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.

I'm not sure where to start this tonight, and my limited gifts as a writer and orderly thinker may hinder what I'm about to type, but here's my best attempt.
I just turned off the Sundance Channel. There was a movie I was watching that from what I could determine from the first ten minutes was going to be one of those movies where people in their twenties overthink romantic relationships. These movies used to define my existence, mainly because much like the characters on screen, I kept striking out in the worst way possible.
To briefly recap, my romantic life to this point has consisted of my high school sweetheart who rightfully dumped me because I grew up too slowly, a telekinetic hypochondriac art chick, an emotionally unwound actress type, a second fly-by (which led to an eventual crash) of the previously referenced telekinetic hypochondriac, a live-in country girl, a college student who was probably too young for me, a Puerto Rican divorcee who listened to dance music, a hardcore catholic, my first wife who never listened to me and FINALLY, FINALLY, Lovely Lady Leslie. Interspersed into the above list are roughly 4 other passing liaisons that flamed out for various reasons.
Love's a great thing, but every night, when I lay next to Leslie, thinking about soon being her husband, I think "What took me so long to find her?". I probably don't tell her enough that when I drift off to sleep, I get to smile at her in the dark for about 5 minutes. We've lived together just over three years (it was three last Wednesday the 22nd), and it's still wonderful.
Love is about positive release. For me, I know that for the rest of my life, the love that I show for the human race goes out in concentric circles from a single point. Leslie is Ground Zero.
So to recap, I have Leslie, Autumn, music, water and food. What else is there?

Well, there are songs.......

I owe the loyal reader(s?) a song from the now-infamous Writ Of Common Wisdom.

One of the invented raging topics currently of the American news media is the issue of gay marriage. I for one am a proponent of gay marriage. It's about time our friends in the homosexual community got a chance to see what the sting of divorce feels like. Remember fellas, its all in fun until Chip packs a moving van with all your shit and takes off.
I wrote this song about four years ago. I guess that makes me a visionary, and I have no idea why the issue of gay marriage was in my head. It may be because my first marriage was in such a horrible place and my first wife was becoming such a shrew that the little gay man in the basement of my head was saying, "Gee, is there anything I can do to help?". Luckily, I met Leslie and the rest is history.

Georgia Says


Georgia says, “I’m gonna marry my dear lady”

Georgia says, “My lady suits me fine”

Well, Georgia says, “I’ve been around

And this true love is what I’ve found

I’m sorry if it’s stranger than it sounds.”


Georgia says, “I became aware in college

And since then there has been no turning back

‘Cause I know what is right for me

I wish you would just let me be

A woman in love with a woman in love with me.”


Love comes in many colors, shapes and sizes

And life is full of one-gender surprises


Georgia says, “It’s good to love somebody

‘Specially when you know they love you back

So raise your glasses, toast our love

And even if your god above

Don’t care for it, my lady and I…

Go hand in glove.”

So there. To my friends in the homosexual community, I support you in your struggle. Good luck.

And now I leave the good reader and bid him/her peace and love.

In this early morning, I have nothing to add to the dialogue of the world. I just thought that it would be somehow important to tell the world that I'm bored. Have a nice day.

The Autumnal Equinox is here. The season of quiet begins. The seasons of Spring and Summer are for humans; more traffic, more sounds of children playing in the sunshine. The Autumn and Winter is the time for Nature to make the noise. How I shall revel at the sounds of leaves flying down the street in the wind! The stiff winter winds will burn my ears with their speed and cold, and it will be a sweet fire. The snows will come, more silent than a whisper and touch the tip of my nose and turn to water. One would think them tears if not for the smile on my face. Let the sun worshippers hide if they must. This is MY time. I look forward to that moment when I come inside from walking in the snow and remove my shoes and socks, soaked through and through from knee-deep snow. I shall succumb to winter and in my surrender, I shall find peace. I shall become bullet-proof. The remnants of Summer will try as best as they can to hang on, with a few warm days left, but Summer is just leaving the door open as it leaves. Summer sun has no sense of the rest of the world. In the same way a child will litter a room with toys that have grown tiresome, so too does summer like to leave pieces of itself for all to see. Is it the bumper sticker on the car from the vacation spot we visitied in the past months? Is it the snapshot of frozen smiling people wearing beachware in a time when the problems of the world, if only for a moment, didn't matter? Is it a lost baseball in the bushes destined to be found by the family dog? We never truly know until we decide to look.

A cool breeze at this very moment is hitting my ankles. I don't have the heart to poison this wonderful moment with one of my songs. Let's enjoy the parting of Summer and the promise that Autumn always brings to me; human silence, natural color and the removal of my allergies.

