Substitute

A tall 24-ounce glass of ice water.

It was usually by this time in the morning that this glass would be filled with vodka, but not today. It was the first day out of alcohol and drug rehabilitation for the glass's owner, and this glass, like all others from this point, would contain no alcohol.

It was hard to say just how many hundreds-or could it be thousands- of drinks this glass had seen over the past five years. It could somehow count itself lucky, for how many of its brethren in the fluid container community in the kitchen cabinet had been dropped, or for that matter tosseed against the wall in anger, and shattered.

It was the shape of this glass that kept the owner coming back for more. The glass was thick, and had an etched imprint of the name of the owner's favorite beer in all the world. In the old days, the glass only saw beer. The owner would frost the glass in the freezer, readying it for the weekend, for in the days before dependence, the weekend was the only time it was used. Dark beer was the drink of choice, forming a thick icy sheet inside the glass as the bottle slowly emptied into the slightly tilted glass. The head of the beer would leave a naturally-created series of descending foamy brushstrokes, which plunged to the bottom of the glass, as if each ring was a nomad completing one final Hejira to end its brief life. Though their lives were always short, every beer was consumed with a smile, every sip savored, every painted ring bringing the owner closer to an unknown secret.

Soon, beer binges on the weekend gave way to a nightly beer to unwind from a work day. Sooner than anyone anticipated, the owner was up to two, then three. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, three beers before dinner and three beers after dinner gave way to ten beers as dinner. What had once been a lucid mind attached to the mouth which fed from the glass slowly became less nimble; less quick with a joke, less fleet with a fact. The owner's hands, which had taken lovers into them with a passion and a love of life, now reached out to nothing. Nothing, of course, except the glass and its contents.

There were days when the glass suffered from neglect. In the end, as the owner bottomed out, dishes were left dirty for days, sometimes weeks. The glass, which had held mind-clouding beverages that filled the owner with dreams, nightmares and delusions of every stripe, soon found itself with a coating of mold at the bottom, neglected, temporarily unloved and unused. Drinks were consumed straight from the bottle. Such a useless thing a bottle; created as nothing more than a temporary weigh station for the soon-to-be-consumed. Recyclability is all they have going for them. Some have a very distinctive shape, but one use later, they are useless. Who would refill a bottle these days?

Twelve weeks had passed since the last beverage touched the glass. The owner returned to the house and became reacquainted with the layout and the items in the house. All remnants of beer and liquor had been removed from the house. The glass and its owner would now do their level best to go without, which was going to be no easy task. The glass would be of no help in this regard, its etched trademark staring its owner in the face, reminding the owner of days gone by. The owner had the look of someone wanting to rebuild a life from ruins. Cigarettes were now the addiction of choice, a half-smoked pack now joining the car keys on the dining room table. If smoking takes the place of alcoholism, is it only nothing more than trading short self-destruction for time-released doses of the same thing? Would the next dramatic narrative in the house center around the ashtray? Only time would tell.

For now, the glass would do the work for which it was made. It would not be so central to the story of the owner anymore, but its lifespan with the owner would be much less threatening and tenuous. More time from now on would be spent in the cabinet, resting with its surviving brethren at the end of an interior war that threatened the life of the owner. Occasionally, for the inevitable jogging of the owner's memories, the glass would be called upon, as it was at this very moment , for a victory lap. Hopefully, this would not be the last tall 24-ounce glass of ice water the glass would hold, but given the abuse it and the owner had suffered, the glass was more than happy with the substitution of water for vodka.

A quick word is in order to give the readers an itinerary for the next 7 days retroactive to last night.
I saw the reformed Pixies last night at The Milwaukee Theatre.
Altenative bands since the late '80's, for the most part have had a nondescript appearance about them. Usually, they have been groups that have followed the fashion trends of the day. As I watched the Pixies go through a near-flawless set of their most known musical works, I was struck by the actual physical shape. After over ten years apart, they have roughly the same appearance as they did all those years ago as they changed the rules of alternative music for the rest of time. Frank Black (Black Francis?) was still the heavyset lead singer, Joey Santiago was still the bald lead guitar player, Kim Deal was still the tall female bass player, and David Lovering still played his drums in the same position, hunched over his drum kit, coiled and ready to strike. I highly recommend that any fan of the Pixies not miss this show. I called it "near-flawless" because they didn't play "Tony's Theme", but that's just one fan's beef, and I can't hold it against them for everyone else.
This Friday night, I'll be playing the Open Stage at The Coffee House down near Marquette. I have an idea to record a solo acoustic album there in four visits, as they record for a nominal fee down there.
Monday, I'll be playing an open mic at Studio 305 around the block. The keepers of the studio, Dominic and Linda, are just wonderful people. I'm letting them borrow the PA from me for the night. It's very exciting to be on the ground floor of a new venue. I can't wait.
The balance of my time shall be spent in creative pursuits of one kind or another. Ah, Autumn, my energy source. I am empowered by the smell of the season. Sandy Denny sings in my ear, and my thoughts turn positive, despite the many negatives of this world we now find ourselves in. May they spread to you too, dear reader!!

Foreign

Frank Harkins never wore a coat, and after years of dodging the bullet that is the biting December cold of New England, today, he was paying for it. He lay in his bed, in the grips of the flu, covered with two blankets and a quilt, feverish, but still too cold to get out from under the covers. A half-consumed pitcher of water sat on the night table next to the bed to his left, an empty glass stationed in wait next to the pitcher. A bucket lay on the floor on the other side of the bed, awaiting any sudden emesis that may have appeared before Frank could reach the bathroom, which seemed like it lay one hundred yards down the hall.

He couldn't help thinking, as he lay in bed, with no energy at his immediate disposal, beads of sweat painting slow rivulets from his forehead to his temples, how much this felt like a hangover. Or did it feel like that time when he was playing basketball and he slammed the back of his skull against the concrete? Probably not, as his head didn't so much throb as feel extremely heavy.

Without the energy to accomplish anything else, he tried to think of the exact moment of where he caught the flu. Even through the fog of contagious illness, he knew the answer to that question. This past Friday; it must have been, he thought.

The party at Dave's place. Dave was a friend of his from college who happened to have settled in the same town as Frank a few years after they had both graduated. Several months ago, Dave had had another party at his place. He had invited many people to that one. It was the beginning of Spring, and everyone was getting used to going jacketless for the first time in months, New England winters being what they are. As he circulated from room to room at Dave's place, a woman caught his eye in one of those moments that all humans have.

Dave's basement had been converted into a comfortable party space, complete with full bar, pool table, dart board, a stereo system with a 100-CD changer and, as an inside joke, a portrait of those dogs playing poker. He first saw her in the basement. She was leaning up against a wall, her legs crossed one over the other, holding a drink in her left hand and playing with the ice cubes in her drink with her right index finger. She was dressed casually, with short blonde hair and what appeared to be blue eyes from across the room, but he couldn't be sure. She was talking to another woman, listening, sometimes laughing, at which point, at least to Henry, her entire face would radiate pure joy and beauty. For the rest of the night, Frank tried to be an undetected satellite of this woman, staying somewhere in her vicinity, doing his level best to avoid all eye contact, and ultimately, too shy to approach.

The following day, on the pretense of helping Dave clean up the house from the night before, he stopped by Dave's place for an after-hover scouting report. Yes, Dave knew her. Her name was Corinne. Immediately in his head, he began to pronounce her name with different overly romantic and breathy inflections, becoming his silent mantra. Corinne was a co-worker of Dave's. She had been there less than a year. She was single, but not necessarily looking. She liked to go out after work. Beyond that Dave knew only her age (twenty-six) and her obvious physical attributes.

