THE WOLF

He was covered with hair and going bald at 15. He was constantly talking and he was a man of few words. He was hyper active and liked to chill. He consumed great quantities of drugs and was on a health food regiment. He would be in your face, anger flaring in his eyes and he’d lend you his last dollar. He had Wolf’s blood in him according to his grandmother but would bounce and move like a rabbit. The Wolf was a study in conflicts.

I don’t know his background. All of a sudden he was just there. I remember that I had given him a ride months before, he was initially an acquaintance of The Persuader, once again Italian and once again from the North Side. He was quiet in the backseat and wouldn’t let me take him to his front door, I had to drop him off in the vicinity, he obviously didn’t want me to know where he lived which was hunky dory with me. He seemed older and preoccupied and I thought he might be a professional thief. Then I noticed on a few gigs he was carrying gear with the crew, that wasn’t that unusual, often a friend would help. Then he was at the out of town gigs which meant they were driving four in the front which legally wasn’t allowed but rarely would an officer stop you for such a minor offense. That was before the crackdown where such things as driving without a license and drunk out of your mind were okay as long as there wasn’t pot in the car. I got pulled over 13 times for driving without a license over a 10 year period of time and managed to quickly talk my way out of it and go about my day. As matter of fact one time I got pulled over by a cop coming home from a gig and had an overloaded van, unregistered, I had no license, a very inebriated Hog was yelling obscenities from his make shift bed between the Sunn amps and the Leedy drums and the cop said, “Are there any drugs in the car?” I was pretty drunk but I told the truth and said, “No, we already smoked them.” He found pot seeds on the console. “What are these?” he asked. “Baby corn seeds.” The cop was incredulous. “BABY CORN SEEDS!!??” I said, “They’re anything you want them to be other than pot seeds.” He told me that if he locked me up I’d never see the light of day and screamed at me to get out of his face. The wiring harness on that van caught fire a few months later and I never got around to registering it. I remember calling The Drummer to come pick me up, all the gear safely on the side of the road as I watched the flames consuming the truck lick the sky. He had great disdain for a Peavey P.A. that I had bought, him being an audiophile and a JBL man so I was surprised when he showed concern for the Peavey product. “You left the P.A. by the side of the road to go make a phone call?” he said. I smiled, “I’m surprised you care, you usually give this thing such criticism.” “No,” he said, “I’m afraid people will drive by and say. ‘Oh, that’s where they leave that shit’ and we’ll come back and find three more laying here.” The cops were pretty cool in those days before all the blue collar jobs moved out of Upstate New York and DWI’s became big business. I remember being in the backseat of a car at 3 in the morning with a young lady, both of us in various states of undress, when I glanced through a fogged window to see a cop car had driven alongside and stopped. I wrote “NOT NOW” backwards in the frost of the window and he drove away. I still run into the woman occasionally, her married now with three kids and she’ll pass me in the grocery store and whisper, “Not now.” Then The Wolf was always there. After 6 months I asked The Persuader how he was getting paid and he said they each gave him 5 dollars. As he was the hardest worker I had ever witnessed in my life I figured we’d better put him on the pay roll. Couldn’t afford it, it would require going into debt with the P.A. rental and the truck rental and the light rental but heck it’s the Great American Way. Plus The Wolf was fun to drink with.

We got stuck in a truck in a snowstorm for 8 hours once and I got a little of his background out of him. Not much. He had robbed a Kentucky Fried Chicken with a fork when he was 15. Had a father he was close with. There was a mother somewhere but hardly mentioned. Ditto for an abusive brother. For a guy that pretty much lived on the street by his wits he had impeccable manners. I remember being naked with The Responsible Girl in the back of the truck on a lengthy ride back home from a gig and as we arrived at our destination and the huge truck door opened upwards and we tumbled spent and unclothed to the ground below The Wolf gave The Responsible Girl, (who in retrospect wasn’t that responsible that day) his coat and said “Here ya go Ma’m” and never asked for it back. Not wanting to remind her, being the gentleman that he was, of her isolated act of debauchery.

Since he was the only one with a driver’s license he pretty much used the giant truck as his personal vehicle. Often he would drink at bars where the truck was bigger than the bar itself. Sometimes there was more room to have a party in the back of the truck rather than a room he was living in until he moved to The Roadie House.

We had played a biker rally in Upstate New York. This is how naïve we were, (read:dumb), how many cops do you think were on the highway looking for DWI’s coming from a biker rally? Um, a million? Sure enough The Wolf got pulled over with the both The Persuader and The Golden Ache sitting in the front seat. I can’t remember why, drinking while driving or without a license but needless to say they hauled him off to jail. The cop had asked both T.P and G.A. if they were going to drive but they shook their heads innocently and said, “No, officer, we’ve been drinking and don’t have a license” so he said he was going to call the tow truck. As soon as he was out of sight T.P. said to G.A. “Are you ready?” turned the ignition key and got off the highway and took the back roads home. The Wolf was in a cell when he heard the cop get a call from the tow truck saying that this rock and roll truck with two passengers was nowhere to be found. The cop then dispatched a helicopter to scan the area but he came up short as well. The cop was beside himself with rage. He came over to The Wolf’s cell and started yelling, “Your ass is in a sling boy and your buddies are in a lot of trouble! As soon as we catch them we’re going to impound the vehicle and throw them in jail.” He turned red as he spit and sputtered his anger into The Wolf’s face. Finally as the volume subsided The Wolf picked up a steam of his own. “My buddies are safe somewhere and will never be apprehended. You left them in a truck with the key in it knowing full well that they’d take the bait but you didn’t anticipate that they’d get away but they did. Then you took the liberty of sending a helicopter after them because your pride was wounded and that probably cost the department a thousand bucks and you never got the go ahead from your superiors and now your ass is in a sling! How do you feel about that?” You’d think that the cop would have opened the cell door and beat the shit out of The Wolf but a look at the fire in Wolf’s eyes discouraged him. He sat down at his desk, humbled, and lit a cigarette. The Wolf laid on his bunk and smoked a butt, waited for us to bail him out, both men staring out at the moon.

