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.

of Ball Point Pens

Sometimes . . . the universe is out to get you.

Now I'm not one who is easily dissuaded from an idea. I take my dreams seriously. I work hard, and push myself unreasonably toward my goals.

I was told once by an algebra teacher that there was no way I was ever going to pass his class. I was told by an acting coach (and dear friend) that I better learn how to be a character actor because I couldn't be a leading man with premature baldness. I was told by a Grammy award winning producer that my songs had too many words in them.

They were probably right.

Except the algebra teacher. (I aced his freaking class . . . and still had time to smoke a lot of pot.)

My first album, as I have alluded to, was an absolute disaster.

Everything that could go wrong, did. Every song has a story in it's recording that could take up far more time than I have to write about tonight, but the moral of the story is that a six month project took me five years.

But I did it.

And I know it wasn't very good.

And I know very few people liked it.

And I know its neither the pop sensation or indie rock underground cool that I so desperately wanted it to be.

But I did it.

It took everything that I had.

And I did it.

And now, embarking on a far more ambitious project, I am adult enough to leap over my previous hurdles and hope for the best.

But today caught me by surprise.

So far I have endured bad reviews.

Snarky comments and pure dissbeleif on the concept.

And an impinged nerve.

I still don't think "impinged" is even a real word.

I took my little snot monkey to the park. In my bag was a notepad, a camera, and a ballpoint pen.

I decided it was time to write again.

For those of you who don't write, the only method for pushing oneself past the block stage is to sit down and decide to write what ever comes. A free flow of ideas that opens the portal to the otherwise unreachable universe of inspiration. It's not tough, but we forget how to do it all the time when life intrudes and depression sits shotgun. We might catch one good line and then stare at it for hours hoping that it will continue on its own.

It doesn't.

So we push on. And then we forget to push on. And then we read the entire "Harry Potter" series from start to finish because we don't remember how to begin.

I wasn't going to let one bad line stop me from vomiting up all the ideas that have been meandering around in my head since I stopped writing.

I started to write.

Calvin was on the swings.

I wrote some more.

Calvin insisted on going to the other swings.

I wrote some more.

Calvin wanted a big push.

I pushed, and then wrote some more.

Calvin wanted me to help him find his flipflops because he had lost them down the slide.

I ran up the slide, threw his shoes down to him and raced back to my notepad.

I was feeling the pull.

Inspiration had opened up to me as I knew it would.

I had gotten off my ass and started being a man again.

And then my pen died.

Right in the middle of a sentence.

My pen died.

There weren't anymore pens in my bag. And I had my wife's car. And she doesn't keep 50 pens hidden in the glove compartment, seat pockets, or door spaces . . .

cause why would she?

I was running an RPM of 7500 and my pen died.

That's just not freaking fair

Not freaking fair.

Inexcusably unfair.

You know . . .

I haven't read "Lord of the Rings" in quite some time.

Of First Kisses

Memory is hazy.

But the details of a first kiss are crystal.

I've got five things on my mind tonight, all of them rolling around in a frightening symbiosis.

The first of which is cosmology. I'm reading Brian Greene's "The Fabric of the Cosmos" which is more or less a light introduction to quantum mechanics and the state of the universe as we know it. I'm at the part where a subatomic particle doesn't function like a bullet, it acts like a wave. It doesn't really exist, it only has a probability. Like, if no one is looking at the moon, its not really there. But when measured, the probability wave collapses, and only the single aspect of the measurement can ever be known. You can know its location but never it's speed. You can determine it's rate of spin, but only along one axis. Don't even bother to ask me what I mean.

I've decided I don't really like quantum physics.

Especially not at night.

Especially not after two glasses of wine.

The second thing I'm thinking about is Thursday night's show.

My friends where there. My family was there. Everyone had a good time. I played too fast. I forgot lyrics. My voice hit many bad notes. But my arm was okay. And I didn't die the next day as I went to work. And even though I know that there is something inside of me that makes possible a universe in which I am a talented musician and songwriter and performer, I can't shake this sensation that I have failed in a fundamental way.

What might I have been like had I not chosen a life over a dream?

Miserable, probably. But just like those stupid protons, my probability wave has collapsed. And we'll never know.

Third, I'm thinking of my father.

His mom, my grandmother, just died.

And I won't bother to eulogize her because there are far better writers in the family for that sort of thing.

But I will say this;

I've never seen my father sad before.

Angry, yes. Frustrated, yes. Melancholic about what night have been, sure.

But never sad.

Never mournful.

And I am sure that he has had his fair share of tragedy. The death of friends. The death of dreams.

