You're Missing

The city is not the same without you in it. It lacks sparkle and glow and energy. It is still the greatest city in the world; of that there is no doubt. It is a diamond isle, the land of dreams. But without you in it there is nothing to look forward to, no humor, no vibrancy. Its light is dimmer, its voice muted.

Tonight you are not there and the city is filled with nonsensical youngsters dressed in what they think is fashion with no imagination, no sense of adventure. Shhh, be quiet, they are Looking For Fun. The city smells of flowers and cigarettes and subway and beer, it is a romantic smell filled with hope as though something were about to happen. There are older single men in guinea tees carrying shapeless plastic shopping bags out for their daily walk to get the paper and bet the numbers (they have lived there forever and it’s summer and they are not about to start getting dressed up to go out now, pally.) There are pairs of women everywhere (why do women travel in pairs—are they afraid of something?), women of all ages talking and laughing. There are street vendors and flower salesmen and coffee and donuts and guys on bikes that weave and whiz through the traffic performing death-defying acts. There is the Chrysler building, its glittering silver tower shining brightly in the night sky. There is even a full moon peeking out from behind the scattered, shifting clouds, casting its glow on the city streets below. But you are not there; there is no one to shine on and so it moves along back from whence it came.

I am the Scarecrow

I am not one of the lucky ones whose problems all work out, whose life and loves and ups and downs all balance each other and are in harmony and everything finds some resolution. I am a tangled knot of loose ends and pieces that don’t fit. I am the misshapen remains of last night’s party, slightly hung over and bent out of shape, sore and misguided. There are pieces of me spread everywhere like the scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz. There’s my brain drifting off somewhere taking me back to times and places purged of pain and heartache by memory so I see only the good, only what I wish had happened instead of all that actually did.

There’s my heart, scattered in pieces. It is in the distant echoes of epic Springsteen marathons long gone; it is in every corner of that pizza oven with a stage, my beloved Stone Pony. It is in the sunny meadows and cool, dusty barns of my youth, long since torn asunder by bulldozers and real estate greed. It is in the warm haze of childhood playgrounds and bicycles and Popsicle sticks. It is in the great city of Washington, misbegotten and forgotten, cast aside and trampled upon by the country it serves, the country that misunderstands and uses and forgets. It is in the rainy Sunday jaunts to the Smithsonian with my dad (before he got sick when he could still walk and everything was ok), in the hours spent wandering the musty halls of art museums and technology exhibits, watching free puppet shows and riding the carousel on the Mall and waving my arms in the air and smiling. It is in the cool salt water rushing over my head, the freedom of just you and the ocean and being a teenager, when anything seemed possible. It is in the great state of New Jersey, where so many wonderful things have happened to me; where I fell in love and shared my life with someone for the first time. It is in New York, the place that haunted my childhood and now drives my imagination.

But these days, the biggest piece of my heart belongs to someone who will never acknowledge it. There is nothing I can do but wait and hope, and that is not enough. I am the scarecrow, and there are pieces of me everywhere.

So We Beat On...

Life sends you things that you don't need when you don’t really want them. And then it sends you exactly what you need when you don’t even know you need it.

Last night I went to see Southside Johnny at his old stomping grounds, the Stone Pony in Asbury Park. A lot of my friends from the old days don’t come out much any more; it takes something like this annual Fourth of July Weekend bash to get them to hire out babysitters and get out from under. Walking into the Pony at the annual event is (as my good friend Lori said last night), like coming home. It’s like walking into your living room and someone has organized a surprise party for you and all the most important people from you life are there. Only it’s different ‘cause you’ve been going there for 20 years and every square inch of the place holds memories. I have loved and lost here; I have seen the best rock’n’roll has to offer grace this stage—its legends, its upstarts, its stalwarts. I have fought with my best friend here. (I made so many friends here over the years. And lost a few along the way, too.) I have felt my heart swell with sorrow and anguish at what the years have done to people. And I have felt it swell with joy and pride and happiness watching musicians—my friends now—get up on that stage and make magic happen.

