gerbils

bill lee found perhaps the world's most appropriate use for gerbils as his description for his then-manager don zimmer. urban legends related to richard gere's alimentary tract represent perhaps the least. but, in between, gerbils engender emotions ranging from abhorrence to adoration, and, yet, to my experience, very few that suit the little rodents themselves.

in my experience, gerbils are generally personable, clean, and innocuous. they don't smell, (dry desert physiology minimizes their excretions), or make undue amounts of noise. (a little late-night scratching notwithstanding). their diets are simple (e.g. they can live quite happily on nothing but cheerios) yet tolerant of a wide variety of grains, fruits, vegetables, legumes, nuts, seeds, etc. etc. etc. they can be left for days (even weeks) at a time with nothing but their water bottle and a suitably-sized pile of non-perishable foodstuffs, or they can enjoy daily attentions.

some people will see a father's indulgence of his daughter in their appearance here at shangri-lowell. (can't say they'd be wrong). others, of course, will prefer to chalk it all up to idiocy, and wrestle mightily with their rodent aversions. (of course, i'd say they just don't get the little fuzzballs, but what, really, do i know). for myself, i'm rather looking forward to sharing my space with cohabitants sans agendas, who are pleased for what they get, and never complaining for its quantity or quality, and who aren't inclined to feel bothered if i should roll in during the next morning after a night out (or a week away). extra kudos to them that they'll never compete with me for my beer or resist in the least repeated showings of last week's boston legal in order to maximize enjoyment of all of shatner's best lines.

big question in my mind is only whether this should stay an all-bachelor pad, or whether i should go for more of a harem motif, because we can all agree that a breeding program is wholly inappropriate with the circumstances here, for everybody concerned.

i've arrived

this morning after last night's celtics game, on the platform at north station waiting for the train to lowell, i ran into a friend and his wife on their way in to work.

pay your taxes and always take the 5th

al capone tested treasury and rolled snake eyes. now roger has failed to learn from alberto "i don't recall" gonzalez, and he's going to get taken deep by justice. congress can't stop the troop surge or our imploding federal finances, but at least they can keep us entertained.

fun with pictures

here's a photo from roger's recent congressional hearings:

tell me you can't see the outline of his horns in his hairline. nods to albert brooks: "what did you think the devil would look like?"

second generation

i can tell my story in a hundred different ways. for instance, i'm eighth in a direct line of paternal forebears to live in this country. (easy to know when you have a unique last name). along similar lines, i raised my kids in the same town where my maternal grandparents raised theirs. or, alternately, i'm a newly single, middle-aged man starting out as a stranger in a new city for the very first time.

i'm feeling more of the latter than the former these days. the town in which i was raised, unlike my kids', was one where my parents had neither roots nor desire to remain. its socioeconomic image is as unlike my new home town's as there can be in this state, and i lack all the identifying markers, starting right from my language and accent, that would otherwise embrace me to certain of the locals. "where you from?" is a loaded question for me. yet, i'm at home here as well, in this city of immigrants, precisely because i need to find my way to fit in.

they say that adopted families are the luckiest, because they are chosen. i feel the same way about my new home. I find my ear becoming fond of a type of speech i can only poorly emulate, and my tongue adopting some of its more colorful edges without my ever having to consider them. (ayuh). when i'm asked where i'm from, i find the easiest answer to include the words "right here", as in, "right here in massachusetts". yeah, sometimes that's because i'm covering for someplace foreign to where i live now, but mostly it's because it's true. "howdy, neighbor, have a gansett" is as much a part of who i am as anything else you could confuse with the truth. i'm a farmer by heritage, and an engineer besides, and i'm in love with how both have founded, shaped and bequeathed this great state of ours to those of us who have the privilege to live here now.

nope, i wouldn't go back to where i came from, because that's not who i am. i am second generation, not first, where i live, and though that's still not a townie, it's something of which to be proud.

