Month: June 2005 (Page 1 of 3)

Back around this time in 1997, a package arrived from Lombard, IL. Since March of ‘96, such clandestine deliveries were a regularity at 22 Bacon Street in Westminster, MA. This particular padded (boy is there symbolism in that…) envelope contained “Squeezing our Sparks” by Graham Parker.

I brought the tape with me to my moms house in Wells Beach, Maine that weekend and popped it in my Walkman while Megan and Kyle splashed in the pool. From the first chords of “Discovering Japan,” I was hooked. Other highlights of the record include “Love Gets You Twisted,” and of course “Passion Is No Ordinary Word.” It’s my favorite Parker song mostly for the words. A old friend once remarked that music affects you differently depending on where you are in your life… Yeah.

On the first link above, you can read a few rave reviews including one from a guy who claimed seeing Parker and the Rumour tour for this record was the best live show he EVER saw, and he’s seen hundreds… He wrote, “They played as if their lives depended on it.”

So now I come back to Dave, my friend. Music and Dave… His life does depend on it. Graham Parker is one of his RnR saviors. On June 24th, Dave got to meet the man and catch him live. I love reading Dave just go off on music…

“I’m telling ya (yeah, I’ve raved before about GP, I know), Graham Parker and the Figgs show last night at the Double Door in Wicker Park was one of the best RNR shows I’ve ever — EVER — seen! That makes two GP & The Figgs shows as two of the best ever for me! It just doesn’t get any better. It just doesn’t. The Figgs are one of the tightest pop-rock bands I’ve ever seen, and although I’d seen them three times before last night, they showed that they’re in their prime now as just the Figgs. But backing GP is a whole other story…

I know you guys like GP, or some of GPs stuff, but I also think you would never go out of your way to see him play live. As great as he is solo, if ever you get the chance to see him with the Figgs anywhere from Boston to NY, GO! GO! If you don’t come back thinking you just saw history made in a live show, and that you rocked as hard as you ever have, soaked full of (expletive deleted) sweat, incredulous at what you’ve seen, and ears ringing for a day, I’d reimburse ever (expletive deleted) buck you spent…I promise. Think Jason & The Scorchers in Austin at SXSW at Liberty Lunch. Only there’s 1/4 the crowd and GP, at 56, is (expletive deleted) in your face with a band half his age playing as hard as any rock band can!

Yeah!

D”

Old Man in Sorrow (On the Threshold of Eternity)
Oil on Canvas April-May, 1890
Kröller-Müller Museum, Otterlo – The Netherlands

I felt the anguish of this picture today. This morning I heard both my mother and father crying over the selfish self-destruction of their child. Speaking of lack of appreciation and ignorance, I never really “got” Vincent Van Gogh until today when I saw this while browsing Barnes & Noble with Kyle.

I know it’s not titled a self-portrait like so many others, but it is one. This image perfectly captured Van Gogh’s state of mind for much of his ten year career. Though a young man, he felt old, suffered greatly and longed for the exit.

On July 27, 1890, Vincent and his demons walked out into a desolate field. Wanting to silence them after many years of torment, he put a gun to his chest and pulled the trigger, but even suicide would not be easy. He missed his heart and died from infection two days later. He was 37 years old. His brother cried for him then.

Recently a trove of paintings was found in a warehouse on Long Island. Some believe they may be the work of Jackson Pollock. Here’s one of them. I don’t remember when I first saw a Pollock. I mean one of the swirly, drippy ones like this image that he’s famous for. Whenever it was, I was unimpressed. I felt like any child could do what he did. While that may be true, at the time, Jackson Pollock took expression with pigmented oil to a place it hadn’t been.

Ed Harris, a marvelous and underrated actor, mezmerizes in his portrayal of the artist in the 2000 film he also debuted as a director. It works. He is Pollock. His facination began in 1986 when his Dad gave him a Pollock book for his birthday. In those 14 years he continually studied the artist until he felt he could realistically perform the painting itself. The National Gallery has an online feature including footage of Pollock at work with his own narration. If you see the film, you’ll notice Harris nails it.

Ed Harris’ Pollock completely changed my view of the artist to one of awe. Pollock’s alcoholism and depression made it virtually impossible for him to get out of bed, but he did…to paint. The canvas was his counsel.

This space has received a few visits from this site, so I checked it out and found this cool animated gif.

No idea how he found me…

I woke up this morning feeling pretty good about this:

You know the story. For 86 years the Yankees got the girl and the Red Sox watched them dance. After experiencing nearly forty of those futile years as a fan, I still have a nagging sense of fear of the “Evil Empire,” but it’s waning. The Yankees have a $205M payroll and a barren farm. Last night they looked more like Pedro’s “granddaddies” in a loss fueled by ancient Bernie Williams dropping a routine fly ball. I can only hope their big “trump the Red Sox again” acquisition before the 2004 season becomes their “Curse of Arod.” It’s going pretty well so far.

