Someone Loves Angie

Before I dig in, please have a little faith that this is not a nostalgia piece. This isn't about boyhood lost, or the paving over of some memory.

Live in the now, Fat Kid, live in the now.

So anyway, if the beginning of this story smacks of sentimentality, bear with me.

Ready?

A building just outside of Sonoma was recently torn down.

What was the chipped facade of an old hotel is now rubble. A pile of bricks enclosed by a chain link fence.

I don't know its full history. I never touched it or went inside. The only thing I know about this once majestic heap of trash is one little fact:

Some how, somewhere, once upon a time, someone loved Angie.

I know this because written sloppily in spray paint just below the second story window was this:

"I [Picture of a heart] angie"

Who was Angie? I don't know.

Who loved Angie? Was it a drunk teenager, or a mildly retarded janitor? No idea.

Doesn't matter. But in order to make sense of this little diatribe I have to flashback a few days.

Went to see an interview with Stephen Sondheim this past weekend. And aside from the fact that I got to be in the room with one of the most staggeringly genius songwriters of the twentieth century (along with 1700 of his closest admirerers) I didn't really learn anything new.

Sure there were a few anecdotes that I had never heard before, but the real education came in the form of reaffirmation.

His process is my process. His approach is my approach. He is a songwriter. I am a songwriter. We live, we learn, we fail, we succeed.

He told the story of a married woman who was involved in a tempestuous affair, and though it broke her heart to do so, she broke it off for the sake of her marriage. Then one night the phone rang and she heard her ex-lover's voice on the other end of the line,

"not a day goes by"

Song!

Eventually, of course, he was asked where his ideas come from. But its an impossible question. No writer can tell you where they get their ideas. But everyone can tell you where they got "that" idea.

It's the waiter who asked Billy Joel if he wanted a "bottle of red, a bottle of white." Or the couple sitting next to Sting who noticed a "little black spot on the sun today" In fact, Castle Park is all about those little moments that send the creative juices a-whirling.

But to get moving forward I have to flashback about eight years.

I was at work when the phone rang. A dear friend had fallen from a ladder and broke his neck. He was laid up in a hospital bed and couldn't move.

When people you love are in pain, you go through many different reactions all at once. Panic, fear, who do you call to get this gossip off your chest, will my boss think this is important enough to let me go home early, what the hell can I do, what the hell does he need, should I be the rational cool guy or just freak the fuck out.

That's the first few seconds.

But then I backed off the initial reaction. I made few phone calls, covered the next few of my shifts and the shifts of his girlfriend who worked for me, went home to pick up a few CD's and a few books, gassed up the car and got on the road.

It was a long drive. And I had a lot of time to think about my life. A lot of time to freak out. Jon had the presense of mind to know that his life was a life of the theater. I had quit the theater and was adrift in my metaphorical sea. My friend was hurt, and I was as helpless in life as he was in that gurney.

The radio became a source of irritation so I flipped it off.

Alone with my thoughts. Waiting for the light to turn green.

Then I looked up.

I looked at the cracked facade of a brick building.

It was one of those V-shaped buildings on the corner of an intersection where the two streets meet at a very non-perpendicular angle. It was obviously abandoned. A fire had scorched the inside. All the windows had been shattered by rocks and there were scattered bits of graffiti along the wall.

But when I looked up I saw another trashy bit of graffiti below the second story window.

"I [picture of a heart] angie"

Song!

All the questions were mine to answer. Or not. It could be about a moment in time that has been forgotten by everyone. The possibilities were freaking endless!

And the possibility of me being anything other than a songwriter was at an end.

Jon recovered.

I look back at theater fondly but without regret.

The building was torn down by the city and the owner is currently looking for some one to buy those old bricks.

I have never written that song and maybe never will.

but somehow

somewhere

once upon a time

Someone loved Angie.

An Ode to the Song Hole

To write or not to write. That is the question.

Whether it is nobler in the mind to pen rhymes on scattered shopping lists strewn about the house and suffer the slings and Legos of a complacent four year old in his outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of accumulated junk piled six feet high and ten feet deep.

And by opposing the pack rat tendencies of an indecisive wife, end them.

To write, to think.

