A Den of Thieves Saturday, August 16, 2003

It's not everyone who'll let you foul their bathroom three times in one evening. Last night we went to visit a couple of the few who will, buddies in Jersey City who were typically kind to us during the blackout. We returned the ice bag, which saved me from my migraine, and visited a nearby street fair. It was associated with a church a few blocks away that has a Latin mass. I wonder if Latin makes church more interesting? My wife argues that Joseph Campbell says so. A rousing discussion on the way back from buying cat food.

But that was today. Last night: Tilt-a-Whirl! A bar band doing oldies at an unspeakable volume! Kids shooting clowns in the mouth! Ancient ethnics smoking over baby strollers! Wifebeater Tees! Fried Oreos and Twinkies!

The latter arriving while I was in a gospel reverie. Was the temple band playing "Mustang Sally"--a plump Roman on vocals, nameless Mediterraneans on guitar and drums, one lonely Carthaginian on bass--when Jesus showed up on Passover? Oy, with the oldies. Peace and love, screw it, I gotta clean house. The only way to save my eardrums was to snap up a bag of goodies. The carny dropped it as he was sprinkling on sugar, and had the class to get me a new batch instead of scooping everything back into the sack. Faith in human nature validated once again.

The wives, from what I can tell, didn't dig the sweets. The husbands ate like they were in a lifeboat. It was all very gooey.

Our friends, newlyweds, danced adorably and got some awwwws from the temple band. The wife and I watched like Fred and Ethel. I'm not much fun in public, but I made up for it by having epileptic seizures to Ella Fitzgerald this afternoon. And our friends were on the phone at the time, so it all sort of counted.

Back to last night. We parted early--my wife volunteered to work today, and I wanted to "sleep in" (7:30, extravagant). She departed to save babies. I spent the morning proofreading a nifty manuscript for a friend. Polished up the Secret Thing and fired that off. Only a roll of the multifaceted die will tell.

Listened to some Jonathan Schwartz, read some Evelyn, watched part of an interesting movie: The Boys in Company C, a Vietnam boot-camp and war movie. The cast was pretty good, even though it had jive-turkey-itis (release date: 1978) and the drill sergeant was Lee Ermey, who played exactly the same role in "Full Metal Jacket" and "The Frighteners." Has there ever been an actor who was not just typecast but played the exact same character in movie after movie? Turned it off after a while, when the Marines discover that the vital cargo they've been transporting is--gasp--provisions for the general's birthday party. Good men died to bring you these rattan chairs, jive turkey! etc. etc.

On the other hand, watching real drill sergeants chew out Hollywood actors is hilarious. ("What's that in your pocket, missy? Lipstick?") And the movie featured the versatile Andrew Stevens, who after a check on IMDB, is not the guy I was thinking it was. But he did appear in a movie with an incredible title. Probably not as good as my personal favorite in the genre, though.

Anyhow, from the turbulent '60s to shopping. The A&P was filled with the lonely, the indigent and the haunted (as Jay Leno once described Greyhound buses). Ahead of us on line: a zaftig Mediterranean matron the color of Nutella, with a husband who watched her bag her own groceries with arms folded across his chest. My wife suggested we go into their aisle, since the adjacent one, although it had a shorter line, was filled with Bayonne biddies. And, indeed, they spent at least ten minutes gumming over their receipts and deliberately misunderstanding the double-coupon policy.

Home, then cat food, then Chinese for the humans in the house, who are outnumbered two to one. I'm full of sesame chicken and am more or less content. Glad to know my buddies made it home all right the other evening. Faith in human natured renewed more and more as I think about the magnitude of what happened, and how quickly it was fixed.

On the speakers:

You scumbag, you maggot
You cheap lousy faggot

Hate speech courtesy the incomparable Pogues. That was an interesting moment in my life: late college, discovering falafel and Indian food, hearing Tom Waits for the first time...most of it courtesy, to bring things around to the beginning, to the buddy whose wife was so kind to me and my wife during the long Stone Age evening on Thursday. As my earlier posts will show, I'm not always at my best with the people closest to me; and I'm always astonished (that word again) at the kindness and generosity they've shown to me over the years despite my fumfkering. Thanks to all. Find lots of signposts, wherever you look for them.