So now I’m going to say it. The Yankees are done. The mental aspect of baseball is huge, and these guys are permanently damaged from their colossal collapse in the 2004 ALCS. They had the Red Sox buried and they let them up off the mat to get their asses kicked. The New York papers called it the BIGGEST COLLAPSE in the HISTORY OF SPORTS. So it lingers. They have doubts. Their fans have doubts. Roles have been reversed. It’s like the “Anti-George” Seinfeld episode… Hmmm… George… “The Boss.” I wonder how he’s feeling this morning?

Tomorrow is the first day of school vacation for Megan and Kyle. I can only hope they enjoy a summer like one of mine…

On the first day of summer vacation in 1969, a ten year old boy walked sheepishly from 10 Pine Street down to Mapleway Playground, his brown-reddish locks a memory, having been sheared off a couple days earlier by Russ the barber on Main Street, just a couple doors down from the Greenwood Pharmacy and across the street from the Post Office. Yes, his mother had sentenced him to a crew-cut before school got out for the summer, an indignity he no doubt remembers to this day. (He does…) After all, while the look might have been cool for punk kids in ’79, in ’69, a “skinner” got you numerous cuffs off the back of the head to “christen” the new do. Not to mention giggles from the ladies. Thanks, Mom.

The walk to Mapleway was a short one, just down Greenwood Ave and past the mysterious High Street that no one ever dared travel, either because it was too creepy or just too damn steep. Entering the stone gates of the park, he carried the only thing he needed: his prized baseball glove, a Yaz Triple Crown model, ready to track down anything hit to left field.

They played inning after inning that summer and the games blurred from one day to the next. No one ever went home for lunch, but they always stopped when they’d hear the familiar tones of Andy the Ice Cream Man arriving in his square Hood ice cream truck. He always got Italian Ice and made sure the last drippings substituted for pine tar to ensure an iron grip on his favorite wooden Mickey Mantle bat.

One day after break, some of the older kids asked him to pitch in a game on the Little-League sized field. What an honor! These were Little League all-stars or kids already in Babe Ruth. As he toed the rubber, he wondered whether to throw the nasty new deuce or just bring the heat. They didn’t use catchers, so he wasn’t getting any suggestions. After a perfect Jim Lonborg windup, he unleashed the fury. His next act was to grab his mouth and feel for teeth after the batter smoked a line drive right back to his kisser. Incredibly, the chicklets were intact and there was no blood, just a huge blood blister under his upper lip. Welcome to The Show, kid.

He loved to hit, and like the Mick, went up to bat looking to homer “every time.” Unfortunately, there were no outfield fences at Mapleway except for the one shielding the tennis courts in right field of the big field, but it was 350’ away and no ten year old right handed hitters were getting near it. Besides, there usually weren’t enough kids for all positions, so there was a “no hitting to right” rule for the rightys. They hit. They ran. They argued close calls. They climbed the backstop fence to retrieve stuck popups because it was their only good ball. It was an endless summer when every day was Saturday.

Then one day it was Monday, but after that summer of love, his hair had grown back and he could safely return to school for 6th grade.

The American Film Institute has released their “100 Greatest Movie Quotes of all Time.” At #78 is a simple request from the 1968 Stanley Kubrick classic, “2001: A Space Odyssey.” While it didn’t make the list, the dispassionate response of HAL9000 is still priceless, and maybe even more memorable.

For me, it’s a perfect film, blending thoughtful images, words and symbols. In the greatest film transition in the history of the medium, Kubrick brilliantly flashes us forward a million years by throwing us a bone. 2001 isn’t for everyone. It’s slowly paced and does require an investment of some gray matter, not a requirement of the majority of celluloid reels these days.

I still don’t know what happened to Dave at the end, but I still think about it. Isn’t that what art is for?

About a dozen tee-shirts are currently in my wardrobe rotation, primarily adorned at the gym, but some face public scrutiny. Every time I put one on, I sub-consciously pause to consider its source and meaning. My South by Southwest Music Conference tee from ’99 means a lot to me, but why? It is because it symbolizes some indie-music cool I want to convey? Probably.

Of course that clashes badly with my KISS tourshirt from the 2002 tour I saw with Megan, but I had to have it, OK? It’s strictly worn to bed, but not when I have company, if you get my meaning. (Note: Wearing the KISS shirt to bed is currently on a Ripken-like streak…) So, tee-shirts do give us meaning by associating us with things, places, times, accomplishments, institutions or movements. After Massachusetts was the only state to vote McGovern in ’72, I imagine a tee-shirt proclaimed, “Don’t Blame Us.”

