Yeah, just turn your computer off and look into the eyes of someone you love. If that’s not an option, just go outside. Pick up a book and read. Go to a gallery or museum. Catch a matinee. Take a walk. Go swimming. Drive to that seafood place and have fried clams. Pick up the phone and call someone you can talk to. No, not IM chatting… Talking… Speaking… Conversing… It’s very refreshing, even if it requires you to engage in an actual human interaction… For me, it is quite ironic that my computer addiction problem is not to avoid human touch, but to feel it. I can’t tell you how many times a day I check this thing to see if email has arrived from an internet dating service. It’s pathetic. I should be out, doing things I like to do, or at least cruising the produce aisle. Maybe then the hand of fate can actually come into play.

Yesterday a good friend of mine called. We talked for an hour! What I heard was that he was spending so much time on the computer, it was adversely affecting his relationships. I wonder if all this wasted time is actual addiction to the computer, or avoidance of the people? Interacting with a computer rarely results in rejection or judgement cast in ones direction. We are in complete control. Unless of course Comcast goes out. Then complete and utter despair ensues.

While the computer has made many mundane chores simple, it has impeded our contact with each other. Paying bills is a good example. When I was a kid, my mom would send me down to the Greenwood Pharmacy to pay our phone bill. That trek included all sorts of dealings with friends, neighbors, dogs, and the young chick at the pharmacy. It was a social event. So many of those are now history because of the computer. I mean, what will the long-term social impact be of people not going to record stores? It can’t be good. And don’t even get me going on Crack(Black)berries…

Recently my mom called just to say hi and catch up. “What, you haven’t been reading my blog?” I’ve got to get off this thing, and I will… as soon as I check patheticloserlookingforlove.com one last time…

I’ve spent quite a bit of time in metal tubes over the years. More than most, but far less than some. This particular alumimum pipe is bringing me home from Chicago, one of my favorite cities. It’s been a good few days mixing work and play. One night our group ended up at Buddy Guy’s Legends club. It’s a touristy place, but a room that undoubtedly has hosted some smokin’ nights of the blues. A couple bands played while I was there, and while the musicianship was competent, the bands lacked the fire I’ve grown accustomed to. Actually, maybe I was lacking the fire. No, it was them.

I guess where I’m going with this is how music affects us. Why is it that some music makes us want to shake our ass or pump our fist, while having no effect whatsoever on a person standing right next to us? I once heard someone say music afffects us differently depending upon where we are in our life. Maybe that’s why Pink Floyd’s “Animals” is so soothing right now as it streams out of iTunes and into my unsettled mind. David Gilmour’s slashing guitar is calming me…. It’s ripping. Tearing it up. Settling…

Before this it was “I’ve Been Dying” by the Bottle Rockets. I remember the first time I heard this song. It was as yet unreleased when the band played it and other cuts from “Brand New Year” at the 1999 South by Southwest Music Festival in Austin. I think Jeff was there with me at the old Liberty Lunch. I remember being bummed when Brian Henneman announced they’d only be playing new songs. I wanted to hear the hits! It was 50 of the most intense minutes of music I’ve ever experienced and I didn’t know one song. Our bands were that way… the Killbillies… the Ex-Husbands… I never saw them do a bad show… At that time in my life, their chords rang through me like electric shock through a heart struggling to beat. I don’t know if I ever said thanks. Well, Animals is over. Time for some Ryan Adams “Rock n’ Roll” and more angst tonic…

OK, so I wrote that last night on the plane on short sleep. My apologies for the drama… Today my new Shure E2c Sound Isolating Earphones arrived from my friends at amazon.com. These things rock! In addition to outstanding sound quality, they come with these “wraps” of that memory foam earplug material that expands to block out most external noise. Great for my next tube trip…

I faced one of the toughest decisions of my life today. It involved the future of my first-born child. She’s been struggling with some of lifes challenges and that’s resulted in a challenge I’m not sure I’m up to. Early this morning I was presented the options and recommendations. My mind soon filled with conflict, fear and doubt. As I sat, in a daze, waiting and weighing, I was approached by a lawyer that had once represented me. Chris DiSesa is a great lawyer, but first he’s a human being. I never felt like I had to take a shower after meeting with Chris. He’s decent and honest. He was recommended by Jeff’s father-in-law, another human/lawyer. Guys like that give me hope for the profession. As I told Chris the options I was facing, he didn’t comment or advise (he couldn’t), but his facial expression at one of the options hinted, “don’t do it.” Thanks Chris.