CONCERT REVIEW
Caravan
September 20, 2004
Shank Hall, Milwaukee, WI

The year was 1983. I was 17 years old and just beginning to submerge myself into my lifelong addiction for music. I lived in the Overbrook Park section of Philadelphia, just off of Haverford Avenue and City Line Avenue. I used to take any money I could find and I would go down to Finyl Vinyl Records on Haverford. It was a record store that was run by a guy who was into jazz who never quite knew what price to put on rock records. I was into anything between the years of 1965 and 1973. I was flipping through the rock section when I came across an album with four men standing in what looked like a short forest. On the bottom of the front cover was the name of the album:

CARAVAN
If I Could Do It All Over Again, I'd Do It All Over You

How could I pass this record up? Upon flipping it over, not only was it made in the early '70's, but among the "instruments" played on the record were "worn leather strap", "hedge clippers" and (my personal favorite) "impersonation of a friendly gorilla and assorted ashtrays". I decided that THIS was a band I could welcome into my home.
Caravan is/was a starstruck band hailing from Canterbury, England. In the short lifespan that was progressive rock, Caravan operated under the radar both due to the fault of indifferent record labels and a lineup that to this day just can't keep its butt in the throne. Like almost every other progressive rock band, they were unfairly assassinated by punk rock and disco in the late '70's. Most bands of their ilk never recovered.
When I saw the advertisement in the newspaper a few weeks ago showing a double-bill at Shank Hall consisting of Caravan and their prog-rock brethren in Nektar, I felt that this would be one of my few chances prior to the afterlife to see a unit that has become one of my favorite all-time bands.
Tonight the boys in Caravan satisfied my dreams. With original members Pye Hastings and drummer Richard Coughlin, along with erstwhile members Jim Leverton, multi-instrumentalist Geoff Richardson, lead guitarist Doug Boyle and a keyboardist with a very European name that I didn't catch that was once in the band Camel (research it yourself; this guy was amazing!), Caravan played the set I always dreamed of, and then some. All the perennial favorites were here: "Golf Girl", "And I Wish I Was Stoned (Don't Worry)", "9 Feet Underground" and the closer "For Richard", along with other songs old and new that left my ears ringing, my inner child doing an interpretive dance, and my bladder in dire need of emptying from the Guinness draft and the bottle of Newcastle thank I drank before and during the show.
I was hoping to meet some of the members of the band after their set, but they never came out from behind the magic black curtain at Shank Hall. No problem. For one night, without even knowing it, they made an aging man's dream come true.
I only have one fear now. I truly though I would never see Caravan play a concert while I was alive. They are one of the bands I figured I'd see in the afterlife. Could it be that all of my dreams on this planet have finally come true? Is it safe for me to die now? What's left? Should I be questioning my entire existence now that Caravan has played "The Dog The Dog He's At It Again" while I was still drawing breath (albeit smoke -saturated breath)? As I go to sleep, I go with the knowledge that this may be the night that I don't wake up as I'm falling in my dreams. If you don't hear from me again, it's been a great ride. Love always.

1 AM. Leslie and I went and saw "Garden State" tonight at the local art house. I was really into the soundtrack, but unfortunately, the story line doesn't allow me to get too close to the movie. The main character went home again and all his problems were on the way to being solved. My home is here. My family is a burden to me that I would much rather keep at a distance. As the lady says, "And so it goes".
Yesterday was my exciting day. I went to buy tickets to see Robyn Hitchcock live (FINALLY!!) and Caravan (my prog-rock guilty pleasure) in the very near future. I have people coming from out of town to see Robyn with Leslie and I. That's extremely exciting. For now, I loaded up the CD changer with some selections from the Harris-Spencer Collection. I'm currently listening to "Volunteers" by the Jefferson Airplane. Man do I miss Nicky Hopkins!!
I'm enjoying the last cool night for a while. It's supposed to heat up for about the next week. I'm not looking forward to it. My allergies are wreaking havoc on me right now. It's getting tiresome for all who surround me, let alone myself. all I can do is drink lots of cold fluids.
The CD changer has moved to "In The Land Of Grey And Pink" by Caravan. I'm using this as a warm-up for the show I see in a week and a half. I love their instrumentation.

It strikes me that I owe the reader (do I have a reader) another song. Let's see what the Writ has for us tonight....
This one is strange. Did you ever pass someone on the street, or take a look around your office at the people who surround you? I do it all the time. I think often about just how many people I never come anywhere near again who pass me on a given day. That guy in traffic? Forget it, I'll never see them again. That co-worker who's leaving? Maybe, but anything past a few compulsory " how ya doin' " is something of a pipe dream. This song addresses that a little bit. In my last insurance job, there was a temp worker named Heather who, while not knockdown dragout beautiful, had something from afar than my mind's eye fixed on. It's very hard to explain with the passage of over 8 years time, but I had this idea of regretting not meeting everyone in the world. I wasn't romantically interested in Heather, but the song comes out sounding that way. I write a lot about the idea of courage. I don't have much really. About the most courageous thing I ever did was walk out on my first wife to try to build a better life for myself with the time I have left in existense. My lack of courage really stems from being shy around people I don't know. At a party full of strangers, you can usually find me somewhere near the dish of honey-roasted peanuts. I tend to think in ideas and facts and not in the interpersonal.
So to sum up, this song isn't about Heather so much as it is about my lack of ability to introduce myself to strangers. I'm getting better, but not by much. I spent too much damned time on the East Coast.