"i may have stopped by the canseco house after playing golf before heading to the ballpark to the game"

or, as tinyurl.com might put it, "i lied".

so now one of the neighbors may or may not have a photograph of his son with roger in jose's pool, but at least roger's lawyers are figuring out which way the hot air is blowing, and aren't even considering trying to buy off the tsunami of conflicting evidence that's showing their meal ticket i mean client in a bad light. just get in line to show your evidence to the investigators, and let me release another statement to the press ensuring that i won't run afoul of the inevitable perjury indictments.

who else is enjoying all this? i have to admit, usually, i'm loathe to indulge the tabloid culture. but this story is just too good to let slide behind the genocide in *insert one of dozens of country names here*. yes, i've finished reading this week's the economist, so don't go getting all sanctimonious on me. i have a choice for entertainment, and until the hockey comes on at 3pm, i'm choosing a little sports trivia, tyvm.

did you know that brian mcnamee told andy pettitte "a lot of women take [HGH], it has a good effect on women"? (it's in the deposition, honest). so, is that why andy became a user?

good or evil?

i say most folks are good.

i say most folks who don't appear to be good are highly rationalized, and don't realize they're no longer good. will smith ought to have won his defamation suit, and i'm glad he did. he gets it. even if he is a lousy actor/musician/opraholic.

the other lowell sun

now that obama is pulling ahead for the democratic party nomination for president, the hopelessly anachronistic editorial staff of my [sic] local paper is frantically penning anti-obama diatribes like there's no tomorrow. forget that there are youtube clips of john mccain referring to vladimir putin as the president of germany, or others detailing billary's jaw-dropping hypocrisy over unattributed speech content--there's a charismatic black man running for president and it's time to panic.

heaven forbid a discussion might take place based on anything substantial while there are nose hair trimmer stories on page 1. i'm not saying i've even started to make up my mind, but what i have decided is that, entertainment value aside, my local paper is little more than a frightening caricature of the fourth estate, and there aren't enough letters to the editors in the world that could likely correct all the wrong that it is.

embarrassing, but at least most of the folks here don't bother to read it. not hard to figure.

the lowell sun

TEWKSBURY -- A 32-year-old local woman has been ordered to stay away from her boyfriend, after police say she stabbed him in the left testicle with a nose-hair trimmer.

you can't make this stuff up.

another sunny day in shangri-lowell

the nicest thing about bad weather is that it passes--at least for some people. i've been the recipient of a couple of woe-is-me emotional hard luck tales these past few days, so either i'm one of *those* people who feels better when other people are miserable, or else it's always nice to be reminded why you're not entangled in one of those traditional (and gut-wrenching) relationships in the first place. or else, as is likely the case, a little reflection, combined with a little focusing on other things too, does wonders for the attitude. some sun in through the windows in the morning doesn't hurt, either.

while i was walking home late last evening, close to midnight, i was taken by the convivial groups all clustered within the various establishments along the way to my neighborhood. each seemed so much like a family in their appearance, or, maybe, more like the way it feels around the campfire at summer camp--easy and intimate and for-the-moment wonderful. i was reminded that i haven't adopted (or, more accurately, been adopted into) one yet, but the experience also came with an encouraging sense of the fullness of time, and the fact that there never is a hurry where places you belong are concerned. the fuller truth is that i have other things on my mind, too.

so i'm thinking today that it's profoundly unfortunate that most folks tend to heap a whole lot of expectations onto their relationships. didn't you always find diane chambers a discordant gong cluttering up the set and cast of cheers for too long before they figured out the show (and the feelings of its interpersonal symphonies) didn't need her at all? i did... i know the writers meant well at first, figuring she'd be dramatic tension, or whatever. but when something fits, it doesn't need grit in the gears to please.

a lot of folks live through loss and grief and harder times than they thought they could or should endure. some remain trapped in the endless cycle of remorse and self-pity, and others seem to have the knack to escape its pull. i'm aware that it's a choice you can make every day, and not just for yourself, but for the others who you will let into your life, too. well, i can't solve the lifelong misfortune of how my ex will be or feel, nor my mother. but i can hold out hope that there are a few hardy souls who aren't miserable nor compelled to seek further misery in their relationship(s). The fearful among them cast fearsome pejoratives about loose morals, but, i'm learning to see, that's just a combination of fear and jealousy talking.

with apologies to alice roosevelt longworth, if you CAN say something nice, come sit here by me.

looking for clues

robert palmer sings about it, and now i'm living it...

