June 2004

It’s hard to speak objectively about something you are passionate about. For as long as I can remember, even when I was a kid, all I ever really wanted to do, was write songs. Now don’t get me wrong, I never wanted to be a “songwriter,” not in the sense that I wanted to be a brick layer or rocket scientist or garbage engineer. Making a living at writing songs or even seeing it as a vocation may have entered my mind, but it was always secondary or further down the pike. I just wanted to write songs that spoke to me or songs that I thought were good, or would hold up at least a little bit against the light of what I considered to be good songwriting.

Maybe that’s part of it: The question of “”What is good songwriting?” A folkie is going to tell you that good songwriting is having a good topic or something. A Nashville songwriter is going to tell you that a good song is one that’s crafted and honed for a particular market and that sells to publishers and hits some kind of hot button with the unwashed masses. There are tons of opinions and a million ways that folks are going to tell you “this is good” and “This is bad.” Who really cares if it moves you. Charlie Patton’s “Some De Days” is lyrically scattered, yet the power of it’s simple melody and rural lyrics is, to me at least, mesmerizing. And I’d rather write something (if only that were possible) that could hold up to that than have all the royalty pennies in the world.

As I said, it’s hard to be objective about something you that makes you passionate. I have reams of notes filled with “good” lines and hooks and ideas for songs filling up notebooks, and I still write them down and play the songwriting game in my head, but it just feels pointless. The songs that I think might actually have some value, no one really gets. They’ll dissect and chop them up into a million pieces and tell you why the gears don’t go. So should you even bother to produce art (songs) if no one thinks they are of any real worth? If you see your songs as mediocrity, is there any point in subjecting the world to it’s vapid lukewarm blandness? (Not that this seems to bother most of the world). What’s the point of writing songs if they just stay in your head or in your room or on paper or tape or digits or floating in space? Should you write or create if it only frustrates yourself to the point that you realize can’t live up to your own expectations or if when you do it doesn’t live up to the expectations of anyone else?

Sure Townes Van Zandt, quite possibly the finest of the (formerly) contemporary songwriters, had to have written some stuff that didn’t hold up to his own high expectations (I’m assuming here). But man there was some stuff that he wrote that sure hit the sweet spot. Did he write because he could or because he wanted to? Dylan didn’t get that good because he was hit by a bolt of lightning, he kept at it. But was it the process that interested him or was it the product?

I know I’ll continue to write new songs eventually. For what purpose I don’t know. I once wrote “A song that no one hears is much more than a song, it’s a prayer.” And someone else wrote “Who is there to hear? With heaven full of astronauts and the Lord on death row.” That’s enough for today. My coffee is getting cold.

My coffee’s getting cold
the whole world’s turning old
the milk swirling in my cup
fades away and turns to rust.

After dropping the kid off at school this morning I wondered over to Starbucks on US1 and Broward for a cup of joe and to get my work done for the day. I find if I do this, I can get most of my daily grind done but about 10:30 in the morning. Not bad all in all. Of course this doesn’t include anything that will come up throughout the day that needs to get take care of, but it helps. And I sit here now listening to the endless stream of Norah Jones and watching the lawyers and business folk roll in and out for their daily ritual. The entire experience can actually be inspiring in a odd sort of way. And there are a lot of attractive women to give the once over that visit the place.

There is an odd group of girls (women) that visit this Starbucks pretty much every morning. Consisting of a South American woman, not sure which country… maybe Venezuela, and her kid that has quite possibly the most hellacious case of ADD I’ve ever seen, and a bunch of other Victoria Park socialites with the latest Prada handbags. Just sitting in range of them is enough to make you want to blow your brains out. There is also one really attractive, tall blonde woman that is just stunning. The first time I saw her I thought she was Nicole Kiddman. I had to do a double take. But after seeing her here for the last couple of years, it’s obvious she’s just a single divorced mom. And she actually gives me a pleasant glance from time to time. I’d like to talk to her but even in my 40’s I’m just terribly awkward at meeting and talking to girls/women. I can handle shooting my big mouth off to thousands of people standing in front of a mic while huge crowds of people wait for my every word, but talking to attractive women just makes me weak in the knees and I end up saying really stupid shit. My boss, who also happens to be my friend, (isn’t that amazing) says that this is a malady of all radio folks. We’re all geeks who are comfortable at sitting in a little room preforming, but we have no real social skills. We were the AV geeks in high school. I do believe that for the most part he is right.

Right now there are two girls in their 20’s going on and on about relationships sitting next to me. It’s pretty amazing to eavesdrop on the happenings and lives in these places. They are sitting there comparing notes on guys they’ve dated and that they know, running through the shopping list of likes and dislikes of all the guys. This one is too shy, and that one is too rowdy, and he is nice and he is really outgoing…. It’s interesting that they don’t talk about how good looking someone is or how well he is hung (although I’m certain they do talk about this, just not in Starbucks), they talk about their personality’s and their traits (and their jobs). Just another reinforcement of the concept that if someone ain’t in pain or dying they are talking about or thinking about relationships or sex. (Patty Griffin is playing on the stereo now, much better)

In other exciting news I think my daughters iBook died. I can’t get the drive to reformat or install a new OS. She got impatient repairing permissions last night after having some trouble and did a force re-boot while running disc repair. I think the drive is hosed. I may just break down and buy her a new laptop. Really can’t afford it, but she’s a geek and it’s one of the things she truly enjoys.

later….

