Journal - 2007

Pathetic

That's what I am. I've started entries many times this year and can't seem to make it all the way to posting them. I started the entry below a couple weeks back and got sidetracked. So I've decided to just post it. Along with whatever I write in the next five minutes. I'm still poking along along on the new album. I guess it's more thank poking. It has been a year of hard work. I watched the Jude Apatow flick Knocked Up last night. It was funny, but we'd rented the Uncut version and it turned out to be too long. We didn't have the option of renting hte uncircumsized version. I also recently saw the new Wes Anderson - The Darjeeling Limited. He has got his own unique and quirky formula going and this installment was tried and true to his form. I am really looking forward to the new Coen Brothers movie which will be released next month. I rented their noir flick, The Man Who Wasn't There, this week and really enjoyed it. Funny how a movie makes more sense when you've spent time in the town in which it is set. That being said, part of it was filmed in Glendale. I live in Glendale. Funny that. 10.17.07



Weather

Those who know me well also likely know of my penchant for complainging about the weather. This passtime has thankfully become a lost art here in Southern California. I'm not even sure that Los Angeles actually has weather. Not in the truest sense, anyway. Last week I dragged myself to Chicago to capture some amazing performances by some old friends for my new record. Yes, there is a new record. It has been in the works for, oh, christ, SEVEN years, now. Work in earnest has been progressing for the last 9 months. We cut the first tracks last December and have been steadily working since then.

First went the basic tracks. Guitars, bass and drums live in the studio. We all stood in the room with Andy's drums (thank god we all wore headphones) with our amps on the other side of a nearby door. I guess that Tyler was in his own isolation booth with his amp in case he played well enough to keep his scratch track. He did, in several cases. We could see him and he could see us through a window in the wall. We have some cool pictures of the session courtesy of another old friend, Joshua Weinfeld.

Joshua and I met when I was working at Manny's Music just off Times Square in New York City. He came in looking to put together a little home studio and wanted to buy a minidisc 4-track. I tried to convince him that that particular piece of gear wasn't worth its weight in shit but he insisted on buying it anyway. I earned what has turned out to be a lifelong friend when I told him that, because I suspected that the 4-track wasn't going to be suitable for his needs, I would extend his return policy. I didn't bullshit him and as a result he trusted me enough to bring the thing back and trade it in for a more robust multitrack recorder and a mixer. We started to hang out and drink beers and such.

One day I was talking about the need to take some fancy, artsy musician promotional pictures and he offered to lend his services to the cause. As it turned out he was a professional photographer with an impressive portfolio that contained many well-know names. One late summer day Joshua suggested we drive out of Gotham and up the Hudson River in search of adventures and photo locations. Somewhere along the way we had lunch with a bunch of bikers at a lakeside burger joint and stumbled across a rural drive-in theater. A screen and slide from that theater wound up on the cover of my first album. Joshua ended up doing all the photos for that record, and it looks as if he'll do the same for the new one. I couldn't be happier to have him along.

Other people we once again have along include chick singers extraordinaire Ava Fain, Anne Hamilton/Katzfey and Crescent Tay Prah. We had originally intended to track the chick singers in Anne's place until Anne received a note from her condo association saying that they were set to demolish their back porch on the very day we were set to record. That very day turned out to be the following day and Anne left me a voicemail while I was in the air flying to Chicago from Memphis. This set in motion an entropic scramble to find a backup location.

My first stop, my stalwart friend and compatriot Jeff Bell. Jeff bought a 3-flat in Chicago a year or so ago and I've seen his basement. It wouldn't be the most comfortable impromptu recording studio but at least it would be quiet. Or so I thought. A quick call to Jeff enlightened me to the fact that his ground floor tennants would be moving out that following day. This meant a ceaseless parade of clomping shoes on the hardwood floor mere feet above my sensitive large diaphragm studio microphone. Jeff then offered his detached garage as an alternative until he remembered that the City of Chicago had just showed up at 6:am that very morning with several trailers' worth of excavation equipment. The microphone would be equally adept at picking up the sound of diesel motors and beeping machines in reverse. Not to mention the usual din and traffic of the city.

Not one to be easily defeated I continued to despair and shake every available tree. My attorney's condominium is perpetually plagued with 7-day-a-week construction noise. Housing bust? Not in Chicago, it seems. My good friend Tony "Tone Loc" Piscotti would have been fine with hosting my session as he was already loaning me a set of microphone stands and a guitar (just try flying with those and a whole studio setup) but he had moved into a new apartment that very day. That wouldn't do.

Chicago had yet bested me at every turn. I almost... almost forgot how sometimes the simplest procedure can turn to a major fiasco when in a city like Chicago. I called Ava in desperation to see if she had any ideas. She said that she was the person in charge of scheduling all the conference rooms at Leo Burnett's skyscraper at 35 West Wacker Drive downtown. "What kind of room do you want?" she asked. So, after some expensive parking and the wrangling of my backpack, two 50-pound rolling suitcases, two microphone stands and an acoustic guitar into an elevator bound for the 21st floor I set up and started tracking the girls.

It was an absolute honor to once again work with girls as talented as they are. Anne sings with Chicago jam band and road warriors 56 Hope Road and Ava has been singing with stalwart funksters Bumpus since I was last lucky and fortunate enough to have her sing with me in 2002. CTP doesn't sing as much as she should. She does some stand up comedy from time to time but she really should find a band to join. She's too good not to share.

Sunday found me back at Leo Burnett tracking Ava's solo parts. She has a heart as big as anyone I've ever seen, and a voice to match. And she is very tolerant of my left-leaning rantings. I often have a bone to pick with organized religion but she somehow finds patience to accept me for what I am in spite of, and perhaps because of her faith. She is a single mom with the talent and balls to follow her dreams. To be continued. 10.05.07



Pathetic

That's what I am. There has been another long interim period between journal entires. I've actually penned a few entries but they're on a different computer. A very slow, annoying computer that is not sitting on my lap here in the Memphis airport. Damn, am I hungry. There is an Interstate Bar-B-Que accross the walkway from where I have found much-coveted Airport Power Outlet. I strolled over there to check on how outrageous the prices might be and quickly determined that they are too far out there for me. I decided the other day that I have become a non-practicing vegeterian. I aspire to not eat my fellow creatures but as of yet I haven't been able to rectify the fact that some of them taste so damn good. Especially grilled with an array of condiments. So, for now it's a rumbling stomach until I reach Orchard Field. Or O'Hare International Airport, as it is more recently known. Not that the food there will be any cheaper, but what will be there is my attorney and a waiting car. The full width and breadth of Chicago's formidable cullinary bounty awaits. Except for The Hopleaf, for which my attorney says that one must now have a reservation in order to dine on a weekend evening. Good christ. What has my favorite little pub grown to become? First, no more Bell's beer and now reservations at the Hopleaf. 9.28.07



American Idle

Or anything but. I have been working my tail off. And this is the first thing penned in here in too damn long. In fact, I wrote this heading about some forgotten topic that likely had nothing to do with the subject at hand. I have bent it according to my will and fit it to a new subject. So, onward.

