This morning I was running a little late to work. I did some email, and then headed in. On my way in my attention was seized by a dark blue Passat. I thought I recognized the car, but perhaps not. It was hot this morning and I found it unusual the car had the windows about half way down. I wondered:

• Is the AC not working?
• Is this person an environmentalist conserving fuel?
• Are they simply enjoying the warmth of a summer morning?

As I passed the car I glanced at the driver. She was a dark haired beauty with big dark eyes. Well, I imagined the eyes behind the sunglasses. I waved at the expressionless image and drove on. I thought I recognized her but perhaps not.

I had some interesting employment while in college. Three that come to mind are jobs with:

• A lawyer who’s now one of the most powerful in the city of Tucson
• A landscaping company that now commands 25% of the market in Tucson
• A soft-drink bottling company with current revenues North of $120M

At the Kalil Bottling Company, my pal Mark Gonnella and I loaded the big distribution trucks with RC Cola, Canada Dry and Crush products, at first cases by hand, then with a forklift once we earned that spot. We’d ride our bicycles the 3 plus miles for our 5:00 to 10:00 pm shift, usually after hanging out at a nearby pizza joint playing Pac-Man. Yeah it was all the rage then.

There were some interesting characters besides us working there. For many, it was their job, the primary means of putting food on their tables. For me, it was rent and fun money, and I was just passing through. One night I stopped the forklift when the break whistle sounded and grabbed a cold soda. I was chatting with a guy who was probably my age then. We shot the breeze about the Celtics-Lakers who were playing in the NBA Finals, but then the conversation turned serious. The man asked me what my future plans were. I don’t even recall my response, but I’ll never forget what he said next. He looked at me with a face older than his years, one reddened and aged by too much sun and too much alcohol. “Well,” he said, “there’s only one person in this world who can stop you from doing anything you want with your life.” I waited for the answer that back then wasn’t obvious to me. “You.” The whistle to get back to work sounded, but I was stunned at the gravity of the revelation. It was a keeper, and a huge part of my education that didn’t happen in a classroom.

Last weekend I enjoyed seeing and hearing Neil Young as a young man and as an old man pour out from his own heart words, voice, guitar and harmonica. First was an MTVHD video of “Heart of Gold” from the Jonathan Demme film of the same name, followed by a performance, almost thirty years earlier, of “Helpless” in “The Last Waltz.” The studio recording of “Heart of Gold” is from Mr. Young’s 1972 record, Harvest and is to date his only #1 hit.

One very fond memory of mine is of a college break road trip from Tucson to Boston via Fort Hood, TX and Queens, NY. Back in 1978 or so, there were no iPods or even CD’s. We were lucky to have a cassette tape and a harmonica in my buddy’s 1973 Pontiac Grand Am that looked kinda like this. Anyway, over the course of the 48 hour drive, I pretty much thought I had the harmonica from the song nailed. No, I did. Not once in the 48 hours did any of my buddies attempt to leave the moving vehicle. On the contrary, during each of the many times we played it, we all sang along with all of our um, hearts. We were young, uninhibited and all searching for our own heart of gold.

I love lyrics and remember really feeling the words “And I’m getting old.” Yeah, I was feeling it. After all, I was like twenty and certainly my best days were behind me… It’s funny how that perspective changes as the miles roll by. Four score and there’s so much more…

Recently I was chatting with a friend about women and the type I find myself drawn to. “Maybe it’s because they have the kind of heart you need.” May be.

Ah, expectations. We all have them. Well, most of us do, and how we manage them has a great influence on our day to day enjoyment of life. The title of this post is the Boston Globe’s Cate McQuaid’s summation of the MFA exhibit I was um, supposed to go to Friday. No biggie. The show is here till September 24th. I’ll get there eventually.

Speaking of expectations, I was really hoping for a better ending to the career of French futbol legend Zinedine Zidane. Yesterday, in overtime of a 1-1 World Cup final with Italy, Zidane inexplicably and viciously headbutted Marco Materazzi in the chest, ending his World Cup career in disgrace and effectively ending France’s quest for the Cup. Adding to the bizarre was the fact Zidane had to walk right past the object of his and his nation’s desire as he exited the pitch after his ”red card” ejection.

I guess there are times when a little head can be a bad thing.

