SOME SATORI OVER HERE
So on the same day someone sends me this (I don't know why, I haven't been too haiku happy here, have I? Regardless, I'm only passing it along because it's pertinent), the flip side of the equation brings me an excellent excuse to shout out to Kate, whom I first met at Rose's Turn a couple of months ago, when Adam Brodsky and I had a show and she was our entire audience. Somehow, she's still talking to me after that small-h humiliation and gone on to start a weblog and (and this last bit is probably only important to me, but still) has proven to herself that we can actually perform in front of more than one person at a time.

WROTE A SONG ABOUT IT, LIKE TO HEAR IT, HERE IT GOES
I want to put together a libretto for tomorrow night's show (Sidewalk Café, 10:00 pm), but it's been difficult to keep focus long enough to actually do anything of note this week. The last couple of weeks, actually.

I'm starting to feel the itch of wanting to undertake a longer project, something a little more, I don't know, involved.

See, these three minute pop song things I've been writing for the last little while (eight, ten years) are not completely fulfilling, in and of themselves. Sure, I like writing and playing them, and I think I'm pretty good at it at this point, but there comes a time in everyone's life where they must step up, and maybe, maybe now's that time with me.

Of course, I thought that time was six months ago, and a year ago before that, and so on back into the slothy frothy mists of semi- or non-activity that makes up my adult life. And this talk, all this shit-talk, even this post you're reading right now, all of this is probly just me getting myself all worked up to start this bigger project of which I speak.

Until then, maybe I just need an attention span transplant. So much needs to be done, and some of it is, and the rest sits waiting for me to be distracted by something else. There's so many elaborate plans I have for tomorrow, and I'm sure one or two of them might actually come to fruition.

As always, I don't wanna talk about it too much, I just wanna do it, and also as always, we'll see.

SQUARE PEGS, SQUARE HOLES
This was a hell of a weekend to get cable.

I've ranted in the past about how terrible it is to be so busy at living your life that you can't think straight and can't be flexible.

Well, let me just say that for the most part I love being this busy. Love it. Even the things I don't think I should be doing, I'm still enjoying. I love what I do. I'm alive. (Sorry.)

Sure, it's hectic, and the parts of my life that weren't there before (or have lain dormant for the last 6 months) sit around in my head like a bunch of pegs waiting to be put into the right holes, but I still have plenty of space, and as soon as I put everything in its place, I'll be humming like before.

But this weekend, with no notice, the great god Cable came into my and my housemate's life. (He just decided to make some phone calls.) And he and I smiled upon it, and we saw that not only was it good in and of itself, but we could both work on crap online and still have the phone free, and (and!) have Sundance (or SportsCenter, whichever) playing some obscure Emily Lloyd movie (or Barry Bonds' latest moon shot) in the background.

Huzzah, O Goddess Technology! Huzzah!

It did take the weekend to configure, though. And it was a weekend I had actually planned to put some proverbial pegs in some holes.

I'm sure none of this makes sense. But that's what happens when you (okay, I) take the weekend off from writing much of anything at all. The crosshairs uncross, the focus gets wonky, and everything goes right to hell.

And this week is going to be the bestest yet!

Still. Rough week to get cable. See, now it's there, sitting sirenlike in my living room, as I fly past it in the early morning and shlump past it in the late night, promising seductions and distractions beyond my mildest dreams.

JOHN LEE HOOKER
Kids, did I ever tell you about the time I shook John Lee Hooker's hand?

And to wax rhetorical for a second (may I not do too much of that, by god), why is it that suburban white kids (like, say, me) seem to identify with the blues more than anyone else these days?

Of course, that story dates from back when I knew even less than I do now, and wouldn't have dreamed of asking that question, much less had a clue as to the answer.

CORRECTION
This note came yesterday, and I feel honor-bound to all who may consider checking Bennies out at some point to reprint it (Thanks, Mary, for letting me)...

1. Bennies is one of the most accessible clubs in town, being only one block from the subway. It's also one block from Broad Street - Philadelphia's main thoroughfare, as well as the Avenue of the Arts.