For Lack Of Courage


They tell me that you’re leavin’ without bein’ introduced

Now my heart’s a little heavy, and my soul a bit reduced

This face of yours is magic and your hair the wind itself

And these massive aching feelings, I’ll just keep them to myself


But why then am I happy that your door should open wide

Could it be that way deep down I know these feelings will subside

And then I look at you again and I knew that I was wrong

And I’ll never find the courage to walk up and say “so long”


All the times you passed me by and you didn’t say hello

You made me smile by bein’ there and you didn’t even know


But enjoy the road ahead; I hope it gives you everything

Even though to you, I know I just don’t mean a thing

Let the sun cast giant shadows back to every step you take

And I’ll laugh a little louder with my shyness my mistake

Damn, what I might have missed in this world if only for a little forcefulness.

And now it's time to move on into the night. Such beautiful winds I get here from Lake Michigan. It's almost nice enough for a seat outside.....

We're often told from our earliest moments of awareness that there are good days and bad days in life. The catch, as I always understood it, was that these days were supposed to be mutually exclusive of one another. Someday, I'd love for someone to tell me what this day all meant.
12 Noon - I had my annual salary review, which resulted in a raise of half a dollar an hour. The owners of my company were equal parts supportive and reproachful of my efforts over the last year, but the main thing I walked away with was the raise. I went home after my review, had a Boca Bagel (my own creation; a light bagel, with two Boca burgers, habanero sauce, jalapeno peppers and Tabasco; it never gets old) and reveled in my raise.
2:16 PM - I have been fighting with MBNA, one of my credit card companies who was stupid enough to extend enormous amounts of credit to me at the same cosmic moment that I decided that my CD collection needed expanding, for a lower interest rate. Get this; I entered a debt management plan with them six years ago. I dropped out of the debt management plan three years ago because I could finally afford to take over the payments by myself. In addition, I have been paying them a few extra dollars a month above and beyond what they have been asking for. I decided when I got my bill from them in the mail last week that enough time had passed and that I could finally tell them that I am out of the debt management plan. All of a sudden, the flunky CSR on the other end of the phone (the only redeeming quality being possessed by this operator being that she wasn't in India, unlike Capital One, whom I have dumped as a creditor because I am firmly against outsourcing American jobs) tells me that due to the fact that I am no longer in the debt management plan, my interest rate is going up 3 percentage points. After a week of pleading my case to numerous happy-sounding surrogates on the phone, they have finally reneged on that threat and my interest rate will stay the same. They informed me of this by leaving me a voicemail on my cell phone. A footnote: MBNA said I skipped payments to them way back in 1998 for six consecutive months. This is not my fault, but the fault of MBNA, who took four months to respond to the pleas from my debt management company to accept a fixed monthly payment. In summation, MBNA sucks harder than a toothless prostitute and NO ONE should accept their credit cards under any circumstances. The worst part? They are incorporated in Delaware, which is roughly the same from a tax-paying standpoint as the Cayman Islands. Delaware can offer the consumer tax-free shopping because virtually every American corporation has a dummy office in Wilmington and the suburbs of Wilmington.
4:15 PM - I met Leslie at the vet. Our cat Sadie has been deteriorating lately, so much so that she became extremely dehydrated and wasn't eating. The vet gave us an outline of a very expensive convalescense involving fluid pushes and thyroid medications for the rest of our lives, but she was 14 and that it was probably time. Leslie and I were by her side as she was put to sleep. Leslie had her longer than I had her, but from the moment that Leslie and I moved in together, Sadie became my cat. Our dog is Leslie's dog, as he prefers the company of women. Sadie could be a pest and as stubborn as any human, but she was mine. About an hour ago I could have sworn that I saw her turning the corner from the kitchen to come into the office. It turned out to be a tissue, still in the box, moving from the breeze coming in my window. I was going to start a diet today, but I talked Leslie into a pizza to salve my depression. It helped a little. What probably didn't help was watching an episode of "Dead Like Me" on videotape which involved taking a cat to the vet. We should have stuck to the World Cup Of Hockey, but Leslie prefers virtually anything but sports.
We came home from the veterinarian's office to a letter from my professional organization telling me that they had turned down my proposal to speak at their next conference this coming Spring. There goes money and accolades out the window. It would have been a nice feather in my cap, but it will have to wait another day.

We're often told that there will be good days and bad days. This day started out great and slowly deteriorated into a not-so-great day. For the first time in almost three years, I shall go to bed tonight without Sadie putting me to sleep by laying on my chest. I never believed the religious claptrap about animals not having souls. The animals are here, and they keep us company in the best and worst of times. Perhaps their souls are not as tortured as our own, but they're in there somewhere. I found one of Sadie's whiskers in the hallway after we got home tonight. I think I'll hang on to that for awhile.

No songs tonight. Just give the pets an extra rub for me. Rest in peace, Sadie.

It's a BEAUTIFUL sunny September 4th in Milwaukee. I'm listening to Echo & The Bunnymen as I feel a soft and not-too-humid breeze flow through my window.
The Republican Hatefest wrapped up in New York this week. I watched it on TV for a grand total of zero seconds. I read enough of the news accounts of this dog and pony show to know that the Republican Party has slowly morphed into the most organized, efficient and corporately subsidized hate group in the United States. Poor misguided bastards.
I've been playing a lot of Literati on Yahoo lately (their version of Scrabble). As I meet more and more random women while playing, I find it just amazing how much more I love Leslie. I hold love in my heart for the entire world, but in order to share that with the world, I feel it is important to have a powerful example of love in your own house. I can say unequivocally that I have that now. The years of plaque and angst that surrounds my heart from being around people who made me feel OBLIGATED to love them is chipping away a little more each day. I could almost go outside and enjoy the sunshine, if not for my allergies.