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THE BARBER OF SEVILLE

It is difficult in these modern times to describe the relationship The Golden Ache had with women. There is little I could write of his exploits that on paper wouldn’t seem overtly chauvinistic. Yet, if the amount of women that were sobbing hysterically at his funeral were any indication, he was the consummate lover. I might add these were not “groupies” in the stereotypical sense. These were intelligent, independent, highly attractive women that felt in him a mutual respect and maybe their last shot at a glorious carefree fun-filled grasp at what this life could offer. Then they would “settle down” with the boring provider. Indeed, G.A. was a ladies man.

The Roadie House had 5 bedrooms and an attic that was partitioned off to form 3 other bedrooms. The living room had an acoustic piano that was a gift from a church, (honest), and served as a rehearsal area. The three young women that lived there probably had something to do with the “lease” which I imagine was a pretty alien term to us, somewhere along the lines of “gas bill”, “electric bill”, “Water Company” and “telephone bill”. I don’t know what the three girls had in common other than a love for the music that the band produced and really messed up relationships with their mothers. For a brief period of time The Golden Ache had moved a pair of attractive homeless underage twins into the attic. Someone had gotten a hold of a Polaroid camera and a dozen packs of film and we enjoyed taking pictures of each other and documenting the chaos. Laying on the piano was a picture of The Golden Ache with his arms around the twins. The twins had written underneath in magic marker “Every Man’s Dream”. This produced gales of laughter in the other women. In this proletariat environment, where the ostracized and the disenfranchised met, drank and danced until fatigue rendered them unable to grasp the horror of the world at large, what the past had dealt and the insurmountable obstacles that lay ahead, any sign of personal arrogance was viewed as despicable not to mention delusional. If truth be told, one of Every Man's Dream probably was mentally challenged. But weren’t we all? And so they were allowed to live there until one of the more sober responsible ladies of the house realized that the attic had a little pimping vibe going on and as Every Man's Dream were only 15 it was adios-ville. G.A. seemed sad and “Keith Mooned” the Responsible Girl’s drums but was fine after that.

What these ladies of the house had to endure was of monumental proportions. Eventually they all took to putting padlocks on their doors. Often at night these working gals, (all employed at various times at the local Price Chopper which was damn convenient if you wanted beer at 3:30 AM. And we did...) would be awakened by such screamed claims as “We’ve got it, we learned to play the violin!” and two drunken roadies would saw at an old violin, producing ear deafening screeches, laughing until they cried. The ladies were actually pretty prankish to each other as well, doing the old talcum powder on a piece of paper under the door and then blasting it with a jet of hair dryer air bit. Bingo, total room behind locked door covered with a film of dust. G.A. and I actually got into The Responsible Girl’s room one time and taped all her underwear over her Bob Seger, Bruce Springsteen and Elvis Costello posters. Bruce had a big brassiere mustache, Elvis a panty cap and Seger had a thong chin guard. No piece of underwear went unclaimed. We were artists after all. The Responsible Girl had enormous luscious looking breasts that were constantly under surveillance. Despite her best efforts for privacy when taking a shower or bath, locking the door, jamming the key hole with paper, pulling the window shade, she had greatly underestimated the ingenuity and ninja like resourcefulness of the crew. Sure enough, she had just settled into her bath when she heard giggling from the roof. She looked up to see her three male “buddies” peeking through a hole they had cut in the shade, watching her from the roof. Her anger surpassed her modesty as she chased her voyeurs off to the ground below with a plunger; they gazed longingly at her naked body as she cursed them like a Goddess from above.

G.A. would collect underwear from his sleep-over guests. His closet had neatly arranged piles of perfumed and seductively colored panties which he would occasionally take out and look at longingly like a widower revisiting his old love letters. This was better for G.A. because he could barely read, love letters would have been wasted on him. For those of you that are claiming “sexist” as you read this bear in mind these were gifts that were given willingly, a small price to pay in light of the enjoyment that the previous night had borne. For these were not just nights of sexual conquest, there’s a good possibility that any number of crimes had been committed to add to the romance of the evening. “Should we steal a car?” “We couldn’t!” “Oh by all means, we can.” G.A. would call The Persuader and the love birds would be in a Thunderbird convertible faster than you could say, “Who’s got the weed?” This was just the beginning of the evening. As the best sound man in town he had numerous “tabs” at numerous bars that he was never going to pay. He was privy to numerous jam sessions in after-hours clubs. He and his date could romantically tour The Mucks, or the Aqueduct or any number of foster homes or outdoor locations G.A. had lived. Maybe they’d go visit his brother in Jamesville Penitentiary, all culminating in a game of strip poker back at the house, a fine way to meet new friends. How much are panties? Give me a break. It seemed that there was a rivalry between The Bass Player and G.A. Somehow The Bass Player felt that as a “musician” he was on a higher scale than the road crew and said condescending things to them. While all of us laughed at The Bass Player behind his back, (we actually called him The Boat Anchor because he was a sure standstill for sailing to success), I knew that it got to G.A. The Bass Player was at the Roadie House one time regaling us with stories of a new girl he had just met. She was, according to him, “the one.” He couldn’t bring her around he said because she was the kind of girl that was not accustomed to this environment, being educated and coming from a good home. When she completed college maybe they would settle down, it was about time he did, and then he doubted he’d be able to socialize as much, things being what they were. The Golden Ache excused himself and we heard him rustling around in the closet. He came out and threw a pair of frilly albeit torn black panties at The Bass Player. “She left these here” he said. Sure enough, as if Prince Charming had fit the exact size shoe on Cinderella, (or was it Sleeping Beauty?) those panties were hers. The Bass Player shut up and disassociated himself from his future bride.