Last night was one of those nights. You have to understand, the Pony was where everyone hung out. When they weren’t up on the stage, musicians hung out in the back, shot the breeze, exchanged gig information, gossip, and girlfriends. It was where deals were made and hearts were broken. Where beers were consumed and love was found and lost. Down here on the Shore, there once was a thing called a musicians’ community; so much great music happened here. In the beginning, Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes were the friggin’ house band!. There was Cats on a Smooth Surface and Joey and the Works and John Eddie and the Front Street Runners and John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band and La Bamba and the Hubcaps. And those were just the regulars. Every Saturday night was national act night, and you could see legends like Gary U.S. Bonds and Ronnie Spector and Gregg Allman. You could see established acts like Dave Edmunds and Graham Parker and Ian Hunter. You could see up and comings like the Smithereens and Concrete Blonde and the BoDeans. And every now and then Somebody Famous would drop by. Somebody who lived right up the road and was on the cover of Time and Newsweek. You wouldn’t recognize him from seeing him walk around the club, for that was when he looked like just another face in the crowd, just another Jersey Shore musician out for a good time. But when he got onstage, which he did every now and then, he was magically transformed, as though someone had plugged him into an electrical socket and turned him into the very Spirit of Rock’n’Roll. This happened fairly regularly for a while, and when it did and you were lucky enough to be there, it was enough to get you through the week, through your shitty workaday job, your boring ass life. The Stone Pony was where the magic happened; it was where your life changed forever. It was the only place to be if you were a music fan, the only place you wanted to be, the only place that mattered.

But those days are gone. They came to an end, as all good things must. We grew up and got older and the music changed and people moved on. But every now and then, on nights like last night, you can go back again like Peter Pan and be young again.

Last night, one of my very favorite young bands, maybe pete, played on the indoor stage opening up for Southside Johnny. This alone meant the world to them. You see, they would not be playing music if it were not for SSJ and his world-class band of misfits and geniuses. Frankie and Kelly met and fell in love over this music; they used to sneak into the Ritz in NYC when they were 16 to see their heroes in person. And now they were sharing a bill with them. But that was not enough. Previous to their set, Jukes guitarist Bobby Bandiera had run into Frankie in the men’s room and asked if he could sit in. Frankie agreed, not really believing that this was going to happen. Life deals you many cruel hands as a musician, and you learn very quickly not to get your hopes up. So they played their set as always, and when it came time for their closing number, a cover of the Stones’ version of “Just My Imagination,” Frankie called for Bobby to come up. For a minute or two, nothing happened. And then suddenly, through the crowd came a diminutive, instantly recognizable figure. It was Bobby, and he was going to play with them. It wasn’t earth shattering, it wasn’t transformative, but for a moment there, I thought my heart would burst in two seeing my friends up there so happy, so in the moment, with their hero giving himself so generously (as he always does; he’s just that kind of guy) and making their night special, giving them something they could take with them from this place for the rest of their lives. I spoke with them after the show and they still couldn’t quite believe it. I do believe it will take them weeks to recover.

Oh yeah, there was an amazing Southside Johnny show after that. I’ve seen him a lot and it was a Top 5 show for sure. My ears are still ringing and my feet and legs are sore and I am hung over and a bit sad that it is all over, that the reunion has come to an end for another year. But that’s not important. What’s important is that, in some small way, people like Bobby Bandiera make the Stone Pony magic continue.

There will never be another place like the Pony. When it is finally gone, it will leave a huge gaping wound in my heart. For there was where we were once young and alive, and anything seemed possible. It is a place out of the past; its best moments are long gone. But people like Bobby know what it has meant to us, what it continues to mean. He understands. And so, on a night when we were all carried back into the past, Bobby helped bring the spirit of the Pony into the future.

June Sunday

Every time I get to feeling a little bit better, like I might be moving forward, might be going somewhere I get knocked flat by reality. I am meaningless in the great cosmic joke of a world; my presence has little value except to myself. I can do nothing for anyone; there are no favors, nothing special that makes me indispensable. I am nothing--my presence is irrelevant. Why would I think any differently? It’s a cruel trick the world plays on us that makes us think we matter. The reality is we are here and we are gone. We do the best we can, we try to help people and they stomp on us and backstab us and cast us aside; we open up and give of ourselves and are pounded with cold steel hammers. So you have to live for yourself, you have to tell yourself you are worth something because no one else will. The rest is cold and dark and meaningless.