For months, Frank asked about Corinne every time they met. He was a man obsessed. He hadn't been on a date since seeing her at the party. Every spare moment of time that his brain could muster was a chance for him to say her name to himself. As Spring turned to Summer, then Autumn, time gave way to a reality of the situation. He saw this woman once; more than likely she had to have been taken by now. The opportunity had come and gone and he was left with a positive memory.

And then, December. Dave was having a Christmas party at his house for selected guests. Dave made a point to to tell Frank that his once-and possibly future?-dream girl, Corinne, would be in attendance, and yes, she was still available. Frank's pupils dilated to the whites of his eyes with excitement and nervousness. Suddenly, on the brink of Winter, Frank had a goal.

The party at Dave's was on a Friday night, so Frank scheduled a haircut for himself after work, getting himself in the barber's chair right before closing. Next, he needed to impress his quarry with impeccable taste, so he went to the liquor store and, not knowing one wine from another, chose the most expensive white zinfandel on the shelf for purchase. Thank you Mastercard, he thought to himself. He passed by the local bakery for an impressive cookie tray. Thank you again Mastercard. When one is on the hunt, it is best to pay it forward.

Frank then went to his own home to spruce up a little with a fresh shirt and a change into casual shoes. He was now ready for sport.

He arrived at Dave's fashionably late, wearing no coat as usual, bringing with him the bottle of wine and the elaborate cookie tray. Dave thanked him for the gifts, and Frank proceeded inside. It took him all of 20 seconds to find her. Since the Spring, her hair had grown out a little. He could see her eyes now, and he had been right; blue, and an alluring blue at that, as if this beauty from beyond the pale had needed any final touches. Tonight was going to be the night. He was determined to be on the top of his social game, in case anyone-and by anyone he meant Corinne- see him falter. He decided that he would be the unofficial co-host of the party. He would greet everyone who came in with a joke, a handshake and a beaming, uplifting personality that would shoot light in all directions from him like a crystal chandelier in a ballroom.

Like a political candidate he began to work the room, conspicuously working around Corinne, in a desperate attempt to save the best for last. He made sure to leave them laughing as he went, so as to add "great sense of humor" to his dating resume.

The moment of truth had arrived. With a glass of wine in hand and his confidence restored, he approached.

"Hi. Frank Harkins", he said, smiling and knowing what was coming.

"Corinne Peters. Hiiii", drawing out the power word of greeting, "How do you know Daaave?"

A nasal, mallchick voice, he thought to himself, as he answered her question. Over the course of the next five minutes, his heart, which had risen and fallen for many months at the mere thought of who he was talking to, began to sink without chance of resurfacing. Beauty is one marker, and then comes personality. Not only did Frank and Corinne have no intersecting interests, but they actually diverged, and in some cases violently. There was absolutely no hint of compatability on any level that would make this work. For a brief second, it broke his heart that some man out there who he probably would ignore otherwise would someday land this beauty and win her heart. When the second passed, he thought about how that voice would be in someone else's ears in the future, and he was elated. He carried that elation away from Corinne and onto other conversations. He was struck as to how someone so native to the surroundings of his head for so long a period of time had suddenly become such a foreigner. He needed conversation, he needed cookies, but most of all, he needed that wine. Even the damned poker-playing dogs would be a welcome change from this.

All of this replayed in his head as he lay in his bed, sweating out the flu under a few inches of bed covers. As the foreigner that was Corinne left his head and heart for good, another foreign invader, this year's strain of flu, decided to set up shop in his body, reducing him and his bed into an island of sickness. His bed had all the telltale signs; balled up tissues stuffed underneath the pillows, a deepening dent in the mattress from his occupancy and the stain of prescribed cough syrup which he had spilled on the bed. This bedroom was now officially a sick ward.

He had shaken too many hands, been out in the world without a coat for far too long, wasted too much energy on something that produced energy in the wrong direction. Now was the time to convalesce. The myth of metaphysical perfection had claimed another victim, leaving him sweating and freezing, looking forward in time dazed and harshly repatriated into reality.

Cannibal

When he first began to hatch his plan, curiously, he thought about what he would wear. He thought briefly about an altar boy's outfit, but at the age of 26, he was just too tall for a jaunt down memory lane. He then gave a thought or two to just casual clothing, the kinds of things you buy at The Gap that make you look trendy. These were the kind of clothes that one would wear if they weren't worried about the slave labor that stitched them together. This potential wardrobe wouldn't do either.

As he descended the fifteen steps of the staircase, his decision revealed itself. He had chosen a black suit, white shirt, solid black tie, black dress socks and newly-shined Florsheim shoes. Looking at him in this frozen moment, with his impeccably drab wardrobe fitting perfectly into place, one would get the impression that today was the day he would go on that job interview at the local mortuary. Yet this was not his purpose today; today, he dressed this way for dinner.

His outer appearance was unexpectedly augmented by a shave and a haircut, received earlier in the afternoon at the local unisex salon, located in a strip mall around the corner from his home. It was performed by a middle-aged Hispanic woman who wore a crucifix and a St. Christopher medal around her neck. As the stylist combed his hair for the finishing touch, he was struck by how many years it had been since he had actually cared what the hair on his head had looked. His mother would comb his hair on Sunday mornings, right before church. He had to arrive early to prepare for mass as an altar boy. He would always serve mass with Father Ryan, who was always insistent with all the parents of the parish of the Church Of The Redeemer that his altar boys ' appearance be of the highest order. Everyone loved Father Ryan for drilling into the boys a strong sense of discipline and order. The woman who gave him his haircut and shave was very gentle with the razor on his slightly acne-scarred cheeks. The stylist's name was Maria.

Hw wore on his face an expression of peace and contentment he had not know for many years, dating back to the simple days of early childhood. It was hard for him to recall the feelings and sensations of that time. With almost 20 intervening years since this contentment he was feeling, one could not blame him for feeling detached from his past. The years since had been filled with inner turmoil and restlessness, chronic truancy, alcoholism and drug addiction. When the prevailing wind blows pain, any shelter from the storm appears as an oasis on the horizon. It was when he was forced to re-enter the storm that he realized that any peace was all too fleeting and temporary, unless he finally confronted the demon that had brought him to such places of desperation.

It was with this in mind that he found himself in his home, dressed to the nines for a very special dinner. The only other person expected this evening was Father Ryan, still much beloved by the community, currently laying dead on the dining room table.

Father Ryan had been missing for four days. He was last seen leaving for his nightly stroll around the grounds of the elementary school, which shared a parking lot with the church. He was a man in very good shape for the age of sixty-seven. He attributed it to healthy eating habits, plenty of exercise and the will of God.

"And not necessarily in that order", he would say to inquisitive parishioners.

When Father Ryan didn't return after an hour, the other priests in the parish became worried. The police were summoned, but no evidence turned up. Father Ryan's face was now the most well-recognized missing person in the greater metropolitan area, thanks to the local media, who loved to lead off their broadcasts with a good tragedy to scare the hell out of the viewers. The adjective most used to describe Father Ryan was "beloved", each passing hour seemingly bringing him closer to canonization. That is, if journalists had been in charge of the beatification process.

He hadn't wanted to be an altar boy. Father Ryan had spotted him after a Sunday Mass one sunny day in May, standing next to his parents.

"Such a strong boy! He'd make a fine altar boy, Mrs. DiGregorio", he remembers Father Ryan saying to his mother.

"Oh Father, Dominic and I were just discussing that the other day", his mother said, mixing her ingratiating demeanor with a little white lie. His parents had never mentioned him being an alter boy until that very moment. Two weeks later, he was carrying the hosts to the altar at the 8:30 mass.