Although, with Catholicism, you get street fairs. Not to mention "guilt and weeping effigies," as Shane McGowan just said.

Bona notte. More later.

@ 7:33:00 PM, ,

Quote of the Day

"Hitler you can beat. But not a dame. It's murder."

--Frank Sinatra (who else?), talking up "One for My Baby" (Live with the Red Norvo Quintet)

@ 8:25:00 AM, ,

And on Top of Everything Friday, August 15, 2003

I forgot it's a Day of Obligation. I think I need to join one of those storefront churches...

@ 9:04:00 AM, ,

The Post-Script

Parents upstate and well. Sister all right. Still waiting on the in-laws but assume the best. Friends made it home, tired but intact. Who'll stumble into the office this morning? Not a clue.

@ 8:47:00 AM, ,

Like a Blogger in the Night

At two-fifty, a friend of mine in another department sent me a note off the wires:

*DJ US Expected To Announce Thu Capture Of Top Terrorist-TV

We bandied that around for about fifteen minutes, until his name came across the wires, a holy crap name:

it's hambali

very very big deal

he planned bali, other bombings and met with 9/11 hijackers in 2000

Rip up the front page! Where will we put it? Good fodder for about twenty minutes, about five more inches than the story ended up getting. We drifted into 9/11 retrospective, then into culture-is-dead talk, ending with her comment:


don't take baseballs away from 8 yr olds

and don't wear miniskirts

Then, around twenty after four, the lights flickered off. They were back after about five seconds, and we snickered about it: We can never get the thermostat to work, either. Then somebody noticed the air conditioning wasn't working. Shortly after we heard the elevators were down. Just when we were absorbing that, an editor came rushing down the hall: The whole Northeast was gone, all the way out to Detroit, all the way up to Ottowa.

E-mail exchange:

yikes


Reply:

terrorist attack

Where is my wife. My wife's job lets out at two. She must be home by now. Ring ring. Nobody home, and no answering machine: Who needs voice mail? She has a beeper. Who needs cellphone? What are we, yuppie power brokers? Beep beep. Punched in the number. Waited. Waited. Nothing.

Meanwhile, everybody milled around the windows, which overlook Ground Zero. Crowds in the streets. No traffic lights. Everyboody looked to the reporter/editor who'd written a half-dozen stories on terrorism. He knew what it could be; he was the only one who didn't say it.

Beeper again. Ring ring. Number. Got it wrong; called again. Punch punch punch.

Nearly five. When the Iraq war started, I asked everyone I know in New York for their phone number at the office, and gave the list to my wife. I didn't keep one for myself. We were joking now, ghoulish, but all we could do. We locked up the front page at noon, and look what happens.

Beeper again. Punch punch punch. Zipsky. She was either at home, or just getting through the tunnel to New Jersey on the bus, or heading down to the ferry. But no way to reach her.

Meanwhile, an item came across the wire: Just a blackout, folks, let out your breath. It was about ten after five and I had no stories going that night; there were just nine stories down to the street. I took them briskly and headed off to the ferry.

And waited. An hour and a half's worth of calm people. They weren't aggravated; they weren't even upset. They were on cellphones, checking with their kids and husbands, waiting their turn. Some people had lost power in their buildings and didn't know the whole story.

The ferry people did a great job directing traffic. There was no rush, no shoving; they even kept selling tickets. I got across the river and realized there was no train home. No answer at the house. I beeped my wife madly. But where was she supposed to call?

Options. She would have to come across the river to get home. But when? And where--there were also piers up in the Thirties. I could take a chance and wait at the pier I was at; but she might never show, and then I'd have to get home in the dark. There were buses; but crowds to meet them; gates-of-the-embassy-in-wartime sort of crowds.

So I walked. Jersey City is swell, as is Bayonne; but there are a lot of miles between them. In the sun and heat, a migraine came on, the kind you can actually see drilling and squeezing into your neck. God knows how I looked to the folks out on their porches along the way.

All the way up Garfield Avenue. No arguments at the blinded traffic lights; nobody smashing shopwindows. Faith in human nature restored, even if the headache made me want to eat a bullet. I knew my wife would get home safe, as would my Jersey City buddies; this wasn't a terror attack. I remembered my buddies in Queens, who are days away from expecting their first baby. Subways out. People walking over the bridges. How was she going to get home? Could she stay in her office? Should I have tried to reach them--and offer them what?