Things I Like Vol. 31

Ten People/Places/Things That Rock My World:

1) maybe pete-the coolest band from New Jersey that no one knows about (yet)
2) Streets of New York - Willie Nile - the best record I've heard so far this year
3) Amusing Ourselves to Death - Neil Postman - 20 years after publication it's more timely than ever
4) Fox Confessor Brings the Flood - Neko Case - ethereal vocals and stellar songwriting
5) Three of Cups - New York, NY - late night grand Italian and fabulous red wine
6) All Seasons Diner - Eatontown, NJ - late night bullshit and good times
7) Sami Yaffa - just 'cause
8) Netflix - sure beats what's showing at the multiplex
9) Chocolate Genius - the man, the music, the hats!
10) The Falls - Joyce Carol Oates - why doesn't this woman have a Nobel yet?

Hero of the Week (tie): Rep. Robert Murtha (R-PA) - for speaking the truth about the quagmire that is Iraq and refusing to back down and Chris Isaak - for doing the USO thing both in the Middle East and at Walter Reed - and for just being damn fine!
Villain of the Week: George W. Bush. NOW you go to Iraq?

WTF of the week: Karl Rove is not going to be indicted? Are you kidding me?

June 5, 2006

Life throws you some curveballs. And they always seem to come rapid fire right in a row like you’re standing in a batting cage instead of being spaced out so you can breathe. Last week was like that for me. Kind of makes you wake up and realize what’s really important—the slap in the face we all sometimes need. It’s so easy to get jealous of what other people have—or what it looks like they have—so easy to get caught up in what everyone else is doing. If you don’t feel good about yourself, it’s natural to compare yourself to others and come up short. Then you beat yourself up, call yourself a loser because you didn’t do this or that, weren’t there when such and such happened, and are therefore not hip or cool or interesting. It’s easy to find fault with yourself, so hard to tell yourself you’re special and unique just the way you are. That all the experiences you have had in your life—the good and the bad—have brought you to where you are now. One thing done differently, one choice you might have made could have led you down a completely different path. Easy stuff to say— much, much harder to internalize and make real to yourself. This world beats you down, it sands down the rough edges, it wills you to conform and surrender and shuffle along meekly and unquestioningly. So much harder to forge your own path in life, to not care what other people think, to come to your own conclusions about yourself and your place in the world. And people have agendas, they will suck you in and milk you dry and tramp you down and break your spirit. It will happen. But it is the journey, not the arrival that matters. Eyes on the prize and all that. We are walking in the footsteps of those who have gone before. It’s the truth. Believe it. But more importantly, believe in yourself. That is the hardest thing of all.

I Know Who My Friends Are

Like most of us out there these days, I have a Myspace page. It seems like a lot of people have a few bands listed as friends, but mostly they have people they know from work, school, etc., or just from living life. That’s as it should be. People should have friends. But on Myspace, the line between friendship and stalking is unclear, and there is an odd phenomenon in which people add "friends" they have never met and really don’t know. I am not quite sure what to make of all this; in order to be on my "friends" list, you have to be someone I know and/or a band that I like. Period. None of this collecting friends, or living voyeuristically through the Myspace pages of friends of friends of famous people, or whatever. Creeps me out. Why would you want someone as your “friend” if you are really not friends with him or her other than to "look cool" or to spy on them?

You can look at my “friends” list, which is somewhere in the 200’s these days, and it’s pretty clear who my friends are—the people I know and trust. But mostly it’s bands. Not because I know them personally—most of the time, I don’t—but because when things get really bad (and they have been pretty damn bad a lot lately), these are the people I count on to get me through. It’s like that scene in Almost Famous when Penny talks about what the music means to her. How if she’s every really down and lonely, she can always go to the record store and visit her friends. Of course, she really does know a fair number of those bands, and ironically enough, the friendship is far from reciprocated; in fact, to those musicians who do know her, she is no more than a plaything to be traded away on a drunken gambling spree. But to her, these people, this music is everything. It’s the reason to get up in the morning; it’s the medicine that makes everything all right. People are people, and they will always let you down. But the music is always there, always the same. You know you will always get that charge when you hear the opening rim shot of “Like a Rolling Stone,” when the opening guitar riff to “Rocks Off” blows through your speakers. Or when it’s late at night, and you’re lonely and sad, you know that you can always listen to the lonely, sad voice of Ryan Adams and it will be all right. Screw people; they always let you down. They all have agendas and egos and misplaced priorities, and when it comes down to it, they will always put themselves first. So when life sucks, and the world hits you in the head with a cold steel hammer, put on the music, turn to the bands. Because the music is always there and does not change.

