and expecting that I’ll find a new day job pretty soon, something moderately satisfying and arguably ethical. I think I’ve been bringing myself down by expecting the worst every day. I don’t expect to fly like Peter Pan by thinking good thoughts, but maybe if I focus more on what could go right, I’ll be able to smile more each day.
I may not have much faith, but I can always hope, and maybe if I start the day expecting better things, I’ll even get to laugh and have a little fun.

__________________________________________

On a more somber note, can we all stop talking about “surging” the troops in Iraq? This is just another cheesy White House euphemism meant to conceal what’s really happening. During the Viet Nam conflict, they called it “escalation.” Maybe if we called it what it is, we could talk about it more intelligently. It is sending more troops to battle. Period. The lesson of Viet Nam was not that you have to win or the world will fall apart. The lesson of Viet Nam is that determined and dedicated locals can beat you no matter how much power you think you have.

The experts, and the President is not one of them, agree that more troops would simply be more targets. There is a civil war going on there now. Nobody is neutral. The locals are not “seeking a political solution.” Anyone you meet on the street is in one camp or the other, and our soldiers are in the middle. Our government has been dishonorable, and now we are not trusted. Everyone wants us to leave, and they will shoot at us until we do. Sending more troops to battle will only prolong the agony. Maybe President Bush wants to do just that: string the stalemate out until he leaves office, and let the next president extricate us. The voters clearly don’t want to do it this way. They have seen that this war is a monumental mistake, and they want out, now.

Will we kill a million people and spend a trillion dollars so that Bush can feel good about himself?

Do you typically have Thanksgiving dinner with a large group of family and friends?

If you do, you may have been subjected to the tradition of going around the table and everyone, in turn, having to say what they are thankful for this year. I know I have been. The thing is, I’m not thankful for everything, and so after a few years of that I ran out of things to say. Not wanting to be a party pooper or seem ungrateful, I started making stuff up. I think the last straw for my family was the year I said I was deeply grateful to Our Lord for clumping kitty litter. If you’ve got a cat or two you’ll know what I mean and how truly important it is, but for some reason Mrs. Jones and I have been eating Thanksgiving dinner alone lately. Not a bad thing, just sayin’.

Anyway, there is one thing I forgot that I am truly grateful for, and I want to express my gratitude here now, before I forget it again. It’s something I think about every day for a couple of minutes, and every time I do I get a little misty.

Thank God, thank heaven, thank the powers of the universe for thick, quilted bedspreads!

In today’s busy world, with the many pressures all of us are under, it’s tempting just to get up in the morning and stumble out of the bedroom, grab a cup of coffee, take a quick shower, throw on your wrinkled clothes from yesterday, jump in the car and drive to your crummy job, where you will spend your time serving the needs of others and making people wealthy whom you do not even know and who will never invite you to go with them to Rio on their private jets. Not that you’d go, but still.

But you know how wrong that would be, don’t you? Of course you do! Civilization is not the accumulation of money. It’s not reading and learning about Plato and Augustine. It’s not the construction of monuments and skyscrapers, or even landing on the moon. That stuff is good, but it isn’t the essence of Civilization. No, my friends, Civilization is the little things, the small courtesies and disciplines without which we would never have ventured far past the entrance of the cave. It’s chewing with your mouth closed, smiling at people you don’t know, turning things in to the Lost and Found, edging the lawn.

And yes, Civilization is making the bed.

It’s a basic tenet of civilized living that the bed must be made. It’s one of those seemingly unecessary chores that has to be done. If we don’t make our beds, if we can’t exert that small amount of discipline on ourselves, what’s next? Once we have abandoned that formality, perhaps we will decide that we needn’t tuck in our shirts because, hey, that takes a little time and effort, and makes you a little bit uncomfortable. And there we will be, out in public, looking slovenly. Why not pick our noses on the bus, then? Why not indeed. Someone doesn’t like it? How about a big punch in your nose, then, sir? In fact, since you have bothered me about looking sloppy, maybe I will just bloody your big nosy nose and rape your girlfriend. How would you like that?

You see how things start to fall apart when you get loose with the bed-making? But once you have made the bed in the morning, you will find that you are on the road to a genteel and civilized day. You can find your clothes for the day and lay them out on the bed. Noticing that they seem to be a bit wrinkled from being under the coffee table all night, you might select a different ensemble, or perhaps touch up the old one with a steam iron. Then, once you are out in the world for your busy day, you will want to be careful with your wardrobe. Nose-picking is discouraged, and fighting and raping on the bus is completely out of the question. Strangers take note of your good grooming (and your tucked-in shirt) and smile at you. You smile back.

All of which makes me thankful for my puffy quilted bedspread. The important chore of bed-making is made so simple! I just pull up the sheet and blankets, no need to go around and around my bed, tightening everything and making sure the entire assembly is laying perfectly flat so that a quarter will bounce off it. I toss the glorious bedspread over it, give it a quick snap and watch it float down on the bed, covering all the bumps and wrinkles (and sometimes the TV remote and the telephone).

It’s the little things, people. Think about it.

Almost midnight.

Then it will be the year 2007. 2006 didn’t do much for me. I have a little more hope here at the end than I did at the beginning, but then hope springs eternal, doesn’t it?

For some reason I can’t let go of New Year’s Eve as an important marker. It could be any day of the year — we’ve simply decided we will make this one is the last night of the year, and tomorrow the first day. It’s completely arbitrary, but I go along with it, I give it power. More power than my own birthday.

Do you remember when you were young and old people acted like they didn’t want anyone to know when their birthday was, or how old they were? They weren’t acting. What the heck was that all about, I always thought. But when you age you have to leave things behind. You just have to, even if you still feel like a young person, even if your childish curiosity still sometimes gets the better of you, even if you’re still naive about finance, or sex, or you’re shy at parties. I’d like to think that the only things I left behind were my foolishness, my fear, my inexperience, my intolerance, and it’s true I have left some of that baggage. But I have walked through many doors, and explored far into the labyrinth, and while I wasn’t looking someone came and closed a bunch of those doors, and now I can’t go back. I’m not sure I’d want to, but shit — I would have liked to be in on the decision.

So, like the ancient ones before me, I don’t pay much attention to my own birthday, because I just don’t want to think about the never-can-go-back aspect of life, or the number of doors that are closed behind me. I don’t want to be reminded of the things I didn’t get around to, or the ever-shortening time I have to do the things I think are important, or even to figure out what’s really important. If you’re young and you’re reading this, I know you can’t hear me, and you shouldn’t. You have lives to live. But if you’re not delusional you’ll probably arrive at some of these thoughts one day. The rest of you, well, maybe you’re the lucky ones.

I give power to this night, and so it is on this night that I feel time passing more than on any other night.

At midnight, the moment of Change, I go out into the street in front of my house. It’s a quiet neighborhood in a normally quiet town, although you wouldn’t know it on this night, because my neighbors and their neighbors and all the neighbors in all the neighborhoods are out making the biggest ruckus they can, and it is a hell of a ruckus, with yelling and singing and rockets and probably even small arms fire. But when I look into the sky I know I’m looking back through time, starlight from ages past coming to touch me from the endless void beyond our tiny spinning rock, and all the noise we can make; all the rockets we shoot; all the laughter and tears; the triumphs and hurt and all the self-conscious celebration, it all seems quaint, and sweet, and touching.