It was the days of wine and roses. Things would only sour if the young lady started to get serious. Serious is defined as such: G.A. and I are thinking of settling down, he’s going to cut down on his partying and get a “real” job. You knew things would start the downhill slide when the gal would acquire a nickname. There was the Nostril Woman. He had decided after she had asked him to talk with her father about the possibility of getting him gainfully employed that her nostrils were too large to bear. There was The Bush Woman whose genital area was hirsute. I don’t think she hounded him to settle down or anything along those lines. She was from Cortland for God’s sakes and may have been wilder than him. She gave him the crabs though and a couple other members of the band and her visits were short lived. There was The Monkey Woman, so named because she was always climbing on things and squatting, like an adorable chimp, eating fruit and vegetables. She was a gorgeous little thing with real “funky but chic” style. She cut the blades off some ice skates one time and wore them as shoes. She could pull it off. She eventually slept with The Bass Player so she was gone. She was so drunk she was in a coma and it may have been rape but it was too ugly to consider on too many levels so it was never discussed and she “retired from the organization.” There was Bubbles who had a serious penchant for sex in a bubble bath. There was the Pint Sized Warrior who could almost keep up with The Persuader in terms of volatility and drug intake. Last heard from smoking crack with her mother. Then there was The Barber of Seville. I knew she was on the way out when she was drunk and sobbing uncontrollably in the backseat of somebody’s car. I didn’t catch it at first, there was a bunch of us joyriding one night listening to our friend The Disc Jockey on the local radio, drinking beer, making plans to own the future when I heard loud panting from the back seat. Loud panting from the backseat wasn’t necessarily an unusual occurrence but this was of the tearful sort, without the orgasmic sigh that typically followed. “What’s the problem?” “It’s G.A., he’ll never really love me.” “He loves you” “Not the way I want him to love me.” Uh-oh. She solidified her moniker one night when she and G.A. were in a serious love making session in his room. I think they even lit candles. Al Green on the stereo. Serious. The Persuader had paraded a bunch of people up the fire escape that led to G.A.’s window and were looking inside as he left to get a razor and shaving cream. In anticipation of his return she began massaging her nipples with her tongue. Al Green can induce this. Then she heard the sound. Is that a plane ripping into the side of the house? Had God himself torn through the heavens to witness the young Adonis making love to his sweet Aphrodite and take notes? No, it was just the sound of the fire escape giving way. I was not there to witness this but from what I heard it was 5 guys toppling down 2 stories, riding through the night on ancient rusty twisted metal. Within seconds they were on the ground nursing their wounds, moaning but mostly laughing, clutching limbs and heads and praying for the best. They looked up to see G.A. staring down at them who immediately grasped the situation. Having been himself so many times on the other side of the wall, so to speak, he could only judge this scenario with a certain humorous shrug. “Did you shave her yet G.A?” T. P. called. “In a minute. I have to fix my fire escape first.” The young lady in question was henceforth known as The Barber of Seville.

G.A. never spoke the name The Barber of Seville. He always sang it, with a mighty gusto and operatic style that he inherited from an old Bugs Bunny cartoon, his favorite. He hadn’t seen The Barber in a couple years when he and The Persuader ran into her and her new husband fighting in a local bar. Much to everyone’s shock and amazement the husband hauled off and smacked her one, blackening her eye. G.A. was speechless, his face red, his body trembling, but alas he was a lover, not a fighter. This was no longer his business, nor his responsibility. He was turning to leave when The Persuader pushed past him and with one punch sent the husband through the bar, through the table and onto the floor, unconscious and ultimately into the hospital. I don’t know for sure but witnessing the whole thing I’m pretty certain had The Golden Ache had the money he would have bought The Persuader a drink right then and there.

THE PERSUADER

The Persuader wasn’t part of our initial road crew. He was in our orbit because he knew the lead guitar player, both being Italian and both being from the North Side. He was at all the gigs and all the parties and had certainly expressed interest in employment but he was already working at a Volkswagen dealership. He was an expert mechanic. He was what you would call “handy” with tools. He could rip an engine apart, steal a car, open a locked door or safe and had on several occasions. He got hired the night I fired the one and only person I’ve ever fired in my life, The Raging Bull.

The Raging Bull had stolen a freezer full of food, freezer and all, from a fraternity house we had played at Cornell University. He had also taken a couch, loaded into our truck behind the gear. I didn’t fire him because he stole them. The frat boys were drunken arrogant jerks and they actually got away easy with bidding farewell to a freezer full of breaded crap and a ratty old couch. I watched The Raging Bull beat some lesser offender with his crutch when he had a broken foot one time. If he had told me he had stole it I probably could have covered for him. But the agent had called me screaming, I had checked with the crew who usually played it pretty square but they were pulling a Helen Keller. Saw and heard nothing. Finally it came out that he had done it and when I confronted him in the dressing room of The Poor House North he continually denied it. I loved the guy, I didn’t want to do it, it broke my heart and I certainly didn’t get into music to “fire” anybody, if anything I got into music so I would never, ever have to utter the expression “termination”. I gave him the ax. Before I went on stage I asked The Persuader if he wanted a job. He stopped playing foosball and was there for the next 7 years. Opportunity knocks.

In retrospect The Persuader made The Raging Bull appear subtle. There was probably some pent up anger because his mother had abandoned him after embezzling money from the bank she worked at and moving to Harlem. He was 12 at the time and acted out over the next 20 years with drugs and crime. Incredibly he never did jail time. He was ridiculously lucky. He was about to play pool once with some locals, I told him we were going on stage, and being our light man he needed to forgo the game. Seemingly he ignored me, picked up his cue and broke the rack, sunk the eight ball winning the game, grabbed his 20 dollars from his astonished opponent and walked to the stage. These were common occurrences.

My father, actually, gave him the nickname The Persuader. My father had a dispute once with a neighbor over 3 inches of land boundary. My father was popular around our street and it was generally acknowledged that my father was in the right. Some new people had moved in next door and were about to build an ugly fence to house their noisy German Shepard. My father asked The Persuader to go over and “persuade” the people they were in the wrong. They moved within the month.