To think, perchance to dream.

Aye, there's the rub.

For in that dream of life, what songs may come?

When I have shuffled off those ill fitting clothes, broken toys, and Ikea furniture and finally have time for pause.

There's the respect that makes calamity of such a messy garage.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of a sixteen year old boy who only wants to sing and dance, even if it means totally destroying my ability to compose a melody without the infectious groove of Lady Gaga sneaking her off key harmonies into my middle eight?

 Alas, the song hole is emptied of most of it's clutter. The space is open, the door is closed, there are pens with ink, and countless spiral notebooks waiting to be filled. There are musical instruments of every kind.

 And a leather chair that leans back.

 But I digress.

 Some of the best songwriting advice I've ever been given came from a book.

 That's right, a book.

 Not one of those "Learn How to Write a Top Ten Hit!" kind of books, but a large paperback written by songwriter Jimmy Webb simply called "Tunesmith"

 This book should be required reading for anyone who puts words to music.

 Yeah, its a little outdated now. And some of it is too technical for a dilitante. And my personal copy has broken bindings and dog eared pages, and more than one coffee stain, but its such a nurturing manual for the art and craft of songwriting that I'll probably make Calvin read it as soon as he graduates from Dr. Suess.

 More to the point however is that the book insists that the writer absolutely must create a safe place for themselves.

 A physical space that can't be corrupted by ringing telephones, fights over video games, and the disney channel.

 I have had such spaces in my past. In my single years, it was my room. In my college years it was the space beneath the main stage that housed the old velvet curtains. Just before my nephew was born it was a guest bedroom at my soon to be in-laws house down the street. 

 Since then, however, my song hole has existed only in the quiet of the late evening, or the peace before school lets out. My song hole was always at the mercy of a family schedule.

 My garage is the perfect space.

 But it's not a studio. Even though the door to the house is weather sealed, the outside noises are crystal clear. Any microphone would pick up cars and dogs several blocks away. The water heater and washing machine are constantly battling over "most noisy appliance. And it's simply not breathable during the summer when the styfling heat sucks the life out of me. But when the rain begins to fall and the air begins to clear, I can feel my whole universe slip back into focus. Melodies rise easily from the din of white noise, and lyrics guide themselves as I hold the pen to the paper. Even though I may never use it to record a tune, the song hole is a place for creation.

However, it fills up with clutter so fast that when I go in there to write, I can't even wheel my chair from the desk to the piano. Squeezed by so much clutter I feel claustrophobic and writing becomes a violent act of fighting compression.

 So yesterday I cleaned it out.

 An entire truck load of junk.

 And now I have my space again.  

 And today it begins to rain.

Go bird go!

Today was the first day of preschool.

Not some hippie lets roll around in the mud and talk about our feelings kind of preschool, but the kind of preschool that is in a square little room covered in boxes and flash cards and toys. The kind of preschool where the teachers have seen three generations pass, they drive American cars with fake wood paneling and probably need to sneak off for a quick smoke during free play time.

Not that I'm knocking on the modern, open minded, high energy, exploratory experience that my over anxious contemporaries swear by . . . 

. . . no wait, I'm totally gonna talk some smack.

two years ago, a customer of mine convinced me to take a tour of a world renowned local preschool that was the "cats meow" of modern childhood development.

It cost $300 a month.

For two days a week.

And parent participation once a week.

But I was (and still sorta am) a bit anxious about making sure that my demon seed had all the advantages I could possibly pave.

I showed up one day for my tour. Baby Calvin in my arms. (He is 1.5 years old at this point and not eligible for another 1.5 years)

I needed to take the tour because the waiting list for this mecca of toddler enhancement was miles long and supposedly if I didn't get my application in by the end of spring, then there would be no hope to Calvin's future success. 

The application came with a $60 fee and the promise that if I didn't sign the check I was relegating my son to a career in slaughter houses, substitute teaching, or god forbid, retail.

As I made my way across the gravel parking lot, I made eye contact with a tired looking old lady sitting on the bench outside the door.

I smiled. She glared

I said hello. She glared harder and cocked her head.

I made my way to the door and the old crone barked at me with both anger and a slight measure of panic.

