I am confused

So sad. What a sad, sad week.

What do I mean? Well, for example ...

Sarah Palin could find no one to pray with before the debate. Pity I wasn't around. I would gladly joined hands with her. And offered to do lots and lots of missionary work with her. I mean, I was willing to get behind her for the long haul. Etc. etc. etc.

A co-worker and I were talking about exercise and so forth, and I said, "You can't escape genetics." And he said [about himself], "I already have!" To me, that's the line of the decade.

A person I have known for 33 years recently revealed to me, for the first time, that he went out with Michael Steele aka Micki Steele [birth name: Sue Thomas] of the Bangles when they were in high school. Sadly, they went to a Clapton concert [lame, even then.] Even more sadly, he did not seal the deal. But he is so much cooler in my eyes now. Does that make me superficial?

Baseball is almost here. But since my health woes, I just don't care as much about sports. They're fun, yes, but not that fun. But it is sad to think that this year there will be no Ben Sheets, Eric Gagne, Trot Nixon, Dave Roberts, Jay Gibbons, Daryle Ward, Aaron Fultz nor Brendan Donnelly. We all get old.

I have recently completed a mix CD of songs that feature whistling. Too much time on my hands, indeed!

I want Malcolm Gladwell's next book to be called "Harmful Anecdotes".

We have a particularly idiotic vendor who has this tactic that I find charming. He says dumb stuff then when you call him on it, he says "You are confused." I love that in a person.

McFlurry

Things some to be swirling around. Lots of crazy activity all at once, seemingly. Peter Case, Robin Williams and Aaron Boone all have heart surgery. John Martyn dies. Natasha Richardson dies. Ron Silver dies. Longtime bachelors David Letterman and Bruce Willis marry, but sadly, not each other. Bonuses are handed out. Bonuses are handed back. Obama is great! Obama sucks. I find myself oddly attracted to Meghan McCain. And then repulsed. And then attracted. Nick Cage, in what must be some type of experiment, makes ever-worsening movies, and yet still retains vast popularity. Newspapers fold, and no, not in that way.

So, old fat Pete Case is on the mend from heart surgery ... surely he was knocking on death's door for quite a bit and happily he's gonna pull through and live to fight another day. And the former Plimsouls' guitarist, Eddie, uses Pete's well-wishing board to tell people how he [Eddie] needs a job. Just seems so odd. I mean, did no one tell Eddie that (a) it's in bad taste to use the get well Pete board to complain about your own predicament? and (b) that there is little to no demand for a rock and roll guitarist pushing 60? I mean, that's why I stopped playing in bands at age 22. I knew that one day I would be old, and no matter how good I was at the ol' axe, no one would care once I hit 30. Porn stars have better career longevity than rock and rollers. The script writes itself, son.

He's the Maker of Nothing

The lavishly underappreciated Chrissie Hynde has a song on the new Pretenders' recording called "The Nothing Maker." It's a song about [and I deliberately did not use the words "ode to", "tribute" or "paean"] her "man" or "guy".

The song is a "Nowhere Man" but without the editorializing that marred so many songs from the 1960s. Instead, her man makes nothing and expects little. Instead of being crassly judged, he is portrayed as a man who is neither vain nor outwardly successful. But is he a failure? Hynde states that "he lives by a code known only to him." He does not succeed for successes' sake. He does not make, or take, or do anything of permanence. He's the nothing maker.

So, instead of being a song that catalogs the lack of things this guy does as failures, she lists them and lets the listener judge. Is making nothing perhaps better? If anything, Hynde makes it clear that his choice to make nothing is a volitional act, as volitional and deliberate [and as well-crafted] as the decision some make to create. In essence, the Maker of Nothing is indeed a maker after all.