Legions of my adoring fans are likely wondering whether or not I am even still alive out here. I assure you, at least at the time of this posting, I am alive and well.

The reason for this update revolves around the fact that we have completed guitar overdubs for the new Silverface Champs album. Since guitars, bass and drums represent the proverbial meat and potatoes of our band this is no small feat. The latter two instruments were all but completed when we did the basic tracks at an Atwater Village recording studio back in the late autumn and winter. We re-tracked a couple bass parts somewhere along the way leading up to Saturday at 5:pm. My apartment is still filled with guitars, amps and a borrowed Wurlitzer electric piano but it is nice to know that a milestone has been achieved. And now that the aforementioned meat and potatoes have been served it is time to concentrate on the side dishes. Hammond organ as asparagus, percussion as sweet corn, mandolins and accordions as capers and cornichons.

It will be awhile, yet, as anyone who has ever produced an album knows. And it can't happen soon enough as far as I'm concerned. I have been working towards this point for years upon years, now. It would go a lot more quickly if I didn't have to work a day job in order to pay for all this, but it is what it simply is. By hook or by crook we'll have an album soon enough.

"How is it shaping up," one might ask? "How does it compare to your last CD?" I field those sorts of questions all the time. I don't like to sell out my muse because we're still wrestling over this thing, but I will say that it has a common thread to Sidewalk Chalk Manifesto. Some of the same themes are back, but there are new directions as well. There will be guitars, very loud and very soft. You might be able to smell the tubes from the old amps if the wind is just right. There will be drums rattling and snaking just behind the beat. My favorite bass tones are there... low and round, 3 feet deep and 40 feet wide. I like to let the listener decide for him or herself what the record means. I just work hard from my end trying to stay true to what the songs tell me that they want to be. I like to make music that I'd like to hear. Which means it sounds nothing like the latest thing. I am very much looking forward to releasing this one into the wild. And I hope you like it. 7.8.07



Romancing the Stone

Last weekend was my third annual sortie down to Carlsbad, California where the local Pizza Port Brewpub hosts their Real Ale Festival. Chicago used to have a real ale festival and it was fantastic.

This year we added an extra leg to the journey to check out Stone Brewing Company's new brewpub in nearby Escondido. I had been hearing about this place for some time and the distant rumors were that it was going to be unlike any brewpub in our common age. I sort of thought to myself, "How could it be that much different from every other brewpub?" Boy, was I wrong.

Adventures

I recently had an adventure. Adventures are among my favorite things to have and I have been sorely missing them as of late. My most recent adventure went something like this.

Redeye

When traveling eastbound it is often a good idea to at least look into a redeye flight. More on that soon.

The State of the Nation

Ok, so maybe not the nation but the state of my universe. I vexes me that the only time I pen something in here is when somebody dies. I've started countless entries in my head as I drive around Los Angeles, wash my hair in the shower, pick up dog poop or fall asleep on the couch... as I did this evening. Some rock star I am. I get a night at home to myself and I squander it asleep on a couch that is too short for my legs.

It is nearly May and where does the time go? Here is a stream of conciousness update on my universe.

Sally Sees Another Goddamn Cat

Sally - my dog - cut her paw on a broken window pane. I was laying down some guitar tracks with Tyler last Sunday evening and she trotted into the room and was doing typical dog things on the floor. And then I noticed all the blood. The cut isn't serious but is bad enough to neccesitate bandaging it and applying some Neosporin at night. I've got this little cotton booty thing with velcro straps to keep her from chewing off the bandage. The only reason that this whole incident is worth of note is because it is a difficult process keeping her still long enough to put the bandage and booty on her paw. She, of course, wants nothing to do with it. It's one of those herding cats things. Gather materials... bandage, gauze, Neosporin, scissors, tape, booty, peanut butter, spoon and dog. Close bathroom door. Distract her with mass quantities of peanut butter. I usually have help but tonight it was solo. It took a few tries but she is finally sleeping soundly on her bed. I am trying to avoid paying for stitches for her because any given visit to the vet is more than I've spent on my own health in many moons.

I figured out that the origin of the cut can be traced to a now-broken window in the study. The apartment is layed out like a flat... or maybe a submarine, with all the rooms in a row. They all look out over our neighbor's house and back yard. A line of their multiple cars runs up their driveway. On, under and generally around these cars sits any number of the several semi-feral cats that they feed. This, as you would imagine, drives my hound dog insane. Cats are quarry to her. Everything in her genetic code tells her to scent, chase and tree these cats. Maybe even tear them to shreds. I don't know as I've never seen her actually chase one any farther than the length of her leash. It's a little annoying to have her suddenly go into a frenetic jumping fit when she sees one or more of them, but she can't really help it. I can no more be trained to not play old tube amps. The end result - or at least the current status quo - is that I now have a broken window covered in duct tape and she wears a bandage covered by a black booty.

My Kind of Town

Chicago, prepare for my arrival. I'll be setting foot in my hometown for the first time in an embarrasing 1 year, 5 months and 5 days. I last saw the city socked in with a New Year's Day gray shroud through the fog of an impressive hangover nearly a year and a half ago. How could it be so long? I miss my town dearly but can never seem to find the time to get back there. I have a few new people to meet... the newest Bell child, Lucas - as well as the brand new Katzfey child, Elizabeth. I also have to see the new Bell and Katzfey castles. My how things change. I have far too many people and places to see and will inevitably miss something. I will no doubt be holding court at The Hopleaf on Saturday and Sunday nights. For those of you in the area I'll be taking a redeye flight on the night of May 4th. I plan to hit the ground running. If the weather cooperates there will be a grilling even at Chez Bell on Sunday afternoon. It's even odds that we could get snow or sunshine for May in Chicago. I've seen both in my time. If I were a betting man I'd put my money on 61 and overcast. Not really Frisbee or Weber weather. We'll have a time just the same. It will be great to see everyone.

The dogs are worked up about something and have ran the length of the place several times now. As many people come and go past my front door you'd think they'd learn that it all amounts to nothing. Such are the ways of dogs. TJ has taken to loathing the mailman. The mail comes right through a slot in my front door these days, which I find quite convenient. TJ does as well in a manner of speaking because I usually come home to find one or more pieces of mail shredded on the living room floor... sometimes complete with blood. I'm happy that it is at least his blood and not the blood of a soon-to-be litigious postal worker. I'm sure TJ feels some sort of ball-less manly pride for chasing off the interloper on his daily visit. I really need to install some sort of external mail box to put the kibosh on this ritual. Sooner or later he's going to shred somebody's tax return or cancellation notice. More than likely mine. I'll put in on the list. I've often said that I have a thousand things to do that take an hour each. Just like how I need to buy 100 $20 tools. I just put them on the big list. I'll get around to them one of these days.