Later, when the gentleman in the black robe asked me what I thought, I remember saying, “I love my daughter,” but not much else. He then spent fifteen minutes trying to help my little girl. He spoke of his relationship with his own father and how while he strongly disagreed with him back then, he now understands that the actions of his father were taken out of love and for his benefit. His words overwhelmed me and I wept in the back of the chamber. There were a couple female clerks that followed suit. Someone handed me a box of tissues, but hey, I have limits… He asked what she wanted to be in the future. “A lawyer,” came the immediate response. “Really? A lawyer. Why is that?” “I’m good at arguing.” Amen to that, my girl. I hope she heard him when he said the path to that future is forming now. Most of all, I hope she felt the love and hope that blanketed her in that room.

Back in March I read an article by Robert McCrum in the Observer titled, “Who are you writing for?” The piece considered many possible audiences and included a wonderful answer from Robert Louis Stevenson penned in his in “Travels With a Donkey.” Mr. Stevenson wrote, “Every book is, in an intimate sense, a circular letter to the friends of him who writes it. They alone take his meaning; they find private messages, assurances of love, and expressions of gratitude, dropped at every corner. The public is but a generous patron who defrays the postage.”

I have a few family and friends that read this space. Some occassionally take the time to comment on the content. Family and friends. I’m glad they visit and I know they understand the “private messages, assurances of love, and expressions of gratitude.” Today I found out my audience is a little broader than I previously knew. However, this little segment seemed to express bemusement and ridicule at the contents herein. That stung a little, but I guess criticism is invited when expressing in a public forum. I enjoy writing and this place is an environment to practice and improve. This is my reality… What’s yours?

I’ve been thinking about clichés lately. It started last week when I was just another face in the crowd at a meeting. Yeah, we all have our crosses to bear. Anyway, there was a guy telling us about “drinking our own Kool-Aid” and “eating our own dog food,” all in the same sentence! Man, that was more fun than a barrel of monkeys. These folks were in to help us see the forest for the trees so our stuff will sell like hotcakes, but I digress.

From what I’ve read lately, it is embarrassingly cliché to say, “I love your eyes” to a woman. I guess if a woman possesses eyes that speak, she’s probably heard that one before. Ok. Noted. What I’m wondering is why some eyes express “More than all the print I have read in my life*,” while others seem either dispassionate or even just a window to a vacant lot?
* “Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman, from “Leaves of Grass,” which went on sale July 4th, 1855.

Yesterday I was flipping through a book illustrating the work of artist Edward Hopper. I like Hopper. Others may not. Perhaps they like Mapplethorpe or dogs playing poker. While Hopper’s images are aesthetically pleasing to me, there’s an unexplainable range of emotions I feel when looking at some of his work. These pieces express emotions that I can feel. They speak to me. Just like eyes.

Hopper brilliantly portrays scenes of Americana. From Brooklyn to Cape Cod, he places us in the frame of a simpler time. He’s also a master of capturing light and women. One of my favorite Hopper prints hangs in our living room. It depicts both beautifully. At least in my eyes.

Friday I had a lunch date. We met around 11:45 and were seated at one of the many empty tables. Before my butt was even settled in the seat cushion, a waitress appeared out a puff of red smoke and and quickly barked out the lunch special of the day. I smiled and responded, “No thanks. I had Mexican last night.” Now first dates are a little nervewracking on their own, but this one was going to be challenged by strange “external stimuli,” as they say in Chemistry class. Politely, my lunchmate indicated we’d not yet looked at the menu. The oddly familiar waitress said, “Oh, OK. Take your time,” but she seemed to be hovering as she dashed to and fro. In fact, my date remarked about the level of bustling in the place.

43 seconds later the anxious woman pounced again with pad and pen. The inevitable drink order ensued, followed by a rapid-fire delivery of “all the lunches come with salads, so do you want Italian or Creamy Vinegarette?” I tried to explain the situation, but I don’t think she was very accepting of my excuse and she stormed away. So here I am, sitting across from a lovely woman, feeling incredibly pressured to ignore her and focus on the menu. We did managed to squeeze some conversation in between the moments of intense server interrogation, but based on some of the questions, I wasn’t sure the chat was going all that well.

The tension was building and I honestly think our server increased the intensity of the booths overhanging light in an effort to force us to talk. Finally, she broke us and we ordered salads. She rattled, “The salads come with salads. Do you want them?” “Um… No thanks.” I think we both felt pretty startled by the abruptness of this woman. I mean, I just couldn’t help help but feel at any moment she was going to push a James Bond like “ejector seat” button and jettison us into the parking lot. When our salads arrived 13 seconds later, I had to ask for a Splenda again. The waitress was clearly annoyed.

It was so bad that neither of us really ate much salad and my date kept indicating she wanted to leave. I really wanted to chat, but was haunted by the thought that this woman was back in the kitchen with a giant hourglass plotting a way to get rid of us. Suddenly we both felt oddly sleepy, so I suggested we retreat to a coffee shop next door. I was relieved the response was very positive. Even though we were taunted on our way out, once we got into the coffee shop, we spent a couple hours pleasantly chatting. I imagine Dorothy’s nemesis turned about 8 tables during that time…

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…