"What are you here for!?" she said.

Now first of all, I may talk a tough game, but seriously, I'm 5'10". Neatly dressed. I drove into the parking lot in a powder blue Toyota echo, and I'm carrying a one year old in my arms.

The only thing that would make me less threatening would be a kitten in my other arm.

On top of that, I have never, ever, not even once, been barked at while in the company of my son. One of the reasons I take him everywhere is because people just melt at the sight of babies. Especially if they are quiet and relatively cute. And Calvin was quiet as a mouse outside the home, and he's even got a little dimple on one side of his cheek when he smiles. He ruled cute.

It took me a whole beat to catch my breath.

"Um, I'm here to see Leslie for a tour." I fumbled.

"Let me get her." she barked as she sped past me and through the front door.

A few moments later Leslie walks out. She asked me why my wife wasn't there, and I told her that my wife was working. She seemed a little put off, but began the tour in earnest.

Suffice it to say, the place was a wonderland. A summer camp for enriching the information starved minds of a little boys and girls.

I wanted to go there.

Old crone aside, I was totally ready to sign my money and my time on that dotted line.

But Leslie kept talking to me about how much my wife is gonna love this place.

How much fun my wife will have with the other mothers.

How much my wife will be able to learn about young childhood development from "Bev"

"Bev" of course being the gate keeper/attack dog I met outside.

"Bev" of course being a world renowned authority on early childhood development. 

"Bev" an obvious underachiever in basic adult communication skills.

Then it finally dawned on me. Though the application clearly said "parental participation" hidden in the unspoken water mark was this:

"Hey you, yeah you, the one with the post pubescent penis, you're totally not welcome here."

This was summer camp for soccer moms, not daddies. Cool moms who let their children play in the dirt, not men who would tell a four-year old with a skinned knee to "throw some dirt on it"

Now I have related this story to several people who are more familiar with "Bev" than I would ever care to be, and the reaction is usually shock.

They have very fond things to say.

yes, they are all girls.

Be that as it may, I didn't give preschool much thought after that. But for years it has loomed.

And my parental anxiety has shifted to a much more hands off conciliatory response. Let him play with guns, I say. Except I did spend fifteen minutes waiting around the corner just in case he tried to run out and find me, and then the two and a half hours I spent biting my nails and waiting for the phone to ring with tragic news on the other end.

But it's time to push a little society on him. Send him out into the dark world with a flashlight and a juice box.

So as I went to Calvin's first day, I sat filling out paperwork. The teachers made it very clear that they don't encourage parental participation. 

"Makes the children act weird" Gwen says.

I really like Gwen.

Most of the kids were dropped off by dads. Awesome.

(Awesome except for the very real possibility that those dad's recently lost their jobs. To which there is really no good response)

I finished the paperwork and kneeled down next to my son.

"I'm gonna go. Wanna give me a hug?" I said.

"Uh huh. Vrooom." and he sped off to the play area with his blue race car.

I walked out the room hug-less.

And then a truth occurred to me.

The emotional scarring of early childhood development isn't his. It's mine.

There's really nothing "Bev's" childhood wonderland does except ease a parents pain. Makes the wound a little less deep in the beginning. Falsely sets those fears some place else for later review.

But as every man should learn from every father:

"Son . . . measure twice. 

Cut once. 

And throw some dirt on it."

Call me Dad

August and September have completely disappeared.

I, for one, blame the iPhone.

It's genius mobility and ease of use has totally decapitated my "stop and smell the flowers" time. Sitting down with my lap-top feels archaic and slow. Anywhere I go I'm connected to everything and involved in nothing. As my readers will be quick to point out, I haven't published in almost two months. I haven't written a single line of verse. Were it not for the insistence of my wife to continue performing, I might not have even plucked my guitar from the wall and strummed a few bars.

I played one show. But very few people showed. Just family, and die-hards. Thank the world for them.

And something happened in the haze that really surprised me.

Calvin started calling me "dad".

Not "Daddy"

Just "Dad"

It's small and innocuous, but it hit me in this weird way as if I had just walked out of the theatre bathroom found my seat and discovered that Mercutio was dead.

"What the hell?" I would whisper.