He could make me laugh like no other man. He really was funnier than Bill Hicks and that’s no small feat. Equally as dark too. We used to play every January in a ski resort in Mt. Snow, Vermont. You can imagine the amount of hedonism that was enjoyed in this insular environment. There was a huge stage area and dance floor complete with viewing balcony, a large café adjoining and then a fine dining area connected to that. Across the street were literally bunk houses where the band, restaurant staff and bar security stayed. You would play 27 days in a row. Can you fathom? Free drinks and food, free drugs and room and board, snow bunnies and no cops ever. There was only one drawback. The owner, who was a pretty good guy, had a spoiled brat of a 10 year old son that idolized The Persuader. Followed him everywhere. T.P. had probably showed him a few pool shots or talked sports with him and now the kid was like Velcro. You’d think a kid like this would have gone to bed at 9:00. No. There until the bitter end. 3:00A.M! T.P. would try to go out back to smoke a joint, the kid was there. T.P would try to do a line and the kid was there. T.P. would be chatting with the ladies and the kid was there. If truth be told, T.P. did handle himself with a certain Jerry Lee Lewis swagger, a certain Marlon Brando cool, a certain Joe Frazier gaze that was very alluring to impressionable youth. T.P. would never have said anything that was as brutal to the kid as “beat it”. It wasn’t his image. We were gathered around the stage door watching the kid help himself to money out of the cash register when our drummer said, “This kid’s getting annoying. How are we going to get rid of him?” When the child came back T.P. said, “Go ask your father what sodomize means.” Happy to oblige the kid innocently said, "Okay!" That was the last any of us saw of him.

T.P. got in the habit of getting too drunk and losing his front teeth. This required going to the emergency room. None of us had any health benefits of course, I don’t think we even had driver’s licenses despite the fact that we drove all over the East Coast. After a particularly toxic evening that we were required a visit to an emergency room in some city in some unremembered state, T.P. and I were catching our breathes between sets. I glanced down at his wrist to see his plastic hospital I.D bracelet which read “Paul Butterfield”. As to whether the famous blues musician ever got the bill is unknown.

We were famous for our after gig parties. The roadies had a house they all lived in, their second, creatively nicknamed “The Roadie House”. The first they were evicted from because despite a good relationship with the landlord who could tolerate the late rent and even the parties, the neighbors complained of people copulating in the driveway and he came over spitting and sputtering embarrassed and finally got it out. This was not a hidden driveway. This was a very visual non-paved car park on a busy street. There is no stopping amour. Not only would all the other musicians drop in at these parties, and all the clientèle from the bar, but friends and family of every alcohol, drug fueled music enthusiast in town. Some of these needless to say were mentally unhinged. Although there were plenty of physical support to make sure that no violence broke out, in retrospect I can think of no specific incidents which is crazy in light of the fact that we were hardly peace loving hippies in any sense of the word, T.P was the unofficial “bouncer”. (He even bounced a girl out of my wedding for throwing ice at the band.) But there was always a new kid in the territory looking to outgun the fastest legend and poor T.P. had to contend with it often. I remember looking up from a couch in a very crowded room and thinking “What the hell??!!” when he entered the room. Wire thin with a cut off shirt to show off his chiseled “abs”, he had a frenzied look in his eye, coke residue caked around his nostrils, prison tattoos and a snarling Doberman on a leash. Where did this guy come from? No one seemed to know him, no ones friend, and the show was on. The place is mobbed, wall to wall people and here this asshole has got a dog tugging at a leash, as taut as his muscles and as hot wired as the anxiety he was producing in all the party patrons. He proceeds to tell of the dog's exploits, the other animals it’s killed, the people it’s intimidated, blah, blah, blah. According to this guy this dog was King Kong, Moby Dick, The Werewolf of London all wrapped into one hideously gory scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. T.P. had just finished smoking a joint and was sitting next to me on the couch, listening quietly to Dog Man’s bragging through half opened eye lids. Most of the people at the party had stopped talking; the women were inching to the door which unfortunately was blocked by the looming presence of Dog Man. Finally in a brief moment of quiet, T.P barely hissed, “I think if you lock the dog and me alone in that room over there we could come to an understanding.” It was not an idle threat. It was said in such a way that everyone in the room knew that the dog would only leave that room in a doggy body bag. I was rather buzzed, so I could have easily imagined this, but the dog looked up at his master as if to say, “What the FUCK have you gotten me into?” I actually felt kind of bad for Dog Man as he all of a sudden remembered a previous engagement which I’m sure required his registration at the dog track, and inched himself, humiliated, out of the door. There was the briefest moment of universal relief until The Persuader said, “Will somebody PLEASE put on Exile on Main Street?” and the party resumed in full force.

The Golden Ache had a drunken whore of a mother. I say this with all the love in my heart. She had failed on every level and G.A. loved her as if she was Mother Theresa herself. They often drank together when he was older. She held court at “The Legion” with her boyfriend “Dick”. This was his actual name, I couldn’t make this up, God has an infinitely darker sense of humor than even me for God has had centuries to witness the atrocities of humankind, toying with it like a cat does a mouse, musing on its arrogance and ultimate failings.

I too was familiar with “The Legion”. My parents drank there as well, despite the fact that the clientèle was supposed to be military veterans. My father felt going in the service was an idiotic vocation, as was the priesthood and being a police officer. Obviously my father never joined the military but he had made guns at Springfield Rifle and therefore having contributed to the war effort was considered an honorary member. He taught me how to shoot pool there as a ten year old. I would pump dimes into the jukebox playing rock and roll, chew on a Slim Jim that I imagined to be a stogie because my father was reading me Damon Runyon at the time, I worshiped both Robin and the 7 Hoods and Guys and Dolls, and practiced pool shots.

The Golden Ache didn’t have this kind of idyllic childhood. He was asked to leave the house when he was 14 because he couldn’t get along with his mother’s new boyfriend and she made the choice that was going to keep her safely in the booze. He lived with his brother and some friends down in “The Mucks”. This was where the transient workers had once lived, shotgun shacks that would ultimately be torn down for the building of the highway. He left school and began the hustle of life. He was stunningly handsome with a smile that could melt steel. If it weren’t for the diabetes mixed with the alcoholism and drug addiction he would have lived a ripe old life as a gigolo in Miami. C’est la vie.

They called themselves “The Muckians,” a ragtag group of about a dozen kids that lived for rock and roll, girls, laughter and beer. Pot and speed if they could get it. Card games and petty thievery were the norm and the occasional pool hustle. One of their crew took
Tim Buckley for $700 the night he opened for Frank Zappa in my hometown. They had no idea who Tim Buckley was but joked later that they hoped he sang better than he played pool. They were legendary when I was in junior high. One of them was wasted on elephant tranquilizer and missed a turn in the street coming home from school, going about 75. They drove through the bushes and into a house. The car was removed from the living room that day. The house was fixed in a week but the bushes took 4 years to grow back and we would marvel at that space in the middle of a long line of bush, like a missing tooth in a smile after a victorious gang fight.