Passed crummy houses, passed a cemetary I see every day on the light rail. Old gravestones, older than Bayonne, some of them crumbling, some of them fancy, many of them weeded over. Do the Osforths and Dickinsons still come down from the Cape and see granddad's remains? The light started to fail. Natural nighttime for the first time in months.

Then: working streetlights. Lights and fans in windows. Working fridges in bodegas. I pounded down a Coke and got a spring in my step.

Hallelujah! Broadway in Bayonne, a riot of lights. Hello, Bowl-O-Rama! Hello, check-cashing place! Hello, World's Best Pancakes! I raced gratefully to the ATM in the diner and pumped out a hundred. The whole walk home I'd been ducking into bank lobbies and drive-throughs and seeing lots of SYSTEM INITIALIZING screens. But the crummy little keypad in the worst restaurant in New Jersey came through for me.

Hey big spender--maybe I'd even bring home a pizza. Then I noticed the unlighted side streets. Turned onto my own street: black as the Blitz. Found the keyhole, guided myself by the EXIT signs at the end of the hall. Did a spin to get inside, throw down my bag, drop the mail and slam the door before the cats, who I couldn't see, could escape.

Stumbled around. Found the penlight in the back room. Now I am a cat burglar. Messes look worse in the dark. I beeped my wife again: our number. The number of two friends in Jersey City. Then our number. I slugged down some water, perched the penlight on the sink, fed the cats. Gobbled down some applesauce.

The phone rang. My wife was heading to our friends' in Jersey City. With a couple more calls, we sorted out plans: They had power, we could stay if we wanted; I'd come over and we'd plan. Tried my parents and my sister; no answer. Found my keys and bolted. Before I got to the door, the phone rang. A telemarketer. Sorry man, I told him, and couldn't manage any more.

In the car, the migraine started squeezing my stomach, too. Courage, Camille, and I headed into the unlit streets. Got down to Broadway, which was powered up, as fast as I could, and headed onto the Turnpike to Jersey City. A full spread of natural dark. Manhattan half-lit across the water. You can't get the scale without the lights; it looked as small as a ship. It looked like it was heading out to sea.

Jersey City in one piece. My wife and my good buddy's wife (who is also a good buddy) waiting. I vomit thrice, make halting small talk, make fun of TV anchors. Maybe a Diet Coke will do me good; it doesn't. I puked all the way down to the applesauce. The household donated an ice pack and sympathy. Meantime the phone rang: My buddy was on the Weekhawken Ferry, many miles away. We all decided to part, with many many thanks.

My wife drove. She had been in yoga.

On the Turnpike the moon appeared, a whole half dollar of it and dusty red. It looked bigger than the city. As well it might.

We got home. While I vomited she lit candles. I returned to find her on the couch, already covered with cats. She mimes the remote control; my buddies in Jersey City call it The Penis. We drop off quickly. This weekend we get cellphones.

@ 8:44:00 AM, ,

Do You Remember Your President Nixon? Thursday, August 14, 2003

A friend of mine asked me last night about the "safety" of blogging: Do you say things here that you wouldn't otherwise, knowing that friends of yours will be reading? A good question, almost as good as the one in the title of this posting, which I remembered this morning when "Young Americans" came on the iPod.

I found myself thinking about "Reality Bites", an advertisement for our generation's claim to be Lost; when in fact we were just stumbling around for a while between graduation and our first real job. The movie featured a cover of the Bowie song, which is the only thing I remember fondly about it. That and the buddies I went with: a scientist, who is now turning atoms into Italian ices, and a musician, who doesn't talk to me anymore.

We busted up over things left unsaid too long. When it came to politics, he always spoke his mind; I always held back. From awkward aborted exchanges over the years he knew we weren't on the same page. He came to realize we weren't even in the same book. And that was that. The implication: If he'd known all along what I really thought, he wouldn't have gotten as close as he did.

So, to answer the question at the top of this posting, yes, I put things here I wouldn't say in real life. With work, with schedules, with everything, I only have a few hours a week to talk to people, so the conversation comes out concentrated. Lots of catching up, lots of jokes, lots of reassurance that the other people still really exist. Which doesn't leave a lot of room for Larry Hart, Walker Percy or politics, for that matter.