Silverface Champs

The album is coming along nicely. We tracked all the basic tracks over two sessions at a studio in the last several months and we're doing the overdubbing at various locations around town. So far we've done acoustic guitars at a friend's yoga studio. It's a nice room and our dear friend Elyse is willing to let us use it after hours. This has made for some very late nights... or perhaps very early mornings depending on your point of view. I will say that working a day job after an all night recording session is not my preferred method of recording. But it is what it is. And what it is is all about finding a place quiet enough and large enough to get the proper sounds on tape. Tyler and I went in after the last yoga class around 9pm. We felt like small time mobsters sitting in a van outside the studio waiting for the people to clear out. Once inside the place smelled of middle-aged woman sweat and chi vibes. We can't thank Elyse enough for her generosity. The room worked out great once traffic died down around 2am. Jesus. I'm sure that we'll have at least one more session up there in Kenneth Village - which is the north part of Glendale part of the way up Verdugo Mountain. It is nice up there. One morning as we were loading out at nearly 6am we saw a coyote trotting across the intersection. Tyler said that they're sort of like giant rats. That may be so but they look enough like a dog to make this dog owner's heart easy. But they also look wild enough to make this rational guy's sense of self preservation kick in. We watched it watch us as it scooted across the street and out of sight in the dark mist.

We've also been doing a lot of tracking in my living room. When I first looked at this apartment a year ago tonight I was stunned at how large it was. I recall walking around and thinking "Man, this closet is huge! It would make a great iso booth." For the uninitiated, an iso booth is short for isolation booth, where you put a musician or amplifier whilst recording in order to isolate it from the rest of the noisy world - and vice versa. As I lie here and type at 1:06am I can hear all manner of noise that would make it into the background of a recording-grade microphone. The sound of the 2 freeway in the distance, street traffic, crickets and other night sounds, my dog snoring, neighbors walking upstairs, the occasional helicopter. Sure enough, my front dining room closet is plenty big for a giant file cabinet that houses Greentown Records, a hand-built 9-foot tall CD rack, a hanger full of now-unused winter coats as well as a couple microphone stands and an amp. It has also had room for yours truly while laying down some scratch vocals. We took apart my old bed in the spare bedroom and are using the pair of fouton mattresses to help deaden the sound in hopes that we don't piss off the neighbors too much. When it comes to guitar amps I use the term isolation somewhat loosely. I've spoken with all of them about the noise and they seem to be at least tolerant of the process. I owe them big time for their understanding. I plan on hosting them at a barbeque later in the summer for their patience. The beer and food is on me. I try to be as contientiuous as possible by only cranking it during the day on weekends and only until 9 on weeknights. The thing about guitar amps is that they sound best at a volume level that is plenty loud to resonate through the walls of the entire building... in spite of being in a closet packed with mattresses. It's a good thing that nobody in our building has young children. I've had a few compliments about the music so far even though it is nearly impossible to explain to a non-musician exactly why we never play through a song in its entireity. I know how it sounds to them. Back and forth and over and over and over again. Sort of like the Grinch up in Mount Crumpett.

I've been kicking a few album titles around in my head but nothing has rung quite true just yet. I don't want to piss off my muse by blathering about them. I don't know if I'll be able to top my last album title, Sidewalk Chalk Manifesto. That phrase landed on my head like a ton of bricks and I knew that I'd found my title the second I thought of it. Sometimes you just know when something is right. Sort of the opposite of the problems I'm having finishing some of the lyrics to songs for this record. I know what the songs in question are about. I have forms, verse melodies and even completed choruses. Guitar solos are being carved out day by day and still the songs won't tell me exactly what they want to say.

Writing songs is like raising children. Some kids just grow up easy. Others refuse to cooperate on even the simplest, most logical developmental levels. They can both be rewarding in their own ways but it sure is easy when the song shows up and writes itself.

Dead Air

My wifi card took a shit. Both of them. The PC one died a couple months back and now my Mac card only works if I'm sitting on top of the wireless router. Which sort of defeats the purpose of having one at all. I took my Powerbook into the Mac store to talk to one of their Mac Geniuses and I would have had to leave my laptop there for about a week for them to assess the problem. That's not a bad turnaround time but I need it for recording. So I have to plug in the old fashioned way with an ethernet cable in the meantime.

An Abysmal Commute

I've been driving to Downey to work for the last couple weeks. Downey is one of the eternal suburbs that makes up Los Angeles. It is south of town along the 5 freeway. I am north of town somewhat near the 5. Taking the 5 for 42 or so miles round trip every day puts me in a bad mood. Gas is up to $3.43 a gallon for the cheap stuff around here. It's a good thing we invated that country with all the oil so we could all have free gas.

Hoop Dreams

I just returned from an hour of shooting basketball at the end of my street. Glendale High School is righ there and all I have to do is shimmy under a fence to reach the basketball courts. I miss shooting hoops outside the garage behind my hold house in Aurora township, Illinois. My dad built the shop to work on cars and make extra money for the sizable Armstrong family. He paved a good-sized area in front of the garage and around the side of the house to the street. When that trailed off I sort of moved in with one band or another during my high school and college years. It even had a heater. I carpteted the concrete floor and hung Pink Floyd posters on the walls. During breaks in band practice we'd play games of basketball on the hoop above the garage door. There was plenty of room for basketball. When we got serious enough we used the wheeled soccer field striper dad had to paint out-of-bounds lines, a key and a three point line. On nights when we didn't have rehearsal I'd return home from whatever dopey summer job I was working, take a shower and play around the world with my brother Mike and my dad. We'd play until it was too dark to see or the mosquitos drove us indoors. I can still smell the corn field that started at the back of our property. The gentle flash of lightning bugs will forever be burned into my retinas. In fact, I just shot an hour of solo around the world with that very same blue and yellow basketball we used to use back then. I'm not even sure how I wound up with it. If I ever build a house you can be assured that there will be a basketball hoop somewhere on the property.

The era of band practice basketball coincided with the Jordan era and the Chicago Bulls' heyday. Lo and behold, as of this writing the Bulls are on the verge of winning their first playoff series since Jordan retired from their franchise. They'll pull it off unless the Miami Heat can pull of something that has never been done and win 4 straight games to pull out a 3 game deficit in a 7 game series. I won't say it's impossible but my fingers are crossed for the Bulls. I've had to avert my eyes for years, now. I couldn't bear to watch. Now they're back to playing something that resembles actual basketball and I am beaming with Windy City Pride. Unknown Date



Hi Ho

Kurt Vonnegut passed away today. So it goes. Or at least that's something similar to what he might say about his own demise. He has had an immeasurable effect on my life and his voice will be greatly missed by the weary, oppressive world that he lambasted so eloquently.