He was an altar boy for roughly a year, telling his parents that he wanted to sleep later on Sundays. His parents didn't fight his decision to stop, figuring that it was all temporary anyway. He always seemed so tired on Sundays after mass. Perhaps the extra sleep would do him some good after all.

At first, being an altar boy seemed easy. He would show up about ten minutes prior to the start of mass, change into his cassock, and serve mass alongside Father Ryan. After about a month, Father Ryan asked his parents if he could arrive a half-hour prior to mass, his justification being that the 8:30 mass was beginning to get progressively more crowded. Things needed to be perfect. Everything needed just that much more time to be arranged. He remembered now that his parents had never asked him directly, but simply complied with Father Ryan's wishes, never knowing or realizing the unspeakable horror this decision brought to their son.

In the moments prior to mass, in an anteroom behind the altar, Father Ryan would tell him to wash his hands in the font of holy water, take off his pants and close his eyes. For nine months, Father Ryan committed atrocities on the boy, commanding him after every episode never to speak of it to anyone, lest he face the wrath of God. During the mass, he would see the Stations of the Cross, displayed in order around the church. His eyes would always settle on "Jesus Bears The Cross". What does he know of suffering, he thought. Why won't he help me now? After he quit as an altar boy, he became more and more enraged, watching the people of the church treat Father Ryan with such reverence, such respect. His parents were deeply offended by his decision, at age twelve, to stop going to church. They thought it just a phase, thiking that he would "return to the flock" in the near future. That return never came.

His grades slipped and he skipped school more frequently as his teenage years progressed. He fell in with the crowd that always seemed to have access to a stray bottle of liquor and an endless supply of Vicodin, burying himself in a place where he could keep the pain at bay, however temporarily. Never once did he mention the burden resting on his shoulders to anyone.

Early in his senior year of high school, his parents, worried that he would flunk out of school, placed him in an inpatient psychiatric ward for treatment. He never opened up the old wounds when questioned by the doctors. When he declared two days into his stay that he wouldn't talk anymore to anyone at the facility, his doctors approached his parents with other options of treatment, one of which was "electroconvulsive therapy", a soft-pedaled phrase meaning shock treatment. He left the facility, two weeks and five shock treatments later, deadened and numb. He graduated high school with barely above a D average.

The eight intervening years brought no solace. More drinking, more and harder drugs, more psychiatry. It was three weeks ago in a group therapy session where he finally had an epiphany. The psychiatrist had spoken of never finding rest until the source of pain was isolated, confronted and put to rest. How could it be that no one had ever said this in such a way to him before?

It was in this spirit that Father Ryan found himself dead on the dining room table, his mouth gagged, his hands and feet bound tightly together, his skin a tinge of blue from suffocation, the imprint of his killer's tightened belt forming a perfect pattern around his pulseless neck. For a man so well known for being in good shape, extinguishing the life from him was rather easy. One could barely see the point of walking at all.

He stopped for a few brief moments to gaze upon the lifeless body of his childhood tormentor. Just a few preparations more and peace would finally come to him.

He thought for a moment of the many ways that this man had violated him. How, as a defenseless child, he had no other option but to close his eyes and take it. His fear was subsiding now, all trepidation and inhibition that had ruled his life slipping away a little farther with each passing second.

Silently and deliberately, he went to the kitchen to retrieve a cleaver from the a kitchen drawer. He thought about Judges 19, the Levite and His Concubine. He thought about the waste of spreading the Levite's comcubine's remains in little pieces in the desert. For Father Ryan, there would be but one vulture to pick from his bones. It would take at least 5 days to consume an entire priest, he thought to himself, as he began the preparations for dinner by undressing the body of Father Ryan.

(Writer's Note: I feel I must make the reader aware of my strong opposition to cannibalism. It also bears stating that this story is fiction)

Ambiguity

Is this the way it goes, Nina thought to herself. She sat on a bench in the park, a few blocks away from the building that housed her first temp job, thinking about making it her last temp job. I didn't go to college for four years to push a metal cart full of files around, she was thinking, eyes wide open, legs crossed underneath her smart black business attire. A newly -ignited cigarette was smoldering in her right hand, slung in a tired fashion on the opposite side of her body.

One would think that at this point, five years in this city-with four of those at the college-that she would finally get used to the all too harried and all too brusque rhythms all around her, but one would be wrong. She had reached that point. She hated her environment and was rebelling internally against everything within a three-foot radius. The pigeons all moved like Mick Jagger in an old video she saw once on VH1. Why were the Rolling Stones still employed as musicians, she thought. Isn't it time to move to the country and retire?

The country. She had almost forgotten. Had it really been five years since she left her high school class numbering 185 to go to college here. If she looked up from the cement beneath her feet and took a look around, it would take her about 30 seconds or so to spot 185 people. What was she doing here? Was is so long ago that the simplicity of adolescense surrounded her with light and hope? At times it felt like only yesterday, at other a murky mountain obscurred by clouds, rising somewhere in her memories, but always seemingly too remote to reach

Her mother and father seemed like remnants from a bygone era. In the city there was action and activity that she would never find at home. She could gaze down any city street and find more traffic lights and public buses than she had ever encountered in the entire county she grew up in. There were things she had always dreamed of, possibilities that she had never explored, people she had always envisioned meeting and finding with them an instant connection to something larger.

The things she dreamed of were non-existent, the possibilities ending up being the same old things with the same old hang-ups, but in a different space. The people she had wanted to meet had all been met, and they were self-absorbed assholes. There would be no connections, there would be no higher meaning or purpose. She would meet a series of people, similarly frustrated, looking for something; something other than Nina. Something other than public bus exhaust and traffic lights. The city, clearly, was getting to her, leaving behind, in the form of a 23-year-old woman, a hardened city dweller where once there was a girl from the country.

As her lunch hour slipped away, her cigarette following close behind, it was clearly coming time to come back to the world of responsibility. Or was it? Isn't five years of responsibility enough for anyone, she thought, resting her back against the back of the park bench. She began to people watch, every once in a while watching the Jagger pigeons peck at something invisible to her eye on the ground around her. She would need to head back soon. Another ride on an elevator with some portly thirty-something from another office in her building staring at her ass as she watched the floors count off above her, pretending not to be deeply offended and deeply flattered all at the same time as she waited for the computerized "bong" at the 14th floor. She would get off the elevator, smile at the receptionist (was her name Marty or Matty?), and walk down the hall into the main office area, punch back in on the electronic time clock on the wall in the break room and return to her post in the file room. She would desperately try to ignore the people giving her the "seems like a nice temp" face as she walked to the file room, snaking through a few sections of cubicles. She would return an occasional and unexpected "Hi Nina!" with a simple "Hi" to anyone who offered. In an office of 65 people, she knew her boss' name and the name of the other temp in her section with any certainty, and that was it. Attempting to know names was useless here. She was obviously not staying here long term. That was not her purpose or destiny.

As she delayed her eventual departure from the park bench, she tried to isolate in her mind that exact moment in the last five years where she went from feeling like the center of the universe to an inconsequential speck of a file clerk in a city office like any other. She found herself briefly suspended between two worlds, one the simplicity of her teenage years, the other the future in front of her. It was hard to see that future in front of her when she spent eight hours a day filing and pushing a cart around, returning hellos to people who may as well have no faces, voices or pulse. She thought briefly about those commercials she used to watch in the afternoons on her rare days off in front of the TV, touting future careers as a computer technician, beautician, truck driver or in the exciting world of broadcasting. She had to be in better shape than that. Or certainly in better condition than the people who needed the personal injury attorneys that also advertised in the afternoon.