"free-floating anxiety" is one of those expressions i've always liked. the experience of it, not so much, but the expression is a good one. some anxieties are very easy to put your finger on, (recently i flew cross country with a nervous flyer), but others seem to bob and weave and defy categorization. "free-floating" indeed.

so, having some over the past day or more, a list of possible causes springs to mind, from not enough sleep to too much beer, and everything in between, and i'm still unsure if, since they're "free-floating" and not definite in the first place, the real root cause is even up to the level of conscious awareness in the first place yet. (grumble, grumble).

could be the ex digging her poking finger into the shoulder of my guilt and vulnerability... ("i KNOW you're seeing that woman"). could be the original passive/aggressive woman with the agenda... (my mom, with the classic "i've been told you had an affair"). could be work in general, or even in specific... (the crisis projects on top of the merely 1-A importance topics complicated by the ubiquitous "why isn't this done yet" projects). could be financial... (i'm up to my ears in financial disclosures and last-four-years-w-2's and thou-shalt-pay-more-alimony-than-you-can-afford-forever fears). could be filial... (the oldest still resists engaging, while the others remain tangled in the web of mom's inconsistency, which, come to think of it, might relate back to the first item on this list). could be general guilt over feeling too happy... (i am, after all, a product of both my genetics and upbringing).

but no matter where it comes from, it's floating around here and bugging the crap out of me. not because i expect to be anxiety free, but because i really want to know where this is coming from so i can go to work on where it's coming from. i know i'm less of a party companion when i'm in this state, and likely less of everything else, too.

but hold your pity, 'cuz this isn't anywhere near worth worrying about, not even for me. i'll knock off a few work things, let my righteous indignation that the ex, or mom, or anyone else for that matter, should have anything to say about the way i choose to live my life from here on in, (not because i shouldn't be accountable, but because i know i'm doing a fair job of things), and wait patiently for the bonus check to hit at the end of the month that will let me did out from underneath the lion's share of the financial oppression i'm under. the lawyers can tell me what they need, and i'll get around to it. it's not like i'll be any less divorced if it takes a week more or a week less to happen.

but, while i'm on the subject... let me just issue a great big FU to the universe for the tough stuff this week, and a calmly defiant finger at anybody or anything that strives to knock me off my zen. i know it's all of the above, and i'm just going to have to work through it, like everybody else. see ya on the other side. :-)

being there

ordering tickets online is the far side of a slippery slope. when i used to go to concerts professionally, i'd rely on my 3rd shift buddy, who worked down at the west roxbury stahh, to grab a cuppa after his shift, and stand in line down at the gahden bwawx office (ok, i'll stop) to be first when the window opened. i saw def leppard (on their very first american tour) opening for judas priest and ritchie blackmore and rainbow down at the orpheum, from the fourth row. (the kids blew the geezers off the stage, and the memory most indelible in my mind is of rob halford riding a fully miked harley onto the stage to open the priest's set, and then not being able to hear a thing for days afterwards). i saw phil rudd, angus and malcolm young, AND BON SCOTT from the front row of the garden during a blizzard after which my windshield wipers froze on the way home, and i had to drive with my head out the window into the teeth of the gale. (and i couldn't hear a thing for days afterwards). i saw john cougar (pre mellencamp) open for heart at the worcester centrum. (second row). i saw elvis costello open for pat benatar at the cape cod colliseum (open seating on the floor), the most indelible memory of which is the big vacuum sweeper they employed in the parking lot after the show to suck up the literal *carpet* of broken glass from the beer bottles strewn about by the vacating crowd, not to mention sleeping on the beach and catching the falmouth road race the next day as hung over as i've ever been. queen at the garden the night after john bonham died. jon butcher at the hampton casino ballroom. little feat at the channel. (my car got stolen that night). aretha franklin. jackson browne, bonnie raitt, linda ronstadt, james taylor, joan armitrading, buddy guy, and a list too long to remember or fairly mention. i even blue oyster cult, though it was because they were opening for linda ronstadt (i kid you not) not because i feared the reaper. james brown. (how could i have forgotten the godfather???). rancid at the roseland ballroom. (in a suit and tie, no less, freshly run uptown from wall street after a big meeting at jpmorgan). i've seen karla bonoff in a room with six dozen people, and the rolling stones at the old shaefer stadium with sixty thousand. (ok, forty, but you know i like alliteration).