So take a look at my Myspace page—if you know me, you will see a few familiar faces. But mostly, you will see my friends.

Things I Like Vol. 30

Ten People/Places/Things That Rock My World

1) Status Anxiety - Alain de Botton - the book every American should read but won't
2) The Animal Years - Josh Ritter
3) Entourage - HBO and Adrian Grenier, perfect together
4) cold Corona and lime - can summer be far behind?
5) The Tiki Bar - Asbury Park, NJ- margaritas and tasty waves
6) Comfort Food - Rachael Ray (yeah, I know, I know)
7) Nagle's Pharmacy - Ocean Grove, NJ - ice cream the way it was meant to be
8) Chilangos Authentic Mexican Restaurant - Highlands, NJ
9) Ryan Adams - just 'cause
10) The Mercury Lounge, NYC

Hero of the Week: Cindy Sheehan - still the authentic voice of America's outrage
Villain of the Week (tie): Donald Rumsfeld (no explanation needed) and Condoleezza Rice (ditto)

Rain

It’s dark and grey and rainy and melancholy. I can feel my life passing by in small episodes of memory. What is it about rainy days that makes you think about the passage of time, about other rainy days? About where those people are now, what happened to those places? Why on earth was I doing that, why did I spend so much time in jobs I hated? Why was it so important to do what everyone expected of me all the time? Why didn’t I just pick up and move somewhere where things were happening, where I could have been a part of something? You do the best you can at the time, but days like this make you question everything, make you recognize the fleetingness and the loss and the ethereal nature of life itself. I hear the voices of people who are gone; I feel the presence of ghosts.

The wind blows and the rain falls and I am 8 years old staring through the screen door and listening to the thunder. I am inside I will be all right it is only thunder. But there is that knawing melancholy fear and sadness. As though every time it rains something dies.

The smell of the rain on cement reminds me of all the people I’ve worked with, all the boring ass jobs and wasted time in drafty, sterile office buildings and people I’ll never see again whose names I’ve forgotten who I once saw every day, who once were so important to my daily life. How easy it is to just walk out the door one day and never come back, to forget everyone and everything so completely.

The smell of the rain on grass reminds me of blissful hours spent on horseback, in barns caring for those beautiful, graceful animals who love you back without question, who were often my only friends. The sound of utter contentment at feeding time, of large jaws and teeth munching oats and hay, the snorting and stamping and slurping. The sound of birds chirping, wet hay and wet animals and solitude and peace. Animals don’t care who you are or what you look like or who your friends are or what you do for a living; they trust you totally, they are grateful for the simple things in life like when you show up to feed them, brush and groom them, keep them warm and happy and fed.

The cold rain falls and it is New York and I am 12 years old and my dad is flat on his back in a hospital bed and he has been there for a year and he may be there for another year. No one at school, none of my so-called friends understands this; I have given up trying to explain it to them. About the therapy, the rehab; about the endless illnesses and recoveries; about the depression and the rage and the dirty, corrupt scary New York City of the early ‘70s. About the terror of knowing and not knowing what will happen next; how your whole life changes in an instant. It takes me a long time to get over this memory/vision of Manhattan. For many years, it is a place of darkness and filth and fear.

The rain falls and it washes everything away, and the smell of the salt air wafts toward me and cleanses my lungs. All the weight and the sins of the past are meaningless; the smell of the sea reminds me that we are mere specks in the vast universe, that it is all transient, that the big important monumental things in life that we think will destroy us, that are irreparable and destructive and dangerous are just the blinks of an eye. The sea has been here before us; it will be here when we are gone. What are the cares of today beside the wind and the sea and the waves?

The rain and the grey and the melancholy linger. It drips from the rafters, it blows against the window as if to remind me that there is not much separating me from the dampness and the penetrating cold. It is easy to be jolly when the sun shines. Is there true happiness when it rains, or only the absence of sadness?