2. It's a really cool room to play if you're just starting in Philly. The owner is a club booker who always hated how his bosses fucked with the bands so he saved up some dough, bought a bar and now owns a room where he treats people right.

3. Although it looks like a dive, Rick is so well-respected that he gets a lot of nationals in at Bennies. Mostly blues acts. When we've done shows there, we've always enjoyed it.

4. Pabst Blue Ribbon and a shot of Jim Beam is a sort of legendary drink combination in Philadelphia. Not just some weird scene.

Anyway, I'm fond of Rick and his club, so I wanted to set the record straight :)

mary

Don't know if it came out in the original post, but I did have an absolute ball there (although I haven't completely recovered from the (five? eight? however many it was) Happy Meals I had there that night). I also should make a point of making sure Adam Brodsky gets the props he deserves as well. He was instrumental in getting me into the festival in the first place, and in the second place he's the best folksinger in Philly anyways (it's like official and everything, I ain't just blowing smoke here), so his word and support go just - that - much farther.

I'm looking to get to a point in my career where I can consistently return such favors in kind. Until then, I gotta go to work.

PRETTY LITTLE SCHADENFREUDE MORNING
By far the fastest way to get anywhere in New York is by bicycle. It's virtually free, it's faster than cars, you get and stay healthy, there's really no downside. (I consider the exhaust from all the poorly kept cars, as well as the idiot pedestrians who stand in the middle of the road with their back to traffic, as being Darwin Award candidates-in-waiting, and as long as one is alert and aware, not much in the way of danger.)

The exercise is fantastic, one gets to work entirely awake and ready to take on the day, and even if you factor in one bike theft (or even two) a year, it's still substantially cheaper than taking the subway everywhere.

And really, considering that as a cyclist you're riding basically unprotected in a Pamplona-style river of two ton smog beasts, things are pretty safe. Everyone's going in more or less the same direction, no one wants to run into anyone else, they know to look out for each other, it's fine. And the cab drivers are pretty smart. They know that any time spent picking blood and teeth off their windshield and spokes out of their tires is time not collecting fares, so they're as careful as anyone. Really, it's the best way to get around, by far.

All this does not, of course, as always, account for the idiot factor.

This morning, riding to work, I was riding up Third Avenue and about 20 yards ahead I saw this Mercedes slow down in front of me. Immediately I think, that idiot's gonna open his door into traffic. Not that that usually happens, but it's a good thing to think, because then when it happens, well, you're spared a face full of car door.

Sure enough, he opens the door into my lane. Like I said, I saw this coming, so I'm slowing down and about to say something to the poor dink, when this impatient cab huffs past me and doesn't quite stop in time to run into the guy's door.

Once I realized that everyone was okay, and the cab driver and Benz Boy were pacing around the cars, yelling at each other, posturing and chest beating, I went on my way, just happy to have been paying attention enough to not have gotten smushed between these two equally impatient dudes, riding on up through the misty urban canyons to the rest of my mundane day.

I KNOW THIS WORLD IS KILLING YOU
So I had the distinct luxury of having all of Saturday to myself before everyone started arriving in the evening, and I took pretty full advantage, despite the fact that the fallout from the hurricane was causing some occasionally serious weather. We'd go from monsoon season to bright sunny day and back pretty much every half hour. It was fun, as long as you didn't have to drive in it. (I'm foreshadowing here.)

We got to Bennies and it looks like the dive of all dives. Fiberglass in the windows, no real floor plan, a paper mockup of a brick wall behind the stage area held in place with duct tape, it's in a not-terribly accessible part of town, Sanjay & I were looking at each other thinking, oh well, it's gonna be one of those nights, then.

The first act of the evening was a songwriter who won some huge contest last year sponsored by John Lennon's Estate. Or it should have been - he didn't show. We got there about when he was supposed to go on, and there was no one else in the bar except for Gabe, the bartender. The decision was made to commence drinking.