Got the fark out of Dodge a bit today. Went down to Miami to the Lincoln Road Mall and had some Cuban food. It was a bit hot for the mall and of course the traffic was a pain in the ass, but all in all it was a pleasant experience. On the way back my daughter wanted to stop and get something from Blockbuster Video (or as I like to call it Ballbuster Video). Now it had to be something she really wanted, because she knows just how much I hate the freekin’ place. I’m a big advocate of Netflix for renting movies. You select what you want and they mail them to you. Easy as pie. But unfortunately Netflix doesn’t have video games. So we cruse over to the Ballbuster Video (while all the time I’m mumbling under my breath how much I hate the place) and she gets the playstation game. Of course when we get home it doesn’t work. The little twirp who had the game the last time had taken a razor blade to it or something and hacked it up. So we head back into the car (while all the time I’m mumbling underneath my breath how much I hate the place) and get back to Ballbuster. The place is a freeking madhouse. It’s Saturday night and every gay couple and single without a date in Fort Lauderdale (And let me tell you there are a lot of single hetrosexuals in FtLaud. Hell, 99 and 44/100 % of the population wouldn’t even stand next to the opposite sex in this one horse town) is renting movies. After waiting in line for 10 minutes the idiot behind the counter tells me he’s credited my Ballbuster account. I tell him I don’t come there often enough to use the credit, I want my credit card reimbursed. He, of course doesn’t know how to do this. I have to stand in another line and get the dough back on my credit card. Not to mention they don’t have another one of the playstation games that she wants to rent available. So then we jump into the car to the next Ballbuster Video three miles up the street to rent another one. The moral of the story: “Avoid Ballbuster Video at all costs, and always use your Netflix account.

No recent updates on this page in a few days because I’ve pretty much been housebound. I’m having a bout with Urticaria, also known as the dreaded hives. It’s been about three years since I’ve had to deal with them. I’ve been pounding antihistamines, drinking tons of water, taking massive doses of C and B, trying to relax and being depressed. The antihistamines leave me feeling like I’m perpetually stoned. So far the hives are not as bad as I’ve had in the past but it is debilitating. I’ve actually had the hives so bad that I’ve had to go to the emergency room to have adrenaline shots for anaphylaxis . Exciting! So needless to say all this makes me become very depressed and act even more like a hermit. I did make it out on Friday to get an eye check up and some some new glasses. Bought two new pairs and had a old pair of antique wire frames fitted with new lenses. I’m now 450 bucks lighter.

Well, actually I really want to have Lorelai Gilmore’s love child. Sure Lauren Graham is really, really attractive… But I think that it’s the Gilmore character that makes me weak in the knees. There is no woman on the planet that has the humor, brains, dialouge and the inverse curves of Lorelai Gilmore. If I could only transplant the brains of the “Gilmore Girls” writers into the body of Lauren Graham. (Not that it would do me any good in the longrun, let’s face it.) Well come to think of it, I would be lucky to get a Lauren Graham blow up doll with a spliced together cassette tape with Lorelai ordering sausage pizzas. Somehow I missed Lauren on Celebrity Poker Showdown. Lauren playing Texas Hold em’ looking hauntingly across the felt table making a pithy Lorelai Gilmore remark twirling her tight “juicy” shorts around her index finger, or pointing to the “BunnyRanch Cathouse” proudly displayed across her bust. Somebody hose me off and sell me a few chips. Not necessarily in that order.

Got a chance to see the new Steven Spielberg/Tom Hanks movie over the weekend, “The Terminal.” And I actually enjoyed it. I would definitely give it a pretty wide recommendation. Folks with a couple of living brain cells and even Aunt Gerdie would actually enjoy it. Kumar Pallana, who plays the cranky yet lovable Gupta is the standout in the film. IMHO, he steals the whole damn show. The movie is loosely based on Mehran Karimi Nasseri, who has lived in Paris’s Charles de Gaulle airport since 1988. But movie goer beware, this thing has more product placement than anything else I’ve ever seen. I’d venture to guess that at least half of the film is a living. breathing, walking commercial. But even with the endless “Starbucks” and “Borders Books” product placement, it’s gotta’ be better than “Dodge Ball.” That movie made it to the number one position over the weekend. That feat can only be attributed to the attraction of most American’s to shiny metal objects.