And now, for the first time in far too long, I present another song from The Writ Of Common Wisdom. Now, where did I leave off...?
This is a crappy song I wrote about acid flashbacks. One of the biggest lies in America is that people actually suffer acid flashbacks. I agree with Hunter Thompson; I feel cheated that the flashbacks haven't come. This song can be viewed as my contribution to the Great American Lie and myth of what happens after you do drugs. This song also contains a lot of references to what happened to me personally when I was into acid that the reader may not understand. Feel free to ask me about all of them someday.

Flashin’ Back Again


I can’t look at that painting of the drunk clown anymore

I took him down, turned him around, and put him on the floor

Accordions are buzzin’ loud, and still they buzz some more

I’m flashin’ back again, please help me find the middle door


I’ve had an even dozen beers from the case I bought today

Nathan drank the other twelve, laughing all the way

In the August sky, I think I see a one-horse open sleigh

I’m flashin’ back again, but if I’m smilin’, I’m OK


The world is shaking madly, Lord forgive what I have done

With my pupils doing flip-flops and my sanity on the run


On Sundays when I go to church and get down on my knees

The stained-glass windows glowing there leave me ill at ease

Pontius Pilate winks at me, don’t crucify me, please

I’m flashin’ back again, God knows I’ve had a few of these


Night falls like a ton of cats since I dried out last year

I stare into the darkness waiting for a 13th beer

There’s Miles Davis in a swaying tree, and a modicum of fear

I’m flashin’ back again, I kinda wish I wasn’t here


That song is dedicated to my old friend Nathan Brodmerkel. I hope he's doing well. I may giv e you another entry later today. I've been EXTREMELY lazy lately, and for that I'm sorry.

Happy Labor Day weekend everyone. That you, organized labor, for the 40-hour work week!

What a goofy day! I was the lone member of the management team in the building today. I suddenly was the answer man. Funny what a guy in a Hawaiian shirt can get accomplished when pushed.
I really don't have much news tonight. I'm hoping that I'll have something to report on tomorrow. We'll see. One thing is for sure; the day will start with two episodes of "The Green Hornet" on cable. I now have the theme to that show as the ring tone on my phone. It's a psychotic variation on "Flight Of The Bumblebee". Really cool.
Tonight's selection from the famed Writ Of Common Wisdom can very much be identified as the beginning of me stretching my legs as a songwriter. This song is eleven years old. I wrote this while I was living in Greensboro, North Carolina in late '92 or early '93. I wrote it, left it alone for a while, and then in going back through the few songs that I had already written, discovered I had used this exact same chord progression for another song with a faster tempo. The dream is to someday put the first song (which I call "Interior") and this song as the bookend tracks of a concept album. There's a line in this about living "beside this train". This is not an exaggeration. There were freight train tracks about 30 yards from my apartment window in Greensboro. As a person who's used to city trolley cars, this was a little disconcerting when the first freights passed by my window. I got used to it though, as this song celebrates to a degree.

Exterior (Somewhere Else)


The most important people in my life have come and gone

And my eyes won’t see that truth for many days

And I can’t remember who it was who told me I was wrong

When I told them non-conformity pays

I find myself in foreign towns where people twist my name

And at least on face will always ring some bells

And I could travel here and elsewhere, but it all remains the same

‘Cause I always know that I’m from somewhere else


I wake up in the morning and I wish I was with you

And knowin’ your not here will bring me grief

And I quickly regress back to 1986

And I rub my swollen eyes in disbelief

You’re standing fully clothed, flicking ashes on my bed

But I know it’s all a dream inside my self

And I could wish here and elsewhere, but it’s all within my head

‘Cause I always know that I’m from somewhere else


My days go by in darkness and my nights about the same

And I’m not sure how much longer I can last

And I look around my neighborhood for someone I can blame

Or someone to remove me from my past

And things that seem to matter equal nothing in the end

And pretending to love is something I can’t sell

And I could live here beside this train or someplace ‘round the bend

But I’ll always know

I’ll always know

I’ll always know I’m from somewhere else


I don't play this song much anymore, but it still has its strong points when I sing it. For now, I'm going to enjoy the break in the humidity of the last few days, continue listening to Midnight Oil's "Red Sails In The Sunset" and continue my search for hidden wisdom.