Needless to say the Muckians were ideal roadie candidates. Being paid in unlimited draft beer was tantamount to winning the lottery, the chance to steal woman from their Ivy league dates was a challenge from heaven and the bar based rock and roll was the icing on the cake. The Golden Ache started roadying with an early rock incarnation that I had, playing muscular rock in biker bars, songs familiar to the new FM radio format. Later, when I decided that it was essential that I write my own songs for any type of success on a larger scale, the Golden Ache passed me a note. I wished I had kept it, I didn’t realize at the time how visionary it might be. In light of the fact that G.A. hadn’t finished the 9th grade, he turned out to be one of the smartest men I’ve met, with an intuition that was as astute as my fathers. That’s a compliment. The misspelled scrawl amounted to a resume and job application. He knew I was bringing my band up a notch and he was doing the same. He applied for position as sound man. He had never done it before, had absolutely no experience, nothing had ever indicated that he had any technical knowledge in the field, the “front of the house engineer” as the position is known today is the gate keeper between all the musicians hard work and concepts and the audience. Nothing would have indicated that he had “good ears” as is typically the one essential qualification for the position. If anything I had only witnessed him as having “good throat” because he could start drinking from the moment he woke up until the time he fell down drunk at 4 the next morning. Of course, I hired him.

Within a year G.A. had become the best sound man in my hometown. This is no small compliment because unlike larger cities where the P.A. was permanently installed in the clubs where you played, the bars in Upstate New York suckered the musicians into carrying their own P.A. with them. As I write this I realize how idiotic this was. It required huge towers of speakers, professional trusses to mount professional lighting rigs, men to put it up and a huge gas guzzling truck to carry it all in. The “show” got highly competitive between bands. Lasers, smoke machines, live snakes were used. Our band refused to indulge in this but had to carry the P.A. anyway. It was the only way to work. The other bands looked down their noses at our Muckian crew, our ripped jeans and Converse high tops and our loud fast 3 chord rock and roll. They were playing Yes and Genesis, “sophisticated” music played by “intelligent” musicians. We were not punks in the stylish media fueled way. We played what the English might call “pub rock”, the closest equivalent being Joe Strummer’s 101ers or Eddie and The Hot Rods. The local press loved us which caused further resentment on the part of the other bands. Also they had to acknowledge they we were drawing large crowds not to mention fucking their girlfriends. The war had begun.

Within the year we had gained enough of a reputation to open for larger bands in out of town clubs. While doing a show that was a live local radio broadcast in Utica we turned up the juice and blew the headliner away, further humiliation for them compounded by the fact that it was documented on the radio. The other bands crew had been condescending to our crew all day. When we got done with our set we could have pulled our gear and left, but somehow their crew had trapped our stuff behind the stage which meant that our crew had to wait until the end of the night to tear down. The Golden Ache got more resentful as he consumed alcohol and endured the taunts of the other crew. Once he was loaded at an exhausting 3A.M. he returned to the club and grabbed a pool cue off of the wall. He told Wolf our driver to hold on, he’d be right back. He jammed the cue into the radiator of the other bands truck, rendering them motionless for at least a day. Don’t fuck with us. The Golden Ache popped the top of a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon and told Frank to drive him home.

Went to see "Public Enemies" with my son and my friend Luigi last night. I went in fully aware of what I was bringing my son to. This was his second "adult" movie, the first being "The Taking of Pelham 123" last week. That was his mother's suggestion and it seemed to be enjoyed by all. Typically she's very resistant to anything violent. Both for him and herself. She didn't used to be resistant to violent movies, as long as they were fairly represented in our household viewership with documentaries, foreign films, women's movies etc. I remember walking out of "True Romance" with her and both being exhilarated. "Reservoir Dogs" too. The birth of the boy brought the senselessness of violence to a diamond like resonance. For my part I'm a carnivore living in America, what can I say? Brought up on westerns and gangster movies and jammed packed with class resentment, Catholic and Jewish guilt, small town anxiety, simmering alcoholic tendencies, and Rock and Roll fantasies there's nothing like a blazing gun wielded by a self righteous madman to fuel my fires. Especially if I can relate to the "anti-hero" by being paralleled to any of the afore mentioned tendencies.

We picked up Luigi from the Ossining Music Center where he works. This is a Mom and Pop music store very similar to the one I spent my formative music years. It's about to experience a corporate take over of hideously depressing proportions but in the meantime it serves as a meeting place for musicians of all ilks like an old school country store. The guy that owns the place , Bob, is a great guy, been around for 30 years so he regales me with stories of Sonny Sharrock and Ian Hunter both of whom frequented the place often when they lived in the area and how he would go to Sing Sing Prison which is right up the road here and see the lunchtime jam sessions because they had the best musicians, jazz guys from the city incarcerated due to heroin busts. Luigi is a 20 year old heavy metaler, think Slayer and "Reign In Blood" who's sharp as a tack and gets a kick out of all things subversive. He's got his fingers in a lot of pies, just did some roadying for Iggy when he did a show in Manhatten, almost followed him into Sing Sing where the Ig did a prison show but he couldn't get the security clearance. I told him there's other ways to get in , and seeing Iggy in a prison might just be worth it but luckily he's a good kid and didn't heed my advice. Just turned him onto "Hard Core Logo" and he's ripe for "24 Hour Party People" and Bill Hicks. Ah...Tabula Rasa.

Speaking of Tabula Rasa I was internally debating, or more possibly anticipating articulating to my son the notion of the "anti-hero" and the moral dilemma. He even told me on the way there, "Dad, in the movies the good guy always wins". Certainly in all the movies that he's seen so far. I then asked him, "Does that happen in real life?" He said, "Sometimes they come to a tie and become friends." I had Luigi laughing before the movie, stuffing my face with popcorn,how I would tell Detroit that the moral of the movie was to question authority. That having been said, don't question my authority.