Out of the trio of my favorite authors I am left with Ray Bradbury. Hunter S. Thompson added his last period just over a year ago. As of today, Kurt Vonnegut has come unstuck in time. That leaves me with Bradbury, who seems as old as time and as wise as Yoda. I first saw him in person almost ten years ago and he seemed ready to leave us then. I recently saw him again at a book signing and he looked somehow better. More alive. More something. He has had a good life and I've been steeling myself for his departure for a long time, now. But it is always hard to lose someone so revered. Just as Vonnegut was to me. I'll raise a pint to you, Mr. Vonnegut. 4.11.07



Insignificant Number Bullshit

As of today there are approximately 666 days left in Dubya's "presidency." The number is apropos of nothing but is nonetheless interesting. I know this only because I downloaded an Apple desktop widget that automatically counts down the days. But hey, who's counting?

I am. 3.25.07



Charlotte

Not the city, but my pet spider. I know that it's pretty obvious to name a pet spider Charlotte, but I never really intended this particular spider to have a name at all. My girlfriend is one of those see-a-spider-kill-a-spider people. I have always figured that I have nothing against spiders, categorically speaking, and as a result have no business going about killing them indiscriminately.

Charlotte showed up in my bathroom in the fall. It was warm, then, and the bathroom window was kept open. It isn't now quite what could be called cold by Chicago standards but it's plenty chilly in this place because it has no insulation. She set up shop and spun a near-invisible web in the corner above the tub and below the window. I just let her be figuring that she'd eventually find a hunting ground with more suitable quarry. An inspection of her web told me that I was right. There just aren't that many insects flitting about in my bathroom. But she stayed. And stayed. And stayed. Months wore on and I grew fond of her. I'd check up on her movements and progress as her web shifted here and there. I was even careful not to disturb her during my dog Sally's sometimes difficult bath sessions in the tub. For being an all weather hunting dog Sally has an strange aversion to water. I even went so far as to tape up a post-it note to inform our holiday dog sitter to leave Charlotte be because she was part of our ad hoc family.

And then one recent morning I was discussing the average life span of a house spider with my girlfriend. By this point Charlotte had been the first "person" to greet us every morning. That very evening Charlotte was lying very still on the corner of the tub beneath what might have been her 153rd web. She wasn't curled up yet but wasn't moving. My heart jumped in a way that I never thought it might over an arachnid. I used something or other to prod her leg and see if she was just resting. She must have just passed on to spider heaven. A place with flies as big as city buses and no irrationally frightened housewives. I left up the post-it note and have yet to bury her because I actually miss her. Where do you bury a miniscule member of your family anyway? Godspeed, Charlotte. You were a spider among spiders.

Afterward

It has now been a month or more since the demise of Charlotte. The post-it note is still there. To my surprise another spider had taken up residency in Charlotte's area. The new arrival was a much more spidery spider with longer, more spindly legs. He or she was a much more active spider with quick, undulating movements. I had just taken to calling her Charlotte II but hadn't discussed this with anyone as of yet when he/she vanished during the night last night. I don't know if she moved to better hunting grounds or got eaten or what. It always seems as if somebody or other is getting eaten in the realm of spiders. I guess it's that way it is all the way up to... and sometimes including humans. 3.12.07



KGSR

Austin's KGSR is among the best radio stations I've ever heard. I've been streaming it a lot lately. I have a few favorite stations scattered around the country - other notable examples being WFUV in New York and WBEZ in Chicago. I grew up in the land of the "W" radio stations so the "K" stations never seem quite right to me.

Today is the sort of day that reminds me of late spring back in my home state of Illinois. It rained most of the night last night so there is still a good amount of humidity in the air. Angelenos complain when it's humid but I like it. It reminds me of home. I have the windows open in the apartment and there is a very pleasant breeze spilling in. I have the place to myself and I'm enjoying the solitude. I have a lot to do but today is turning into a lackadaisical Sunday. Looking down at the scars and wounds on my hands from last week's work reminds me that I deserve to do nothing. At least for a while. 2.11.07



Obama08

Barack Obama is the man. He's my man. He puts together cohesive sentences. He's educated. He's articulate. He wasn't born with a silver spoon in his mouth or up his ass. He worked for his education. He has traveled. He can write and speak eloquently. He isn't blindly dogmatic in some sort of zealot's crusade. He's honest about his past. It isn't about what he isn't, but what he he is. He talks like someone who wants to actually do something once elected and not just get elected. Today it is official. He has formally announced his candidacy for the 2008 Presidential election. I might just be able to start spelling the word "President" with a capital P again. He is a candidate worth voting for and not just someone who represents what I'm voting against. I don't give a shit what color he is. 2.10.07



I Hate it When I'm Right

I knew it all along. I really did. I wanted to believe. Part of me did, I guess. It's the age old battle between my heart and my head. My heart desperately wanted my hometown team to win the Super Bowl. My head knew that this outcome was unlikely. But I wanted to believe. When mercurial rookie Devin Hester ran the opening kickoff back for a touchdown 14 seconds into the game I thought that it just might be possible. But by halftime my head knew that it was over. I could feel the desperation even then. I didn't want to feel it, but I did. I'll always respect my tried and true friend Matty because I can seldom remember him being negative about anything. We'd had a conversation on Saturday evening and he just knew that the Bears would win. I let my heart speak and kept my head out of it. And now we're relocated to being second best. Being second best makes everyone wonder if you deserve to be that high in the rankings. Our defense wasn't all it was cracked up to be. But most of all our quarterback showed what he was made of. His arsenal consisted of ill-advised passes, interceptions, fumbled snaps, hapless scrambling and bouncing around in a collapsing pocket. Defense might win championships but the offense still needs to score more points than the other team to win. I hate it when I'm right. I knew it all along. 2.5.07



Sunday Night

I have always had an aversion to Sunday night. The gravitational pull of either school or work (or both) always cast a shadow over the fact that I wasn't yet at school or work. It's sort of like the inversion of the idea that Christmas Eve is better than Christmas morning. It's the delicious anticipation that is better than the payoff. So goes Sunday night in reverse. You're not at work but you know that you will be in the morning. I've always spent my life trying desperately to not be the person who hates his job. In many ways it seems as if I have failed. There were jobs that I loathed less than other ones, to be sure. And, looking back, it seems silly that I dreaded going to school. You want me to hang around in a classroom filled with pretty girls and learn? You want me to read? I'd trade it back in a heartbeat.

But I can't go back. At least not literally. I could go back to school, and in all likelihood I will. I was talking with someone I'd just met about eventual career plans the other day. I said that I fancied myself teaching college. "Why?" she asked. Because college is not reality. Things exist there that would never survive in the so-called real world. Whatever that is. There is music and art and fun. Remember fun? Those who know me can likely easily picture me a grey-bearded professor with a poster of Tom Waits in my office. Living in some college town and making beer on weekends. Academia seems to tolerate, nay, delight, even, in eccentric people. I am plenty eccentric. Maybe Monday morning wouldn't be such drudgery. I would stand up in front of a room full of people and yammer. It isn't much different from what I do now except that there is no one there to listen.