All the other acts showed up, though, and Mark Dignam played real well - I thought of him as kind of an Irish version of Barry Bliss, although if you haven't heard Barry Bliss that doesn't mean much. He was lovely and intense and funny and cool. (He was supposed to stay at my place last night but he never showed)

Then there was the Jive Five Minus Two, who had been written up in the Philadelphia City Paper the week of the show, for what that's worth. They were a trio of guys who looked like they had met at a Sci-Fi convention and decided to make a band. They were real geeky. But then, I go for geeky types.

Then there was us. It was just Sanjay and I, and we worked the (now almost full) room for what it was worth (hey, dude, life is like a box of music biz types and their friends - you gotta work the room you're given), and then sat and drank Happy Meals (that would be the house special, a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon and a shot of Jim Beam for three bucks - am I drawing a vivid enough picture of the scene here?) with the disproportionate number of New Yorkers (and the cluster of Torontonians at the bar, and can I get a hell yeah for that) who were there.

Despite refraining from getting drunk until after our set, we still played loose. Actually, we played sloppy. (No, loose.) It was fun. But then, it's always fun, being on stage in a fear-&-loathing situation. The whole thing wound up being a real nice field trip.

Anyway, about halfway through the set, the bouncer came up and told us we were finished. I had to negotiate with him, tell him to look at the guide in the paper. And while we played what could easily have been our last song (the wholly-inappropriate-for-ending-a-set "Annex In February"), he came back and told us to go on, we were right and he was wrong. (The first time and last, (probably) I ever heard a bouncer say that to me.) We finished by rocking out a bit, and left the stage on a high.

After going to the South Street Diner for a late meal and coffee (Sanjay fell madly, stupidly in love with our waitress - he kept ordering more coffee, even though she was charging for refills, just so he could stare at her. Sure, she was cute, but he was so willing to just stay there all night it was funny. Also, considering the upcoming drive, all that coffee and the extra three hours spent in there was a good thing. It probably got us home in one piece), we surfed/drove through the lashing of what was left of Hurricane Alison. For two hours, we sang Elvis Costello songs until we turned a bend in the road and saw lower Manhattan through the morning mist, and by god was it ever the most lovely sight.

This week: fallout, planning, and other mundanely necessary sports.

PHILADELPHIA DISPATCH: SMOOTHNESS
So I basically missed Mary Prankster, who was the only act I was dying to see tonight - I not only misunderestimated the time it would take to walk from here to the Trocadero, I left about ten minutes into her set to start with, so I caught the last song (literally) and when she didn't surface after a half hour I went off in search of other networking opportunities, which I kind of found.

I had a few decent schmoozey-type conversations tonight, and wound up watching the end of the basketball game (look, civic pride is a very powerful sentiment with me, d'you mind?) in tons of different bars all over the place, and ultimately I wound up at the Pontiac Grille, listening to Orange, a thud-rock act on a night of thud-rock acts there, which was cool, because they were so loud I could tune them right out while I wrote a song about falling for a Philadelphia Girl (yay, dumb pop, I still got it). Then Orange finished and the oddest thing happend.

They put on a great mixed tape.

Elvis. Live. Weezer. Cracker. Sonic Youth. And then "Smooth.". (Yep, the Santana / Rob Thomas thing.) And after eight months of not hearing it, it sounded fresh and groovy again. Carlos' simple guitar lines flowed back into my not-terribly-drunken enough head and was instantly catchier, funkier, sweeter, better than anything I'd heard all night, and I tried to find good music, and I know it was out there, and I just didn't hit on it, and I kinda feel bad, but facts is facts.

So here's the one conclusion I reached tonight.

Once upon a time, my shit was really and truly together. (Dude, all my conclusions are about me. I'm a rock singer, eh?) I had lots of valuable information and energy to offer to others, both of which I gave freely and got back in multiples. I knew what I needed as far as performing and getting proper and adequate shows and related activites, I knew what my next step was, darn it I had a plan and a way to implement it.