Hence the blog: To remind myself that I still have the energy and inclination to think about those things, and to give everybody else an idea of what's in the ellipses.

Now a silly story to edit. Take care.

@ 9:54:00 AM, ,

Meta-Observations Wednesday, August 13, 2003

One thing I'm noticing about the entries here is that they're a mix of ordinary speaking voice and a highfalutin writerly style. Part of this reading Waugh, trying to ape the 800-pound gorilla. More than that, though, I think I'm trying to suss out what I want my writing to sound like these days. There's vernacular first-person stuff, which is how my sci-fi stories usually end up; slightly elevated first-person stuff for fantasy stories; and a weak mixture of the two for journalism and blogging. I think I'm at my best in e-mail: It's mostly my own voice but with these flourishes of high style that seem "in character."

Partly it's the audience, I guess. If you know me, and you come across a construction like "dissipated extrovert" in an e-mail, you can probably imagine how I'd actually say it: pronouncing it carefully--so I get points for coming up with it--but in an outerborough accent, so you know that I'm not taking myself seriously. In "public" writing, nobody knows you, nobody brings those assumptions to the table.

How to resolve this? You can't write jargon books forever (unless somebody decides to take Secret Thing Ur-1, copyright 2000, public, in which case I'll write them till my fingers fall off). And I'm not going to wake up and turn into Mervyn Peake.

Maybe I just need a good narrator. I think I have one in mind. More later.

Au revoir. See ya!

@ 3:49:00 PM, ,

Onpass the Itme

A fixy afternoon. E-mails coming from all quarters to excise or elide glaring errors, introduce more cooks into the pot or, best yet, sneak "color" back in. Color: You never of heard of Spazmo Fatcat, a piano could fall on him and you wouldn't muster a shrug, you're not even sure why you're reading a story about him--but we're going to tell you what he's got sitting on his desk.

Twenty pages to go in "Put Out More Flags." Just about enough to get me across the Hudson, not enough to get me home.

@ 2:59:00 PM, ,

Did They Show the Broom?

Just discussed tonight's stories with reporters, news editors, sub-alterns. The reporters were gracious and generous and didn't comment on the state of their stories, which were something like those computer-"aged" pictures on milk cartons: Johnny, ran away age 10, probably looks something like this.

Editing isn't an art; it's like playing Telephone. The reporter tells you a story, and you pass it along to 2 million people, trying to make it sound more interesting than the one you heard in the first place. (Start off with the dog driving the car instead of the economic forecast, etc.) Along the way, you have to tell it to squads of people who can fire you and pretend not to understand a word you've said. (An accelerator. How is my grandmother supposed to understand what an accelerator is?) So you tack on paragraphs like donkey tails--while chopping out any remaining traces of the original, in the interest of space--and tell it all back to the reporter ten minutes before deadline. While he's still stunned you tell him to call the night editor with any changes, and run for the ferry.

In all, a process that brings to mind the title of this post. I swear to God I saw with my own eyes an unfinished, unpublished Beetle Bailey strip in a "history of cartoons" anthology once with that as the punchline. I won't explain the joke--this is a family blog--but it involves a prison movie, a shower scene and a violation of personal space.

My own eyes. Swear to god.

-30-, which means goodbye.

@ 12:37:00 PM, ,

By the Way...

For all of you interested in the archives (hee hee) I'm still trying to get them up and running.

@ 9:15:00 AM, ,

Part of Me Loves to Fail

Which is a line from a great Go-Betweens song. In all, eleven hours at the office yesterday, thirty minutes of protein patties and Britcom with my better half, then more work, this time the Secret Thing. I'm starting to really, really like the Secret Thing, which started off as kind of an exercise and a distraction from the other abortive Secret Things. This is important: If I care enough about a project, the guy passing judgment on it is bound to pick up on that and get sucked in too. In movies I love, this attitude is called "heart" or "moxie"; in psychiatric circles it is called "magical thinking."