Sure, academia is rife with bullshit. But sometimes a change in bullshit is like heaven. Just ask any divorcee. I might prefer bullshit that didn't involve shooting myself in the hand with a nail gun. Or falling off a ladder. Or removing stucco with a hammer. I never imagined that I'd someday be paid to dig holes.

I've tried everything in a vain attempt to lessen the feeling of impeding doom of Sunday night. I've tried drinking. It works sometimes but it's a dangerous line. One runs the risk of making Monday morning exponentially more miserable. For a while, back in Chicago, I had a Sunday night grilling tradition going. A pair of my best friends would come over and we'd enjoy the yellow light of a waning Midwestern summer with a plate of smoky goodness. (One thing I don't recommend is playing an album during your party on Sunday night and then putting that CD into your CD alarm clock. It messes with your head on Monday morning.) Once upon a time I got to look forward to The X-Files on Sunday nights. Those same friends would come over and we'd order up some Thai food from the now-defunct Chicago institution Hi-Ricky's noodles. We'd crack a beer and watch Mulder and Scully try to make sense of a bunch of goons not unlike the cast of characters wandering the streets of many American towns. I mostly watched Scully. My band used to rehearse on Monday nights and that was something to lessen the blow.

But here I am on Sunday night. Looking for something to do because I don't want to admit that my 48-hour pass is running out. I guess I'll go make my lunch. 1.28.07



Inadvertent Wingman

Something strange happened to me while jogging last Sunday morning. I usually prefer to do my jogging in Griffith Park, which is a somewhat short drive from my apartment. Sometimes, however, it is much faster for me to just strap on my running shoes and do a quick jog in my neighborhood. This is just what I did last Sunday morning.

I was on my way away from home on a sidewalk and noticed what appeared to be a mentally challenged, middle-aged Vietnamese man shuffling along and headed my way. He passed a family that was maybe 40 yards in front of me and turned to follow them for a bit until they shooed him away. I figured that he'd do the same with me when I went to pass him. I figured correctly. As I passed him he made a childlike squealing noise and turned to follow me the same way he'd done with the family. I didn't speed up so much as try like hell to maintain my brisk pace. Most folks can't jog 50 paces so I thought he'd lose interest and bugger off. But he began a jog-shuffle combination that kept pace with me a scant 8 or so feet behind me. When I turned to make sure he wasn't trying to jump or trip me in his jubilation I noticed that the acknowledgement just fueled his vigor. So I tried not to look. Not looking sort of freaked me out because he was right behind me and making strange noises. I tried to ignore him but I found this to be nearly impossible. He was RIGHT behind me. So on I jogged.

He ended up keeping pace with me for a couple minutes until I suspect that I'd finally worn him down. He sighed heartily and gave up his chase. You might think that it is hard to say "phew" while running. Not so. I did and then kept on going. When it came time to turn around and head back home I noticed that he wasn't so far ahead of me. So I dashed across the street to return on the other side. I'm not sure why it bothered me as much as it did. I guess that I was just worried that he wouldn't know better than to trip me. I watched a couple worthless hooligans trip a fellow marathon runner during the Chicago marathon in 2000. It really pissed me off and had I not been running myself I would have given chase and planted a couple size 11.5 Mizuno tread marks on their foreheads. Anyway. Now I just keep an eye out for my inadvertent wingman. He's out there somewhere and he's a member of my community. I'd just prefer he ran beside me. 1.26.07



Hump Day

First off, fuck you, Dick Cheney. Just 'cause. Secondly, I now have a minus sign on my forehead. I was taking apart a big metal shelving unit at work the other day and somehow managed to stab myself in the forehead with my DeWalt 18-volt cordless drill. At the time it had a standard screwdriver bit on the business end. Hence, the minus sign. 1.24.07



I Smashed the Shit Out Of My Thumb

I knew that I shouldn't be doing what I was doing. At least not in the way I was doing it. I can't really explain it, but I was banging a thin piece of wood into place behind another one. I had a third piece of 2x4 and I was using it to bang in that 1st piece without damaging it. A fleeting thought passed just through the periphery of my consciousness as I began to whack away with the hammer in my right hand. It was a chorus that I'd heard before. Sadly, many times. It went something like this... "You're about to smash the shit out of your finger. Or maybe your thumb. " I was pondering this harbinger's tale as I swung the hammer once, and then again. On the second at bat I hit a home run. Hardened Steel, this is Thumb. Thumb, may I introduce Hardened Steel. Thumb replied that they had, in fact, met several times before. 1.22.07



Here We Go Again

Sunday at Crown City Brewing in Pasadena. The Bears are up against the Saints 16-7. Grossman still sucks. No Grossman turnovers as of yet. Knock on wood. In a manner of speaking, Grossman is barely a quarterback. He hands off the ball to whoever is standing next to him and gets out of the way - which is just as well. With the score such as it is we are doing well right now. My reluctant prediction was a Saints blowout. My take on the game was that the Saints high-powered offense are more than a match for the Bears depleted defense. The Saints proved that they could score quickly as they marched down the field and scored in about a minute of clock time at the end of the half. And here we go... the second half begins now. In short order it will all have been decided. Fingers are once again crossed.

OK, the sucking has begun. The Bears are stinking up the place. Snow is falling. They're still winning. For now. They've done a few too many three-and-out plays. Now they'll have 1st and 10 at the 15 near the end of the third quarter. It must be unbearable for you people to read this. I once again apologize. It really is the one thing I can do to bleed off a little nervous energy. The usual cast of sports bar characters are all here. There is a older, gray haired loudmouth to my left giving a seriously sardonic running commentary on every single play of the game. There is a cadre of Saints fans... well, everywhere but at my table. Which would make a Chicago victory all the sweeter. My fellow Bears fan compatriots and I would be the vocal minority revelers. The jack off commentator is just running at the mouth. I find him amusing primarily because he reminds me of my dear friend Jeff. Cheers, Jeff.

9:22 to play. Bears 32, Saints 14. Fingers are getting sore from crossing. Snow is still falling. By the way... it's perfect that it is snowing in Chicago. I almost wish that I was there. OK, I do.

My old friend Hock Trollmaster, whose civilian name is Mike McGuigan is at the game... as is my dear friend Sue's brother, Vinnny Spinosa. It is beginning to look as if there will be many, many sick days taken in the city of Chicago on Monday, January 22nd. 4:00 to play, Bears 39, Saints 14.