the interesting thing about once again walking to the box office in person to grab dkm tix is that i was able to remember what music is all about. (the audience).

years ago, i stood in line at the orpheum box office for heart tickets, and a couple of pleasantly bemused black guys walked by and asked, tongue in thoroughly amused cheek, if james brown tickets were going on sale or something. i laughed, because i got it completely. we were the rocker guys, standing in line for the altar of hot chick bombast rock, and we looked it. and the show was AMAZING, and i'll always remember it for my first contact high and how ann wilson sent us into the street after a blow-you-away rendition of unchained melody. the very first time i'd ever left a ROCK SHOW on a ballad, and felt the soaring feeling even more tightly in my chest. (WOW).

and so, thinking about 16 and all, i was there in line at the lowell memorial auditorium box office with the dkm kids. (and one of their mothers, who was there because her son had to be at work and COULD NOT miss the murphys on st patties day weekend). yeah, i was as old as mom, but i still could see the truth behind the anomaly. there is NO WAY my 16 year old is going to be able to deal. nope. no way. it's open seating. st patties weekend, after the band plays their first gig of the day down at the tsongas arena, and the kids have four hours in which to get re-liquored up for the evening show. (most all the folks in line already had seats to the earlier show, which i couldn't consider because of an afternoon engagement, or i would too as well). it'll be crowd surfing and the loudest party you could ever imagine, except you don't have to imagine because you've been there before, and you've seen the crowd again right there in line with you.

this one is 18+, even though the tix say "all ages".

and i couldn't be looking forward to it with any more sincere anticipation.

it's been a long time. a looong time.

"i remembiz when the muhphys played the lowell auditorium on st. patties day weekend back in oh-eight".

set your calendars, it's coming.

16

st patties day weekend with the dropkick murphys... yeah. but, 16: yea or nae?

oh, for me and the rest of downtown lowell, it's a big yea. (OY OY OY) but i know what kind of anarchy that's potential to be made, and i know it's a lot to take on if you don't appreciate what you're getting yourself into.

yeah, on the one hand, i never want to sell my kid(s) short. on the other, i never want to push them into anything for which they aren't ready.

i'll noodle on this awhile...

nap time

this one has a few coincidental twists and turns, so be ready:

it all starts from my being tired, not least reason for which has been yet another tweak from beyond the marital DMZ. why is it, i ask you, that some people feel compelled to want to monitor and control others behavior even after they've (supposedly) pulled the nuclear option on the putative relationship that would have enabled it, but no longer??? the whistle blew. foul's been called. penalties are assessed. and what i want to know is, where's the commissioner's office with the fines for late hits?

sheesh.

ok, rant cleared...

so we're tired, and we're talking about naps. as anyone old enough or young enough to know, there's nothing as sweet as a good nap. (i'll cop to it: sometimes, in the morning, when i've got that morning wood, and the willing body right there next to me, i still often choose to roll over so as to keep on snoozin', proving rather eloquently to me that sometimes a good snooze is better than even great sex). so then someone i know brings up the subject of post-coital naps today, and i realize, there is indeed something that transcends mere napping, which, as we've covered, is right up there at the peak beside and sometimes even slightly above sex itself. there is, indeed, nothing finer.

yet, somehow, in the annals of interpersonal relationships, post-coital sex has been given a bad rap. it's portrayed as bad behavior, usually by folks of the distaff persuasion who were otherwise, i'm assuming, hoping that the show would continue, but by certain endicotts as well who are always doing it more barry whitishly than you. (you know, endicotts, as in kid creole and the coconuts and the kind of guy who's up by 5 o'clock, givin' it all he got, whose job is six to nine but home by nine o-five, helping to cook the steak, and wash the plates, and put the kids to bed, even reading a book to them--"why can't you be like endicott"?). and what is it that they're really saying?