It was now late September. The leaves were beginning to change. Some of them had even managed to shed themselves from branches already, moving along the street with the flow of traffic, occasionally taking flight in the wake of a passing taxi. She got up and began to walk back to the office, doing her best not to catch her heel in a crack on the sidewalk. She didn't really know whether she was going to quit this job or not. The money was enough for now, but her student loans were coming up fast. Something better had to come along. She told herself that in the unlikely event that this place offered her a job, it would have to be much better than what she was doing now. Pushing that damned cart made her feel like a bag lady. It was getting so that she was nearly looking for cans on the floor in the office to collect for loose change. No, the fictional offered job would have to be something fabulous, with responsibilities and benefits, and co-workers who didn't mind the occasional drink after work. A drink. Now there was an idea.

The early Fall air almost began to invigorate her as she approached the entrance of her building; The Bennett Building. Who was Bennett, and why did he get a building? Would he feel differently knowing that the building that bears his name plays host to bag ladies?

She opened the brass door handle of the building and stepped inside, not happy or sad, not hopeless or optimistic, not fearful or brave. Mostly ambiguous, and mostly hoping that her ass would get stared at on the elevator by someone younger for a change.

My side, the side with brains, has lost the election in the United States.

Instead of dwelling on this and telling the world to build coffins because that will be America's main export over the next four years, I'm just going to post a song that I wrote for this emergency we find ourselves in. This is my song to everyone in the world. I urge you to ignore what America says and does. It's destroying itself from within. Pray the end comes quickly, for the sake of the world.

Right Foot Down


The turnin’ of the tide is turnin’ to a tidal wave

And no one seems to listen anymore

It only takes a nervous tic on someone else’s gun

To turn discussion into civil war

But I’ll be on the sidelines with my gun up on the shelf

Drinking beer and living long while you destroy yourself


CHORUS:
So put your right foot down

Pick your left foot up

Kick your right foot out

And you’ll all fall down (2X)


See the monkey leader read his cue card speech with ease

He made himself on someone else’s dime

I wonder whose banana he’ll be chomping on today

Or if he’ll just go missing one more time

Though someone’s gonna pick him off it hasn’t happened yet

As he stands on top of corpses telling you you’re in his debt


(Chorus)


What seems to him like heaven is a hell for me and you

If you think that number one is bad, take a whiff of number two

(Chorus – Fade Out)


'Nuff said.

It's 11:06 CST in Milwaukee. The "election" will go on for weeks, as organizing a vote in Ohio seemed to be too much for the intellectual cretins who make up that state's Board of Elections. If you want "election" results, wait a few months and in the meantime, CRY!

We're trying something new here at The Spencer File. I have noticed with increasing frequency that my posts here are becoming stale, unfunny and not at all interesting.
In an attempt to remedy this, I have called in reinforcements. Once a day, I shall have Tara, an acquaintance from Minnesota, e-mail to my personal e-mail address a random topic/word of her choosing. I shall write about whatever she lights and places on my doorstep.
Fear not! There will still be the occasional bit of personal gossip, reflection and angst to throw into the Spencer File. Until such time as I can train myself to be interesting (this could be YEARS), I shall apply this new format to this space.
So without further ado........

Time

It was my grandfather who said, "You see them?" referring to my older female cousins, "They have their hearts in the right place, but they can never get anywhere, and that's because they don't respect the clock".

I once saw a Poster that said "WORK: A Prison Of Measured Time". The person who first thought of this poster should win the Nobel Prize.

"God finds you naked and he leaves you dying/what happens in between is up to you". So says Robyn Hitchcock. So true.

You would think that given the revelation of this knowledge, we would not waste time on things that we later find as an impediment to human development: arguments, waiting in line, whether it be for our own money, a bus or the return of Jesus. The inventors of the sundial, the clock and the wristwatch are the Devil's answer to the Holy Trinity (you know, The Old Guy, The Younger Beachy Guy and The Dove). Only man would devise a way to measure what he has lost. I am surrounded by clocks in my life, but I absolutely REFUSE to wear a wristwatch. First problem with watches for men; we have HAIR on our wrist, which is easily pulled out when the watch is removed. I HATE that. Second problem: to me, it feels like a unihandcuff. I can think of no one in my sphere of existence that likes to be held at the wrist. I feel jailed by jewelry when I wear a watch.

"Time is too slow for those who wait

Time is too swift for those who fear

Time is too long for those who grieve

And time is too short for those that laugh"

-It's A Beautiful Day

The biggest fear that we carry with us in life is the fear of demise. The survival instinct is strong in all of us. Once we're here, we don't feel like leaving; EVER. For women, we have invented a mountain of cosmetics that supposedly "slow the aging process of your face". For men, it's that gullible twenty-something with big tits looking for a fling with an older, more secure man that keeps us from thinking of the grave. For both genders, there's hair dye, the occasional margarita on a cruise ship and that one song from our youth that makes us temporarily forget about the fat hanging over our belts.

We're born, we eat a few things, we anally expunge what we don't need until we lose the strength to do either and then we die. ALL OF US. NO EXCEPTIONS! For every living being on this planet, whether there are billions just like you or if you're the last of your breed, this is your time. If someone tells you where to go or what to do, you look them right in the eye, stamp one foot and say "NO! This is MY time. You are in my way of making my mark in this world while I'm here and I don't have to take this from you!". If one person does this, they'll be called a crank. If TWO people do it, you have self-absorption by the power of two. If THREE people do it, why it's then that you genuinely have a movement that can change the world. There's no time to accept boundaries. There is no time for worrying about someone else's opinion of you. You are not a tool to balance the universe. You ARE the Universe.

Take the time to do EVERYTHING you've always wanted to do. Tomorrow is not coming. Jump out of an airplane, drink a whole bottle of scotch, love like no one has ever loved and take the chance that it may not last. There's no reason to worry about what someone else does. There's YOU. Control YOU and you control the universe. Don't look with skepticism at any one man, for that person may hold a key to your next adventure, whether that person be good or bad....hmmmm, from good, bad; from bad, good. Just like that there is a balance to your universe, and suddenly you find yourself bulletproof.

When you seize your own destiny, time disappears and becomes just a caveman -like observation of the sun and the moon. You won't be counting the hours on Friday until the weekend; you won't be looking at your calendar wondering why your period's late; You'll stop living paycheck to paycheck. What you have is you, in tune and playing your own song. Despite the fact that your clock is still ticking, you won't feel it. You have existence without boundaries of time and age, leaving only one question whenever you find yourself standing still.

"What are you waiting for?"..

I want to do something artistic. As I type this, the people in Dixville Notch, New Hampshire are going to the polls to cast the first votes of the 2004 presidential election. Rather than go on and on about the election (which I'll do tomorrow), I've decided to give the reader one of mmy short stories. This is one of the few good ones I have, but I don't really think it's finished. Take it for what it's worth.