But my dad is a half full glass kind of guy.

He had to be. He's been mending us broken winged blackbirds his entire life.

He once told me that he had never thought of suicide, which was a shock to me since I have contemplated it from the day I was ten, and every day afterwards, till I held my newborn son in my arms.

The luxury of parenthood.

But dad is sad. And it's what he needs to be. And there's nothing I can do.

That probability wave has collapsed and as much regret as there might be in the universe, there's no calculation of sadness for a man who misses his mom.

Fourth, and this is by no means in order of importance, Calvin asked me how old I was.

"thirty two" I said.

"When will you be three, like me" he said.

"Daddy's never gonna be three again." I said.

"But . . . I'm gonna be 'one' someday." he replied.

"Sorry sweety. You can only go up." I said.

"But I want to be 'one'" he yelled.

"Nope. You can only be four. and then five. and then six. But you can never be 'one'" I told him.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Cause you can only go up." I replied.

"Oh . . . " he said.

And in that moment, I gave a three year old his first introduction to mortality. His first introduction to the collapse of his probability wave.

Fifth.

Shanna Guzman.

My first kiss.

Silverwood Middle School.

Ten feet from my locker. Fifteen from my English class.

I had a crush on her for longer than I can remember. One day we started to talk. One day we started to have long phone conversations. One day I rode my bike miles to her house.

She was into the B-52's and wore cool clothes and had her bangs aqua-netted into the stratosphere.

We started going steady on a Monday.

In the last moments before recess was over on that Monday, with her friends several feet away giggling, we decided to kiss.

The reason I say "decided" is because I was unbelievably shy and she had to talk me through the whole thing.

"Do you think we should kiss?" she said.

"That would be nice." I mumbled

"I think we should kiss" she asserted.

"Uhh, okay"

and then I leaned down toward her, calling upon every ounce of courage the universe could bestow upon me.

And touched her pink glossed lips with my trembling chapped mouth.

And then I scurried away to class.

The next day, standing by my locker, with the same giggling friends just feet away, she told me that she didn't want to be my girl friend.

"Okay" I said. But I kept the wallet sized photo of her on my wall for months.

Shanna Guzman friended me on facebook today.

I don't know what I might have been to her. Or why she would even remember who I was. But she was my first kiss and I'm overwhelmed with curiosity.

What might have happened if I wasn't such a loser? We went to different high schools. We never talked but in passing. Her life is her own. My life is my own.

Alas . . .

That probability wave too . . .

. . . has collapsed.

There's too much going on in this life to quantify meaning.

Brian Greene, I hope you love what the universe means to you. but write a cheerier book next time.

Friends and Family, I hope you had a good time at my show. You keep me believing that I can live a life and dream my dreams.

Dad, mourn. be depressed. be angry and sad. hate the universe. nobody needs you right now. but don't be afraid to tell me you need some love.

Calvin, sucks dude. but grandpa will probably get you that motorcycle for your fourth birthday. Which is nice.

Shanna, love and kisses.

Of Resurections

Forgive me dad, for I have probably sinned.

It has been several weeks since my last post.

I felt terrible. It took me three months to drag my lazy ass out of the wussy column and back into the moderately nonathletic. Three weeks to get feeling back into my fingers. One month of incredibly uncomfortable physical therapy. Four days of being the perfect husband in order to get my wife to love me again. Five days after that being a real shit because, lets face it, the girls don't respect the perfect husband, they want nasty.

I really hate physical therapy.

Rather fond of nasty.

Better now.

A confession is always better when said publicly. Get the humiliation out of the way. Let Nelson emit his "Ha-Ha" and have done with it.

So I'm back.

One week till the next show. I'm practicing for 45 minutes a day. Calvin practices with me. he doesn't yell so much any more when I play a song he doesn't like. He just wails away with dear old dad until his fingers hurt.

Sissy.

He will however stop me in the middle of a very emotional chorus because he dropped is pick in the sound hole and won't be consoled until I shake the hell out of the ukulele and get the pick out.

He's very particular about his picks.

He also throws balls out temper tantrums whenever he can't get his capo on.

"Man-up, dude!" I yell at him.

"Why?" he asks.

"Why why why why whywhywhwwww"

"Shhhhh" I say. And leave it at that.

But I'm back in shape. Ready to go. Feeling good. Working hard.

Come see the show.

Joshua Macrae Live
Thursday, July 9th 8:30pm

Streets of London
2200 Lake Washinton Blvd.
West Sacramento

http://www.streetsoflondon.net/

Have a good summer.