OK, I haven't had the patience to put an entry up this week, but MAN do I have a lot to say, so here it comes.
We'll start with this past Sunday. Democratic presidential candidate John Edwards paid a visit not just to my state, but to my neighborhood. It was advertised as a block party. It was situated roughly four blocks away from my current abode in Milwaukee. I walked up in the afternoon and had numerous nice conversations with the other people in the crowd. I went up to Humboldt Park at roughly 3 PM. While Edwards didn't make his appearance until 7 PM, I didn't mind. It is emboldening and empowering to know that I do not stand alone against this travesty of a president we currently have in office. I ended up standing next to a very nice lady who later bought me a bottle of water for saving her spot while she went to the bathroom (ah, Porto-San!).
John's speech was highlighted by his typical talking points (two americas, creating opportunities, the moral imperative of fighting poverty), but on this day, he added a special harangue for these lying bastards who are running ads trashing Kerry's military service. Nevermind that EVERY official military document directly contradicts what these Brownshirts are spewing, but they ought to get a good look at the record (or destroyed lack thereof) of the man they support. Our president is a cokehead and a drunk who skipped his last Air National Guard physical and went missing because he couldn't possibly pass a medical screening. This fact has been covered up very carefully by his propaganda minister, Karl Rove.
On to more positive topics. At the end of Mr. Edwards' speech, I dared to launch myself into the crowd and with a desperate reach of a hand, I shook the hand of the future vice-president of the United States. It was a moment that filled me with a great sense of peace and satisfaction. Who knew shaking the hand of a politician could have such an effect?
My boss is back from her injury and in remarkably good spirits. I wish her a continued speedy recovery. Lovely Lady Leslie is trying to talk me into going to her father's place this weekend for a garage sale. I'm not really interested in going. I want to bury myself in paperwork this weekend. For the short time, I think I'm going back to the Bremen Cafe tomorrow night to hit their open mic to pump out some more tunes.
And one of them might be this one. Since I'm in a political mood, I'm going to jump out of order and give you a song I've written about our current misLeader. More to the point, I see the United States as currently being in a state of civil war. It gratifies me that I am on the correct side of this argument, but honestly, I don't see this war ending with the election. A lot of people are looking at this coming election as the end of this madness. I see it as only the beginning. No one in this country is listening to anyone from the other side anymore. All I am hearing is hate speech from the right, and invective from the left. This song talks about my eventual exodus from this country.

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)

I gladly lend my voice to those who would fight this terrible, heartless and cynical presidency with all of their might. As people lay dying in Darfur, Sudan due to religious hatred, as our veterans go without adequate healthcare, as MILLIONS of people in this and other countries go to sleep hungry and as our young men and women slowly get killed in a land we had no credible reason to invade, I wonder how Mr. Bush sleeps at night. And the most infuriating thing is he dares to stand in front of America saying that God speaks to him. Mr. Bush, may I sit here and exercise my First Amendment right to say "Fuck you!!".

FAST REVIEW
Project I AM
August 18, 2004
Open Mic, Bremen Cafe

Ah, open mics. The first step on the road to Hope. The last undiscovered country of music where the talentless mingle with the criminally undiscovered.
Thursday, August 19,2004 saw an open mic at the Bremen Cafe, located at the coner of E. Clarke and Bremen in Milwaukee, a nice little place with great food and all the Newcastle Brown Ale a dark-beer-drinking singer needs to oil his pipes prior to setting the room either on fire or running for the exits. On this night, there was a purpose afoot, for this was the humble debut of four performers appearing under the banner of Project I AM, a new and exciting venture put forth in the hope of forming a front of support for musicians, artists and the chronically creative in Milwaukee and the surrounding area. Thanks to the quick thinking of project founder, Eric Kulwicki, the four performers started off the open mic in the first four spots on the bill.
First up was Kulwicki, starting off the evening by bringing a post-grunge aesthetic forward with his three strong songs. Kulwicki's voice was revealed as a distinct surprise. It is hoped that his tasks as a leader will not keep him off the stage in a role that seems to come naturally to him.
The second act was some nameless hack who missed several chords on his acoustic guitar and bellowed histrionically with his eyes closed, causing the breakage of several beer glasses, one stained-glass window and - in the unkindest cut of all- an ovary belonging to a poor, unfortunate college girl in the back of the cafe who was innocently surfing the internet at the time. The audience applauded as he quickly exited the stage amidst a hail of sandwich baskets, balled-up paper towels and rotting peppers.
Next up was Craig Stoneman, whose daring chord choices highlighted songs of great humor and keen observation. Instrumentally, Stoneman showed himself to be the strongest of the four acts, easily gliding up and down the bridge with ease. His third song, which lamented the absense of actual music on MTV, deserves to be repeated.
Thankfully, the project saved the best for last. Jennifer (last name still withheld; why is that?) took the stage, Stratocaster in hand, and left the crowd wanting more with her sole performance, an original composition called "Sorrow". Emotion exuded from every note from her mouth. Nervous due to being a piano player first and a guitar player second, Jennifer was both relieved and deservedly pleased as she left the stage.
It is hoped that Project I AM will be blowing through another venue in the very near future for more performances like this one. Stay Tuned..........