It applies to the grind, too. In all likelihood, I am responsible for both "leders" on the front page of the paper today. (A leder being forty-five inches of German foot.) The reporters still haven't seen my edits of the stories, which were more or less total rewrites. My logic: If I expect that they'll be pissed off, clearly they won't be, to enable some vast cosmic irony; an Olympian Infield Fly rule. But if I think the stories are fine, that's when the shooting starts. When this fails to happen, as it usually does, I'll find meta-logical causes: e.g. I wasn't apprehensive enough about how they'd respond to the edit; I didn't clap hard enough, ciao Tinkerbell.

Got a nice note from a pal in the Pacific Northwest: Nicole, a longtime diarist herself. Thanks for reading!

@ 8:59:00 AM, ,

Offhandery Tuesday, August 12, 2003

No time to breathe, much less blog, today. On the plus side, a buddy with high standards seems to like the Secret Thing of the moment, so I'm just about ready to send it off. Then I can turn to the next Secret Thing, then the next, then the next, until one of them becomes the Public Thing. Then, as Morty Shuman sang, "we'll kiss with our eyes, talk in love with our hands, in the Promised Land."

@ 4:21:00 PM, ,

A Steely Drivin' Man Monday, August 11, 2003

An afternoon ended on an up-note: My reporter for today sent me a note a full half-hour before deadline saying, "Looks good. I gotta run and catch the ferry." I could've kissed him. Actually, he won my undying affection earlier in the day when he wrote, "Looks like a good edit to me"--this after fifteen inches of cuts, many more inches of adds and tons of rewriting. This also being a story I wanted to kill early on. Not bad, but more watermelon juggling tomorrow.

Ran for a ferry myself, read more of Waugh's "Put Out More Flags." A very funny, and subtly sad, book. I dig the hero, Basil Seal, an unscrupulous rake and "adventurer" (in the old, nasty sense). Trouble is, I read stuff like that and imagine I could write it; then my stuff has all these weird anglicisms for weeks. Instead of a-literate Queens-isms.

Came home to find the astonishing wife beat after a day in the ward. (She helps kids in hospitals.) So she retired early and I hid in the office and worked on a revision of the current Secret Thing. My good buddies gave me great direction on it, as usual. Here's hoping it pans out.

Still figuring out what this blog is supposed to be. I don't know if many outsiders are visiting; don't even know if my friends are reading regularly. Foremost, I think, I'm just trying to keep my chops up--for all of you who don't know me, I write things and have been going through about two and a half years of performance anxiety. (Ever since some guys blew up my office with airplanes. Hmmm...) So I'm treating the blog like a notebook to jot down random thoughts; but at the same time force myself to make them at least halfway presentable.

You like? Drop me a line. You hate? Drop me a line.

@ 11:24:00 PM, ,

Another Signpost Moment

Overheard this morning, from a group of three floor traders at the Mercantile Exchange who were sitting outside talking loud and smoking:

"But all the apostles were married."

For no good reason, that made me happy. Walking by a group of people from whom I'm inclined to expect the worst; on a particularly drowsy morning; with a long day, week, month, year ahead of me and hearing that...it was like a Turnpike sign. Whenever I drive to Pennsylvania to see my sister, on the roads outside Trenton every fifteen miles or so there are little signs for the Turnpike. Hardly noticeable, even; just the NJT logo and an arrow. The Turnpike is far enough away that they don't tell you the distance; just a little wink to let you know you're headed in the right direction.

I'm talking too much about Walker Percy and his language here, to the point of pretentiousness. But damned if he wasn't on target more than most.

Back to the watermelons. More as it develops.

@ 3:06:00 PM, ,

Oh Joy! Oh Rapture!

Everybody up the food chain from me, including the reporter, is happy with the Big Problem Story of the day. A relief, and kinda edifying--I put a lot of work into it, and came this close to telling my boss it just didn't work and we should scrap it. Now onto two more problem stories.

No time for signposts! Although, on a similar note, another Steely Dan fanatic is in town: a tech reporter from San Francisco who I used to edit all the time. He thinks the new record does not rock. We must discuss this.

@ 2:08:00 PM, ,

All the News That Gives Me Fits

A long morning promising an even longer afternoon and evening. Finishing in a hurry a story I thought I'd have much more time to consider. Now another story that's like juggling watermelons.