But now, after six months of, if not complete inaction, at least working with a rudderless ship, I've lost a step. After what I've seen already this weekend I can easily make that step back, but to do that, there are a few things I just haven't done that desperately need doing.

I know what I'm to get out of the 2001 PMC now. And it ain't necessarily the opportunity to meet some new bands.

There's more, but that's the nut of it. And tonight is so going to rock.

BASKETBALL SEASON'S OVER, AND HALLELUJAH
One thing I gotta say about basketball season - I didn't care about the NBA finals this year because the Sixers and the Lakers are my two least favorite teams, stock-loaded with whiners and jackasses who give me nothing to cheer for and no reason to look deeper and I know they don't care what I think because the few times they actually talk to the press that's exactly many of the most vocal players' words and attitude, and I know that all teams have people like that, but it just seems that these two have the highest concentration of apathetic aloof monosyllabic whogivesashit types, and godblessem but I have no desire to funnel my energy in either one's direction, even here in Philly, where I find it ... curious that everyone (and make no mistake, I'm here, and it's everyone) is so eager to think of Allen Iverson as some kind of big-hearted savior after his career's worth of macho bullshit posturing and aggro-aggressive me-firstism. We'll see if this alleged "moral turnaround" of the last few months is still in effect come contract negotiation time. Then let's see how many thousands upon thousands (no shit) of number 3 jerseys we see on South Street. Come on, prove me wrong, Allen Iverson.

LAND PHILL
Okay, so having nothing to do whatsofreakingever with the actual conference, I'm kind of surprised (and I know I completely shouldn't be) by the actual amount of 76ers crap on the shelves here in Philadelphia, on people's backs, in the streets, and in the air (I can now recognize the rapping style of Allen Iverson, of all things). Yeah, I know how big a deal this is, especially in this sports-mad town where nothing of note has happened since what, the Phillies in '80? Really.

But as a Tony-come-lately to this hoopla, it's a little deluginous. Seeing BEAT L.A. in the window of a downtown Episcopal church (I hope the pics turn out, and oh do I have pics, enough to maybe start a spinoff gallery, and this is after Day 1 of 3) was just a bit unnerving.

And that was before I saw James O'Brien at the Griffin tonight. His joyous little diatribes rocked the small house at his showcase, and half the audience was taking pictures (it wasn't just me).

More tomorrow when I sober up and get some coffee and eggs in me.

TOP OF THE WORLD, MA
Now that the Blogger Trivia Competition is over, I have a story to tell, of past glory rarely dwelt upon, of -- okay, it was the one time my being a smartass really paid off.

REAL PURTY PITCHERS

I've just wasted a half hour I don't have looking at these found photographs. There's hundreds of them, all funny and beautiful and sad and weird, and, and, and I have to go back to work now.

PHILADELPHIA ALERT: THIS SATURDAY
When people send regrets that they can't make it to my shows, I usually tell them not to worry - if a show is important, then I'll let them know.

Most shows are come-if-you-can affairs, but this show coming up is going to be a bigger deal than most.

See, I've managed to wrangle and connive my way into the Philadelphia Music Conference, and it's kind of a big deal. Yeah, it's a bit of an industry wankfest, but the other acts on the bill my night are apparently pretty good, and it would be cool to have some people there to just come on down and make some noise when I go on, thus making me feel popular (maybe even look it, too, and any wealth I accrue will surely make it back to you).

So okay, then, details. I'm going to be at:

Bennie's
15th and South Street, Philadelphia
(215) 545-4511

I go on about 11:00 pm, but there's a bunch of acts going on before and after me, so I can pretty much guarantee a good time.

There's a caravan of people coming down from NYC for the day as well, so if you'd like to come, and shake some hands (or even just prove to yourself that I actually do exist), then let me know and we'll set you up. Our caravans to Long Island have been pretty damned successful, so I don't see why this should be a whole lot different.

If you can't make it, I won't be insulted, but I don't pull the Please card out very often. Please come on Saturday, even if it's just to say hi.

Thanks.