Don't Get Sentimental On Me

I know you’re tired, I’m tired too
Loosen up, sing me a song and I’ll dance
Cause I don’t move, or get moved too easily
Take me home, just don’t get sentimental on me
Cause the wind, the wind, the wind
is carrying us down the darkness of Broadway
And it’s fine, it’s okay: here tomorrow, gone today
Take me home, just don’t get sentimental on me

I know you’re fine,
I followed all the lines on the dress
You know, yours the lover bought you
And these drinks turn into maps of places we will never go but once
So don’t get sentimental on me
Cause the wind, the wind, the wind
is carrying us down the darkness of Broadway
And it's fine, it’s okay: here tomorrow, gone today.
Take me home just don’t get sentimental on me
Take me home, take me home
Just don’t get sentimental on me

(c)2006 by Mr. David Ryan Adams

(In)security

It's amazing what security (or the lack thereof) can do to some people. Apparently there are people who are so incredibly threatened by me that they will go out of their way to shut me out; to be mean and hurtful and spiteful, to verbally harass and threaten me with no discernable provocation (and believe me, I am great at provoking people, and well aware of when I am doing it). I find that interesting because I am not really in a position to do anything to anybody; I have a shit job, no money and most times am just barely able to keep it together. I have very little power in this world to do anything to anybody. And yet around some people, I command great armies. Good Queen Bess I am not, but there are those who will have me beheaded just the same...

How Can A Poor Man Have Such Fans and Live?

Thanks, no really--thanks!

To all of my so-called friends who couldn't be bothered to pick up the phone yesterday and tell me what was going on at Convention Hall with the GA line. And who rubbed it in my face that they were in "The Pit and I wasn't. Thanks, guys. You're real pals. Remind me to call you when I find out some info or have a tip that might help you. NOT.

It never fails to amaze me how self-centered and shallow Springsteen fans are. He is one of the coolest, most intelligent and talented individuals making music today. With some of the biggest assholes on the planet for fans. Narrow-minded, greedy, self-important, arrogant, sexist, racist...you get the picture. How do they just totally not get it? Not get what he's about, what his music's about, what it can teach you about tolerance and fairness and justice? How can you go to a show and listen to "We Shall Overcome" and all the while push and shove each other like animals? How can you not get how incredibly priveleged you are to be able to afford hundred dollar tickets to anything, and instead whine, complain and make other people feel small about something so insignificant in the grand scheme of things as where you stand at a Springsteen show?

Wow. Unbelievable, right? But then again, we all live in a country where people are arrogant enough to believe that they somehow deserve the natural beauty and wide open spaces, the vast wealth and economic privilege that they have been handed. Who are just now waking up to the Bush Administration's unbelievable corruption and complete incompetence. DUH. So why would I expect them to understand anything with any degree of sophistication? Read a book? Can't even be bothered to read the crap that passes for newspapers. I don't need to know anything. I'm American, everything will be taken care of for me. I can do no wrong, the world loves me. So....

I'm moving. Somewhere. Anywhere but here in the US. Because when the bill comes due for the Bush II years, it will not be pretty. Springsteen will retire to warmer climes. Maybe we'll sit on the beach together in Baja sipping Tequila and laughing about America's Glory Days...

I am a Storyteller

I am a storyteller.
I open my mouth and your life spews out
You hear your life, your most painful memories
Your happiest moments and I know them

I know them all because I am a storyteller
I tell you things you hear and recognize but don’t want to know
I have lived a thousand lives inside my own head
And those voices sometimes tell me that it’s not worth it
That I should give up and let it go
And they are so convincing, they almost have me until

Someone else who is not any good, who gets all the acclaim and
The fame and the notoriety
For being a self-absorbed, self-loathing dolt
Who tells us all the thoughts inside his head for no good reason except
He needs to be noticed, he cannot help himself
He tells us things we have no business hearing, he drops names
like bird seed that we consume and then dispose of in endless scattered droppings

He makes me keep going, makes me want to keep telling stories
Because it is worth it, it is all I can do
Because though I push papers and shovel garbage and
Wait on customers and listen to bullshit until I want to scream
I am a storyteller and it is all I know.