Unfortunately, the correspondence I received last week was not from this IRS. No, it was from our friends at the Internal Revenue Service informing me that, “If this information is correct, you will owe $12,067.” Holy interest and penalties, Batman! I’m sure one can get much worse news in the mail, but a letter from the IRS looking for cash must be in the top ten. Based on the facts presented, I was pretty sure they were mistaken, but I was so busy with work stuff I didn’t have time to fully refute it until this week while I’m on “vacation.” I can’t say I worried much about it, but some things I was planning did get a little thought for being somewhat in jeopardy. Anyway, my research shows the income they say I didn’t report actually was reported elsewhere on my 1040. Looks like Megan may get my Volvo after all.

Oh, any guesses on the lyric title of this post?

I’m Only Happy When it Rains
I’ve never been a fan, nor do I own any of their music, but there’s a really good performance by Garbage on PBS’s Soundstage on WGBX and WGBH-HD.

What, Me Worry?
No, that wasn’t me on the Tobin Bridge after the Sox lost 3 in a row to the DevilDogs. Really.

And…
Finally, this bit of wisdom from a beautiful film: “Just Keep Swimming… Just Keep Swimming…”

Today on Yahoo’s home page was a link to this cool video. It captures people’s expressions as they view one of the world’s most famous works of art. Please check it out and then come back. It’s worth 3 minutes of your time.

I’m going to the MFA on Friday to see “Americans in Paris, 1860–1900.” I’m sure my face will be filled with wonder a few times during that visit. What does viewing art do to you? Does it move you? Does it conjure up any level of emotion, or is it just nice to look at? I’ve experienced many emotions while looking at art… mostly discovery, surprise, wonder, sadness and sometimes a degree of happiness at the sheer genius and beauty of some works. I use “degree of happiness” because while looking at some art has produced pleasurable moments, uncontrolled hilarity has not been one of them.

I’m not going to mention any names, but during one recent museum trip, the person I was with had such an emotional episode from looking at a sculpture. I thought the piece was quite tasteful, albeit a bit over the top with the powdered wig look of 18th century aristocracy. I took a picture of the royal gentleman in question and I still cannot see the humor in it. Maybe you can.

By the way, the art in the film was Michelangelo’s “David.”

It was a seasonably warm July 3rd at Moulton Field. The trees deep in center were motionless and still sun drenched in the early evening just past six. The Wakefield “Townies” team was on the field defending against their cross-town rivals from Melrose who were swinging. The Melrose leadoff hitter was fast and the catcher could see him dancing off of second on the balls of his feet, ready to race toward home on any opportunity. A sharp single to right was that opportunity and the catcher got ready.

Plays at the plate were one of the most fun things about being a catcher. It probably placed just behind gunning out would-be base stealers and just ahead of calling pitches. The cat and mouse game of keeping hitters off-balance with pitch selection and location was the brains exercise, defending home was all brawn and a matter of personal pride. After Ralph Romeo jarred a ball loose from the catcher in a high school team scrimmage, the young receiver vowed it would never happen again.

Donnie Morelli charged the ball and fielded the single cleanly on two hops. He gracefully extended one more stride and uncorked a perfect throw toward home. It was targeted right at the first base “cutoff man” and was about waist high when it passed him, just one clean skip off the green grass away from the crouching catcher facing it.

At the crack of the bat, the catcher sprung up and got in position to defend the plate. If the runner was going to touch it, he’d have to get past the (almost) six foot, one hundred and ninety pound backstop first. Collisions at home were part of the game and there were some classics in those years including the late, great Yankee Thurman Munson bowling over the Red Sox Carlton Fisk ensuing a brawl, and Pete Rose ending the career of Ray Fosse with a shattering home plate impact in the 1970 All-Star Game.

A couple seconds before the throw arrived, a quick flash in the left periphery told the young batterymate the runner had rounded third, but since then all his focus was on the incoming throw. The ball hit the mitt cleanly with a puff of dry Moulton dust. The catcher quickly turned his head from right field toward left to find the runner, but time had run out. The Melrose runner barreled in knee first and the impact was directly to the catchers face. Bodies tumbled like jeans in a dryer and dust exploded, obscuring the verdict. The catcher landed on all fours, knees and hands buried in the khaki colored powder, the ball still clutched in his right hand. “OUT!” barked the umpire, and that’s what the catcher was on the verge of. It was in that moment he first experienced “seeing stars.”