AND HEY, SPEAKING OF COLOR SCHEMES
Amber's new home is all in white. I like it a lot better than the crows-and-darkness theme she had going before, and I truly hope that this color change represents some positive goings-on in her life.

[Much purple schmaltz about impossibility of overstating her importance in my life the last few months excised from this post.]

AND HEY, SPEAKING OF DISTRACTIONS
I feel like I'm the last bloggiste I know to have actually gotten into Lisa's site. Her life is as far removed from mine as one can reasonably expect (her being a working mom in Iowa who lives with a cop and all), but I spent a couple of (really-shoulda-been-sleeping) hours on the weekend reading her tales and thinking, jumping Elvis in Holy Graceland, I recognize that life, and I have no business recognizing that life. That's the kind of joy I read other people's weblogs for in the first place.

And she hates her color scheme, but I kinda like it. And if she changes it, maybe I'll take it. Not out of spite, but -- just cuz.

BOREDOM COMES IMMEDIATELY BEFORE INSPIRATION
You ever feel like you're on the verge of something, something really huge, not just spring-cleaning or broken heart huge, but like, marriage huge, menopause huge, emigrate-to-a-new-country-with-nothing-in-your-pocket huge (to name three that aren't in my immediate future, far as I can tell)?

Well I've been feeling like that for about six months now, even back to when I was working in my last lovely job. Part of it is that everyone I know seems to be working on larger projects (albums, plays, musicals, entrepreneurial ventures, world tours), and so there's a definite urge to get out of the simple little 3-minute projects I've been working on and getting to something a bit more … substantial. (I got into music in part to keep my chops up while I amassed some more life-experience to better write the novels I wanted to write. And while the last year or so of stretching my legs has felt a little like jumping up and down in the nest, and I don't want to declare too fast that the time is at hand, well, the time seems to be at hand.)

Also, I just finished rereading Tom Robbins' Still Life With Woodpecker, and thinking, gawd, if this is a major work of literature, hell I can crank tripe like this out in my sleep. (And I like Tom Robbins. He's an insightful, witty, sexy writer. I loved Skinny Legs and All and Jitterbug Perfume. Really.)

Maybe I'll stay at this crappy semi-satanic temp job after all. Maybe having no net connection will turn out to be a blessing. If I'm smart enough to not let in any other distractions (my social life is not a distraction, I don't think), that is.

Now we'll see how smart I really am.

ANN LANDERS ROCKS!*
I never thought I would live long enough to write the following sentence.

Ann Landers was totally worth reading yesterday. (Check the June 11, 2001 entry if they rotate them or something. Middle entry.)

I have it on good authority that the "Dan" of this story is this guy, and his poor suffering wife, though probably a tad indulgent about her husband's rock and rolling, doesn't so much misrepresent things as, well, change them. Yes, Dan sings rock and roll music, but it's nowhere near heavy metal, and while there might be some negative stuff somewhere in it, I can't find it. In fact, Dan Emery and his Mystery Band are just about the most positive band this town has seen since, well, the Lovin' Spoonful anyways. He does have "sex with several women" (and take a few drugs) over the course of his two records, but off the top of my head, I can't think of any murder scenes. Unless the song about Tyrannosaurus Rex counts.

Look. I'm not equipped properly to evaluate whether Dan might be "in la-la land," but he's good enough at what he does that I hope he does at some point get to quit his day job and join the ranks of the "real professionals" that are "crowding" the "field he is considering." Rock on, bah-rutherr.

*on evidence, probably not true

IN OTHER LOCAL NEWS
Brand new weblogger (!) Jon Berger's going to lose his excellent bank job. While this sucks for his cash flow, hopefully this means he'll actually write more, and work a little less on the day thing. Though actually, I somehow doubt that it's possible for him to write any more. The guy is constant, a perpetual insight machine.

Also, with being another member of this scene, I can no longer make up my own versions of events. Such powers as he and I must always be cojoined on the side of good. The implications if one of us were to cross over to the dark side are simply too much to bear.

I can't recommend him enough if you're looking for stuff to read.