For L

What happens when all that you love, all that you care about is denied you? When, through fate or circumstance (or just plain bad luck) you finally find that person who understands you, who loves you despite your faults, who encourages you to do better, who eases you through the bad times and with whom you enjoy the good like you would with no one else— and you cannot be with him or her, and you are forced to live your life in an agony of self-denial and emptiness, to spend year after year endlessly longing for this person who makes you feel whole at last?

You lack the strength or the will or the courage to take action to change your situation. Or the opportunity never arises. What can you do except force your emotions deep down inside where they can’t surface? Except sometimes they boil over and you lash out at whomever gets in your way. Or you tear yourself apart, seething, loathing yourself, rotting from within.

Happiness comes when you least expect it, and sometimes you don’t recognize it until it has been taken away. What then? What if it’s too late? What if the only truth you know is what you feel in the moment, and the sense of what has happened only becomes clear afterward? You feel stupid, senseless, used, used up. Drained, hopeless. How is one to make life decisions in the midst of a whirlwind?

Opportunity knocks once and the door slams shut…and the worst part is, there is no warning, and all too soon the moment is gone.

What happens when you deny yourself happiness, or when happiness is denied you by society, by what others might think or say or do? What kind of toll does that take on you? Do you go on as before, or do you die slowly, one day at a time? You push the happiness and the thoughts and the memories aside, but every now and again they surface to torment you, and you wonder how things might have been different if only you had made different choices, if circumstances had been different, if only, if only…

So you stare off into the distance, holding on as best you can, wondering what might have been. And you drink to forget…

Ain't This What Dreams are Made of?

Do buildings have sense memory? Do they remember you when you’ve been there before? Why do particular places exert such a powerful hold on our memory? “Last night I dreamed of Manderley again” is still one of the most famous phrases in literature. Our dreams take us back to particular places in our lives, to events of great power and significance. We always go back to places where we belonged, where things made sense, to where no one could touch us, and life was simpler.

But is that really true? Sometimes we go back to the messed up parts of our lives and try to fix them. How many of us have dreamt of high school or college—you know the one in which you forget your locker combination, show up late for class and everyone stares at you, sit down and take the exam you didn’t know you had and didn’t study for? Maybe our dreams are the great levelers—we go back and try to fix things in our dreams so we don’t have to deal with them again in waking life. Or maybe we just yearn for the comfort of the familiar. When the present is so terrifying and sad, why not?

R.I.P. Coretta Scott King, 1927-2006

Another one of my heroes has died, and along with her, another little piece of the once-powerful American civil rights movement. She was every bit the intellect and talent her husband was, and made many personal sacrifices over the years in order for him to continue his relentless work in support of the cause. She maintained her composure and dignity through some of the worst moments in this nation's history, and raised four children as a single mother.

Coretta Scott King helped us to recognize what was possible both for ourselves and for our country, and to dream of a future in which the impossible could become reality. She will be sorely missed.

Land-Locked Blues

Self-esteem is a funny thing; people do all kinds of crazy shit to get it, even worse to keep it. Money can’t buy it; it comes from inside your own head. And if one is particularly sensitive, or damaged in any way, it’s easily bruised and takes a lot of work to fix. This work is hard, and of course, it’s much easier to blame our wounds on others than to look inside ourselves. We see things we want to see, hear things we weren’t meant to hear, create scenarios in our own minds.

You know that cliché about how we always point out in others the things with which we fault our own selves? It helps to stop and think about that before one makes accusations about others. Judge not, baby, judge not. Yeah, I have a big mouth and strong opinions. But I know who I am and what I stand for, and passive aggression is something I particularly abhor, and something that I attempt to avoid at all costs. I’m half Italian – we’re all about being loud and direct and confrontational. It takes everything I have not to defend myself when accused; it’s so hard to turn the other cheek, to walk away. But it’s almost always the best thing to do.

If you walk away I’ll walk away.
--Conor Oberst

Life’s Mystery Seems So Faded

Some things puzzle me. How you can wish and wish so hard for something to come true and it doesn’t, and then it happens to a friend instead, to someone whom life has already hit harder than it should? And you feel terrible because you only wished it out of self-pity, and now it’s really happened to someone and it’s too late to take it back. You have put that negative energy out in the world, and you can only hope and pray that this person who has been dealt such a nasty deck of cards will rise above this, too. And you berate yourself for ever having sunk so low as to wish this fate on yourself.

