spawling into music city

Today I scored two front row tickets for a Lucinda Williams show at the historic Ryman Auditorium in Nashville. Advance ticket sales were available through her website so I gave it whirl…bingo! I know you’re recollecting that I swore off Lu’s shows after what became known as the “Reno Debacle”. That cold evening at the Hawkins Amphitheater is remembered for Lu deciding to sit in her tour bus for at least two long hours before eventually appearing after at least half the house had walked out in disgust. I’d seen her before in Reno, as well as at the Fillmore in San Francisco, so I knew she could be temperamental but that evening was just obscene. Maybe we grow and mature in our years (me, not necessarily her, but who knows?) so I’m giving her another shot. I suspect that she wouldn’t dare stand-up a crowd at the most historic country music venue in the World; and, based on interviews I’ve read for the new album, she seems in great spirits. If I count the mass of great artists that call Nashville home (at least part-time), and I see who isn’t out touring right now (Steve Earle, are you reading this?), there is every potential for someone to pop in for a few jams on March 30th. The Heartless Bastards are opening on this first portion of her tour so I can rest easy knowing that the parade of miserable opening acts will end that night. Stay tuned.

P.S. Yes, I know. I don’t even live in Nashville.

return of the hair

It’s a rare day when a man is standing about saying something like “I appear to have more hair than last year”, rare indeedy. I’ve decided to let the rug grow for a few months so I can see whether or not I can pull a 42-year old Matt Dillon. If one includes the flattop of the early 90s then it appears to be near 20 years since my Flock of Seagulls/The Cure days. I think the actual moment of change came near May 10th, 1986 when my mother sheared off my streaked blonde hair while I sat on a lawn chair behind my childhood home at 10755 Spring St., Omaha, Nebraska 68124. I’ll include a picture of the coif back then because it’s vital to the story – vidal sassoon. Back on task. The problem is that I’ve got at least two months of not mucking with the top aside from a quick trim. Habib and Faraj at the barbershop show their distain for my plan every time I wander in for a cleaning…as if I’m a dog. They must have bets on when I’ll wander in and say “off with my head”. Very autobiographically Marie Antoinette.

The hair is essentially a bad girlfriend. You want to make it work, in the long run it will be okay, why stop now?, make it work, be patient, she’s got a great personality, maybe even great body. It seems shallow, it is shallow, but it’s how many decisions are made – think of those blind dates. I’ll tough it out, “take one for the team”, contribute to the cause. But I’ll tell you this…the first time she pisses me off, she’s gone, friend or no friend.

Peace, out.

T

tools of the trade

Way back in the days of my linguist training in Monterey, California, there was a student who bordered on being a wee bit off (actually, there were tons of students that were totally off): a simple guy who liked to sweep the parking lots while wearing a dust mask, picking up rocks while he walked and putting them in his pocket, and generally enhancing his viewed strangeness whenever possible. Another student, Keith, dubbed him “the wedge” because Keith claimed that he was the simplest instrument known to man. I’ve learned that a wedge isn’t really an instrument but a variant on a simple machine – a small detail that neither makes the moniker any less creative, nor makes me laugh any less even now.

Driven along by third-grade homework (or some worksheet that actually taught nothing but could have but was merely sent home as means of proving there was busy work to intrude on a kid’s kicking back time….but I digress.) that I was helping out with last night, I’ve learned that a wedge is actually a variation on the simple machines. Now, depending on who is putting forth the research, there are either four or six simple machines - I’m going with the four: inclined plane, pulley, wheel and axle, and a lever. I’m pretty strict in my simple machine upbringing; call me a machine conservative, so I agree that the screw and wedge are merely variations on the inclined plane. In fact, a knife is a variation on an inclined plane and since the inclined plane is a simple machine, and a knife is a variation (two or more simple machines put together), then a knife is by induction (deduction?) a machine, right? Or a tool? Or what? Christ. That’s just the beginning, there’s so much more. If a machine (or simple machine) is any device that transmits or modifies energy, and the mechanical advantage of a simple machine is the ratio between the force it exerts on the load and the input force applied, is a hammer or screwdriver a machine or a tool, or both? What you’re probably saying to yourself at this point is this; “If a tool or device is a piece of equipment which typically provides a mechanical advantage in accomplishing a physical task; and if the most basic tools are simples machines (for example, a crowbar being a lever), then obviously they must be machines.” I couldn’t agree more. Actually, I could agree more if my combination of logic and toolery were better and I weren’t such a cooky, door-locking, sports score reading, crossword puzzling doing, kind of man. You can’t have it all.