because, you know, if you "love 'em and leave 'em" you're the lowest form of life on the planet, but, somehow, if you stick around hopelessly overwhelmed by the comfort and pleasure of their company to the extent that post-coital nappishness overtakes you, then you've succeeded in going lower than low.

yeah, i know, i exaggerate.

but here it is in a nutshell: if i'm pleased beyond all consciousness, i'm in a sort of love with you that money and wishin' can't buy. i'm not thinking about sports scores or hangin' out with the guys or, indeed, anything at all. i'm just feelin' ya. deeply. at one with the universe. overwhelmed.

and when that feeling is jarred back awake by the clanging gong of unmet expectations, there's a real problem there that goes beyond whether or not, as alec baldwin so hysterically intoned in "providence", everyone's had their cookie.

if it's about cookies, say so. just don't make it about PCN. that ought to be sacred. it's the feeling you've always wished was felt about you, and, now that you have it, don't go trampling on it like a bathmat or a doormat or any other kind of mat.

i promise you it's sincere. you just can't fake a nap.

and if you'd think about it for awhile, and try one or two on for size, i'm betting you'll get what i mean.

predictability

i was thinking about last night's collection of nonsense and non sequitur, and how it's likely perceived by most readers as, to put it as politely as possible, the very edge of reason. (as in, kinda just a little bit over the).

fair enough.

the thought is that it might have been most unsettling not only for its "out there" subjects and subtexts, but also because it leads readers to realize that there's just no predicting what this guy is going to write and do.

that's scary.

society has, for centuries, seen fit to lock up folks like that/me. nothing more disturbing and destabilizing to a society than a loose cannon that not only seems incapable of playing by its rules, but also seems compelled to flaunt them in unpredictable, and, hence, unmanageable ways.

the docile folks--the ones who meekly do as they're told--aren't any less insane, they're just that much easier to manage, and, so, safe to let wander close to those amidst societal norms. but the volatile folks--the ones who do things like wander over to the local police barracks asking about firearms permits--are the ones that tend to get the most attention from the authorities, and those who would speak for the authority of the societal norms. normal people just don't get wistful over songs about heroin addiction, ya know?

which all brings to mind the brilliant words of last night's favorite iconoclast:

you're supposed to sit on your ass and nod at stupid things
man that's hard to do
and if you don't, they'll screw you
and if you do, they'll screw you, too

when i'm standing in the middle of the diamond all alone
i always play to win
when it comes to skin and bone

and sometimes i say things i shouldn't, like...

:-)

wolfgang's vault redux

don't know how many times i'm gonna be compelled to do this, but the music is incredible and the musicians speak to me and who am i not to reply. ("you better stay away from him / he'll rip your lungs out, jim / and he's looking for JAMES TAYLOR")

"you know i saw sylvester stallone a-running up the steps to the art museum--he was doing another sequel"

the choices for words among the lyrics, and in the fills between the verses, and in the patter between songs, have never been made better, especially in a live setting, than by warren zevon. i could try to explain it, but i fear there's just nobody else who will understand quite what i mean.

music is such a personal thing, and ironic that its at its most powerful when it's shared--between the performer and their audience, and among the audience members themselves. "i hear mariachi static on my radio / and the tubes, they glow in the dark / and i'm there with her in ensenada / and i'm here in echo park" yeah, the rest tells a sordid truth ("carmelita, hold me tighter / i think i'm sinking down") but there's a beauty to those words that transcends it all for me, and i know warren meant every one of them.

so when he's gone ballistic and headlong straight through "poor poor pitiful me", and barely catches his breath before relating the story "we have an old saying in my family, translated from the russian, it means 'god have mercy, i'll sleep when i'm dead' ", you're primed and ready for the way he sings it straight after. (we all will, warren...)

but the line that encapsulates it all for me, compelled as i have been to alarm others about my talkin' ta wake (whose picture is right behind me as i type), is "i shot her down in front of gucci--i shot her in the pussy, as they say in the movies--but i didn't tell george gruel about it--he worries about me".