"Shhh" my date might say.

"But he was so full of life!" I would whisper, cupping my hand over her ear.

"That was two acts ago! Now shhh!" she would reply.

"Daddy" is cute. "Daddy" is comforting. "Daddy" is a term of endearment. Coupled with big blue Bambi eyes, "Daddy" says I love you, I need you, can I have a hot chocolate, or eat some ice cream even though I never really finished my dinner. "Daddy" is a full body hug. It's a two syllable snuggle.

 "Dad" is something you call, 

well, 

your dad. 

Its the word you use when you need a ride to the mall, or an extra twenty bucks for "whatever".

Even the vocal placement of the word dad is different. Try saying both words and you'll notice that "Daddy" lilts between your soft palate and the tip of your tongue as it clicks behind your teeth and across you lips. The long "e" 

The word "Dad" explodes off your teeth as the short "a" shoots right out your nose with all the soft subtle nuance of an air raid siren.

I don't even call my own dad "dad". I discovered in high school that I like the sound of the word "Pop" much better. Its cooler. It's retro. It's the least formal and totally male.

Thinking back, I may have started calling my father "Pop" after reading and watching "The Outsiders" It just feels like a greaser word.

It also reminds me that my life is never more than three degrees of separation from the great Patrick Swayze. God bless him.

I bet his kids called him "Pop"

But "Dad" is just too utilitarian for my taste.

God forbid, however, he ever start calling me "Father"

That'll be the day I give up on my vicarious rock star dreams and buy him a breifcase. He'll probably need glasses, and braces, and a 401k.

Anyway,

Maybe the iPhone is to blame for my having lost two whole months.

Maybe it is the heat.

Maybe I just ran out of steam.

Such is the examined life when no one is looking.

Calvin is four now.

I'm dad.

Except when Calvin really wants my attention.

Then he calls me Josh.

Hello Boy, Hello Deadline

I don't know how I feel about deadlines.

When it comes to my job, a job I won't discuss in this forum, I'm rather irritated by them. They seem to strike in the very moment when I can give them my least attention. Their very nature elicits mediocre work. I never accomplished anything good for a deadline, just half-assed. Gimme a little space and let me set my own priorities, and I could take over the world. Ask me to write a sales plan by next friday, and you're gonna get a single page report that has the word "very" scattered about 87 and 1/2 times. I can't argue the necessity, just it's disfunction.

Now when it comes to music, total 180.

And it's like that for all songwriters.

Imposed pressure seems to fire up the creative juices like no other.

Actually .  . .

. . .  what happens is the inner critic, sensing a songwriter's angst and vulnerability will start in on them like an alpha dog housewife. 

The songwriter, dressed in a tank-top, jeans and work boots (metaphorically), appreciably backed into a corner, will stand up forcefully and say something along the lines of:

"If you don't shut the fuck up and let me watch the goddam game I'm gonna .  . . "

At this point the inner critic retreats to the kitchen and proceeds to cry silently while scrubbing the same spot on the counter over and over again.

Eventually the inner critic will call her mom.

I use this disturbing display of domestic dysfunction to relate several things:

1. Although the inner critic has many useful functions, such as not allowing the songwriter to make fools of themselves, or to just keep them from stretching their sanity past the breaking point, the inner critic should be nowhere near the creative process, and should just keep quiet until the songwriter is good and ready to take out the trash (again metaphorically)

2. Songwriters are assholes. All writers are assholes. 

My wife and I only fight because I'm writing or I've got a gig coming up. Of course, we don't fight about those things specifically, we fight about everything else. Why? Because when I'm engaged in either of those two things, I'm an asshole.

If you're a writer, then yes, you're an asshole too. If you're not an asshole, then you will never write anything worth paying attention to. Get a job with Human Resources, you will then learn to become an asshole, and by virtue of the transitive property, become a writer.

But back to my first point,

If you're a writer, deadlines rule.

They're like the extra line of cocaine during finals week at Trinity College.

My wife thinks it's stupid to have a self imposed deadline for this album. Better to work when you can work, and let it go when you can't.

But nature has a much better idea.

Calvin can now pee standing up.