Giving In

There are times when I wish I was a doctor. After all, my father was one. It would have been so easy just to have shaken my chest-thumping individuality for an instant and said "OK Dad. You win! Medicine will be my path!"
Being my father's son was not an easy proposition to begin with. When you have a father as recognized in the field of oncology as mine, a shadow is cast upon your existence. You could grow up to be the president and you are always introduced as "the cancer doctor's son". Every passing acquaintance asks the relationship question to me with the look of a tabloid detective beginning the sentence with "oh, you wouldn't happen to be…" or "by any chance, are you…".
I suppose there were those fleeting moments of regret that hover around everyone who chooses a less financially secure career path. These thoughts would tap me on the shoulders of my mind every once in a while, but they never lingered long. From the time I was 6, I felt more secure letting my fingers float across piano keys than I ever could sticking a stethoscope in my ears. I always thought of the tools of medicine as more toys than instruments. While my sister was playing doctor as a little girl, I was the one who would grab the end of the stethoscope and growl as loud as I could into her ears. She would always run to my dad crying and holding her ears and I would be sent to my room for about an hour or so to "think about" what I did. Little did my father know that my sister's sore eardrums were the farthest things from my mind as I sat in my room alone and poured over the sheet music of classical piano concertos. He did more to turn me away from medicine by sending me to my room than he could ever have imagined.
I will give my father credit for one thing, though. When I told him I was going to college to major in music, he didn't rant and rave and tear his hair out like those tyrannical fathers in the movies. His way of protesting was to say, "Well, I gave you the resources and the wherewithal to be more than that, but I must admit there have been times when I came home late and there you were filling the house with these wonderful sounds. Had I wanted to stop you, I guess I had my chances".
I was always a little closer to my mother when I was growing up. I couldn't help to be. My mother was the only one home most of the time, what with my father bouncing between his patients and the medical conferences he was always attending. There were some months when I was younger when if I saw my dad a number of times that required two hands to count, I wondered why he was home so much. My sister and I were my mother's life's work. When my first album came out, I dedicated it to my mom with the words "Congratulations! Mission Accomplished!". When she received the compact discs in the mail, she called me in tears after she read the dedication. She proclaimed it to be her "Mother's Day gift for life".
I told my mother first when I got sick. A lifetime reflex more than anything else. You would think the first thing I would have done is call my father the world-famous oncologist with the news that I had come down with lung cancer. My first reaction was anger. I don't smoke and never have. We lived far from the madding crowds in the suburbs where vehicle exhausts were virtually non-existent. Then I began adding up in my head all of those smoky clubs I had either played or listened in. I was warned up and down about second-hand smoke from an ever-vigilant doctor father and here I was, years later, with lung cancer.
My mother was the only one in the room who knew what I was about to say. My father was there, perplexed that I wanted to talk to the whole family at the same time. Jane and my brother-in-law Henry came in from Boston. They were confused. Whenever my mother wanted to get Jane to be in the same room with me for anything, she had to lie to her. She told Jane that Dad had a big announcement for everyone. Jane kept looking at Dad waiting for him to speak, and he never did.
I love Jane, but with the realization that we are opposites. She thinks I'm some kind of lollygaging neo-hippie with my head in the clouds, and there have been times when I thought I could have more exciting conversations with a coffee table than with my sister. It is life's ultimate revenge that Henry and I share almost everything in common. 48 hours after I met him when Jane introduced Henry as her intended, he asked me to be his best man at their wedding. Jane was furious but relented. I always swore I would return the favor to Henry some day, but musicians have a way of attracting the wrong kind of woman. That is not to say that I didn't take advantage of that in times of bodily need, but as I got closer to middle age, I didn't see the point anymore.
When I told the family I had lung cancer, I could almost see Dad and Jane salivating. At long last, a chance for one or both of them to control my fate had presented itself. A sick man needed doctors, and this sick man needed the doctors in the room. The family wolf was metamorphosing into a sheep right in front of their eyes.
And then I detonated a verbal bomb. I looked all of them in the eye and told them I wasn't seeking treatment, and I had no plans to do so.
My mother was horrified. Henry was confused. Dad and Jane were furious.
Jane called me pig-headed. "You're going to reach a point when you finally give in to treatment and by then, knowing you, it will be too late".
Mom chimed in. "OK. So I didn't raise my son as a doctor, but I also don't remember raising someone stupid. It's bad enough you live in California in the middle of nowhere…."
Anyplace outside a 5-mile radius to my mother is the middle of nowhere.
"….Are you trying to encourage better living through terminal illness?"
Then it was Dad's turn.
"I want you to stay right in that chair and explain to a man who has been treating cancer patients for nearly thirty-five years- not taking into account my high success rate-….."
Whenever my father sensed something illogical, he read everyone within earshot his resume.
"….why you choose not to fight an irregular bodily process."
My father also has a gift for making the outlandish and the ghastly sound mundane. I was sitting in front of him acknowledging that whatever this shadow on my lung was was eventually going to kill me and he refers to it as an irregular bodily process. Diarrhea is an irregular bodily process, I thought. Yet I learned long ago I didn't contradict my father on matters of medicine. In return, we didn't discuss music one on one.
"Dad, you must have seen the human cost of treatment between accepting awards…"
"Now hold on". He was visibly upset that I seemed to put his accomplishments above his bedside manner. "My work and the recognition for it are not exclusive of one another. Did you think they give me awards for looking good?"
" Of course not, but you can't sit there, even as a distinguished man of medicine, and tell me unequivocally that there are times when the cure isn't worse than the disease."
Then Jane piped in
"This is all about losing your hair, isn't it?"
"Jane, even coming from you, that's ridiculous.", I said.
"Oh, here we go again. John the Different. John the Anti-Doctor. Why can't you just be normal?"
"Honey, relax", said Henry, "Let's keep it civilized".
"Easy for you to say, Henry. You have six siblings."
Jane uses every instance she can to remind Henry of his Catholic roots. This was quite the statement from Jane, for she was once again, with one sentence, reiterating her wish to be an only child.
"Maybe you're right", Dad said, attempting to right the ship by the power of discourse, "but I don't see the sense of giving up when you have every conceivable treatment option at your disposal".
My father always had an inability to come out and say what he was feeling. I could see from his expression that he wanted to be my one and only doctor. He wanted to be my caregiver. He wanted to give me the best he had to offer. He wanted to give me my life back.
"Dad…Mom…Jane…Henry? Has there ever been a time in your life when you wanted to see me suffer?"
"There was the time when we were younger and while I was sleeping, you super-glued a tongue depressor to my arm."
Jane is my personal walking transgression diary. She takes great delight in pointing out what to her are my obvious flaws. I don't mind. She still has a small scar on her left arm from the tongue depressor.
"You're playing bait-and-switch with us hoping we'll bite", said my father, "No human being with the slightest conscience wants anybody to suffer. My God-given purpose in this life is to ease human suffering. If you're sitting there telling me that I have built this house, this family and this life by making people feel worse, I'll personally boot your carcass out on the street!"
"Dad, I'm not suggesting that at all. And I am totally aware of the fact- and how couldn't I be growing up in this house- that if I were to get any illness in the world, given my personal connections, that this is one to get……"
"But….". My father was waiting for the rest.