no need to worry about me tonight, i'm as happy as i've been in a very, very, very long time. (and it's not just the music).

serendipity

last summer, in a sincere and heart-consuming effort to preserve the family, we toured the mountains of southern spain and the coastal plains of morocco. while in the medina of rabat, i entered into negotiations with a local huckster for a traditional moroccan stool of carved wood and a hand-tooled leather cushion, which i think ended up somewhere around $30, which i'm sure could have been less, though it was plenty reasonable to me, so no worries, and i ran aground against the airlines' carry-on restrictions and had to leave it in the care of my sister for safe-keeping.

anyway, as you've learned from reading the saga here, the best laid plans of mice-like men oft go astray, and the net result of the entire trip was ultimately a failed family, an anorexic bank account, and, insult to injury and most ignominious of all, a depleted frequent flyer balance. but, just when you figured it was all for naught, sis drops in from morocco to see the latest grandchild (kinda freaky that it's my generation doing that sort of thing now) and hand-delivers the prodigal stool.

serendipity!

since moving in here, all the wet winter boots have had to be removed either while standing and tottering about the foyer, sitting in the residual slush, or seated over on the stairs. how uncivilized! i've thought repeatedly that just what i need would be a small, comfortable stool, just inside the door, for efficient management of the galoshes. et voila!

the color could have been chosen more presciently, (sue me, i was, at the time, matching the decor of a room in which i am no longer welcome), but the form of the piece is everything it ought to be. i sat on it this morning, just to enjoy the fact that i had something in the right place on which to sit.

can't wait to go out later and track in some slush!

"you don't have to ask for it, he knows what you want"

once again i've been distracted by a side-bar conversation, and found myself appreciating catherine deneuve: http://youtube.com/watch?v=K5WANKnEx8E

the meaning of life:

"you don't have to ask for it, he knows what you want".

and i know catherine wasn't thinking about chanel when she was saying it at the end of that sentence.

back to the swing of things

a week away does fascinating things to ones routines. some, like laundry, require resumption without too many changes. others, like reveille, especially when "away" includes multiple time zones, prove themselves far more mutable. (geez, i'm late for work already...)

best part is, there's nobody to be re-making the schedule but me.

timing

the highlight of last wednesday's hockey game was definitely my moroccan coworker's instant emotional bond with jonathan cheechoo. as the sharks highlights ran on the jumbotron before the game, i had opportunity to mention cheechoo's scoring title and indian heritage, and also to explain the tradition of throwing hats onto the ice to celebrate le hat trick.

it was love at first sight. imagine a lilting french accent, smoothing the "ch" sound into much more of a "sh", and pouring life into the final syllable: "shee-SHEW". every time jonathan touched the puck, and all the more when he shot it towards the net, and with full pathos and sympathy whenever he might miss... "shee-SHEWWWWwwww". i'll always remember it with a smile.

so last night, wouldn't you know it, just three days later, jonathan cheechoo netted himself a hat trick. oh, if only my friend could have seen THAT game!!!

all i can do is forward the video highlights, and recall the cheer: "shee-SHEWWWWW!!!!!"

when the going gets tough...

the tough do a lot of things, and one of the jokes is that they also go shopping. i found it sublimely amusing that on our first free evening, the dozen of us assembled here in sunny california for our week-long tete a tete scattered according to our personalities and our allegiances to cliche.

myself, i went to the hockey game. it was great. others who could scurried home to be with family. but the part that had me so bemused was that each and every *female* traveler who was footloose and fancy free immediately flocked together as one and plotted their attack on the local shopping as shamelessly as we testosterone jockeys descended on the shark tank.

the gender tendencies crossed all cultural and age-related boundaries. at the fight where the hockey game broke out, (cody mcleod was indeed the first av to drop the gloves, just as i had predicted during the national anthem), it was le maroc and le us. (the other guys in the group were locals and committed elsewhere). at the malls were the young and old, married and single, tall and short, buxom and svelte, european and colonial, xy's.