In case anybody who doesn't know me is reading this, I'm a mild-mannered editor at a large newspaper. On my best days, I am nearly literate.

@ 12:17:00 PM, ,

Let's Blow This Thing and Go Home Sunday, August 10, 2003

The crummy new version of Star Wars on cable. Astonishing wife returned. Everything's swellegant.

Until next time...

@ 10:47:00 PM, ,

Ol' Blue Eyes...

...is back on PBS; they're re-running his comeback special. He was thinner than Elvis!

I can see why I stayed away from him for so long: the cheese factor. You listen to those Fifties records and there's not an ounce of flab on them. Whether he's swinging or crooning, not a note, not a gesture, not a breath gets wasted--not by him or his band or his composers. But this comeback show has the feel of an Academy Awards special; sets, tuxedos, songs written for the occasion, a shiny curtain backdrop. You can still hear the magic underneath all the trappings, but boy, the trappings do their best to hide it.

Oy vey, he just introduced a Paul Anka song...with backbeats and flutes and everything... Why didn't somebody give him a copy of Aja? Would it have screwed up the cosmos that much?

Now "Send in the Clowns." Not a bad song, but it didn't come down from the heavens. I wish Sinatra had a little fun with it, swung out a little...he seems to feel like it's a Serious Song, so he's got to tackle it head-on. Did Sondheim ruin everything on Earth? Discuss.

Anyhow. Random thoughts. Doobie doo.

@ 5:40:00 PM, ,

Stop the Presses!

My buddy Dave -- who performed one of my weddings! -- tells me you can "subscribe" to the blog and get e-mail updates by going to Bloglet. Do you really want to risk missing a single word?

@ 5:17:00 PM, ,

Post Script

Headline of the Weekly World News: POPE IS MISSING!

@ 2:45:00 PM, ,

Paging Doctor Moore

Mushrooms growing in the little dirt garden ringing my apartment building. Evil mushrooms? Undoubtedly.

Listened to my priest, and now a secular one: Jonathan Schwartz, an oldies, pop-standards and show-tunes deejay at WNYC. I was dubious about him for a long time; he seemed to be in love with the sound of his own voice, snobby and overwrought. Lately the scales have fallen, in good musical-comedy fashion, and I've realized what a wonderful service he provides. He's basically the only source for American Popular Song on the radio--all the best composers (Mercer, Hart, Carmichael, Porter, etc.), all the great singers (Frankie above all) and some interesting curveballs from time to time (he has a Martha's Vineyard fetish; Carly Simon et al). I never "got" this music until I heard him present it, until he showed me how literate and mature it was, and at the same time how overpoweringly sexy and fun it could be. Musical phases come and go with me, but listening to, say, Lorenz Hart certainly puts my bread-and-butter folk-rockers in another context. Even the best of them sound pallid in comparison. Mark Eitzel, for instance, never wrote anything as breezy-but-deadly as this (via the Lyrics by Lorenz Hart site):


VERSE

You don't know that I felt good
when we up and parted.
You don't know I knocked on wood
gladly broken-hearted.
Worrying is through,
I sleep all night
appetite and health restored.
You don't know how muck I'm bored!

REFRAIN 1

The sleepless nights,
the daily fights
the quick toboggan when you reach the heights
I miss the kisses and I miss the bites
I wish I were in love again!

The broken dates,
the endless waits,
the lovely loving and the hateful hates,
the conversations with the flying plates
I wish I were in love again!

No more pain
no more strain
now I'm sane but ...
I would rather be ga-ga!
The pulled-out fur
of cat and cur
the fine mismating of a him and her
I've learned my lesson, but I wish I were
in love again!

REFRAIN 2
The furtive sight
the blackened eye,
the words "I'll love you till the day I day"
the self-deception the belives the lie
I wish I were in love again!

When love congeals
it soon reveals
the faint aroma of performing seals
the double-crossing of a pair of heels.
I wish I were in love again!

No more care
no despair
I'm all there now
But I'd rather be punch-drunk!
Belive me sir
I much prefer
the classic battle of a him and her.
I don't like quiet and
I wish I were in love again!

(Not to push myself in Metrosexual territory, but the Judy Garland/Mickey Rooney version of this tune has to be heard to be believed.)