Late at night....waiting for the humidity to break. A cool breeze is trying to fight through the heat and take over. In the interim, I have the ceiling fans on.
Tomorrow is the coming-out of Project IAM at the Bremen Cafe. I'm rather excited about this. It will be nice to know that I have someone else rattling the sabre and charging up the hill with me. In the spirit of team play, I'm listening to Bakkus' record for what must be the seventh or eighth time since I acquired it. The music is well-played. This is solid rock and roll. I hope they accomplish what they want with it. It's a really tight record.
As for me, I contacted the spectres of musicians past today. I dropped an e-mail to Curtis, one of my oldest friends in the world and one hell of a musician. Between flooding in his basement and his youngest son contracting hand, foot and mouth disease (they live on the fringes of Amish country in South Central Pennsylvania), life is good for Curtis. I first met Curtis when I was 14 (almost twice that much time has passed since then; unbelievable!). I met him through a mutual friend. I was plastered on kamikazes and he was playing with the band who I had helped with the moving of equipment. I seem to remember that this was his first gig with that high school band. The rhythm guitarist lit this girl's patio on fire and initiated Curtis into the band. Just ridiculous. I bet the patio still has a slight stain from the reagent alcohol that fanned the flames. The girl was Shelley Straff. She fancied herself an actress/singer. She annoyed the hell out of a lot of people.
Ah, memories. What a filter! Oh well, onward to tonight's entry. I have no idea what inspired this song. For a time, I was writing a lot of ballads with natural elements (sea, sand, snow, rain, clouds, blah blah blah). This is one of those songs. I find that when I write ballads, I escape to the natural world instead of the many abstractions that are encountered by looking inward. I've always liked the elements, but unfortunately I have no tolerance for them most of the time, as I have chronic seasonal allergies. It turns out that Milwaukee is second only to Grand Rapids, Michigan for cities rated best for allergy sufferers in the United States. I have stumbled accidentally into the right place. Another reason to love it here. I don't know what all of this has to do with tonight's entry, but at the very least I've given the reader a window into the world of J.P.

Every Leafless Tree


If you knew how much I miss you, try’n to dream away the pain

In the lonely days of winter I can hardly stand the strain

In the wind-blown snows of evening, how the drifts become the sea

And I see us on a sandy shore in every leafless tree


To see you was a month of love in a second and a half

How my hands caressed your body in that private hotel bath

It’s these memories of you that come ever back to me

On every silent snowfall, in every leafless tree


And the winds blow hard and bitter ever vigilant and cold

My arms hang lifeless at my sides without a hand to hold

I tell myself under all this white, a little green must grow

A memory of love and loss under January snow


If the seasons change, they can replace the cold with warmth again

A ray of hope for golden days to say, “Remember when?”

A love entombed in ice is always difficult to see

And yet I’ll search in time for you in every leafless tree


This song is in a lower vocal register than what I am used to, but I think I pull it off rather well. The chord structure allows for that. For now. I have to kill just a slight bit more of time before I fall blissfully asleep next to Lovely Lady Leslie, with our cat Sadie continuing her hunger strike at the foot of the bed. Crazy place this world.....

Another August 17th has come and gone. For all of those reading this who had a birthday on the day that just expired (in the immortal words of Ray Manzarek) may you have had some champagne, eaten some cake and balled the old lady!
It's been a bad couple of days. I found out today that my boss broke a cervical vertebrae falling off a horse. She is being told not to talk due to cord shock and will be fitted with a cervical collar for roughly three months to speed healing. Get well soon Jill! I 'm not sure which is worse for you; the pain in your neck or you not talking. May you regain both soon.
And this was on the heals of finding out that a person I work with in one of our client's offices lost her grandmother and father within a week of each other. She's only 21. I can't imagine the grieving process she must be going through. Peace to you Jenny!
The next song in alphabetical order in the Writ Of Common Wisdom is inappropriate after news like this, but what better way to change the mood, right? Perhaps when I think about it, this song is totally appropriate. I wrote this song way back in the foreign country known as the 1990's at the peak of the grunge boom. I was growing increasingly tired of winy depressives with tattoos telling me in 7-minute songs how bad they felt. This was my two-chord reaction to all of this foolishness. Is it any wonder that Kurt Cobain and Layne Staley are dead, given the dour mood of their music? This song could use some updating, as we live in a period of profound stupidity, starting with the current occupant of the Oval Office and trickling down. May we all forget this time period soon by welcoming President Kerry.

Everybody’s Stupid


Everybody reads the paper

Everybody listens to the press

Everybody wears a goatee

Everybody’s so depressed, I guess everybody’s

Stupid, STUpid, STUPID!!!!!


Everybody’s watchin’ TV

Everybody’s feelin’ lousy

Everybody’s huffin’ bug spray

Everybody quotes Bukowski, everybody’s

Stupid, STUpid, STUPID!!!!!


Everybody’s switchin’ spouses

Everybody idiot’s a warrior

Everybody’s getting tattoos

Every killer gets a lawyer, everybody’s

Stupid, STUpid, STUPID!!!!!


Not one of my more subtle compositions, but I think this does the trick. When the stupidity around me in this country surrounds me to a higher degree than normal (how could it GET any higher?), this song pops into my head. Up yours, America! You're slouching towards illiteracy, imperialism and dictatorship. WAKE UP!!