i have no idea what the attraction is, and why it's a team sport, but shopping apparently is when it comes to the distaff set. they talked about the plans for it all day--where they'd begin, who would drive, and how they'd manage the return with their loot. it made sense to me that those holding euros would be eager to give it a go, given how dubya has seen fit to put our whole country on sale, but the consistency of the eagerness to participate in the ritual was beyond my ability to really comprehend. (i accept it as one of the wonders of the universe, much like the migratory instincts of birds or other such dna-based curiosities). it just, apparently, is what it is.

life is clearly best when such differences are indulged. nobody among the shoppers felt guilty to give the hockey game a pass, and i can speak first-hand of the pleasure to be let go to the game without an eyebrow askance. we'll all tease each other in the morning, and it'll be just fine.

at the corner of page mill and el camino

palo alto is an interesting place. here i get to drive past xerox parc on my way to the office, (it's a geek thing, but think sistene chapel), and on the corner of page mill and el camino the politics of positivism literally spill onto the streets.

the obama girls were, indeed, better looking, but hillary's were just as enthusiastic, if not just a little bit older. even the guys got in the act yesterday, exhorting everyone to get to the polls. (they could have been looking to score a positive positivism chick, who knows). and every one of all of them, elbow to placard, was purely positive about their candidate. no jostling for position, or anything but enthusiasm for the fact that everybody was into it this time for the common cause of seeing the present administration ushered to the doghouse of history as it so richly deserves. "VOTE!!!" maybe it's because nobody really loses no matter who the democratic nominee turns out to be, or maybe it's because there truly is a sea change underway.

the traffic at rush hour here is soul-crushing, but everybody was smiling yesterday. politics was fun again, even if only for a day. tonight, instead of an election, i'll be entertained by several dozen men armored for battle with sticks over a frozen rubber disc, and it'll be just as much fun. maybe more. maybe jody shelley will have a run-in with cody mcleod. (my money's on shelley in that one). maybe joe thornton will put on a show. maybe nabby pitches a shutout or maybe he doesn't. but it all won't matter, because it's ice hockey and it's my kind of night out.

the 8:07 to sfo

monday morning and the software geeks are migrating like their overclockwork between massachusetts and san francisco bay. it's like the swallows at capistrano, only it happens each and every week. the most surprising part is that the united gate hacks would pretend to be surprised that they were oversold, and having to ask passengers to give up their seats. c'mon, people, we're on this thing often enough to know better--that's why the plane is full.

no matter. the bounty is now, without hesitation, a free round trip. being either clairvoyant or cynical, i didn't have any pressing engagements on the sfo side this time around, so i was able to snag myself one of the free duckets. it doesn't even matter that i can't think of any compelling destinations among the lower 48, (too bad canada is off the list, or i'd be skiing nakiska), because it's enough to know that the ticket is mine all mine to decide. no more passive/aggressive wanderings through andalusia in search of a fair shake. i can do as i please, and nobody is going to criticize me for doing it.

where would you go? if the return flight is crammed on friday, would you have any suggestions as to what i'd do with a pair?

best story goes to the head of the check-in line.

i'm feeling itinerant.

eclectic

the newly loaded pod served me up a little dave brubeck (3 to get ready) before launching into right as rain by tokyo rose. yep, it's working. this last playlist veers from classical piano (mary deschamps playing everything from mozart to chopin to debussy to rachmaninoff to scriabin) to classical r&b (amiestreet's got sam & dave now) to some stuff that nobody's going to describe as classical anything. (i think a little jello biafra might have snuck in there...) it's loaded with the amiestreet stuff that it's now my mission to share with the world, and it's got the first and tastiest vestiges of my vinyl collection (doctor buzzard's original savannah band, anyone?) as a down payment on the rest when i can find the time. 45 gigs and counting. (hope it'll all fit!)

this week while i'm rocking out in california (ok, i'll work a little too) i'm going to miss michelle shocked at passim's in cambridge. my tickets are in good hands so they won't go unused or unappreciated, though it was interesting to hear the first couple of responses from the friends of my friend who (apparently) don't find michelle shocked as sweet on the ears as i do. first of all, the audience is gonna be FULL of hot chicks, (ok, a lot of them'll be lesbians, but it's not like they're any harder on the eyes for being interested in each other and not you, right?), and michelle's wide-ranging musical sensibilities always guarantee an ear-opening good time. second of all, since when did everyone get so closed down when it comes to other people's music? i saw kc and the sunshine band once at a corporate shindig, and even after all this time you had to take your hat off to the man and agree that "that's the way i like it". can't tell you how many folks declined the invite to that party, but i can tell you that they're all sorry now.