What I didn't expect was that it might have seemed a little slow to Detroit. The director, Micheal Mann who achieved the same thing with "Miami Vice" is very good at depicting doomed love affairs. Not riveting for a 7 year old. Detroit sat there with his bag of candy though and seemed entertained enough. It's hard not to like Johhny Depp. He was so good to Hunter Thompson, spent a million dollars shooting his ashes into the air as Hunter requested he be buried. Tackled Ed Wood. Pals with Keith Richards and Marlon Brando. Plays Warren Zevon and Billy Holiday. Reads Nick Toshes.Born to be a movie star just like Erroll Flynn. But after that Vanity Fair article, with the 7 houses and owning an island, jeez, I think the guys got too much money. Gotta mess with yer head. Just a thought. Not a judgment.To get that Sean Penn and Mickey Rourke depth he needs to lose everything. This is no slag to him, he's pretty great, but there's another emotional notch that can't be achieved until you've known desperation and despair and I don't think that was happening in the backroom of "21 Jump Street". 'Nuff said.

So sure enough Detroit asked me on the way home, "So the good guy lost?" Well, you can't rob banks. See, I'm capable of responsible adult like parental advice.I tried to explain to him why in the depression people were desperate for food and work and housing and the banks and the people in authority took advantage of the poor and the powerless and some people, not thinking straight, because the Dillinger character mentions that his father used to beat him, take matters into their own hands. The best way is to get into the system, using the laws of Democracy, not unlike Obama did, yadda, yadda, yadda. You fill in the rest, you know I told him the right thing. This "wheels of justice" thing takes time however and I tried to explain that patience is a virtue. When he's a little older we'll get into the conversation of how there probably can be no Martin Luther King without a Malcolm X and that Obama wouldn't have made it in if there wasn't an evil nemesis like George Bush. We'll have that conversation but we'll wait until he's 10.

My friends the sacred barbarians. The runaways, the sainted missteps, failing everytime to grasp the golden crown as it slips through their greasy palms. KER-SPLASH! Intothe garbage filled moat, and oh, the laughter as it floats away to be swallowed
whole by the carp. And the carp devoured by the shark. And the shark captured by the reknowned deep sea fisherman celebrity. The press gathers to take the scuba man's portrait as he poses with his enormous prize, and astonishes CNN as they cut it open and find a king's and bejeweled headdress in its stomach. This reality TV Jacques Cousteau departs a hero of unimagined porportions and tosses his car keys to my pals saying "take it out for a wash". They of course steal the car, smash it into a tree,"We Keith Mooned it!" and are on the run once again. Drunk with unrealized ambition. But not before they check the trunk. They sell his laptop to a pawnshop for enough money for an eight ball, 2 hookers and a week stay in the Motel 6 in Danbury Conn. On the third day, just prior to the police raid, they are amazed at the day's headlines: PAWNSHOP LAPTOP REVEALS TREASURE. Sure enough, codes, stock tips, insider information are in a favorites file that set Wall Street back on course. There are no regrets for my friends. Down at the Danbury police precinct at the end of a narrow hall, four to a cell under one lone energy effecient bulb my childhood companions are not dwelling on what could have been. They plan their escape. First they take cigarettes off a jailed homeless guy in a rigged poker game.They give them back with a look of admonishment. Be careful. It's a crazy world. Don't you know that by now? An escape shouldn't be so hard. How many times have they watched Clint Eastwood in The Birdman of Alcatrazz, not to mention Steve McQueen in the Great Escape? They are practiced children, not that anyone was looking. Stuffing pillows in beds. Joy rides in "borrowed" card to fullfill summer's midnight promise. (If you see a sign by the side of the road that says:"Turn off all cellphones and CB radios now" that means they are blasting nearby and there is dynamite and blasting caps close. Enough to blow the safe at the A& P. Enough for 4 years in juvie.) Sheet ladders and soda can shanks. Hiding with sympathetic girlfriends and blasting rock and roll. Why does it all come back to rock and roll?