MOJO NIXON
I first saw Mojo Nixon at the El Mocambo, what, 350, 400 years ago, when he was still with Skid Roper and they were really pushing a song called I Hate Banks ("I hate banks, just can’t stand ‘em / Give me a shovel and man, I’ll plant ‘em / Six feet under is where they belong / I hate banks is the name of this song…") and I don’t remember if it was me or Peter Lipton but one of us heard him on CIUT and figured, maybe we should check this out, and he came out after Eugene Chadbourne (another awesome show, but there’ll be digressions enough in this story already, so - - later) and lit the place up, just him with his acoustic guitar and Skid playing all manner of percussion, the solid, silent and smiling Teller to Mojo’s frothing bucktoothed google-eyed Penn.

He gave out (allegedly real) home phone numbers of bank presidents in town, got one side of the audience to play off against the other in various games, and Peter and I just sat there double, triple, fourple-taking, not realizing that entertainment like this was even possible.

If antifolk actually exists as a genre, that was the first time I had ever seen it. And it knocked me on my skinny ass.

I bought all his records, and started writing songs like him. For the first half-dozen years of my songwriting life, the two people I stole all my musical ideas from (and most of my stage style, such as it was) were Nick Lowe and Mojo. The very first rehearsal I did with my very first band, the first song we ran through was "I’m A Wreck," (from Frenzy). Great Googly Moogly, I worshipped that bastard.

There was a stretch of about five years where he came and opened for everyone of a certain fame level who blew through Toronto. Dread Zeppelin, Stevie Ray Vaughan, the Dead Milkmen, Gwar, George Thorogood, Camper Van Beethoven, I went to damn near all of 'em and took lots and lots of notes. If I can rant at all now, it’s because of him.

So if you’ve never heard Mojo Nixon before, I’d recommend starting with Otis, his most consistent and fun-jumpy record, which was supposed to have been his major label debut (except Restless Records folded upon its release). From there, you can move back (into his very anti-PC anthem beginnings) or forward (to his duets with Jello Biafra and lots of others), and you won’t be too disappointed at all. All his records have gems all over ‘em, though (Root Hog Or Die’s got "Elvis Is Everywhere," the one song of his you’ve probably heard if you’ve only heard one, Frenzy has the touching ode to fatherhood "I'm Living With A Three Foot Antichrist," hell even the EP Get Out Of My Way’s got "Burn Down The Malls," a gorgeous seven-minute boogie diatribe about censorship, fundamentalism and corporatism). You can't go too wrong. You can trust me, right?

And now, after a few acting gigs (Ever see Super Mario Brothers or Rock and Roll High School Forever, let alone Buttcrack: The Movie?), he’s now, gads, a radio morning man in Cincinnati. I’d love to know if he’s any good. Actually, with his rantin' and carryin' on, he’d be perfect for morning radio.

More Info:
Mojonixon.com
Offbeat's excellent interview with the former Neill Kirby McMillan Jr.
The Mojo Nixon Schoolbook Depository
Mojo World
A True American Hero

WHERE IT'S AT (Beck Week Continues)
According to this Inner Rock Star test (gracias big white guy)...

Chico, your inner rock star is Beck

Yeah baby, the rock star part of you is all Beck. Women are enthralled by your seductive energy, a perfect mix of intrigue and poetry. You and Beck have got it all together because you're unafraid to say exactly what's on your mind, and let everyone in on your quirky point of view. Intellectual and sexy, you continually dodge conventional stereotypes with your eclectic personal style. But when you really break it down, it's just your great sense of humor and easygoing talent that makes the crowds go wild. Throw a fiesta, and inspire your inner Beck.

Funny how they pegged me exactly, down to the whole "women being enthralled" thing, and oh yeah the "talent" thing...

Mhm. Figures, though, that I'd go through the whole test (yeah, all three minutes of it) and wind up paired with ... another former East Village singer-songwriter. No soy quizá un perdedor after all.

WELL ISN'T THIS EXCITING.
Seems John Erratic Loony McCabe has organized a trivia contest about some webloggers - it sure looks like no skill is involved whatsoever, but there is an actual prize if you can guess the cool fact associated with each weblogger.