THAT is what the homework could have involved…some good old fashion learning and thinking. Instead it was a stupid Highlights® cartoon page of crap that had kids drawing pictures of things without any thought whatsoever about what it means or how it all works. If you must know, I think elementary school homework, at nearly every level, is shite. Sorry.

beat down by suburban folkies

The most interesting bit from the weekend was the slap down administered by the doorman at Iota in Clarendon. Christine and I headed out on Saturday night to meet up with Sue (a friend of mine from days of yore in England) and see Erin McKeown’s show. This was to become our third failed attempt to see Erin over the years; I consider her our Moby Dick. Iota is first-come, pay at the door kinda joint and I knew that one day this might hamper my entertainment battle plans. Normally I’m maybe a bit too convinced that artists I like must certainly be loved by hundreds of thousands of fans throughout the greater D.C. area…and I know, JUST KNOW, that there will be hundreds of patrons rushing the doors of the small Northern Virginia and D.C. venues. I know I’ve got to get there early in order to establish my land stake. But what really happens is that I find myself sitting at the bar with the one other guy in the venue (who looks a lot like me!?!) when the opening act blows into the mic stand and “welcomes the crowd”. Eventually the crowd might climb into the dozens of fans but that normally only happens after the opening act has finished and they're enjoying the free pasta meal at the bar. So anyway, Sue is outside on the sidewalk (not on the sidewalk in a hurt or just mugged way, just standing…) when we arrive and gives us the news that the show’s sold out and even the girls can’t talk their way across the musical threshold. Damn. Burned. Shit. I feel bad for Sue because she’s driven in from another state (is Maryland really another state?) at my recommendation, and because Christine and I have been foiled again. I peer through the window and see the opening act on stage, guitar in hand, singing some crappy song. I realize that my small consolation is twofold; first, Erin is doing well if folks are showing up that early for her shows – early enough to stand through any opening act. Secondly, I’ve seen the opening act when he toured with Jolie Holland…and he’s painful to listen to for 8-10 songs; even one song. At least those standing in ‘our’ spots will suffer for their misdeeds.

We wandered up the street, found a ‘spanish’ place, had a round of drinks, and caught up on the past. After hanging out with these two go-getters I feel like I need a better profession. What with the soon-to-be lawyer and the chemist with the soon-to-have Ph.D., it can be daunting. Maybe I’ll start writing crappy songs, playing guitar, and getting free ‘band’ meals while I open for more talented touring performers. At least I’d get in the show. But I'm not bitter.

the fall of the invisible Berlin Wall

I’ve now been at my new job for about eight months. The office space is a combination of actual offices (with windows, doors, private space, etc.) along the entire outer wall perimeter with cubicles filling the large, central, arena-like floor space. When I first got here in the summer I was assigned to share one of the larger offices with another employee but decided there was too much ‘space pressure’ for two desks, two phones, too many conversations, and associated happenings ‘rassling about the joint. I simply grabbed a nice cubicle lcoated just between that original assignment and the office right next door to it. This next door office, if you must know, is occupied by a loud talker. She’s a loud phone talker, a loud-open-door office talker, a loud office conversation talker. The math as it seems to me comes out to about 160 days of work in a this smallish space (I’d say it’s about fifteen feet between her chair and my chair) before she finally stops me in the ‘hall’ and asks me if I can hear her in her office. Let me see? Of course I can! Do I care? Not really. But…it can sometimes be one long day of endless discussions about lord knows what. I don’t even know what her job actually entails, but I know quite a lot of less job-like information – some just trivial, some maybe not so trivial. What I want to know is this: why suddenly decide that you want to know if I (and no doubt any number of other people) can overhear your life’s conversations? I don’t believe there's any way that she's just now realized what’s going on. Throughout my working life I’ve always been very cognizant of what I’m saying out loud when I’m at work. Lots of stuff I don’t discuss at work, with anyone, so how does this situation arise with others? Especially when you think about just what kind of things are heard; from relationships and dating, to home life, grocery shopping, and myriad other stuff. My idea is that loud talker doesn’t really care, and probably quite likes the idea that bits-and-bobs of her life are out there. She must sometimes feign concern in a veiled attempt to protect sanctity. Then again, what do I know?