It's been too long a time since I decided to stop in. The week was uneventful. The political season opens itself up to charge and countercharge. I did my good deed by putting a Kerry/Edwards bumper sticker on my car. I did have one very good experience this week. I met Michael Proft, a fellow member of my Laura Nyro discussion group on Http://www.cafeutne.org. It is always a relief to discover that a like-minded individual resides in your immediate sphere of influence. I hope to have further conversations with Michael as time goes forward. I have a feeling he can add to my generally happy mood. I only hope I can add to his as well.
Currently, I'm listening to the very poor CD release of the album "Wow/Grape Jam" by Moby Grape. I say poor due to the fact that there are tracks missing from it. Hopefully this will be rectified someday.
I'm going to give the reader a bonus this early morning. Instead of just one entry from The Writ, I'm going to offer two. This is my penalty for staying away for a week. Now, where did we leave off?....
The first of tonight's two entries is a relatively new entry. When one listens to a lot of Randy Newman, songs like this tend to pop up. Why anyone would write a song about stealing a dead body on the first day on the job as a hearse driver is beyond me; or perhaps, it's right up my alley. The hardest part of writing this song was thinking about what a man who dies in his sleep dreams about. All in all, if I get the chance to die in my sleep, I guess dreaming about strippers with even tans wouldn't be so bad.

Drivin’ Away


Benny Watson, late of Hunter Park

Died smiling, his eyes closed in the dark

Dreamin’ about strippers with even tans

His family put a little money down

For a lovely casket to be buried in the ground

But that hearse driver, he had other plans


CHORUS:
He’s drivin’ away, He’s drivin’ away

That big black car is gonna go far today

He’s drivin’ away. He’s drivin’ away

Where Benny lands, no one can really say


Jimmy Neal, first day behind the wheel

Taking bodies to the cemetery field

Drivin’ slow, leading with his headlights on

In heavy traffic, he saw an exit ramp

His brow was sweaty, his hands a little damp

Before they knew it, Jimmy and Benny were gone

(Chorus)

BRIDGE:
Jimmy drove all day and all night

And Benny never said a word

“What’s a matter Benny? You’re mouth sewn shut?”

Was all that Benny might have heard


Jimmy got hungry; he stopped off for a bite

At a Jersey rest stop in the middle of the night

Had himself a burger and a big ol’ Coke to boot

Out of the window, in the corner of his eye

The hearse he was drivin’ was waving him goodbye

Benny always looked great in his favorite suit
(Chorus)

The second selection tonight is of the same ilk as the first, only more outrageous. I feel I must preface this by saying that I'm NOT a fan of the writing of Ernest Hemingway. It becomes more and more dated with each passing day, and reading about some guy's macho exploits is the last thing I feel like doing in this world. Why not just go to a frat party and watch small-minded schmoes drink themselves sick? This song is my revenge for having to read "For Whom The Bell Tolls" in high school. Leslie probably wouldn't appreciate this song, as she works with the mentally ill for a living, but Hemingway is too inviting a target for my pen.

Ernest Hemingway Discovers The Wonders Of Prozac


F. Scott Fitzgerald novels on the bathroom windowsills

And everything looks funny when I take these little pills

Bullfights are less exciting and the fish just aren’t as big

I feel less like a macho man, more like a chauvinist pig

CHORUS:
Put away your bullets boys, for my sofa is the sea,


Ask not for whom the pill tolls, man, you know it tolls for me


Well I’m not half as angry and I’m not half as sad

Since I got this here prescription Ketchum doesn’t seem so bad

I think I’ll stick around about another year or ten

And sing songs with that Dylan kid and never say, “Remember when…”

(Chorus)


Medication is the answer, my own little movable feast

I might have a shaggy beard, but I don’t feel like a beast……….anymore


Well, I keep them in a bottle just above the bathroom sink

If I knew about this long ago, I’d have never had a drink

I’d never drive an ambulance or try to shoot a deer

And I don’t even give a curse that Marcelline’s not here

(Chorus)

CODA: ……..for thee, and all of we.


The sun's getting ready to come up, so I'll bid the world a fond "until we meet again" and shuffle off to bed. Peace and Love

"...they never stop thinking of ways to harm Americans, and neither do we."

George W. Bush, referring to terrorists.

Kerry/Edwards 2004!!


I'm VERY sorry for not posting something this week. It was a busy week at work, dealing with multiple vacations, illness and the loss of Judy's production. It only gets better next week when one of my employees remains on vacation, and another one goes on maternity leave. To my unit's credit, we got everything done that we needed to get done. I thanked the four employees who showed up yesterday for their extraordinary efforts.
Last night, I went to a place called The Main Stage in Waukesha for the first meeting of Project IAM, (http://www.projectiam.org) and the band of one of the members, Bakkus, played a great set of music for their CD release party. I received a copy of their CD "Seventyonesix" and will listen to it later in the ol' changer. What I heard last night through the substandard sound mix of the bar was intriguing. I'll write a review here after I've listened to it.
Leslie went to her sister's place in Illinois today, and I'm all alone. The dog is sleeping, the cat is slowly dying because she's too lazy to eat a full meal and I'm here dreaming of a pizza which I may or may not buy.
Today's entry from the Writ Of Common Wisdom is, bluntly, a hangover song. This song is a compendium of all the rough mornings I heard people have had or I have had after drinking heavily. There's something to be said for actually RECOGNIZING the person you wake up next to after a drinking binge.