I am honor bound to provide no hints, though now that I've actually read the thing, it seems that one other fact also holds true for me.

John, Amber, the contest looks awesome. I'm thrilled to be a part of something so ... classy.

A GOOD RAGE
There are some lessons I’m beginning to see are best applied in moderation.

This week (this month, this year), there’ve been a ton of examples, but whatever.

Letting go of anger is one of them. Now, I’m as big a fan of the ole let-it-drop as anyone. But there are times when using that natural rage is the only right thing to do.

Just a little bit of anger gets me out of bed some days when nothing else will do. In some situations, a bit of a taste for revenge has gotten me into some winner’s circles where being benevolent would have not worked so well. (You know what they say about nice guys.) Certainly on stage no one wants to see (and more importantly it’s no fun being) a completely unalienated, well-adjusted, serene person. Even Jonathan Richman gets pissed off at people, and he’s the oldest 6 year old in the world, fergawdsake.)

I mean, if you’re that centered, that comfortable within yourself and in the universe, what energy source is compelling you to force that peace on the rest of the world? Huh? Answer me that one (and by what follows here, understand I don’t mean you specifically. Always, always remember that.), asshole.

Anyway. I think it’s kind of a given that to become a performer (or a writer, or really anyone who shows their stuff in public), there has to be a hole somewhere in your psyche that needs filling, however benign. I sure as hell know I have one. But if you accept that the flaws in people are what make them interesting, and as long as you accept that perfection is both unattainable and boring, then I’m willing to conclude (at least for myself) that the best I can do is the best I can do, and use the occasional frustrations I feel from day to day to pull myself through my life, and work the bigger stuff, and when things are going real well, the smaller stuff, out on stage or in print or in this space or somewhere.

I ain’t talking about taking an AK47 into a McDonald’s (although I understand that impulse, for sure) or working up and advancing some kind of vendetta against a particular group (see Rush Limbaugh, Louis Farrakhan, Andrea Dworkin, Stockwell Day, Jesse Helms, Pat Buchanan, etc etc ad frickin’ absurdum), but I think a little bit of rage, when naturally felt, can be used to great, righteous, non-destructive effect. And with all due respect, if you disagree, really (and again, this is not directed at you, although I may mean the sweetly misguided person beside you) you can just go fuck yourself.

REPORT FROM THE FORT
So the two shows I happened to be a part of this weekend were fantastic. The second one, at Bar B on Allen Street, was cool in that local indie ubermensch Linus Gelber and his co-labelist and photog nonpareil Pierre Jelenc came, and they never come, dude.

And the first one, on Friday, featured three broken strings (Al & I broke two on the same song) and there were a bunch of people I had never seen before, including Tabitha, who was cute, and I certainly look forward to talking with her more at some point.

You know, she's the very first other weblogger I have ever met (and you'd think in New York there'd be at least someone else, but whatever).

Anyway. She was right: John Kessel rocked, despite his usual guitar-sound and tuning issues he put out an excellent set, switching from Steely Dan to Steve Miller with various Voyces backing him up.

Drew Blood did his pop-hell-death-grip thing while I talked with a table of Toronto tourists who had just wandered in and found a bunch of Toronto based artists doing their thing. I told them to go back and send their love to Kevin and Max and everyone at the Cameron, but I didn't get their names, so never mind. (Drew also got the first noise complaint of the night. A lot of people left after Kessel, and the lack of warm flesh for soaking up the noise became an issue.)

And when Erica Smith went on, with Andrew Heller and Sanjay (not to mention the Voyces and the evening-starter Kenny Davidsen) backing her up, the dozen or so people that were left all left happy to have heard some decent folk. Gordon Lightfoot has no better ambassador in this country.

So after everything got packed away, I hung out with the Aaron the sound guy and the front room bar kids until way too late.

Walking home in the rain with a nice layer of drunken padding around everything inside my head and the Avenue A late night zoo out in full effect is one of the true joys of living in this city, and I have to remember to do it a bit more often.