[real-time update: wait for me (susan tedeschi) just got segued into zep's the ocean. YEAH.]

but i don't mean to trivialize the challenge here--trying new things takes a lot of effort. for me, usually because i'm so self-satisfied and happy with the music i already know, there often isn't a whole lot of time to invest in getting to know something new and different. the irony is, after the time gets invested, more often than not, there's something new that's better than almost everything else you thought you liked best before. it just takes refusing to take yourself seriously. seriously.

food works that way. (who knew that burmese noodles were so sublime!) paintings work that way. (i saw a 60 foot wide digital print of the most bizarre looking green thing at the worcester art museum the other day, and it's one of the most memorable pieces i've ever had the pleasure to see). even sports work that way. (curling, bike racing and soccer weren't part of "my" culture when i was growing up, but they're some of my favorites now).

but, when all is said and done, there's always room for the old favorites, too. this evening we get to stand on the edge of our seats to see if some very large men are able to do something that's never been done before in the history of the national football league. (it's the 19th that's the charm). go pats!!!

ok, now byron lee and the dragonaires are making their hot raggae splashdown--time to rock on.

rock steady, people.

even their money is different

yep, canadians have their own currency, believe it or not, and, believe it or not, it's actually worth more than ours these days. (a little less than USD$1.01 as of friday). i can remember my first sight of it, and marveling that they could manage the different colors. (recalling the incredulous bruces of the philosophy department of the university of walamaloo, "is your name not bruce?" / "no, it's michael" / "that's going to cause a little confusion!") ahh... python...

where was i?

ah, yes, the color of money...

i noticed today the color of money is different here, too. well, it's mostly green, as in any other red blooded american place, but it's also different. it's worn. it's not like the money where i used to come from. where i used to come from it came crisp from the atm, and it slipped easily off to wherever money goes, apparently to be replenished new at the font of fiduciary whenever needed to be summoned. but here where i live, it carries the wear of the hands that have held it, and you can literally feel its importance for how faded in use it has become. having fewer of it, i find myself folding it and arranging it all the more carefully, too. "this bit has to last until..."

over the past week, several banks and businesses have been robbed only steps from my front door. one thief was caught by following the trail of dropped singles leading to his kitchen door. another was fished out of the canal when his attempt at a getaway along a utility pipe grew too treacherous to maintain balance. (in his pocket were rolls of coins, but no cash). it's clear that the stakes are higher, and the denominations lower, here than anywhere else for miles, and you can see it, plain as day, right in your hand. when i look into mine now, i can see, as under the morning sun, the whim of fortune, and the meaning of a dollar.

for the precious scarcity of means, the prevailing honesty here is hard to explain to those who only read the out-of-town papers. when i stood without my battery-failed car, in the doorstep of a man who had never before laid eyes on me, there was no hesitation to trust me to return once mine was restarted with the garage jumper cables. when i hear the stories of faithlessness and petty collusion from friends and coworkers throughout their daily lives i am all the more starkly struck by how different a simple transaction can be, when the parties to it are both respectful of its importance to the other.

for each dollar, there is value to be had here. a man is lucky to know such a thing.

traveling light

i'm accumulating new tokens of identity and privilege faster than i can find pockets to hold them. just within the last two days i came by a new library card and video store rental card, to add to the pile of id's, credit cards, security access cards and fobs, keys, membership cards and whatnot that are starting to overwhelm my simple urge/need to travel light. somethings gotta give.

the car itself can carry the parking tokens, so that part is at least solved. most of what's left is occasional, so those can tag along based on my daily whims. anyone else who finds the stuff related to them on the primary ring should consider themselves graduated to the highest echelon of my itinerant life. there's only so much room there, and only the best stay with me at all times. everything else i have proven i can do without.