Bears win. Holy christ. We'll talk about the nostalgic ramifications of the Bears in the Super Bowl later. We've got 2 weeks to ruminate. For now, it's all orange and blue and snow and hangovers. Bearssss. 1.21.06



Why You Shouldn't Feel Sorry for New Orleans

Just to be clear, I'm talking about the New Orleans Saints, the gutted city's professional football franchise. It seems that the general feeling around the country is that, because of the wrath and destruction of hurricane Katrina, the Saints should win the the Super Bowl. I feel for the residents of The Big Easy. I donated. I watched the news and heard all the stories from people I knew. I've been there myself. I have been meaning to dig out a picture of me hanging off a Bourbon Street street lamp for over a year, now. I completely understand why people would believe the Saints to be the sentimental favorite. I will readily admit that the money and attention that a Super Bowl win would bring to the city would be a godsend. How short people's memories are.

Chicago was once destroyed, too. Not with water and wind but by fire and wind. You don't have to believe the story of Mrs. O'Leary's cow to know that Chicago burned to the ground from October 8th to October 10th, 1871. It is estimated that 200-300 people died. Granted, many more people died in the aftermath of the not-so-fair Katrina and it is a much more recent disaster. Chicago's conflagration was not played out in real time on CNN. Both disasters were precipitated by human folly and predicted by all-too-sane harbingers of doom - those crazy scientists and journalists. New Orleans sat below sea level defended by an antiquated and inadequate levy system while Chicago's buildings, streets and sidewalks were made of wood.

I am a Chicagoan. I live in Southern California these days but I'll always consider myself a Chicagoan. Let's be honest. The Bears have a disaster of a quarterback. All the sportswriters have been saying that Rex Grossman is the kind of quarterback who can keep both teams in a game and I tend to agree with them. The fact of the matter is that the New Orleans Saints stand between the Bears and their chance to perform a sequel to the Super Bowl Shuffle. May the best team win. Just remember that my kind of hometown has its place in the pantheon of municipal American disasters. Go Bears. 1.21.07



An Open Letter to the Girl Who I Pulled Out In Front of This Morning

I was on my way to work this morning. After the usual several mile-long ascent up the long hill of Fair Oaks Avenue I was sitting at the intersection of Fair Oaks and Marengo, waiting to make a right on red. I leaned forward in my blue Honda to see if there was any oncoming traffic. There is a slight hill on the approach to the intersection from the West, as you likely know, because you were driving up it. You were driving a beige 4-door sedan of some sort... an Altima or Maxima, perhaps? The neutral color of your car blended especially well with the houses behind you as you zoomed into the intersection. So well, in fact, that I didn't see you. I saw no one, at least until I pulled far enough into the intersection to give me proper perspective. By the time I saw you careening towards me it was too late. I was committed to making the turn. I wasn't so close as to be dangerous, especially when you consider that I subsequently gunned it. You surely remember that you gave me a multitude of "what the hell are you doing?!" shrugs in my rearview mirror. You may also remember that I just waved. You may not have been able to tell, but it was an "I'm sorry, I screwed up" wave. You accelerated to pass me as I slowed to make my turn, having reached my destination a short block later. As you did, you yelled something unintelligible at gave me a hand signal that I was, in fact, number one. I deserved it, and I'm sorry. I hope you arrived at your destination safely and that you had a good day. At least it was Friday. Maybe you shook it off by noon in light of the impending weekend. In short and in summary... I'm sorry. 1.19.07



Redneck Renaissance Man

A happy birthday to my favorite redneck revolutionary renaissance man, the incomparable Steve Earle. Like him or not you have to admit that he's a true original. Original in the way he faces life. Original in the way that he became a complete, drug-addled loser and then brought himself back from the brink and embarked on a courageous comeback period of artistic brilliance. He had a streak of albums starting with 1995's Train a Comin' that were all home runs. At least they were to me. He reveled in the sound of his haggard voice smashed by his beloved 1176 compressors. He took a nod from the Beatles and placed the entire drums in one channel of the mix. Maybe this isn't groundbreaking studio trickery but it took balls when you consider that it was coming from a guy who cut his teeth in the staid traditionalism of the Nashville machine. So, here's to you, Steve. You're not the only one who is surprised that you lived this long. 1.17.06



The Hopefully-Not-Aptly-Named Grossman

I am once again sitting in Crown City Brewing in Pasadena, California. I'm watching the Bears of Chicago play the Seahawks of Seattle in the NFL playoffs. Sure, the game is nationally televised on Fox, but it was a scant 56F inside my apartment this morning. Normally I only come here when my girlfriend wants to watch an untelevised regular season game. The beer selection is average and the breakfast is edible. My whole point is that my life is going to suck for the next month or more if the Bears blow this game. They wound up with the second best record in the NFL but their quarterback is about as reliable as an old battery on a January morning. Here we are in the top of the 4th quarter and the Bears are down by 3. As per usual, Grossman has been alternately effective and useless. The injury-riddled Bears defense is no longer impenetrable. This is a win or go home game. It would mean a consecutive 1st round defeat for Chicago. I don't want to speak of such things just yet. The game isn't over and I don't want to think about how miserable my life would become with a Bears loss. And it isn't me. It's not that I don't care. I am a Chicagoan. It is because I am what I have come to call a "football wife." My girlfriend is a colossal Bears fan and, as I said, my life will be miserable if they lose.

Which brings me to the second reason that we are watching the game here in Pasadena. As I said, the game is on television. I checked the reception with our rabbit ears this morning and you could tell who was who. We made the decision to come here because it has been quite chilly here in Southern California. The biggest problem is not the temperature outside. It's the temperature inside the apartment that has my bones chilled. Come January, it was plenty cold in Chicago, and New York, and Boston and pretty much everywhere else I've lived.

OK - I have to break that paragraph in order to talk about the game. We're tied with roughly 4 minutes to play. Seattle has the ball. And I'm still freezing. The Bears' kicker, Robbie Gould, just snuck a field goal just to the right of the left upright from 41 yards. The stress emanating from the other side of this table is palpable. The game is tied but I fear that time is running out for the Bears. The difference in the game is that Seattle has a quarterback and Chicago has a high schooler. I shouldn't beat him up too much. Grossman has had a rare game. And that's because he has been average. He is historically on the outer fringes of opposing ends of the spectrum. In other words, he has a stellar game or he stinks up the place. His quarterback rating is somewhere around 74, which is the sort of number you get when you average a bunch of outstanding games and a bunch of terrible games.

1:49 to go. 3rd and 7. The Bears squandered their opportunity to win the game. Now it's Seattle's ball with 1:38 remaining. I have to apologize for the running commentary. It isn't my style. I'm just stressed out about the prospect of what the rest of my day, week and month will be like if the Bears lose. 54 seconds. Midfield. Seattle ball. This is not where a team wants to be. It isn't going well. (Keep in mind that sometimes a minute or more passes between my periods and the capitals of the subsequent sentences.) Overtime. Shit.