I don't know the exact moment it happened, or really what the hurry was. I never taught him how to do it. I never employed various methods of energetic excitement, or systematic shame.

My mom bought Cheerios once in order to see if she could teach him how to do it with perfect aim, and she learned a true lesson in Calvin.

He'll get there, but on his own terms, godddammit.

So there it is. Calvin can now pee standing up.

It may not seem like a lot. What boy doesn't pee standing up?

I can in fact testify that only two thirds of the men in my household pee standing up.

However, peeing with your feet firmly planted on the ground is one of the few rites of passage left to a man in an ever progressing world.

(Side note: I don't begrudge the intermingling of gender identities, girls should play with guns and learn how to spit, I merely make the point that peeing standing up, will always and forever, be a male dominated activity)

So it is with great concern, enthusiasm, and trepidation to discover that Castle Park indeed has indeed been given a deadline.

One day, not far in the future, Calvin won't want to go to the park.

He will have physically outgrown the swings and be emotionally unmoved by wet sand.

It won't be a sad day. I'm not going to mourn. My life will be too full with report cards and emergency rooms. Piano lessons, woodworking, car repair, culinary arts, these are the things that will graciously take the place of our Monday outings to the park. And for that I can only dream.

But one day. No park.

No park, no album.

So time is my deadline.

For this project at least.

Maybe then I'll practice how to be less of an asshole.

But not likely.

Cracked Rearview

Why yes, that is the title of a "Hootie and the Blowfish" album.

So then, why in god's name, you ask, are you starting off from there?

Wow, good question, I say with an understanding bob of my head.

I'm also looking blankly at the joint between the wall and the ceiling as if I didn't really have a good answer.

First: I started transferring songs to my iPhone, and Hootie didn't make the cut.

I simply couldn't think of a single situation where they would come in handy.

Pat Benatar on the other hand, got the full down load treatment.

As did the Beatles.

And Bad Religion.

and most of a Neil Diamond Greatest Hits album.

Which didn't have "Coming to America"

For some reason.

But Hootie didn't make the cut. It was, after all, my wife's album.

I swear.

Second: Hold My Hand came on the radio today as I was driving home from work. Which lead me think about the Beatle's "I Wanna Hold your Hand"

Which was one of their first hit singles.

And since holding hands back in the early sixties was a dangerous sexual activity, akin to auto-erotic asphyxiation or 40yr old men with myspace pages, I guess I'm willing to give them a bigger benefit of the doubt than poor old Hootie.

Dad and I had a discussion recently talking about the shear "Moon-June" tripe in some early artistic endeavors. The Beatles, Billy Joel, I am sure lots of others, but what the discussion reminded me of was having Dad listen to one of my early songs in which I had rhymed "Shelf" with "Self"

I'll never forget the look of disappointment in his eyes.

I should have told him that the lyric "putting my heart on a shelf" was literal, and that my girlfriend was cutting me with razor blades to see if I could feel.

But those aren't things you're supposed to tell your father.

Especially if they're not true.

Third: My Ovation twelve string is hanging above my computer. There is a monster crack all the way down the body of the guitar.

this leads me to two thoughts,

A: I've just borrowed my dad's 12 string because his has a better sound, a better feel and it's easier to play live. I now however have two twelve strings at my disposal. And that's too many.

I can't sell the ovation.

It's against the Musician's Code to sell an instrument. Too much love, too much memory in every chord, too many stories to hand off to a stranger.

There is a "Buyers Remorse" clause in that particular rule but it involves never having built a lasting relationship with the instrument, and possibly several angry wives.

I could give the guitar away. This is powerfully positive artistic Karma. To give a much loved instrument to a younger generation will settle your account in Saint Peter's book.

But giving away a guitar requires the kind of research and interviewing that is mostly reserved for adopting children and picking out a beer.

So why not just keep it? The other one is on loan anyway, and what if you're invited to a twelve string jam session and your best friend doesn't have one and so he has to sit alone on a Saturday night cutting himself.

How would that make you feel?

No, I won't be finding an axillary home for my twangy beast. My wife is just gonna have to wait until the 16yr old leaves for his first day of college and his step father turns his room into a studio.