Drink Some Juice


Well I woke up with my keys taped to my forehead

And a pack of Camels underneath my arm

There’s bottle caps and condom wrappers everywhere

And this woman’s face is just cause for alarm


Now the wine did treat me badly and affected my eyesight

But I’ll drink some juice and everything’s all right


Well my head feels like a 12-ton ball of headcheese

And the birds outside sound like a traffic jam

Every step I take goes to my cranium

Her name is Kim, but I just called her Pam


Now my cash has all been squandered, and my eyes ache from the light

But I’ll drink some juice and everything’s all right


My kingdom for a good pair of sunglasses

The beer goggles I had don’t fit right now

This shower water feels a little heavy

I think I’ll puke before I reach my towel


Well I wish I wasn’t working, wanna sleep until tonight

But I’ll drink some juice and everything’s all right

Said everything’s all right!


I'm off to get some food. I haven't eaten yet today. More to come later. Love to all.

OK, I'm kind of pissed off. I've tried to post this song twice, and I keep getting some kind of error that shuts down my computer. I'm going to try again. First off, nothing's happening. I'm broke until next Wednesday, I'm looking forward to the initial meeting of Project I Am on Friday night. Leslie is currently at a golf outing with her company today. She'll be home in an hour.

And now, today, the final attempt at this entry from the Writ Of Common Wisdom. It does need some background. I am a passive sports fan. I've been a little more passive since I left Philadelphia, but I follow sports with some level of acuity. My favorite sport is ice hockey, and in the summer months (and what may be longer this year due to a labor dispute) when there's no hockey, I turn to baseball. Baseball is a very forgiving game. You can be at your worst physically and mentally and still have the game of your life. Babe Ruth often hit home runs when he was either drunk or hung over, and he's still beloved after all these years. Which brings us to the strange case of pitcher Dock Ellis. One day in the early 1970's, while pitching for the Pittsburgh Pirates, Dock Ellis threw a no-hitter, which is not an easy feat. I watched Steve Carlton, who was the best conditioned left-handed pitcher I ever saw, win 329 games in the big leagues, and he never threw a no-hitter. Dock Ellis did, but on the day he threw his no-hitter, he was erratic. He walked a few guys, hit a few guys and generally had no control of the ball, and yet he threw a no-hitter. Years later in an interview, Ellis admitted that on the day he threw his no-hitter, which was the absolute apex of his big league career, he was on LSD. When presented with this information, I couldn't possibly ignore it. Therefore I give you....


Dock Ellis


Why is the crowd swaying back and forth the way they are?
(Can’t hit me, you know you can’t hit me)

What a weird-looking multi-colored bullpen car
(Can’t hit me, you know you can’t hit me)

It’s a beautiful day for baseball, or for kickin’ back and shootin’ the breeze

I can get these guys out with the greatest of ease


I don’t need any warm-up pitches today
(Can’t hit me, you know you can’t hit me)

The tip of my tongue says I can pitch out here all day
(Can’t hit me, you know you can’t hit me)
I’m sorry I hit your leg, baby, I’m sorry I hit your arm

Like, I don’t believe in doing anybody harm…you dig?


I’m not the world’s greatest pitcher, but today I’m the whole league’s ace

Today you won’t hit one by me; today you’ll never wipe this smile off my face; YAA!


One more out and my no-hitter day is through
(Can’t hit me, you know you can’t hit me)

You can’t hit me but dude I can sure hit you
(Can’t hit me, you know you can’t hit me)

The pitcher’s mound ain’t the only thing I’ll be coming down from today

Life is like…you know…what did I just say?


And that's that. This song is my psychedelic (of course) tour-de-force. When completed, this one is one for the ages as far as effects go.
I'm going to get some decent sleep tonight, so this post is my last today. Take care of each other. It could be that that is all you get for a while.

CONCERT REVIEW
SHOE SUEDE BLUES With PETER TORK
Saturday July 31, 2004
Shank Hall, Milwaukee, WI

OK, first things first. Peter Tork of The Monkees can play an instrument. In fact, he can play a NUMBER of instruments, and very well I might add. Despite the historical drubbing that The Monkees have taken from the critical music press, the band as it was constitued in the beginning contained three members out of four that could play something. I defy you to find a manufactured band in this day and age which has a member who can play ANYTHING, save for the listening public for the gullible suckers that they are.
With this knowledge in mind, I, along with three female compatriots (Peter WAS a Monkee, after all; Monkee = chick magnet) went along to Shank Hall to see Peter Tork and the band Shoe Suede Blues. Being a bit of a blues fan, my attention was gained with the blusier numbers of the evening, including nice renditions of the classics "Wine" and "Let Me Play Wit' Your Poodle". Tork, along with band mates (my apologies for not completely remembering their last names) Richie on guitar, Michael on bass and John on drums, were enjoying themselves greatly when their attentions turned to blues, and they acquitted themselves well in that idiom.
And yet this is obviously NOT what the audience of mostly women of all ages was there to hear. The audience thoroughly enjoyed the smattering of Monkees covers thrown in for their entertainment. Many women danced, including a large-breasted young lady whom I thought would surely blacken her own eyes, whom Mr. Tork enjoyed greatly based on the look on his face. And yes, The band performed that timeless favorite "Your Auntie Grizelda".
If this were a band that was playing your typical blues joint on a Saturday night, they'd probably get some positive press. Unfortunately, the weight of legacies die hard for aging teenage idols. I'll give Peter this though; I can only hope to be playing to a room full of women when I'm 62 years old. That counts for something.