The closest I've heard lately is Ron Sexsmith, a self-described sensitive guy with a guitar, who writes lovely melodies and homely lyrics; homely in the sense that they're built on simple, everyday words that take on uncommon power through his arrangement and delivery.

Off his latest record, a lyric that could've come from Oklahoma! (via Ron's Web site):

I know it doesn't seem that way
But maybe it's the perfect day
Even though the bills are piling
And maybe Lady Luck ain't smiling

But if we'd only open our eyes
We'd see the blessings in disguise
That all the rain clouds are fountains
Though our troubles seem like mountains

There's gold in them hills
There's gold in them hills
So don't lose heart
Give the day a chance to start

Then, of course, there's Walter Becker and Donald Fagen, who are the last great writers of popular standards. To qualify: They write and arrange songs in a way that hasn't been seen since, say, Nelson Riddle or Burt Bacharach. Reading Sinatra bios, I keep tearing my hair when the timeline reaches the 70s and The Voice starts recording Rod McKuen songs and other nudniks on that level. I guarantee you: If he had dipped into the Steely Dan catalog, he would have saved popular standards, and his recording career, from the modern age. (He stayed a big concert attraction, of course.) Can't you just imagine him turning this into a saloon song (via Steelydan.com):


In the corner
Of my eye
I saw you in Rudy's
You were very high
You were high
It was a cryin' disgrace
They saw your face

On the counter
By your keys
Was a book of numbers
And your remedies
One of these
Surely will screen out the sorrow
But where are you tomorrow

I can't cry anymore
While you run around
Break away
Just when it
Seems so clear
That it's
Over now
Drink your big black cow
And get out of here

Down to Greene Street
There you go
Lookin' so outrageous
And they tell you so
You should know
How all the pros play the game
You change your name

Like a gangster
On the run
You will stagger homeward
To your precious one
I'm the one
Who must make everything right
Talk it out till daylight

I don't care anymore
Why you run around
Break away
Just when it
Seems so clear
That it's
Over now
Drink your big black cow
And get out of here

Can't you just see Frank in a tuxedo with his tie half-off, pounding out that last line? "Don't let the door crease your caboose, baby!"

And here I was, all set to write about Church...well, Jonathan Schwartz delivers a lot more consistently than my sainted pastor does. I still miss my church in Brooklyn, where I returned to the communion after a decade away, where I ended up marrying my astonishing wife. (On cue, Jonathan Schwartz fires up Frankie singing "Love and Marriage.") It was a tiny church, a Bobo church, with sympathetic pastors who had the same peccadilloes as me: the historical Jesus, loving everybody but not particularly liking lots of them, etc. The churches in Bayonne don't play that way. I don't know what's in peoples' hearts and heads, but from the pulpit there's not a lot of spiritual questioning going on.

Still I go, which is really just an excuse to type out my favorite quote from any source, anywhere, anyhow:

I, for example, am a Roman Catholic, albeit a bad one. I believe in the Holy Catholic Apostolic and Roman Church, in God the Father, in the election of the Jews, in Jesus Christ His Son our Lord, who founded the Church on Peter his first vicar, which will last until the end of the world. Some years ago, however, I stopped eating Christ in Communion, stopped going to mass, and have since fallen into a disorderly life. I believe in God and the whole business but I love women best, music and science next, whiskey next, God fourth, and my fellowman hardly at all. Generally I do as I please. A man, wrote John, who says he believes in God and does not keep his commandments is a liar. If John is right, then I am a liar. Nevertheless, I still believe.

Walker Percy, Love in the Ruins. My second-favorite quote, from any source, anywhere, anyhow, from the same book:

Ellen, though a strict churchgoer and a moral girl, does not believe in God. Rather does she believe in the Golden Rule and in doing right. On the whole she is embarrassed by the whole God business. But she does right. She doesn't need God. What does God have to do with being honest, hard-working, chaste, upright, unselfish, etcetera. I on the other hand believe in God, the Jews, Christ, the whole business. Yet I don't do right. I am a Renaissance pope, an immoral believer. Between the two of us we might have saved Christianity. Instead we lost it.