I am also puzzled at how you can be open and friendly and do nice things for people out of kindness and generosity, out of the best of intentions because this is how you are and you don’t know how to be duplicitous and unkind, and then people can step all over you like you’re not even there, can forget all the favors, forget who you are and walk right past you, right through you because you don’t even matter anymore. And it can all happen in the blink of an eye. Why?

I wonder also at how some people can be so messed up and not see it, not want to see it, not want to get help, just continue to take it out on others, but worse, they keep on taking it out on themselves despite people’s offers of assistance. Because when you are deliberately mean, cruel and nasty to someone else, it’s really yourself that you are hurting in the end. How much longer can you keep up the act until it comes back to bite you in the ass?

It’s a mystery why those with the most depth, feeling and insight, the creative types who most deserve some small success in this world—some acclaim and respect—usually have to scratch out a meager existence in some soul-sucking occupation never really being recognized for their talent, and yet it’s the most shallow, boorish, monomaniacal people who seem to get all the power and the glory. With very few exceptions, among all artists, writers, poets, musicians—the ones who really matter, the really interesting people, the ones who challenge us, who make us see things differently, who shake us to our very core—those people seem to gain recognition of their genius only after they are gone, whilst the marginally talented but brilliantly lucky sort get all the notoriety when they’re still here on earth to bore us all to death with their insipid prattle. As though most of what any of us has to say is the least bit interesting to the general public. It’s not, nor should it be. But thanks to the Internet, to self-publishing, anyone can put his or her art out there for all to see. If only quantity equaled quality, we’d all be the richer. As more and more gets put out there, you’d think there would be more good stuff, wouldn’t you? That the ratio of good to bad would remain about the same. But unfortunately, what seems to be happening instead is that the value of the good stuff diminishes because fewer and fewer people out there are able to recognize it—standards of quality sink lower and lower, weighed down by the sheer volume of the mediocre. And when kids don’t learn about art and poetry and drama and music in school, how will they even know it exists? Where will the future artists come from? And how can human beings exist without art?

We all have value as human beings, as living things, and we all deserve to be treated with respect and dignity. Most of us never get what we deserve. But small moments in our lives can still bring us joy. And most of the time we don’t even recognize them when they’re happening. It’s only later when we look back that we see how precious those times were and realize how quickly they disappear. How few of us really live in the moment and enjoy things while they’re still there to be enjoyed?

We are not all Picassos or Mozarts, but we are all here and we all deserve love. How few of us get real, unconditional love from anyone? How many people were never nurtured as children and have never really sorted things out since, have turned to crime and evil and desperation? How many lives turn on one fatal mistake?

Yes, it all can and will be taken away at any time, So be kind to each other, but be careful to whom you open your heart—it might just get stepped upon with big black combat boots.

Why New York is Not All That

I am over New York. I am over the pain in the ass it is to get in and out of the city, whether it’s by car, train or boat. I am over the franchising of Lower Manhattan. I am over the ridiculously overpriced real estate and the lack of affordable housing. I am over the totally confusing subway stations, the card machines that don’t work, the trains that don’t come. I am over the expensive cab rides and rude cabbies who often tell you where you are going. I am over the two football teams that claim to be from New York but haven’t set foot there in over twenty years. (I am over Yankee fans, period, but that’s another story altogether.) I am over the annoying twenty-somethings who seem to have taken over the city. But most of all, more than anything else, I am over the ceaseless bragging about the city by its residents, knowwhadduhmean?

Enough already. I’m tired of hearing about how such-and-such is a great town, “but it’s not New York.” (Duh—like anyplace else is or would want to be.) I am tired of hearing about how it’s the greatest place ever invented, how it’s so open and accepting and freethinking—as though other places are not, and as though there have never been racial incidents in the Big City. I am sick of hearing about how everyplace outside of the city is “the boonies.” Well, once upon a time, the boonies were 72nd Street, so get over it. You guys don’t like us “out-of-towners” coming in and clogging everything up. Well we don’t like you coming to our towns and congesting our roads with your clueless driving—stop and ask for directions if you don’t know where you’re going, otherwise get out of the way.