His mother was sitting in the corner of the room at the Melrose-Wakefield Hospital when he awoke from surgery on July 4th, 1975. The local paper wrote that the injury was similar to that of Red Sox pitcher Dick Pole, who was struck with a line drive in a game against the Baltimore Orioles, an injury ironically witnessed by the catcher and his dad just 5 days earlier. Medically speaking, his injury was nowhere near as bad as the Sox hurler. It was a simple fracture of the zygomatic arch requiring only 20 minutes of “plastic surgery” to repair. The procedure involved an incision above the hairline to hide scarring, that’s why it was considered “plastic.”

“Nice mouth on you” were the first words he recalled hearing from Mom after emerging from the July 4th fog of sodium penethol. Apparently, when the on-call nurse visited every 15 minutes to check vital signs, the young and the injured politely requested that she “leave him the f___ alone.” Mom quickly realized the poor boy was still quite out of it when he asked in all seriousness, “Can I go out tonight?” “Out” would have to wait until the 5th, when he got together with his buddies for a few cold ones and a thorough analysis of the events. There were only a few wisecracks about the protective metal and foam bar taped to his face. After all, the injury was now being seen as a deliberate act by a Melrose player alleged to have been drinking before the game and laughing after the play. The catcher didn’t care.

I held the ball and he was out.

At one point in the Dylan documentaty “No Direction Home,” I believe it was photographer John Cohen who said, “It may take a lifetime to find out what you truly enjoy.” I’ve been a sports fan for almost 40 years (October 1967 to be exact), and it’s taken me nearly all of it to figure out: I love Soccer. This years World Cup has completely reeled me in, but it was in 2001 when the game first flirted with me. I was in London to celebrate the wedding of my brother and sister-in-law. After a day of art exploration, we found ourselves in a pub around the corner from our flat near Harrods’s department store. There weren’t too many people in there, but for those that were; futbol was on the tele accompanied by an Oasis soundtrack pumping out of the jukebox. I recall being very into the English League game, despite not knowing or caring about either team. The game itself was interesting, and the passion of the fans in the room more so.

On the plane home, I carried a strong curiosity to know more about art, and I did purchase a couple Oasis CD’s, but I left futbol on the isles… Until this year. I’ve watched every game possible in its entirety, including some that I’ve recorded while at work. The game has everything… speed, power and athleticism that approaches magical with some of the best players. Check out this goal by Maxi Rodriguez of Argentina. He “catches” the ball off his chest and before it hits the turf he drills it with his left foot inside the far post of the goal. Players like Rodriguez, Brasil’s Ronaldinho and France’s Zidane work the ball as well as Allen Iverson or Wayne Gretsky handle a basketball or puck, except they do it with their feet. Just imagine trying to juggle while running full speed with someone chasing you trying to kick your balls away. Yeah, just imagine that… The talent level at the World Cup is amazing, and the orb moves around the field like a ping pong ball.

Another great attraction of the game is the spirit of the fans. They go all out dressing in their team colors and spontaneously break into song during games to help motivate their teams. Yeah, there’s some ugly hooliganism and racism creating a blight on the world’s game, but those small pockets are just a microcosm of the worlds societies today. There are jerks everywhere and when they drink too much and attend sporting events, bad things can happen. Speaking of bad things, one little annoying nuance of the game is the tendency of players to “take a dive” in an effort to get fouls called on the competition. Some of these guys are incredible overactors, feigning the pain of a shotgun blast, only to be back up and running moments later.

So, will the US catch up to the rest of the world? I hope so because “futbol” is a beautiful game and may be the social sport thread that weaves the fabric of today’s global economy. US businesspeople can easily talk baseball or football with their US peers, but what do they talk about with international partners? Executives from England, India and China don’t even know who Tom Brady or Peyton Manning are. If you can’t talk about Thierry Henry and Adriano, you may not get into the global “Old Boys Club.” If William Friedman is correct that “The World Is Flat,” then we’d better understand and embrace its game.

As a public service, the remaining World Cup games are:

Check your local TV listings for times. I’m going with France over Italy in the final.