Remember how I said I loved house parties?
Well, now I'm saying I love fringe festivals.
In addition.
Not as opposed.
Maybe theres other places I oughta go.
I'm sure you got something right on the tip of your tongue for that one.
So anyway, pretty much just came back from the Cincinnati fringe festival. Great time.
Also met a lot of wonderful people. What do I know about the theater crowd?
I'm a quick study. (See? A thespian term!) And I could get spoiled being treated so damn nice too.
Four performances, watched it buzz and build. Gives you a feeling of satisfaction. Saw a bunch of other stuff too.
Saw this Jacques Brel play, (not alive and well and living in Paris) which I loved. Transported me.
I forgot where I was for 50 minutes. Can we ask anymore of art?
I think I first heard the song "The Port of Amsterdam" by the Dresden Dolls.
Somebody had given me a dub of them live thinking with my tastes that I would enjoy it. The Amsterdam song really stood out. The quality of the songwriting seemed infinitely superior to me.
I then bought Jacques Brel live at the Olympia Theater in Paris in 1961.
I think it was a defining moment for him. I don't know what the hell he's saying but it's riveting.
I'm probably like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman bawling over opera.
A rube out of their league but affected on a deeper emotional level that I can't understand consciously.
Who needs the conscious mind anyway? It's never done me any good.
I'll be writing on my guitar and working on something, not getting anywhere, and I'll start daydreaming,
still noodling on the guitar, when I get my focus back I'm playing something pretty cool.
See? My unconscious mind said, "Here, here's a bone fer ya."
I've been to Amsterdam three times. Wicked insomnia the first time, about 8 years ago.
Then recently I was with Ani this year and last. Bear in mind that Amsterdam doesn't have the same allure for a sober monogamist guy.
So what cities do you feel inspired or at home in Ed? (I know this blog is a bit splatter shot today but I feel like ramblin'. Or, in the words of the great Robert Johnson
"I got ramblin' on my mind" and despite the fact that he was referring to a different kind....)
Back to inspirational cities...
Definitely felt that way about Austin when I lived there. I would venture to say that there is no city that I ever lived in that single handedly
wrung the words out of me like that city. It seems like a greatly different city to me now.
I don't mean that in a pejorative sense by any means but it's changed radically since I lived there.
Brooklyn was pretty great when I lived in Carroll Gardens but that has changed too. Always feel really good in Memphis.
Always feel good in Dublin. Dig Miami. I love Edinburgh and I dug the shit out of Manchester.
I feel inspired in Seattle, really like Denton Texas and Homer Alaska. Writing all this stuff down makes me feel lucky.
I've had nothing but great times in Paris. all three times the French were polite and helpful.
Saw Baudelaire and Serge Gainsborg's graves, ate dynamite crepes, played awesome shows. And I like Baltimore.
Yes, Baltimore. Maybe it's Pink Flamingos, but I feel really comfortable there.
Oh yeah, and Pittsburgh. OH I ALMOST FORGOT!!
The town that took me in before ANYBODY cared! Philadelphia! Where the hell would my morale be without THAT town?
And it's STILL giving to me. And now that I've found The Bowery Poetry club, (like I used to feel about FEZ) I'm once again comfy in the Big Apple.
And Truro Mass, right outside of Provincetown in the Cape. My wife and I go there every summer and have since we first got together.
We didn't go there last year and it was a deadly error. I'll make sure we dip our feet in the ocean this year.
It's necessary. Live and learn.
And now I like Cincinnati.
Now admittedly, this is a fringe fest, and you're going to meet like minded people and that's not going to be an accurate picture of the town,
and maybe they are over compensating for that whole Robert Mapplethorpe thing but I met a boatload of really cool people.
And of course in every bouquet of roses theres going be at least one prick and sure enough I'm at this "meet and greet" apres la show,
(I know, I know, when will I ever learn? Traditionally the "meet and greet" is the most heinous thing at any event but I was lonely and bored and as you know I'm a people person...)
and I was introduced to some older gentleman by a admirer of my show under the guise that HE too was a guitar enthusiast who appreciated old Gibsons,
and so the conversation started off to a fine beginning. Where it took a sharp right 180 degree turn into the love he had for Dick Cheney I don't know.
But, man, you would have been proud of me. I held my tongue. Even when he said Dick was a great man who kept me safe.
And I told him, c'mon man, I don't want to talk politics, the last eight years have left me exhausted, let's get back to music where we were agreeing.
And he held onto Dick Cheney like a Reservoir dog that ain't ate in a week and comes across a dumpster at an Outback Steak house. The fucker.
At that point I hadn't listened to ANY news in 5 days. (Okay so yesterday I listened to the BBC for 6 hours in a row,
but I got the ramblin' on my mind...) I just got up and went to where they were serving the food and doing karaoke. If the guy had any idea how I feel about karaoke he would have been REALLY offended.
Now I'm going to go watch The Wrestler. What am I reading these days?
"The Power of Now", "Democracy Matters", and "Workers" the Harvey Pekar rendition of the Studs Terkel book.
What was the soundtrack when I was writing? Jacques Brel live at The Olympia in 1961 of course.
Next one man show? My agent Mary Krause suggested writing about friends I have known.
Great idea, sounds like fun. Getting to work on it right away.
A lot of my friends had ramblin' on their minds.
A lot of my friends are gone.
A beatnik walks into a bakery and asks, "Hows the pie?"
The baker says "The pie is gone."
The beatnik says "Then give me two."