"….But, remission is not a cure. You of all people should know that. How much medicine is too much medicine?"
"So, you would rather be in constant, intractable pain for the rest of your life- however long that may be- instead of a few months of baldness and discomfort?
"As I see it, I have two options. Either I fight, knowing I'll live the rest of my life seeing recurrences around every corner, reducing me to fear of everything, or I accept the fact that as a mortal man, something must kill you and my time is short. I have things to do, Dad. For the first time in a long time, I know now what my priorities are. Torturing myself with chemo is not on the list, and it never will be."
"John", he was getting impatient, "cancer is not a passive illness. A vicious disease requires a treatment with an equally bad disposition. I'm saying what I now say not as your father, but as your doctor. Don't throw your life away because you don't like the manner in which you prolong it."
The room fell silent with a momentary eternity that often appears when the subject matter suddenly turns awkward. Henry couldn't stand it.
"When you die, can I have your piano?"
I began to laugh uncontrollably with Henry following suit close behind. Dad and Jane were livid. My mother began to laugh with tears in her eyes. I reached for her hand.
"Mom, if you like, I can move back here. I suddenly don't need smog as much as I used to."
"I'd like that", she said, wiping the tears from her eyes.
"You are so goddamned selfish", Jane erupted, "Not only are you going to die needlessly, but you're going to move around the block and shove it up your parents' noses."
"Jane, I've done pretty well for myself blocking you out. After hearing that, I don't think I'll be changing that."
"Same old John. Why don't you just look Dad in the face and tell him 'Dad, I have no respect for you or your profession'".
"Jane, stop it!" Mom said, still unaccustomed after all these years to Jane's temper.
"And YOU", Jane continued, turning her attention toward Henry, "If you want to play piano so much, you can pack your bags and move in with him."
Poor Henry. This wasn't the first time she had threatened to throw him out of the house. These threats came whenever he contradicted Jane.
It has been 15 months since I broke the news to my family. I now live ten miles away from my mom. I still talk to Henry. He calls me. Jane won't speak to me. She hasn't since Dad died. Four months after I told him I wasn't going to be treated, he had a sudden and massive heart attack while accepting yet another award for his work. All his colleagues at the funeral had no idea I had cancer. In one afternoon, I told approximately 60 oncologists that cancer would take my life someday without being treated or fought. Some old well-known actress delivered a eulogy thanking him belatedly for giving her her life back. Doctors, nurses and patients all got up to speak.
To this day, Jane blames me for his death. Henry tells me that his heart was broken by my stubbornness. Jane's words, not his. The day my father was put in the ground, Jane came up to me and told me the next funeral in the family she would be attending would be my mother's, and no one else's. I read her loud and clear. I pity her patients. When I pray at night, I thank God for not making Jane an urologist.
Mom and I are very close, as always. The only regret I have about my illness is I can't be more of a help to her now when she needs a man about the house. Dad was smart enough to marry someone who was very good with the family money, so bills are paid and debts are non-existent.
My last album was released a month ago. I asked my record label and my publicist not to make my condition public. A statement was released saying I was not touring in support of the album, and no one is beating the door down to find out why. I guess this is what they define as having a "cult" following.
I've been looking a lot at trees lately. Being from the East, I always marveled at the wackiness of Southern California when I lived there. After having lived there and now having moved back, I came to realize why the people in LA are so nuts. There are no trees to filter the sunlight. The sun burns into their eyes and psyche with such unchecked force that things such as celebrity and suntans become important. From my bedroom window I can see the sunshine dancing in small yellow spots on the green leaves. Nobody ever bothered to tell me about sights like this. I feel blessed with piano players' hands, and yet my eyes had been looking at lines and staffs for so long my vision had become burned with black parallel lines.
For the pain, I take about ten or fifteen really good pills that an old drummer friend of mine supplies. If self-medication is what you need, what better occupation than musician? I could build a skyscraper if every offer of drugs to me in my life was a brick. As the pain has increased over the last seven or eight months, I have been calling in old favors to get pain medication from various sources. My mother marvels at how I am some days, with so much energy and strength. She never sees me the following day, in bed, alone, drinking Ensure to keep up my strength.
I have more gray hair than I used to, but it's all there. Maybe Jane was right. Is it mere vanity that causes me to travel the quick road?
I am having fun planning my own funeral, though. What a wonderful opportunity! I've planned the music, picked the church and selected a minister. To the best of my knowledge, no old, well-known actresses will be eulogizing me. I don't know any and never prolonged the life of one. I'm going to be cremated and my ashes scattered in the Pacific Ocean a few miles out from Big Sur. I went there for a weekend once and fell in love with it. I figure my ashes will be my own little contribution to saving marine life. I never could stand those environmental canvassers. And through all of this, my music continues. Henry is getting my piano, but I'm not done with it just yet. I have my piano facing my back yard, so I can play while I watch the birds. I play my musical impressions of their flight. Everyone I've ever discussed music with complained about the noisy quality of contemporary music. I always told them that this is the natural order of musical evolution. As we get older, we think about the next step, usually thoughts of a spiritual turn. I think heaven is a loud place. Billions of voices sing out at the same time in perfect order. I remember being afraid of thunder when I was a child. My father sensed this. He just touched my face and said, "Relax, John. It's just choir practice". I've been a musician ever since.


Peace to the world tonight. Wish us luck selecting a leader. Not many Americans can read, let alone choose the right person to run things.

A switch to beer from water, and away we go.

I'm listening to "Super Black Market Clash" and basking in the national glow of the Boston Red Sox having won the World Series within the past hour. Quite a performance. The Curse Of The Bambino is now gone. Now, at the rate the Red Sox win world championships, they are due to win their next one in the year 2090, when I am unfrozen at the age of 124 and.....oh never mind.

We are six days away from knowing who our next president will be. I approach this week with equal parts fear and hope. We can't possibly take four more years of the reckless leadership of Bush 43. In Florida, Michigan, Ohio, New Mexico, Pennsylvania and Nevada, the Republican Party has too obviously drawn a line in the sand with shady maneuvers ranging from shredding Democratic registrations, deliberately suppressing the black vote and in the case of Ohio, putting a whacko in charge of the state elections who refuses to accept that an election could ever possibly be rigged. We may be headed for another fiasco such as the 2000 election, only in more than one state. I have prepared for election day by taking half a day off to make sure I get to the polls and cast my vote for Sens. Kerry and Edwards. Leslie, much like me a few months back, shook Edwards' hand at a rally yesterday in Racine. Here's hoping the luck of our life together rubs off on the Democratic candidate for Vice-President. I genuinely like Edwards. I voted for him in the primary and I continue to be impressed by his caring for the America that has been left out of the last four years.

Remember, Mr. and Mrs. Undecided Voter, the Republican president who has promised to keep you safer was in charge when 3,000 people were murdered on September 11, 2001. It was his responsibility then, and he failed. He was too busy doing yardwork at his palatial cowboy wonderland in Crawford , Texas. It is with this in mind that I paraphrase Country Joe McDonald's old song "Superbird", which was written in 1967 about another president from Texas:

"Come out, Georgie, with you hands held high
Drop your guns, baby, and reach for the sky
We got you surrounded, and you ain't got a chance
Gonna send you back to Texas, make you work on your ranch"

My gift to the world this year is a vote for John Kerry. Trust me, the world needs it.

Three beers and I'm listening to The Clash. I feel so East End!!!

I played a little bit of guitar today. I'm trying to get faster with my strumming as I cannot play leads. The results were horrible. Good thing I can cover it all up with a voice.

It's a funny thing. As bad a day as Leslie had, I sent her off to sleep with a smile. I hope to whatever that I can do that for the rest of my life.

I tried calling good friend Ted Lathrop in Kalamazoo to arrange the whos, whats and wheres of seeing Robyn hitchcock on the 5th of November, and his phone number was invalid. I posted a note in the Yahoo Robyn Hitchcock group to shame him, as well as sending him an e-mail. He's coming. He just doesn't know it yet.

I talked to my old friend Tom twice this past weekend. Oh the drinks we pounded in the past. If I could only remember half my time with this man. He has three boys and he's a pilot. I can't possibly wish him any less good fortune. He's a true friend.

Autumn is sinking in. I'm getting a little nutty, to say nothing of rammy. Leslie tried on a Halloween costume tonight consisting of fishnet stockings and I damn near blew the buttons on my pants. That is, if sweatpants had buttons.

Man do I ever love this life. I still have a long way to go. I NEVER imagined saying that at 38 1/2 years old. I was going to "submit for renewal" as they say in the film "Logan's Run" at the age of 40. Leslie gave me life and a future. I love her.

Anyway, enough of this rambling. I have things to try to remember and things to try to forget, all in equal measure. Peace to all!!!!

