Month: July 2009

Ritualistically nearly nightly I scan several news and social networking sites. Tonight one suggested I might know a dead guy. That got me wondering: what will happen to my blog and accounts like email, Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, etc. when I die? I have no departure plans, but neither did the guy who passed away over a year ago. I also got a marketing letter from a local funeral home recently… I think it really sucks that in their database segmentation, I’m now a “warm lead.” Anyway, just as a precaution, everyone using sites like these should leave a list of the sites, logins and passwords that someone can access in case rigamortis limits your keyboarding. “Uh, Megan…”

Shifting to the living for a moment, is it proper public bathroom etiquette to lower ones trousers to mid-thigh level, exposing ones whitey-tighties whilst adjusting ones shirt-tails prior to the tuck-in? No, I didn’t think so either.

Two words: “Road Trip!” I’d been kicking around the idea of a bi-costal binge with my son Kyle for some time, but hadn’t actually committed to it… Until yesterday. As I sat in this position, half working on a Saturday and half wishing I wasn’t, the looming two weeks in August traveled back in time like a cloned T-Rex and jumped me, or as Kerouac brilliantly scripted, I felt “the sensation of death kicking at my heels to move on…”

It’s not that I haven’t done a road trip. Attending the University of Arizona provided several opportunities for multiple time zone road excursions. Of course, the first one was the best. As Mike Gonnella and I approached the MA Turnpike West around midnight back in August of ’77, we were, “at the dividing line between the East of my youth and the West of my future…” It’s a certainty these words would not now be appearing had we not paid that toll. We were not yet 20 year olds from Wakefield, MA wanting more out of our college experience than the many local venues could offer, so we hit the highway West. Already best friends, that trip bonded us with a unique experience only the two of us lived. I want Kyle to get a taste of that being “on the road.” Well, without the beer, pot, and crazy satanic chick we met in Springfield, IL…

Mike now lives in Phoenix, so it seems natural to me to begin and end our trip with some Dillard time. It’s been many, many years since I’ve seen my friend, but we share a union that’s not breakable by time or distance. Kyle and his father have some trip details to work out on itinerary, but more importantly, soundtrack. Dillard and I were totally synched on Pink Floyd, Zep, AC/DC and lots of KISS, but Kyle and his father are not. Can the two of us survive over 2,000 miles in a car hosting a sonic steel-cage, triple tag-team match featuring Mary Poppins, Celine Dion and “Mamma Mia” versus Wilco, Sloan and the Drive By Truckers? I think so. After all, we’re already best friends.

Following a parade of recent inductees ranging in condition from mildly sedate to zombie-like headed to lunch, he walked slowly out of his 17 day dry-dock into the sunlight. Entering the 90 degree easy bake, he must have wished the sweater he wore was in the suitcase he carried. Over the two plus week respite, sobriety and anxiety grew together. Each phone call grew in coherence and angst, peaking with, “I can’t be in here with these people.” The behavioral danger he now saw clearly in them was completely lost on him for the rest of us. “How do you think we’ve felt all these years” I asked. “Yeah, I know.” He didn’t really, but I laid it right out there so his response was reflexive and deflecting. I straddled supportive and blunt language during the fifty or so calls we shared and during visits. I hope the mix was right.

Feeling the soft double rolling up and down sensation heading out the driveway, he said, “They say that speed bump is the beginning of recovery.” Later during the drive and between the many reminders of a needed caffeine fix I heard a description of being locked behind bars built of poppies… “H-e-r-o-i-n.” The spelling spared Kyle in row B from seeing the whole ghastly projection.

I have no idea whether that was just a speed bump or the back side a steep, treacherous, icy slope back to the deadly spike. I have only hope.

I don’t know how much the AAA chart (Adult Album Alternative – think “The River, Mountain, Crossroads or Coast” radio stations) moves records, but I hope it does and sells some for Wilco. Tonight I heard Kyle singing, “I don’t caaaaare anymore,” which blew my mind! “Kyle, are you singing a Wilco song?” “Yeah, BECAUSE YOU GOT IT STUCK IN MY HEAD!” was his feigned angry reply. Washing dishes, I had been singing the catchy chorus and after hearing Kyle mimicking thought, “You Never Know” would be such a great single! It’s a breezy, jangly summertime song with great harmonies, and sure enough, Wikipedia states it’s #4 on the Billboard AAA chart. That got me thinking about head Wilcee Jeff Tweedy. The guy is a brilliant songwriter and musician and he’s been at it with Wilco for nearly 15 years! I wonder how important a hit record would be to him… As imperative as it was to Eric Carmen in 1974? You never know.

“I just want a hit record, yeah
Wanna hear it on the radio
Want a big hit record, yeah
One that everybody’s got to know”

Overnight Sensation (Hit Record),
Written by Eric Carmen and first appeared on The Rasberries 1974 record, Starting Over

It wasn’t too long ago that walking presented an insurmountable challenge to my son, Kyle. Since then, and with the help of his doctors Madelena Martin and Christy Stine, well, he still won’t take a walk with me after dinner, but he does the 100 meter dash…

Saturday night pre-Wilco, good friend Jeff and I had a couple beers (and Jeff food poisoning) at a local (no name to protect the potentially innocent) watering hole. The place was jammed with twenty something’s that were in Grammar School when Jeff and I first saw the band back in ’95. Yeah, we’re old, especially me. (Clarification: When I asked Jeff if he thought we’d still be going to shows, “When I’m 75 and you’re 65,” Jeff made a point of parliamentary procedure and corrected the record that in fact, he’ll only be 63. Fifteenkey apologizes for the error.) Anyway, as we were exchanging words verbally, Jeff wandered into a story which prompted me to interrupt, “I already read that in your blog.” What followed was an amusing couple minutes about all the personal information we share with anyone who can read or be read to in our online diaries. Generally I’m very forthcoming with personal information outside of my Social Security number vault, and probably am guilty of “TMI” in the minds of some conversation partners, but that’s just me. In a recent management training class, I assessed as a high “I,” including the characteristics of “demonstrative” and “trusting.” At the point in the conversation where a masturbation joke happened (we overheard it from some other guys, it certainly wasn’t us…), I said, “See, if we wrote about that in our blogs, we’d have nothing to talk about in person…” There you go… TMI.