Which leads me to thought number B:

That crack, staring down on me, has a good story, and leads to a poignant ending.

Once upon a time . . .

Two lifelong friends, roommates by then, were stringing their guitars, dreaming of super stardom, smoking whatever was left in the bowl.

The shorter one had his beat up old twelve string on his lap. The taller one . . .

some thing else . . .

I can't remember.

Without a tuner available, the shorter one strung the guitar to what he thought was an approximation of E major.

He placed his left hand on the neck, fingers splayed out to his favorite open G, and strummed.

And then "Wham!"

The bridge holding the strings blew apart like the emotional stability of an animal rights activist at a welcome home party for Michael Vick.

Wood, plastic, and little metal bits flew everywhere.

The short one and the tall one sat stunned. But there was nothing they could do. Except possibly search the kitchen in vain for some munchies.

So they fed the fish, and turned on the TV.

The guitar was repaired a few weeks later by a local luthier which cost twice what the guitar originally cost, but it was more than worth it.

The short one has since learned that when stringing an Ovation its very important to align the strings balls horizontally so as not to crack the weak edge of the seat. He also learned that it's important to have a least one instrument in tune at any given time for reference, and that he probably wasn't meant for rock stardom at seventeen.

Since then, he has learned not to rhyme "self" with "shelf", how to change keys in a song for dynamic and emotional effect, and how the girl who cuts you, while fun, probably isn't a keeper.

That crack lets me see the error of my ways, reminds me fondly of old friends, and of the different lives I've lead.

Yup,

She's a keeper.

Of Being at Peace

Today I had to take a toy away from my sixteen year old step son because the three year old was screaming that it was his turn to play with the toy.

The toy was my new iPhone.

And i got into a verbal argument with the sixteen year old on how we are supposed to share things.

I can't believe I had this argument.

They were both yelling at each other and so I took the phone away from the big one and handed it to the little one.

Was I not being fair with the usage of my new toy? Was I taking the side of my biological son over the side of the son I have raised for the last decade? Have I failed on both sides of the fatherhood aisle? Was I spoiling the little one while treating the bigger one with disdain?

I'm sure I will never know until I meet another parent out there who has had the fortune of raising two sons thirteen years apart in age and comparing notes.

Another of my dad's aphorisms, and I quote:

"Parents don't want justice . . . they want quiet."

I believe this more than anything I have ever believed in my whole life. Especially being a man who values quiet and logic above all things.

I don't care who's right.

The little one is quiet when he's playing with the phone.

that's all that matters.

And how does this relate to music? You ask.

Well, shortly after I ended the argument I saw that my old phone had a few text messages.

I opened it up and discovered, to my horror, that my booking agent has gotten me some new gigs for the upcoming months.

Now don't misunderstand. My booking agent, manager, brilliant friend, biggest fan, will do everything in her considerable power to see to it that I go far. She is an unyielding force, and there is no safer human being that could be entrusted with my faith.

Knowing this, I immediately replied "Yes" to both new gigs. Because it's awesome. And I need to break out of my comfort zones.

But even she might be surprised to know that I am suffering from both a serious amount of stage fright, and an incredible inferiority complex.

Frankly I'm scared to put myself to the test.

Even though it is everything I have secretly dreamed of.

Even though I have been practicing diligently for the last six months.

Even though I now have several successful gigs under my belt.

I'm terrified I'm gonna fail.

I'm not afraid of looking the fool. Or losing any street cred (cause I never really had any). No what I am afraid of is the moment when I have to recognize that I am too old, too fat, too married, too mediocre, too impossibly established as a suburbanite to ever consider dreams of rock and roll independence.

That's the day that I have to realize that the life I have lead has finally suffered its first major sacrifice.

That I became a man instead of a star.

But as I write this, I'm listening into the living room as the little one is playing his driving game on the iPhone, and the big one is reading the seventh "Harry Potter" along with the book on tape. They are sitting on the couch in peace.

My wife is watering the lawn and will soon be doing the dishes. Not because she's the wife of the house and these are her duties, but because she's the wife of the house, and those are the things she's taken responsibility for.

There is peace in my house.

And peace with myself.

Regardless of who I am.

Regardless of who I may become.