Another late night. I just polished off a big bowl of an ice cream flavor called "Jamaican Me Crazy" (bananas, rum and chocolate chucks; not bad) and playing another self-deprecating game of Literati with Tara, a flamenco dancer from Minneapolis who takes great pleasure in dragging me across the board like a union buster holding a set of tire chains.
Leslie and I were out at the food store earlier. On the way there, I heard "Surf's Up" from Brian Wilson's long-delayed masterwork "Smile". I've decided after listening to this that I MUST get back to working on my opera about the dangers of technology. I have had these songs in my head for YEARS and I've never put it down and finished it. It's time. Right after hearing "Surf's Up", the songs started coming back again. The one song in this opera that I feel could be an encapsulation of everything I've learned is a song called "Step Across The Sky". More on this as the opera takes shape.
I think I owe the reader a song. Let's see what other fricatives can be found in the Writ Of Common Wisdom..........

I write a lot of songs about the idea of God. I was raised Catholic, but now soundly reject all it stands for. Jesus probably was a really cool guy who didn't live long enough to spin his own press. When you have members of a cult write about the greatness of someone they followed, a lot of inaccuracies are sure to follow.
Anyway, different interpretations of God enter my thought processes rather often, and I'm compelled to write them down for reference later, so the people who later form a cult around ME can approach God from many angles. I present now, for your head-scratching pleasure, one of those angles.

God Is Your Conscience


God does not have a beard; why would God not want to shave?

God is not in the trees; God will not be in your grave

God is not in his pants, or in her beautiful hair, no

God is your conscience, and if your conscience bothers you, then God’s there


God is not in the water, God doesn’t swim; God doesn’t fly

God is not that tear that is flowing from your eye

God is not your mother or your father or a cloud in the air, no

God is your conscience, and if your conscience bothers you, the God’s there


God is where you are; God is everything you own

God is flesh and blood; God is skin; God is bone

God is your teeth, your tonsils and your hair, but most of all

God is your conscience, and if your conscience bothers you, then God’s there


A sprinkling of Catholic guilt, a sprinkling of LSD and Voila! Instant enlightenment. Or so it seems.

One week until the election. The Republicans are trying to steal this. Can civil war be far behind?

In the last two nights, I have been exposed to more cigarette smoke than I truly care for.
Last night I played the open mic at Linneman's, a local music-friendly watering hole, I went up third and covered a Tim Buckley number, dusted off "Bend Over, It's Autumn" and played "Sweet Thing" by Van Morrison to close my set. I was there with Craig Stoneman and his dad, who never got to play. I found this out tonight when I went to see Craig play with local banjo god Martin Grinwald ( I THINK that's his last name; I'll check later). Martin has a gift.
And now I find myself at my blog. Exactly 12 days from now we'll know our leader for the next four years. I'm scared to death that Bush will get four more years to steer this country straight to its death. If you have a brain, America, vote for the man who has one. Think of it as a two-for-one deal. Mr. Kerry has a conscience too.
I'm very close to giving up playing music outside of my home. It strikes me that nothing I do musically works for me on any sort of level. If I had a choice, I think I'd rather just love Leslie, play video games and truly apply myself to my personal development. I often wonder if the songs will stop coming. I'm coming to a point of peace in my life. Usually when a person reaches that point, it's all over. And yet in Leslie, I see a future. I'm just going to wait and see what sign comes next.

I really want to type a review of the Richard Thompson show in Madison that Leslie and I attended on Friday, but I just can't get motivated to do it. My humble apologies.
Work is improving, Leslie and I are getting closer and closer to the wedding date, I'm playing an open mic tomorrow and I've recently befriended a flamenco dancer from Minneapolis who gives me a nightly drubbing in Yahoo Literati. All in all, life is interesting, inspiring and beautiful.
This past Monday was Laura Nyro's birthday. The people I discuss her with all gave their postmortem blessings and greetings to her. Such nice people. Such lovely music.
I noticed as I was singing today that my high notes and my power are coming back. It's rather exciting. I like hitting those notes again. I've been lazy in the recent past in trying to hit notes. I have to shake out of that. With practice comes comfort. Man do I love to sing.
I don't really have anything earth-shattering to report other than that. I get paid tomorrow. Always exciting.
No songs tonight. I just wanted to check in. Vote for Kerry. He actually KNOWS his ass from a hole in the ground.

A funny thing happened on the way to morning.....

I fell asleep at 5 today. I was up far too late last night, and combined with the turkey dinner I had last night, I was asleep fairly quickly. I truly thought that I would be asleep through to the early morning, but at a few minutes past Midnight, I woke up for good. I decided that this was a good time to experiment with my senses a little bit. I way laying in bed with my eyes closed, and was concentrating on the sounds around me. Granted, due to the Autumn cold of evening, the windows were closed, so outside sounds were limited, but I listened to the world around me anyway. I heard the heater warming up, then running, then shutting off. I heard an occasional sigh from beloved Rocky the dog. I heard mostly the sleep breathing of Leslie as she lay next to me. I heard a handful of really tough crickets outside. I heard the distant sounds of traffic from hte main thoroughfare that passes a block and a half from my window. Upstairs, someone got up in the middle of the night, turning on the fan in their bathroom. Other than these sounds and the silence of night, there was nary a sound. In its own way, it was beautiful and refreshing. It recharged my mind in a way that was unexpected.
While I was awake for about 90 minutes in bed, Leslie spent those minutes looking for the perfect place to sleep in bed. She alternately rested her left arm on my ear, her knee gently in my backside, and the tip of her foot onto my right shin. It was when she turned over and swiped virtually all of the covers that I laughed to myself and finally decided to get up.
Now I sit listening to Tim Buckley's "Goodbye And Hello" with a peaceful smile on my face, having a glass of water and reveling in the good things. I always have to laugh at people who define themselves by their possessions. The things they miss just from not paying attention are the most wonderful things in life.
This calls for a song. Let's go to the Writ.....

This song is an old one. I wrote this after I became convinced that God was out to get me, forever planning to make my romantic relationships unhappy. This song is now a humorous ode to days gone by. God has smiled on me by delivering Leslie to me.

God Is A Ladies Man

Heaven’s a place where’s everyone’s ugly

And everyone’s beautiful once in a while

And God’s this big dude who does what he wants to

I wonder sometimes if he ever dares smile


Well, I’ve got a clue, I’ve got an inkling

Of what brings a glow to the holiest eye

It’s sure not your prayers of faith and devotion

But the sight of the ladies just passing on by


CHORUS:
‘Cause God is a ladies man, simple as that

He takes all the good ones, then hands you your hat

Yea, God is a ladies man, who could resist

And there’s not one lady that God up in heaven has missed


The weather in Heaven is just about perfect

Indian summers ten months of the year

But don’t stare too long at the thinly-clad ladies

For ladies are only God’s property here

(Chorus)


Now men of the world are usually rammy

We all stay quite lustful from 14 ‘til death

But don’t bother asking your god for a woman

You’re not getting’ any, so don’t waste your breath


Somewhat funny, somewhat pessimistic, VERY dated. That's a weird one. Sorry.

I'm going to listen to Tim a little more and try to get a little more sleep, as futile as that may be. Later tonight. Leslie and I go to Madison to see Richard Thompson. I can't get enough of those songs and that guitar. What a gifted man.