After midnight is not a good time for me to wake up. Well, alone anyway. It must be an age thing, but if I wake up after midnight, it usually means at least a couple hours of consciousness before I’m asleep again. One night recently it was a bat flying around my room that did it, but usually my sleep is pretty restless until I know Megan is home, safe in her bed… or on the couch, asleep with the plasma tv still on, glowing with the image of a test pattern…

This house is home to Megan, and that’s a calming thought to the man raising her. She and her friends spend quite a bit of time here, and trust me as a reasonable adult they can talk to. Kyle certainly makes himself at home when he’s here about half of each week, but in his mind, motivated conditioning has taught him, “I live at my mom’s house.” In spite of that, my son certainly feels “at home” when he’s here. It’s the love and security in it that makes my house a home for Megan and Kyle.

Home. The connotation of the word is usually good, but not always. Many a weary traveler are consoled by the words, “heading home.” “Bring them home” is a rising sentiment toward our men and women in Iraq. “Home for the Holidays” sounds good, but often doesn’t meet expectations once you get all the relatives in the same room. In baseball, “home” teams usually fare better than those “away” because they’re um, “home in their own beds,” and “enjoying a home-cooked meal.” “Go home” is something every baserunner wants to hear, and hitting a “homer” is so cool it inspires nicknames all its own like “dinger” and “round-tripper,” even though an enthusiastic “HOME RUN!” from a good announcer totally gets the job done. On a side note, Meatloaf’s “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” is a colorful metaphor of the pursuit of another kind of home run. The song includes classic “play-by-play” from former Yankee announcer Phil Rizzuto: “Holy Cow, I think he’s gonna make it!” Unfortunately, then Ellen Foley gets to sing and the first words out of her mouth are “Stop right there!” OK… Think about baseball… Where was I? Oh… So announcing a homer is good, but being a “homer” is bad. I mean, who’s more obnoxious than John Sterling belting out “Theeee Yankees win!!!?” Yeah, that’s right. Nobody. Finally, for a pitcher, not being able to find home is very bad…

It was around 1:00 am when my paternal instincts woke me to Megan’s absence. An animated phone discussion around the definition of curfew ensued and my girl was soon, uhhh, home comfortably sleeping in her bed. I wasn’t. With no World Cup Soccer replays on, I settled in to a PBS station for Martin Scorcese’s Dylan documentary. I’ve never been a big Bob Dylan fan, but after seeing this film, I’m stunned over what I’ve missed. It’s like not seeing Springsteen and the E Street Band live until 2003. I really can’t find any other way to describe it. If you’re a music fan, see the film.

So, obviously I’ve been thinking about home and what it means. One year for my birthday, my then wife gave me a door-knocker. No, I’m not kidding. I was kind of offended that I didn’t get something more for “me.” You know, something to meet my own selfish needs. The truth is, I just didn’t get it… The golden colored piece was etched:

Yeah, that really was a home, but I broke it and have been searching for my own “direction home” ever since. Lately I’ve also been pondering the home at the end of the rainbow. No, not the nursing home, the one after that. The one near the Iowa cornfield… or the one with the 72 virgins… or the one with all good karma… or the one with Pearly Gates and harps…

Trying to find the way home can be difficult. Even if a person never gets there, isn’t it important to simply enjoy the journey and the elusiveness of the search? I may never find my way home, but I’m still looking. Hey, maybe I’ll stop and ask for directions.

That was posed to me yesterday after a visit to the Peabody-Essex Museum in Salem, MA to see “Painting Summer in New England.” The question referred to prints in my home, not any art I’ve produced. Today I walked around the house and discovered my taste in art is dark. Not in a dark-evil sense, but just… dark. Dusk, evening or indoor images dominate and are typified by Edward Hopper’s “New York Movie” and Childe Hassam’s “Rainy Day, Boston.”

There are a few exceptions to the “dark” theme including Hopper’s brighter “Rooms by the Sea,” “Flags on the Waldorf” by Childe Hassam and “In the Luxembourg Gardens” by John Singer Sargent.

At the show yesterday, I gravitated to Winslow Homer’s “The Artist’s Studio in an Afternoon Fog.” It was a fixating image. My friend agreed. It fits perfectly in the theme of most of the prints I have. They were purchased a few years ago when it was a darker time. Now I can’t really see myself going for this, now hugely popular in Great Britain, but this might work…