So. It has been cold around here. Not COLD cold. But in some ways this is worse. I don't think the walls of my apartment building have a lick of insulation. I know that there is none under my floor because I can see the morning sunshine shining on the dirt of the crawlspace through a gap in the hardwood of my kitchen floor. I can imagine that if I see light through my floor cold air doesn't have a problem finding its way into my apartment. I have a pair of electric oil-filled radiators that we wheel from room to room.

Hope. a 30-yard reception. And then some floundering around. And then a 49-yard, game winning field goal by Robbie Gould. Bears win! Domestic misery has been staved off for at least another week.

As I was saying... it is cold inside my apartment. Cold in ways that it never seemed to be in Chicago. The heat went out during the first month in my first apartment in Chicago. I pulled an old college trick out of my bag and piled all my coats, jackets and dirty clothes from my hamper on top of my blankets on my bed. It was still cold but I could sleep in relative warmth. All my Chicago friends are likely shaking their heads at me. But they're sitting inside apartments with things like heaters and insulation. My California apartment has no functional heat whatsoever. There is some sort of radiator under a grate in the floor between the living room and dining room. The gas company refused to hook it up because it violates some sort of code. I guess I'd rather be cold than dead - but I moved to California to get away from this sort of thing. This weather is admittedly unseasonably cold for the area. I can't and won't really complain because it will more than likely return to normal in short order. A few short days ago it was 88F and we had all the windows open. But not today. The funny thing is that I feel warmer outdoors than I do in here - having returned home from the bar. It is much warmer outside in the sunshine than it is in here. By the way, the bar was freezing. We went there because we figured that we could get better TV reception and warmer temperatures. We got 1 for 2. 1.14.07



Smoke 'em if You Got 'em

The new speaker of the House, California Democrat Nancy Pelosi, has banned smoking outside the House chamber. My response to this news was much like everyone else's... "They can smoke in the capitol building?" All in all this should come as no surprise. Members of our government are exempt from any sort of drug testing as well. Don't you find this strange? People who drive busses for a living and air traffic controllers have rigorous drug testing rules. I have a problem with the fact that people responsible for making decisions that send our young people off to die don't have that sort of accountability. I also have a problem with the fact that the people responsible for deciding our laws and tax allocation could be packing nightly bowls. 1.12.07



Number 7

Here we are, a week into 2007. When I was a kid I used to hear that time accelerates when you get older. I never believed them and boy was I wrong. Where does the time go?

Champs

I finally got the band into the studio late last year. There were also a delay due to an illness, and a several year delay since Sidewalk Chalk Manifesto that involved moving around the country, touring around the world, looking for jobs, finding a dog and a lot of India Pale Ale. I never meant to go this long between album releases. It's just the way it has happened. It has nothing to do with trying to emulate the notable between-album years of bands like Boston and Def Leppard.

I'm going to work my ass off to get the record out sometime this year. I realize that that's an 11-month window but this process takes time. Especially when one's record label is a small plastic card in one's wallet that bears the owner's name. And also when the band has to work to pay for things like food. How I envy those bands who can spend all their time working on their craft. Recording. Performing. Complaining about being busy all the time. What I wouldn't give to wake up tomorrow and work on my album all day.

But the band is sounding good and the sessions went well. Perhaps I've already described them in here. I don't remember. That session from last month was just the beginning. There is much to do. Onwards.

Hoops

It is January 7th and it was plenty warm outside today. How many times did I wish that I could play basketball in shorts on any given winter day? It isn't really a concern for me in my current universe. I just walk up the street and snake under a fence to the Glendale High School basketball courts. Which is what I did this afternoon.

2006

I meant to do a Best of 2006 list at the end of last year. I'm not sure I have the time to do it now. Or maybe I'm just not motivated. Or maybe I didn't buy enough CDs to post a top ten that total ten. I'll throw out a few favorites from the year that was 2006 and we'll see what sticks.

FAVORITE BEER - The keg of Russian River Pliny the Elder in my kitchen. I wanted to do something special for my housewarming party so I managed to locate an entire keg of one of the best beers I've ever had and drove most of the way to San Diego to get it. It was worth every mile. The surprise hit of the year was San Diego's Green Flash IPA. I picked up a 6-pack because it was a little cheaper than a lot of the IPAs and it is every bit as good as a beer with a much higher price tag.

FAVORITE ALBUM - That's a tough one. For now, I'd have to say Drive-By Truckers' A Blessing and a Curse. The new Son Volt wasn't bad. The funny thing is that I can't remember what else I bought. The new Dylan record was great, as was Springsteen's We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions. I had nervous expectations when I heard that Bruce was doing a CD of songs from Pete Seeger's repertoire. I couldn't have been more happily wrong. Hem released a respectable album. I either bought or was given copies of David Gilmour's On an Island (yawn), Ray Lamontagne's Till the Sun Turns Black (good), Mark Knopfler and Emmylou Harris' All the Roadrunning (growing on me). OK, that's eight. Not much of a top ten, I'm afraid.

FAVORITE ALBUM THAT WASN'T RELEASED IN 2006 - I do this all the time. I discover an album long after its initial release. "It's new to me," I always say. Surprise, surprise. Drive-By Truckers' Decoration Day. Also, Ryan Adams and The Cardinals' Cold Roses. Adams had always seemed like the Lenny Kravitz of alt-country to me, at least until he made an album that sounded like he'd been following the Grateful Dead around. If you add these I at least make it to ten. A lot of Iron and Wine also made it from my Ipod to my ears in 2006. I also must say that Jay, my friend and bassist, works for a record label. He gave me so many CDs this year that I couldn't begin to list them all. No wonder I can't keep up.

FAVORITE CONCERT - Drive-By Truckers and Son Volt at House of Blues. For the first time in my life I went to consecutive nights of a concert. I was seriously impressed with DBT. I'd never seen them until these shows and they made me a believer. I would have paid to see them a third night in a row. Again, I'm having a hard time remembering who else I saw. The Gary Louris/Mark Olson shows were better than I expected. I jumped through hoops of fire to see the two Jayhawks founder's reunion tour in Nashville in 2005. It wasn't so good. The drummer from Olson's desert band was actually the worst drummer I've ever seen. That's saying quite a bit. The Troubadour shows from May 2006 showed marked improvement.

LEAST FAVORITE CONCERT - I'm going to ignore the multitude of bands I saw that completely sucked in 2006 and go with a predictable letdown. Matthew Sweet and Susanna Hoffs at Hotel Cafe. I love Matthew Sweet. And I love the Hotel Cafe. Maybe it was that chick from The Bangles who is responsible for the unbelievably high suck factor. Or maybe it was the fact that Mr. Sweet has developed an affinity for fattening things that bear his name. He looked like the bastard son of Meatloaf and Jerry Garcia. Hank Williams III's set at Sunset Junction started out well enough - the way his sets always do - with a few traditional songs in the style of his father, his inimitable grandfather and namesake, Hank Williams I. And then it descended into an unbearable cacophony of hardcore noise - the way his sets always do. I'd rather listen to a dental drill. Some folks like that sort of thing. I am not one of those people.