America tuned into the final presidential debate hoping to get a straight answer from their president on domestic policy. What America got was hyperkinetic obfuscation and at precisely, 9:19 EDT, FOAM on the corner of the president's mouth.
This president just doesn't get it. He doeesn't care about anyone but himself. He's worthless as a leader and as a man. He should be expunged from his office if not by ballot then by force.
And given the news I've been reading today, it looks like the Republicans are going to do EVERYTHING they can to try to reduce the Democratic vote for John Kerry. In Nevada, a Republican is trying to disqualify Democratic ballots based on supposition of ineligibility. Here in Milwaukee, the Republican County Commisioner has refused The Democratic mayor's request for additional ballots for the coming election, which were requested because of a record registration drive that would surely deliver the city, if not the state, to Mr. Kerry if those registrations turn into votes. In Florida, the handpicked Republican Secretary Of State is pulling out all the stops to disenfranchise voters, resulting in multiple lawsuits by honest parties attempting to reverse the process.
If Mr. Bush wins this election, it's going to lead to Civil War. I no longer feel that that thought is an exaggeration. People are at each other's throats right now in the United States. Incompetance at the top tends to spread downward quickly. I'm seeing a traffic accident unfold right before my eyes. If Mr. Kerry loses this election, I do not choose capitulation. I choose to fight.

I'm a few days late, so I'll recap Friday's show very quickly.

We all played three songs, except for Jennifer Lee, who played two. This is where I come in. I sang backup on Jen's songs, and I even tried my hand at bongos on one of her songs. I told Jen earlier tonight via a forum post at the Project I Am web site that rhythm won out over fear. I was really impressed with Craig Stoneman's songs on Friday. He has a song called "Sweet Lightning" that's just top-notch. He gave me a CD of it, so I'll put it in heavy rotation soon in the house.

Leslie told me I should stop writing funny songs. What would I do if I was forced to write non-funny songs one hundred percent of the time? I guess she wants to be a widow.

Things are going really well at work. MANY things are getting done, and I couldn't be happier. I can't believe it's already the middle of October. I must make a pact with myself to spend more time outdoors and MUCH less time inside eating. I'm woefully out of shape and it's not getting any better. I'm almost too much for my guitar. I need to fix that.

Later today is the final debate. Bush has been using a transmitter in the last two because he gets easily stunned and confused when forced to actually think for himself. It's incredibly scary that this man is running our country. He MUST go!! NOW!! For the sake of the future of mankind.

It is 1:40 in the morning on October the 9th. I have just finished watching the rebroadcast of the 2nd presidential debate from this past evening.
After witnessing the debate and watching the two candidates carefully and keenly, I am now ready to state for the record that I believe the President of the United States, George W. Bush, is currently in the throws of a drug problem.
Multiple times tonight, while Senator Kerry was speaking, the president sat on his stool showing definitive signs of amphetamine use. His breathing was visibly shallow. His eyes were blinking extremely rapidly.
The suspicious behavior continued while the president was speaking. There were instances too numerous to count where the President kept tugging at his jacket while pacing the floor during his answers to the St. Louis , Missouri audience.
These could all be considered quirks in my mind if they were anyone else. Unfortunately, the President indicted himself earlier this week when he "decided" to skip his yearly scheduled physical examination. Given his past actions, in particular with respect to what we have learned about his avoidance of a routine physical while serving in the Texas Air National Guard, I believe the President has something to hide, and as citizens, we should now demand and require the President to submit to the American people proof of a clean drug test, duely regulated by a team of health care professionals.

This is not a joke, lest anyone believe that I am less than completely serious about my allegations. The president is on something, and as a citizen I demand to know what that something is.

I shall post to the blog tomorrow regarding the rest of my night. I am in shock over what I saw on this debate tonight, and it will take a while to come to grips with the truth. I humbly request the rest of the night off from the readers.

MAN, is it ever late.

I just thought I should drop in to bid the reader good night and offer a boatload of peace to all my readers/viewers.

Since I have NOTHING to say, how about a song from the Writ?

I think it is the responsibility of every great songwriter to give the world a bawdy sea shanty. This is mine. Picture this song being sung by pirates waving cutlasses, and you won't be disappointed.

Give ‘Er One For Me


If you meet a lonely lady as you travel ‘round the world

And you feel as if her body should-a be against ya curled

But her face just isn’t something you would really care to see

Flip ‘er over and give ‘er one for me


If you find a chocolate beauty from the Isle of the Dead

And you get her all alone in some hotel room with a bed

And there’s just a little more of ‘er than you would like to see

Flip ‘er over and give ‘er one for me


If you meet a Hindu harlot in the mud in Bangladesh

And you have a little time to share the pleasures of the flesh

But the floods have left ‘er smellin’ like a skunk on highway 3

Flip ‘er over and give ‘er one for me


So you found yourself in Sydney on a sunny afternoon

And the natives all are restless and the ladies start to swoon

It’s no matter if she’s white or if she’s aborigine

Flip ‘er over and give ‘er one for me


If you come across a China girl in what they called Peking

And her body makes you dance and her hair it makes you sing

But her eyes are crossed and pointing where they shouldn’t oughta be

Flip ‘er over and give ‘er one for me


If you find yourself in Rome and catch the old amore flu

And you catch the fiery eyes of a bella lass or two

But they want to bring you home so you can meet the family

Flip ‘er over and give 'er one for me


If you’re walkin’ cold and lonely on a narrow Paris street

And you spot a young French kisser that you’d kinda like to meet

But she blows smoke in your face and she’s as stupid as can be

Flip ‘er over and give ‘er one for me


For many moons and suns you will be walking on the Earth

And some of ‘em are thin and some of ‘em have girth

But when someday, boy, you marry and retire from the sea

Flip ‘er over and give ‘er one for me


And now that my bawdy sea shanty has more than likely insulted a majority of world cultures, I bid you a good morning.

It has been roughly 30 minutes since the end of the Vice-Presidential debate. In my mind the loser of this debate was neither Dick Cheney nor John Edwards.
The loser of this debate was Gwen Ifill, tonight's moderator, who is a correspondent for PBS and other political talk shows across a few other networks. Her line of questioning was of very little substance, and at times incredibly partial to Mr. Cheney. It is hoped that she is NEVER chosen to moderate a debate of this importance again in my lifetime. There was not a single question asked about education. The candidates themselves had to bring it up.
In the end, this debate will be of little substance on Saturday, one day after George W. Bush and John Kerry debate in a town hall format, answering questions from the general public. Knowing what I know about the president's inability to form a complete sentence not written by Karl Rove, this debate will mean nothing in a week.
I was disappointed that Edwards didn't go after Cheney for the vice-president's many lapses in morality that have plagued him since leaving his post as Secretary of Defense in the first Bush Administration. Edwards mentioned Halliburton and its MANY shady dealings only a few times. He needed to do this a LOT more, and call the vice-president exactly what he is; a thinly-disguised war profiteer.

The first Presidential "debate" was this evening. While I am an unabashed supporter of John Kerry, I saw something tonight in the middle of the debate that completely summed up the presidency of George W. Bush.
I watched the debate on C-Span, the government affairs channel on cable television here in the States. I watch these types of things on C-span because it is free of spin and half-assed "analysis" by the unimaginative stooges in the National Press Corps. This network was not a slave to prearranged camera angles. The cameras were on the candidates for the entire time they occupied the stage. During the debate, the candidates were in split screen. Every little move they made was in full view.
So, about an hour into the debate, while John Kerry was making a point, Bush reaches underneath his lectern for a glass of water and starts drinking. He then got a very surprised look on his face, for the glass had no water in it. He then reached under the lectern for a glass that actually contained water and began drinking.
I do not know how long it will take or even IF the substantial damage done to America by the presidency of George W. Bush can be reversed. I can state unequivocally that the thought of a second term with Mr. Bush as my president, based on what he has done to this world so far, leaves absolutely no room for optimism. President Bush's glass, both literally and figuratively, is empty. God Help America.