For my money, those two little paragraphs sum up the modern world (or at least the world as it appears through Rob binoculars). I have a bookcase full of the hunt for the historical Jesus, books expounding Catholic philosophy, I can laugh and huzzah along with G.K. Chesteron--but on the whole I'd rather be listening to Sinatra on Sunday. Moreover, I say a lot of hosannas, I get teary at Easter, but those fine feelings don't sink deep enough for me to want to devote my life to helping people. There are lots of people who do a lot more to help the world than I do, and don't believe in God. Does that matter?

Search me. Maybe Mel Gibson has some thoughts. I wonder what they'll show as the previews for that one. And I wonder where the sequels will go...

Anyhow, off to gather mushrooms. Take care. If you see any signposts, let me know.

@ 1:50:00 PM, ,

Beautiful Mornin'

A misty day in old Bayonne. Awake laaaaaaaaate with spinning gears: games, stories, music. Driving to breakfast to meet a good buddy, listened to a newish record by a band called The Cooler Kids: trashy, neo-disco dance music, lots of faux-70s robot voices and "hey Mr. Deejay" stuff. The selling point was that it was produced by Jill Cunniff, onetime member of the ultra-fab Luscious Jackson. A nice record, breezy and fun and lots of good beats, but it doesn't have the empathy and heft of LJ. I miss those gals!

My astonishing wife returns home today, around 8 pm. Oyez Oyez! Another nice boost: My good buddy seemed to like the Secret Thing I sent him to read.

Nothing else coherent to add. I could write about music all morning, but I need to go for a walk and then wallow in "popish darkness," as a certain Southern gal put it. I plan to blog during my afternoon nap, so stay tuned.

@ 10:51:00 AM, ,

Late Night Thoughts

The 21st century equivalent of twiddling my thumbs: scanning songs for my iPod. Listening meantime to Joe Henry, another guy who has slipped through the cracks: a vaguely folkish, vaguely country, vaguely rocking, vaguely jazzy guy who writes smart lyrics. In other words, he's got that WFUV style: In a better world, it would be the mainstream. (When Bobos rule!)

I saw him live, opening for Elvis Costello, and was let down. He played solo with an acoustic guitar, and it just didn't work; his sound is very studio-heavy, lots of instruments and layers of sound, echo on his voice, stuff like that. Plus he plays with wonderful musicians, who give him a sound halfway between the latter-day Miles Davis and the current-day Tom Waits. Solo, you lose all that.

Anyhow, one of his lyrics struck me as so damn good I wanted to pass it along:

I know she's right behind me now
Without looking back
I know she will untie me
How then will I pay for that?

Like she was the railroad
Like she was the lost world
Like she was the big hand turning back the sea
Like she was the raging flower in the brickyard
Like she was the only thing holding on to me

There is no revolution without boots and song
Her foot falls like a banner day and I will sing along

Like she was the anvil
Like she was the fire bell
Like she was the fever I wear like a crown
Like she was the bomb scare threatening with the heaven
Like she was the only thing holds me to the ground

She's pretending to be wide awake, to be listening to me
Promises of love to last at least for now without a moment's peace

Like she was the tightrope
Like she was the last hope
Like she was Roosevelt's funeral in the street
Like she was the wildest voice out of the jungle
Like she was the only thing calling out to me

etc.

There are a lot of "list" songs, "she's so great she's..." songs. This strikes me as one of the best. What nails it for me are a couple of lines:

Like she was the big hand turning back the sea

and

Like she was Roosevelt's funeral in the street

The first one is a knowing literary joke, and could be pretentious, but his sly delivery drives it home perfectly. The second line just blows me away. Every time I hear it, I can't believe nobody else has ever grabbed that image for a song. It also crystallizes what I dig about Joe Henry: The line is holding up a lot of history and assumptions, but you never feel like the words are creaking under the effort.

(Other great lines, from another great song, that I don't have the energy to extemporize on:

I hear somebody laughing, I just figure I've been took

...

This lake's too big for me, Jesus
Don't hold me to anything I do
If I surrender now and let it swallow me
Don't think they won't blame you)


Anyhow, a deserving artist. Check out his records Fuse and Scar if you're inclined. The earlier stuff is pretty straightahead alt-country and not as interesting, to my ears.

Fading fast. Still looking for signposts. Just one sign, Dr. Percy! Anything!

@ 12:25:00 AM, ,