Needless to say, if it’s not 100% cotton, throw it away. One of my favorite tee’s is a faux-vintage Red Sox shirt. It’s really getting old and soft and it was purchased long before the historic 2004 season. It says I’m a long suffering fan, well-deserving of the world championship. Some t’s are like Reeses Pieces, gently dropped in time to mark where we’ve been. Even then, I buy in Martha’s Vineyard, but pass in Cleveland. I don’t care if the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame is there. It’s Cleveland.

I have quite a few old teez from my days with NEC. They came in those pressure compressed packages that take about 3 washes to become unwrinkled. They symbolize a job I was really proud of. My contributions to the AFIS division helped “put assholes in jail,” as one of our former customers put so eloquently in front of 1,200 peers…

Finally, always beware of t-shirt gifts. One I received is a personal favorite for its symbolism, but it misses the cotton test by 2% polyester… The gifter obviously believed the image conveyed something about my personality. I think she nailed it if not for that stupid happy face…

What’s your favorite T?

My kids went out for a photo shoot with their Mom yesterday and then Megan got creative with MS Photo Editor. The result was four very cool framed images that really capture their personalities, even for just a moment in time… So here’s Jessica, Megan and Kyle along with some words from Megan… Thank you. I love you.

“So it’s Father’s Day, and we’re supposed to like, worship the ground you walk on and be thankful for all of the awesome stuff you do for us. But I think that’s gay to just say thanks on one day of the year. So, Happy Father’s Day Dad, and thank you for all the times we forget to say thanks and remember how much you really do for us without even thinking.

We love you. Happy Father’s Day ’05”

Just like my my father and his father, I share the human trait of imperfection in the job. I have regrets of deeds and words that my children will either forgive or not. I’ve read the best way to love your children is to love their mother. Unfortunately, that feeling left me a decade ago. Is that an unforgivable sin? Should it be? Maybe it will pass with time, but in 2005 it still manifests as a weight holding a child under water from the air of success.

When she was small, say 3 or 4, she’d spring to action at the words, “Daddy’s home.” No matter where she was or what she was doing, she would dash to the “starting line” at the back door of the old bungalow, and race forward the 20 yards to leap into my arms. Father’s Day was joyous back then when I could do no wrong… Then one day I stopped coming home… Recently the house she grew up in was sold by her mom and step-father, but she didn’t get a final walk-through. “I just wanted to see the view from the back door one last time.”

Back then things finally came to a head with my father and me. We’d been in some conflict over pretty silly things that resulted in me writing “the letter” that unloaded some 30 years of grievances. It was harsh and cruel. I hope I never receive one like it. Maybe I was angry that the day came when I stopped hearing, “Daddy’s home.” The next few years were filled with silence for us. Finally, in the summer of 2003 the ice began to melt for good. We took Kyle to a Sox game. Three generations. The way it should be.

Baseball and the Red Sox was always the common ground we had. When we could talk about nothing else, we could still talk about the Sox. He took me to my first Sox game and also scored us tickets to see Vida Blue and high-school phenom David Clyde back in ’75. We suffered through the World Series that year, then the ’78 debacle, followed by the ’86 meltdown. Any relationship that could survive those was going to last… On October 27th of last year, I took a shuttle out to Dad’s place at “The Villages.” A work conference had ended that day in Orlando. We went out to dinner with my step-mom Caroline, then watched the Sox in game 4 of the World Series under a blood-moon. It was a good night.

Music is a tenuous strand that holds my daughter and I together. She loves Sloan and some of the other music I listen to. I like some of what she listens to, but not that stuff of “nigga’s, hoe’s and bitches.” I don’t get that. At times it seems the gap between us spans galaxies. The anger is raw and vocal, but what doesn’t need to be said is, “Dad, please help me.” At times, I feel I’ve failed her completely, but I won’t quit on her. She has limitless potential. She’s smart, has a wonderful personality (when her head isn’t spinning “Exorcist style”), and is so beautiful. All of these qualities she shares with her sister.

As for the relationship with my own son, it’s a work in progress. I got some feedback recently that I baby him too much and am not preparing him for the “real world.” There’s some truth to that, but the protective instinct is a strong one. He’s a happy child and says, “I love you Daddy” alot. I’ll work on the “real world” stuff.

There are times I wish I could wash it all away… The mistakes, the regrets… but that wouldn’t be real. It wouldn’t be life. My reality on this Father’s Day is that the shattered dreams of a child can become a very strong force for the dark side of hate. I can’t change the past, but I will continue to use love and patience and respect to positively influence the future.