I was so devastated when I heard the song. Her best songs have that ability. Songs like "Kid" or "Middle of the Road" or "Talk of the Town" have certain lines, delivered in that peerless Hynde fashion that utterly destroy the listener. And unlike so many of her peers, Hynde has lost nothing off her fastball as she has grown numerically older. "The Nothing Maker" proves that. Here are the lyrics:

He doesn't make shoes
or design a new shirt
or take photographs
But no one gets hurt

And he doesn't look trendy
like guys in magazines
You won't see him at parties
he's not the face behind the scene

He Makes Nothing
He's the Nothing Maker
He's the Maker of Nothing
He's the Nothing Maker

And he doesn't paint pictures
or write poetry
or act on a stage
for others to see

And he don't expect much
Santa Claus knows
Cause he doesn't make lists
Of toys and new clothes

He Makes Nothing
He's the Nothing Maker
He's the Maker of Nothing
He's the Nothing Maker

Everyone's chasing
A reason to live
Mostly they take more than they give
The succeeder justifies
Why he needs more than the rest
believes his own lies
And thinks he's the best

but my guy doesn't make movies
to suit an audience's whim
He lives by a code
known only to him
And he doesn't make money
to buy watches and cars
cause there's no time and no place to go
for a man who has nothing to show

He makes nothing
He's the Nothing Maker
He's the maker of nothing
He's the Nothing Maker

This Desert Life

Once again, it's nearly Spring. And once again, I'm in Arizona.

Some good things have happened since I got here. Had a nice visit with Dad and the step-mom. Found them an estate planning attorney that was both reasonably priced and excellently credentialed, and hopefully really good. Saw the Angels pummel the D-backs. Got in some good runs, including one in Old Town Tucson, site of the filming of Rio Bravo and (ta-da!) The Three Amigos. Won $250 at the Indian Casino. Saw "The Palm Beach Story" and finished "Blink" and closed a couple of deals. I should get away more often.

But today is a day of mourning. Mandy Moore and Ryan "Gimme a Haircut and a Bath" Adams got married. We're just counting the days until this one comes to a fiery end.

On a similar note, Bristol Palin and Levi "Don't Call Me Stubbs" WhateverHisLastNameIs broke up. But she won't be off the market for long. Look at that mom. You know Bristol will age well, folks.

I had several goals for this trip. For one, I purposefully did not bring any guitars along. Because I'm sort of at a crossroads, although not of the Robert Johnson variety. I own a bunch of guitars. I check out eBay all the time to look at guitars and guitar parts. But I don't get that much joy out of it. It's like a bad habit. I play, and I like to play. I like to write and sing. But I really don't do any of it that well. I mean, I will make no one forget Joey Molland.

So I was scouring websites looking at interviews and webpages with frustrated musicians. And I recall the words of Robert Christgau: "Nothing to say and no special way to say it." He was (wrongly) describing Jules Shear. But really he was talking about me, musically. I think the only validity I have is that I'm a pretty good live guitar player, a pretty good bandmember. But that's about it. But actually, I'm a pretty rotten bandmember when I'm not playing guitar. Because I don't get along that well with other people most of the time. By choice. It's just who I am.

So I play guitar at home and think of getting more and different guitars, and recording and writing and maybe someday ... making someone else uncomfortable.

It's kind of pathetic being 46.

Fuck That Shit

Apparently, it's no cussing week. To which I say, It's about fucking time.

I had this friend, a fellow smart kid, in grammar school. He was named John M. and he was a nice enough guy, very bright and not too big of a nerd. I, on the other hand, was too big of a nerd. But I knew that. I knew I was a nerd. So I learned how to cuss and I did it with great frequency and enthusiasm. It was 1973. There was a lot to be angry about. But John didn't see it that way. I would say "I don't give a shit." Or I would say "I don't give a fuck." Or sometimes I would say "I don't give a flying fuck." Mind you, I was ten, and it would be years before I even really appreciated what a "flying fuck" was. But I said it anyways. John took great offense at my colorful language. He would ask me, politely - as all inveterate non-cussers do - to not cuss, and he suggested that I say, instead "I don't give a care." I remember two things about my response to him. First, I remember being stunned that he cared what I was saying. My immediate reaction was gratitude: "Someone is paying attention!" My next reaction "Geez, what a busybody!" And secondly, I carefully explained to him that "give a care" did not accurately represent what I wished to convey. I mean, what the fuck?