global warming, eh?

Where have I been?

We’re on the shore of another Wednesday and we're just watching the tide slowly begin to recede from another week.

The Metro-plex weather took a tumble into the (relative) freezer of winter this week. It’d been unseasonably warm the last two weeks and that made sleeping uncomfortably uncomfortable (I CAN be grumpy when it’s hot). Our circa 1940s water radiators (they’re on / they’re off and we have no control / it’s winter and they’re ON) kept blasting out the hot air that amalgamated via climatic chemistry with the sloughy stuff coming in the open windows. I don’t like hot. Fortunately, the laboratory is now closed since our highs only meander into the 40s and sleepy-time is in the 20s. By the way, with that change in temperature I’ve realized I’m not smart enough to learn that walking to Ballston Metro in 28 degree morning frost requires more then a light wool sweater…age does not increase the ability to learn and comprehend.

I’ve determined that I’m a literary half-wit. That insight means I’m now reading East of Eden as the opening salvo in my annus anorakish mirabilis. I don’t know how many literay-schmiteray books I’ll get through in 2007 - I’ve not list of requirements - but I’ve let Christine know she should offer a title a month for me to tackle. This has, of course, led to flashbacks of Literary Masterpieces and some other class I stumbled through in high school. At least now I’m doing most of the choosing and there will be no Hawthorne, Sinclair Lewis, or Melville (well, maybe Moby Dick). East of Eden is quite horrific through the first hundred pages. We’ve got parents dying of consumption; lying fathers with peg legs, two brothers that absolutely hate at each other; one daughter who through murder, thieving, and whoring fills her evil urges (she gets gruesomely beat to near death by her keeper); at least two sessions of the actual whipping of children to keep them in line; and one California immigrant family that can't seem to make any money no matter how smart or diligent they are. It’s a nice opening to an American tale. It’s all starting to roll into one big story so I’ll keep interested…I think.

I managed to get out to Iota for a live show on Sunday night. There must have been at least ten other people in the club for a fine evening’s set with roots rocker Jason Ringenberg.

Christine is back in ‘school’. I don’t know that getting up early TWO days a week really qualifies as anything other than a part-time rock n’ roller lifestyle but I’ll take her at her word. She did come home yesterday with two very impressive looking law books that have GOLD EMBOSSED lettering on the faux-leather covers. She also added an externship at the (Dame) Jane Goodall Institute here in Arlington to her spring learnin’ schedule.

Laurel came to D.C. for four days after the New Year and we managed to squeeze in a few items: a tour of the Capitol, the Supreme Court, Archives, Library of Congress, Natural History Museum, American Indian Museum, Air and Space Museum, Bureau of Engraving, Washington Monument, Lincoln Memorial, Vietnam Memorial, an evening of Texas Hold ‘em Poker, The National Zoo, salmon and potatoes (dinner, not the Salmon and Potatoes Smithsonian Museum), our Christmas gift exchange, and a thousand miles on the Metro. Her feet were good and tired by the time she got on her plane back to Omaha. She’ll be back out over the long Presidents Day weekend in February.

We’re having some guests over for dinner on Saturday night and I’m trying to put together a menu that doesn’t include red meat, mushrooms, or seafood (not sure if that includes fish). Of course, the red meat isn’t much of any issue anyway…but mushrooms and seafood? What are the odds? I’m thinking maybe six bowls of Weetabix and a hallelujah.

Love to all.