BEST PIZZA/WORST PIZZA - This unusual category is championed by Casa Bianca in nearby Eagle Rock. I thought I had discovered a pizza worthy of this Chicagoan. And I had a few great pies from this insanely busy little place. And then the last pizza I ordered from there in November tasted like pennies. Or rust. Or something unpleasantly metallic. They're currently on my shit list.

FAVORITE TEMPERATURE - 107F. That's what it was in my living room round about July 4th. Jesus H. I had to pick it because I don't know that it has ever been that hot in any place where I've lived. At least without being on fire.

LEAST FAVORITE PASSTIME - Working my ass off. I worked somewhere between 50-60 hours a week for about a quarter of 2006. I was not amused then and I'm not amused now. My knees still hurt.

CLOSEST CALL - Odd category? Perhaps. But I'm going with it anyway. I shot myself in the hand with a framing nail back in the summer. It scared the shit out of me until I pulled the damn thing out and worked up the courage to attempt to wiggle my fingers. Everything worked. It hurt but there doesn't seem to be any lasting damage. I nearly called this category 'LUCKIEST MOMENT' but I couldn't see how nearly giving myself a violent pneumatic stigmata could honestly be chalked up as lucky.

MOST AMUSING MEMORY - The after gig party after our show in San Diego. We all stayed with Phil, the bass player from the band The Hideaways (FKA Whisky Tango) and he has a beautiful house on a hill. They have an outdoor bar near their pool and we stayed up until nearly daybreak telling stories and drinking. I haven't laughed that hard in years.

MOST ANNOYING PROCEDURE - Choosing a band name. The aforementioned Hideaways had to change their name, as did our friends The Broken West (FKA The Brokedown). They both ran into situations where there was already some other band in some other town using the same name. Both bands got big enough that it became an issue. We spent hours trying to think up and get everyone to agree on a band name of our own. Silverface Champs might not have been the best, funniest or most likely to inspire young women to take off their pants but it was the only one upon which we could all agree. Like a high school test when you loathe taking it so much that you don't care what your grade will be at least it's over. And we haven't even started talking about a name for our upcoming album.

GREATEST CULINARY TRIUMPH - Finally working up the balls to grill a turkey on my Weber charcoal grill. I can't recommend the book The Cook's Illustrated Guide to Grilling and Barbecue highly enough. I followed their instructions to the letter and my bird couldn't have been better. Thanks also go out to Matt and Bob Katzfey for moral support and a calming, no nonsense you-can-do-it e-mail, respectively. Word is that Matty's bird turned out well also.

I guess I was motivated after all. I'm off to finish putting away Christmas decorations. I'll more than likely add to this list as I remember things that transpired last year. For now I'm tired of looking at faux trees and such. 1.7.07



All is Quiet

On New Year's Day. I've been home to Alabama and back to California. Or was it to Alabama and back home here. It's hard to tell anymore. The concept of home has been a big factor in my life. It used to be simple. And then my family moved south. I stayed. I guess that I went away to college - several times - but at the time I intended to move back to home, which was Illinois at the time. First they moved and then I moved. And then I moved again. And again. Three different time zones. Two coasts. And now I find myself in southern California. Far too far from home to jump in the car and drive. I miss the ability to do that. I don't dislike my family. In fact, I like them a lot. Which is different than loving your family.

This year's trip was uneventful. This is pretty much the way I want my holiday traveling to be. There were some delays but I didn't miss any connecting flights. Nor did I have to sprint from gate to gate or beg/intimidate any gate agents. I read a couple amazing books along the way... Motherless Brooklyn by Jonathan Lethem and Riding Rockets by former space shuttle astronaut Mike Mullane. The former was leant to me by my attorney sometime in the last couple years and I'm not sure why I procrastinated so long. It was simply amazing. The latter was given to my by my dear friend and guitar hero Mike Babincak. We've both been lifelong space junkies and he sent me the book for Christmas. It arrived on the Thursday before Christmas and I finished it by the Tuesday after Christmas. It was sort of like the turkey in my Motherless Brooklyn sandwich. I started Lethem's book before and finished it after Mullane's.

As for Mike Babincak... he happened to be in Huntsville... a town near where my family lives in north Alabama. He married a girl from the area a few years back and they now have a little person and another one on the way. I discovered that he was in town when I ran into one a girl who I used to date at the Huntsville International Airport while dropping my mother off. Mom was bound for a Hawaiian cruise with her sister and mother and said girl, Margaret, was there to pick up her boyfriend. Mike ended up marrying Margaret's sister, Alycia. Mike invited me over to hang with him and his in-laws in Huntsville on Friday night. I made the drive over from Lawrence County pulled up the street on final approach with Mike on the line to help me find the house in the dark. Just as I reached the house the phone cut off and I discovered that Mike had taken a spill stepping off the front porch. He dropped the phone and severely twisted his ankle in the process. Not a good way to start our visit.

I got him back in side and he attempted to walk off his throbbing ankle. We looked at some pictures on my laptop and he was in a lot of pain. So I switched into marathon-injury-man and got him to take some ibuprofen and sit down on the couch. I put some ice in a ziplock back and placed it on his ankle while he called his insurance company to inquire about the protocol for an out of area emergency room visit. When Alycia returned with her parents we loaded Mike up in the car and took off for the hospital. He was checked in, assessed by the staff and placed in a wheelchair to wait out the evening. Take a number, sir. I told him that he'd have gotten in a lot faster if he had a swordfish sticking out of his chest.

We sat in the emergency room for the better part of three hours and he never did see a doctor. No swordfish, no doctor. He was tired of waiting and decided to just leave. I bid them adieu and made the hour long drive back to The Armstrong Compound in Bankhead National Forest.

DFA

One highlight of visiting my family is seeing my grandfather. He's a journeyman on the planet with decades of stories to tell. The sad part is that he's usually too weak to tell them. This is compounded by the fact that he is a Southern Man. Most southern men - at least the ones in my family - are men of few words. As you can plainly see I take after the yankee side of my lineage. My grandfather's health has been deteriorating for as long as I can remember but he still keeps hanging on. The man used to make and run moonshine in his day but a few hours at a dialysis clinic can make him as frail as a ghost. I wince at early morning phone calls from home in anticipation of bad news about him. When I'm in town I'll drive him down to the clinic or to visit with his sons and my father's shop. I'll buy him a BBQ sandwich in a feeble attempt to repay all the popsicles and soda that he bought me when I was a child. He is still with us but I lost a great uncle, his brother, this year. Not just a great uncle but a Great Uncle. You get the idea. Godspeed, Uncle Bill. We all miss you. 01.01.07

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