The closest Cracker Barrel to the “Fort Lauderdale Beach home where I was born” is just off of 95 on the Boca/Deerfield Beach border. An interesting fact in itself, considering that there has probably never been a Jew in the damn restaurant. For the life of me I just can’t imagine Mrs. Goldfarb ordering country ham, grits and red eye gravy. You would figure they would have built it in Davie or something. At least there used to be rednecks in Davie. But considering the fact I can’t drive to the Loveless Cafe for a southern grease fest, the Cracker Barrel is my only real option. When you arrive at one of these establishments of fine cuisine, they take your name and call you on the loudspeaker (between Hank Williams songs) and let you know when your table is ready. The guy who works at the sfla CB calling the names for folks waiting for their table is a pleasant Haitian gentlemen. And you will hear him proudly pronounce “Tbaw bwa bloo, migshg forfdh, Tbaw bwa bloo blee whebly.” Roughly translated that’s: “Table for two, Mister Ford, table for two is ready.” So you gotta pay really close attention. I usually stand pretty close to the hostess station and read the list to see when he is going to call my name. It’s pretty much the only option. It’s also amusing to see the tourists puzzled look by this rather unique sfla CB experience.

On this particular visit, our waitress was a very pleasant Hispanic girl in her 20’s. You know, good Spanglish, the dark lip-liner and spicy complexion. If I were a gambling man I would bet that before getting the gig at Cracker Barrel, she didn’t have a clue what the hell a grit was. I was out of the breakfast mood by this time so I decided to go with the best grease item ever created: The Chicken Fried Steak. Upon placing my order, she gave me a confused puppy dog look and looked at the menu, “Do you mean the “Country Fried Steak?” “Of course that’s what I mean, yes, thank you!” Maybe next time I’ll ask for the Palomio (sic) Steak breaded and fried in grease, hold the bananas.

Within less than 24 hours of swearing off songwriting for good, I start writing songs in my head and scribbling little lines down on whatever little pieces of scrap paper I can find. Of course, it’s inevitable. I even started toying with another screwy idea: stealthissong.com. (wait, let me do a whois. Oh crap, someone else already has it. At least it will save me a couple of bucks.) Scratch that.

I wonder if anyone ever noticed before that the Bo Diddley beat is the same sound a cocktail shaker makes? “Chunk chunk a’ chunk chunk” Hey Bo Diddley. This morning my head feels a little bit like a cocktail shaker. Had a few cocktails myself last night for Friday night happy hour.

Off to breakfast this morning with the offspring, probably at the Bayview Coffee Shop. It’s the closest thing here in the swamp to the family owned Greek diners in the North East. Come to think of it, it’s run by a greek family and it’s a diner. Then maybe off to a movie. Gotta take it easy, all that cocktail shaker shit.

Last weekend I went and saw the comedy/parody “Saved.” I was really hoping for something clever, intelligent and funny. (what was I thinking!) After all, what’s funnier than whacky Christian fundamentalists? Instead it was mildly funny and just as ridiculous and the fundamentalists, because the point of the movie was to propagate the agenda of the producers of the film (One of which happens to be REM frontman, and the first rock star I ever saw wearing a dress, Michael Stipe). From the film we learn that doing drugs, smoking, drinking, homosexuality, teen pregnancy and infidelity are good and Christianity is bad. Pretty much your normal Hollywood ethics. We do however also learn that Macaulay Culkin has learned to act again and that Mary-Louise Parker, now 40, would still look good with or without clothes. Maybe they do have a point.

The BBC is reporting that Brit scientists have developed a viagra like inhaler. Need a hardon? Just unscrew (excuse the pun) and take a snort from your inhaler. It seems that there is plenty of ways for men with limp dicks to get some action, but what about guy’s that can get it up but don’t have the patience or line of shit to put up with some doe eyed honey long enough to get laid? What we really need is an inhaler that makes it sound like you give a shit about Oprah or curtain rods and gives you the patience of a convicted man on death row. Now that would be a big seller. Until then men worldwide will just have to settle for a liquid version of the “give a shit” inhaler. Come to think of it. It’s Friday, and that means happy hour at the Parrot. link

It’s not that I don’t have any ideas, it’s just that I really don’t see any point at the present time. Pop music is all about fashion over form. Folk music is all about politics and running each other down. (Where is that Woody Guthrie speech on “Born to Lose” when you need it?) The blues is about playing as loud as possible, because Rock and Roll doesn’t exist. Mention Britney Spears and eye’s light up. Mention Charlie Patton or the Carter Family and everyone’s eyes glaze over. Writing songs is like masturbating. It feels good, but if you can’t infect everyone else, what’s the point. So… I put down the pen and guitar for a while and continue my grand plan of being unknown in my time and anonymous for the ages. Besides, I’ve been having fun trying to make Patton’s “Some de Day’’s” sound like my own. And of course, as soon as I make not writing part of my master plan, I’ll find a reason to start doing it again.

Sitting in the Starbucks and overhearing the conversation between a fireman, a cop and a lawyer. (Sounds a bit like a joke eh’) The three guys are all commiserating with each other about their recent divorces. Talking about how much “she took me for.” Pretty amazing to eavesdrop on this actually. It’s even more amazing that anyone gets married or even has a relationship anymore. What the hell for? So guy’s like these three can be miserable!

Meanwhile I sit next to two aging trophy wives who just can’t fucking stop talking about recipes from the “Samba Room” and going to dinner at “Marks Las Olas.” Who are the men married to these broads. Bamboo shoots under the fingernails has to be better than listening to these pretentious women spouting their endless bullshit 24 hours a day. The solution: Just give them money and maybe they’ll go away. “It’s time for you to leave now.”