Last night at the Lowell Spinners game, a $6 “Steak Tip Sub” delivered more beef than I grilled for my whole family the night before and surely more than this “Biggest Loser at Work” contender should have consumed. I mindlessly housed it and two carbonated adult beverages… Oh, and there were peanuts, but no Cracker Jacks. They’re bad for ya.

Guilt ridden and bearing down on the scale more this morning than in previous days, I had to step up. I’ve only had the stair machine in a place I could use it for less than a week and in the 3 sessions so far, I’ve progressed from 20 to 25 to a full 30 minutes this morning. I highly recommend it paired with reading. As muscles work and blood rushes, synapses explode with ideas as words hit them. Add to that the LeoPod and Wilco’s new record and it was a jumbled, exhilarating mess. I’m certain it looked and sounded ridiculous as I climbed and sang badly. I don’t care. It was a great start to the day, which now continues with breakfast with Maddy!

Tonight I spoke soft words of small steps and encouragement. Then I took my first literal steps on the stair climber toward exercising a complement to my “I’m not eating that” weight loss strategy.

Lately Kyle and I have been taking the backstreets on our weekend trips. “Avoid Freeways” is a basic, yet nice feature to my GPS. Yeah, it’s the long way home, but it’s so much more interesting than the cold numeric concrete of 2, 3 and 495 to traverse some of the old historic Massachusetts turnpikes that are now state roads like 27 and 117.

“The Long Cut” is more visual and topographical, but tends to be trickier to travel and less well lit than modern interstates , but to get to some places, you can’t take any shortcuts. Take sobriety for example. There’s no fast lane for multiple passengers there. You’ve got to putter alone down a dark, lonely road with rough grade, steep inclines, sharp curves, scary descents and lurking potholes everywhere. There’s also the temptation of local roadside fast food joints, liquor stores and ice cream stands. Yeah, the ice cream is good, but it’s bad for ya and you’ve got to keep your eyes clear and looking ahead. Otherwise you could be off the road and a drive-by flashing light curiosity for the rest of us. Just keep progressing as slowly as you need to. Breathe. Eventually, your grip on the wheel will loosen, darkness will lose to light and beautiful new discoveries will be all around you…

—

To this day I still get music from my Tar Hut partner Dave. One song that hit me hard upon its release in 1996 crushed me tonight…

I can remember the afternoons
Just laying around and playing on the floor
Yeah you gave me a hard time now and then
Well that’s what big brothers are for
So I never made the trip to the city
Guess I didn’t want to have to see you that way
The thought of you alone in some hospital bed
Is something that still haunts me today

Well there’s no mercy
There’s no second chance

“No Mercy” from Waiting Around For the Crash by Go to Blazes , produced by Dave’s friend, Eric “Roscoe” Ambel

Yesterday’s festivities took Kyle and his father through mostly back roads to Rockport (via Gloucester), Brookline (via West Roxbury) and home (via 117 through Bolton). Along the way we passed landmarks that reminded me and had me thinking about and mentioning old girlfriends to young Mr. Daley. Well, past girlfriends. I certainly wouldn’t use this space to call these lovely women old. From “Sally lived near here,” to “Cheryl lived around here somewhere” to “Suzanne lives right up that street,” it was a trip down mamory (I’m going to leave that typo squared right there…) but still ex-Memory Lane.

About an hour ago, I parked myself out at the newly pressure-washed patio table on my deck with a Maker’s Mark seasoned cigar and my Intel powered appendage to write something. As I savored the marked tobacco, I asked Megan to pour me a Maker’s on the rocks. Being an inexperienced, yet generous barkeep, she brought me this, so el posto may be a bit messy.

Relationships can be messy, but among the three noted above, one wasn’t a relationship at all, one was an engagement before its time and the latter a relationship before I could handle one. Oh, and they’re not in that order. See? Messy.

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Anyway, somewhere between the strands of fibers known as this long weekend I also wondered, “Will I ever buy another woman a diamond ring?” Since I don’t much buy into the forged feelings of Valentine’s Day, my inclination is to challenge the validity of the diamond ring as some attestation of love. If love is proven by a shiny cut of compressed carbon, that’s, well, kinda shallow. Now that I’ve done a little research on this here net of inter, it’s even more unlikely, but I’m a sap, so who knows? It won’t be from DeBeers though. That’s for sure.

I bought some yesterday for someone I visited in a psychiatric hospital. There, the residents time their days by hourly smoke breaks and “group” sessions, between which they contemplate the shadows they hide in but cannot handle. I imagine some visitors leave and never return, but I don’t know any, and frankly I’m sick of spending holidays in these places for fear of the spiral a no-show might trigger. This post isn’t going well… I was hoping for some insightful observations from the experience, but honestly they’re always the same people, broken by their own hand gripping a bottle, pipe or syringe. I wonder how many suffer organic mental illness among the masses that’ve caused theirs. Perhaps I’m being too harsh, but after a life of booze and/or drugs finally renders someone a hollow black, carbon crusted shell, why the fuck are the rest of us obligated to coddle them until discharge and repeat performance? Actually, the reason is to avert the collateral damage to other loved ones if the sad circus leaves town early.