NICK ON LOVE
Dear, dear friends,

I know, I know. I apologize unreservedly and without reserve, for it has been well over an hour since I told you how much, how very, very, very, very, very very much I love you.

Why, just the other day I was mentioning to my very close personal friend Jack Nicholson over crumpets, I said to him, I said, "Nick (see, Mr. Nicholson’s very close personal friends get to call him Nick), Nick," I said, "I absolutely refuse to believe how long it’s been since I, you know, told them. It has become a travesty of the highest order, and quite frankly I just wonder how they’re holding up. Perhaps," I batted my eyelashes for effect (and oh, how he used to love that little eyelash-batting trick back in May of aught-one - oh, remember May? Such dreadful weather. But good times, those May days, oh aye, very good times indeed! Things were really looking up in May!), um, what was I saying.

Oh right. "Perhaps (eyelashes etc etc)…they’ve forgotten."

Nick’s huge misshapen un-sun-protected hemispherical meadow of a forehead went from tan, to bright red, to white, where it stayed for a moment. It was quite spectacular, actually. "Surely you don’t think that after all the good work you’ve done, all the deeds you’ve, erm, did, all the volumes of published work that can be counted beside your name - enough to wipe out a thousand Amazon basins of all their trees, by g-d, and would that all trees everywhere gave of their lives for a cause so noble! - that they would forget so soon the depth of your love for them? Surely, Chico, now you’re being ridiculous." He punctuated the dic sound in the word ridiculous by smashing open a brazil nut with the head of his second Oscar, the one he won for The Witches of Eastwick.

"But Nick, I’ve been so neglectful these days. I mean, I didn’t even send out Easter cards, for god’s sake. Oh, and don’t call me Shirley."

Nick and I never tire of that joke. After the guffaws, and Nick’s subsequent coughing fit and heimlich, I continued. "See, I absolutely must do something to demonstrate my love for them, not just in the present, but going all the way back to the last time I showed them, which by now is pretty damned long pardon the french, and so this present must ultimately be a grand thing, a gift that surpasses any ever given, anywhere. The Taj Mahal must be as a beer-logo keychain, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon a stomped-on shit-brown carnation plucked from the gardens by the shipping entrance behind some office building, Ted Turner’s billion dollar gift to the UN little more than pocket lint given to a homeless man on the subway, compared to the gift I must provide to these people, these lovely amazing people who have loved me and whom I have so neglected. It is only fair and appropriate in comparison for all they have done for me lo these past few months."

"Alright, alright, wait just a god damned second now. What, I say, what in the name of Sam Hill are you going on about?" Nick shot back across my bow. "There’s no god damned way you or anyone else could even conceive of a present that was that god damned massive, and even if you did, and even if you could afford it, which you and I both know you can’t, you still know, deep down in places you don’t talk about at parties like this one, that a gift that was that god damned grandiose would never be taken the right way anyway. And then where would that leave you? You’d be broke and alienated and friendless and, and, and -"

"- - a loser?" I said, helpfully.

"I was trying to think of a better name for it, but when it boils down to it, yes, god damn it, a loser. Look, Chico, it’s clear that there’s some love in the room, and all you need to do is acknowledge it. Just be nice to them. It’s not gonna kill you, fergawdsake. The worst that’ll happen is that you’ll learn something and hey, maybe you’ll wind up closer to these people, if that’s what you really want. These people mostly didn’t hyperextend themselves for you, so you’d be a fool to do it back. They gave from a good place, they gave what they had. You give what you have. If you gotta be generous at all, and I’m far from convinced of that one, but if you do, then dammit, don’t be a damned fool about it."

Later, in the hot tub, he recanted. "Ah, the hell with it. Give ‘em all Cadillacs if you gotta do something. That’s what Elvis would have done."

So if you haven't yet received a Cadillac from me and you think you have one coming, you probably do, but understand until then: I love you. Thanks for being cool, being there, and being excellent.

See you tomorrow.