I am convinced a large part of New Yorkers’ arrogance is that they know that they are paying way too much for way too little—in essence, being screwed—and are resentful because others are not. Life is hard in the Big Apple—you always have to be on the ball because people don’t have a whole lot of patience. It’s crowded, it’s noisy, it’s stressful, and most people live in places the size of matchboxes for which they pay through the nose. There are way too many people living in way too little space, and there is not nearly enough housing to meet demand. And this is the greatest city on earth? Tell me how great it is in the next week or two when there’s a transit strike, ok?

I know there is a lot that is great about Manhattan—I have spent a lot of time and money there myself. But it is far from perfect, and I really wish that New Yorkers would just admit it already. It’s no better than several other American cities I could name, and a lot worse than some comparable Canadian and European ones. So enough. You live there, I don’t. Whether or not that makes you “cooler” than me or just a sucker is your call.

You Don't Move Me

I just don’t feel it anymore.

The things that once excited me leave me cold. There is no joy, no transcendence, only greed and self-interest and disrespect and competition. They have sucked the life out of this music I once loved so much with their selfishness and self-aggrandizement. I am tired of hearing about who's "in" with the band, how many shows someone went to, where they sat, which obscurity got played this time, which band member they went drinking with, and on and on...

I want to be moved, I want to be transported. And the music itself just doesn’t move me anymore. I keep hearing about how Band X's new record is better than the last, how these latest shows by A Certain HOF Singer/Songwriter are so amazing—and yet the most exciting thing I’ve heard in months is the new Dylan bootleg series release. Christ, that man had it. (Sometimes still does.) There are songs, and then there is “Blowin’ in the Wind.” There are performances, and then there is Dylan spitting nails on “Masters of War.” Calling us to arms on “Chimes of Freedom.” And duetting with Rambling Jack Elliott on “Mr. Tambourine Man,” for my money one of the greatest lyrics ever written by anyone.

I always said I would have this song played at my funeral, now I know which version I want. Here, there is no jangly (and in my opinon trite) accompaniment, there is just the acoustic guitar right up in your face, that piercing harmonica, and that voice :

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

Though I know that evenin's empire has returned into sand,
Vanished from my hand,
Left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping.
My weariness amazes me, I'm branded on my feet,
I have no one to meet
And the ancient empty street's too dead for dreaming.

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin' ship,
My senses have been stripped, my hands can't feel to grip,
My toes too numb to step, wait only for my boot heels
To be wanderin'.
I'm ready to go anywhere, I'm ready for to fade
Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way,
I promise to go under it.

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

Though you might hear laughin', spinnin', swingin' madly across the sun,
It's not aimed at anyone, it's just escapin' on the run
And but for the sky there are no fences facin'.
And if you hear vague traces of skippin' reels of rhyme
To your tambourine in time, it's just a ragged clown behind,
I wouldn't pay it any mind, it's just a shadow you're
Seein' that he's chasing.

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

Then take me disappearin' through the smoke rings of my mind,
Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves,
The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach,
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow.
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free,
Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands,
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves,
Let me forget about today until tomorrow.

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

Copyright © 1964; renewed 1992 Special Rider Music


You can have your Next Big Thing from Philadelphia Currently Performing Sub-Par Material To Embarrassingly Small Audiences. You can have your Future of Rock'n'Roll Whose Fans Desperately Cling to the Past. I'll be at home listening to Bob and waiting for another Maybe Pete show in search of that Indefinable Thing, that Buzz...

"Some people have a hard time explaining rock 'n 'roll.
I don't think anyone can really explain rock 'n' roll.
Maybe Pete Townshend, but that's okay.
Rock 'n' roll is a lifestyle and a way of thinking...
and it's not about money and popularity.
Although some money would be nice.
But it's a voice that says, '' Here I am...
and fuck you if you can't understand me.''
And one of these people is gonna save the world.
And that means that rock 'n' roll can save the world...
all of us together.
And the chicks are great. But what it all comes down to is that thing.
The indefinable thing when people catch something from your music.
What I'm talking about is-- Wait, what am I talking about?
- The buzz. - The buzz."