So I got this port for my IPOD.
I've got 17,000 songs on my IPOD.
I sold all my CDs. There's a record store in Princeton New Jersey that's got a REALLY cool collection if I do say so myself.
(Actually a little more than 17,000, if you count spoken word stuff and comedy)
But all I listen to is Warren Zevon these days.
Mostly anyway.
It'll expand.
It's like when you discover that author...y'know someone turns you onto Grapes of Wrath
and you go, "Wait,this guy Steinbeck wrote OTHER books?"
One thing often leads to another. Bukowski, Kerouac, James Joyce, Henry Miller, Raymond Chandler, etc.
I sold all my books.
Every one of them.
Somewhere in Williamsburg Brooklyn there's a book store with a REALLY cool collection of books if I do say so myself.Ka-Ching.
Yeah, one thing leads to another.
Like surfing on the internet was something new.Good Lord. We're such Apes. Playing with our little stones.
When Keith Richards said "Robert Johnson and Muddy Waters"
you went and bought the albums and read the books and you went from there. Little tentacles that lead to greater discoveries
keeping your interest throughout life.Childlike to the end.
My friend Louis has two tattoos.
One is Hunter S. Thompson
and the other is Warren Zevon. Pretty cool huh?
If you ever meet him ask him to show you, he'll be proud.
I plan to get a tattoo of the name Detroit over my heart.
I got a buddy in Missouri who runs a parlor and next time I'm passing through
I'm gonna take him up on his generous offer of a freebie.
He's got my mug plastered on his upper thigh so you know I'm good to go.
I ponder fonts now as I drive.
Went to the mall with the wife and boy today.
Picked up some white V-neck T-shirts at Target. With the new slimmer physique I can sport the white now.
Stand sideways and stick out my tongue and I look like a zipper.
Woman got a body like the road from New Orleans to Dallas:
All straight and no curves.
I'm on the high anxiety diet. Reeks havoc on the mind but really sheds the pounds.
Maybe Hamell On Trial died of heartbreak and Ed Hamell rose like a Phoenix from the ashes.
I hate to make an ash of myself, but wait 'til you hear the new record and you tell me.
I wanna be the first to know.
Then I bought The Wrestler with Mickey Rourke.
I love Mickey Rourke.
I KNOW he's off his rocker but maybe he's crazy like a fox.
I could watch Pope of Greenwich Village as much as I listen to Warren Zevon.
I was warned by my man Ricki C when it initially came out not to go see it.
I had waited with baited breath but I was FIRMLY warned by Ricki not to see it.
Ricki is a sweetheart but occasionally he grabs a hold of your arm
looks you in the eye with a look that is undeniably....um...Italian American
and that means, "I'm not fucking around. It's too close to home.
Stay away. You're not ready." Since he's been in every broom closet of a dressing room with me in 48 of these United States
he scared the Satan right into me.
Hovered around my head and heart for awhile too.
Playing poker in a ventricle, pimping whores out of my cerebellum,
I finally said, "Satan oh Satan
it's time for you to go."
I started humming Mahalia Jackson spirituals and he reluctantly departed.
Don't toy with that shit either.
In my younger days I thought I stared at the devil but now I know I was play acting. Trying to be tough.
When Satan takes root it's ugly. Jaws didn't scare me.
My attitude was, "I NEVER wanted to swim so bad I'd have a big fish eat my dick." Just stay out of the water.
But The Exorcist, now that's different story. There's no place to go.
Makes Ted Bundy look like the Easter Bunny.
Combine that shit with insomnia and prescription drugs and you got an existential cocktail of deathly proportions.
Well, I'm off probation these days, not that anything has radically changed except that,
kind of like breaking your upper three vertebrae, which, as many of you know, I have,
you just live with the pain. Every once in awhile you go "How does my back feel?"
"HOLY SHIT!!!" is the basic response.
I had a probation officer that came to my apartment in Syracuse and piss tested me on Christmas Eve.
Can you IMAGINE?
I told him I had a stool sample wrapped up under the tree for him.
True story.
My dirty life and times.
Periods if Transition.
Caught up in a wave.
Pushed along by a larger force.
A historical blip.
And no hot shit publicist to capitalize on it.
Big ol' picture of Eminem in the Arts section of The New York Times.
Looks like I was wrong.
I was thinking, "God, what a good guy, he achieved success and retired from the limelight to bring up his daughter."
Nope, turns out he was addicted to drugs.
Wasn't that the same shit he was always bitching about his mother?
Wasn't she addicted to pain meds and so he was all angry, well into his 30's griping about how he was gonna cut her off?
Should we expect a rap album from Haley in 10 years bitchin' about her ol' man?
Yawn....what a bunch of bums. Bums with big name publicists. It's a racket. All puns intended.
Where are the heroes huh? When did integrity become a joke?
These times are wound up like a tight spring.
Talk to people in Homer Alaska.
Homer Alaska is like Provincetown Mass.
Austin or Denton Texas. These weird little artistic oasis where like minded people gather to live cool lives.
Anyway, Homer Alaska, which touts itself as a little drinking village with a fishing problem
has really sharp people that are staying up there 'cause they think the lower 48 are too weird and ready to explode.
I personally don't mind dancing around mind fields, and despite the fact that I recently lost a psychological limb or two
I wanna hang around and watch the fun begin.
So, in keeping with that we're going change the soundtrack from Warren Zevon's The Wind
to Bo Diddley's Chess Box. A SUMMER soundtrack.
There was a bunch of albums that I would put on in my car on the cassette player I had in a '67 Chevy Impala
that my father gave me when he traded his car in for a '58 T-Bird.
Aerosmith's Get Your Wings, David Bowie's Pin Ups,
Lou Reed's Transformer and Sly and the Family Stone's Theres a Riot Going On.
I had these friends that had a band called "On The Front Of A Jet' that turned me on to Creem magazine
and specifically Lester Bangs. They had wicked senses of humor.
Bear in mind that summer in Syracuse New York lasts a whopping 8 weeks.
It snows in October through May sometimes. It's statistically one of the cloudiest areas in the country.
So when summer did kick in all hell would break loose. Especially if you played at and hung around a bilker bar called Jumpin' Jacks.
I remember one those guys saying Buck Dharma was a God, (Blue Oyster Cult) and here was where my little teenage mind,
stirring with beer whiskey and pot FREAKED,
but he claimed Ozzy Osbourne was a MELODIC genius!
I'd never heard that one before and I've never heard it since. Summer memories.
At this point I'm betting that a lot of people have dropped out of the blog reading thing. This is gettin' pretty long.
It's got a Twitter vibe to it too. My every move should be recorded and documented
so people could thrill at my, "Hamell's taking a nap now" utterances.
I think a cool reality show would be we lock 8 or 10 bloggers or Facebookers or Twitterers in a room
and set up a 210 volt charge to their computer and when they don't text a message of any great importance or at the very least a clever ditty,
(Like I thought that psychological minefield thing above was pretty good. Should it have been mind field?) then we blow off different appendages starting with their index finger.
It pretty obvious at this point that ANYBODY regardless of talent or worth or even the desire to bring something special and new and different to the equation,
will do ANYTHING for what Andy Warhol so accurately envisioned for his future, (our present)
THE BIG 15 MINUTES of FAME!!!! We could fill a smoky bloody room of desperate contestants, having blown off all ten fingers and toes,
using their nose to peck out why ICARLEY has the coolest theme song since....um...The Monkees.
KABOOM!!! NOT GOOD ENUFF!!!!
I have a friend that is a producer, a GRAMMY winning one to boot, Phil Nicolo
and his son is in college right now designing a video game to tie in with the release
of an album by a band Phil is producing.
We were tossing around ideas for a video game for me.
It'd be called Shave Ed's Head.
You could navigate around the top, all the battle scars etc but if you slip you enter the brain through the ear and now you'd be trapped in a horrible mess.
All the multiple personalities, human frailties, that room where Satan is doing business, dealing with memories and demons from the past you'd have to fight off.
PENALTY!!! YOU FORGOT TO TAKE YOUR LEXAPRO!!! You're now locked in a room that deals with visions from your childhood
and you have to fight off the CAMARDA brothers in 9th grade gym class!! Every Tuesday and Thursday for two years. Finally you just stop going to gym class.
And they catch you in 11th grade and the principle asks, "How many gym classes have you missed?"
And you respond, (true story) , "How many have there been?" PENALTY!!!
"Being a wise guy will get you nowhere" I was told on SO many occasions. But in this particular case it will get you somewhere else.
In the dungeon of THE HAMELL BRAIN, as we continue the game.
In there is the stuff that didn't happen but possibly could. We'll call it THE NEGATIVE POTENTIAL.
The scariest room imaginable.
Look at all those grown ups you saw when were in 9th grade?
Did you EVER EVER EVER once go, "Wow,
there's cool grown up, I want to be just like them?'
I mean, other than on TV or a record?
FUCK NO.
How you gonna get out of all this to get back on top and shave the head?
Well hand over your 30 bucks at Game Store and you'll find out.
You see the possibilities in this?
It seems to me it would have Guitar Hero beat as far as entertainment value
and in terms if genuine fear it would make Grand Theft Auto look like a walk in the park!
And don't think this couldn't happen because I'll tell you a true story involving some of the afore mentioned characters.
(Hey Bo and Jerome are playing the dozens on my soundtrack now. Funny stuff.)
My friend Phil Nicolo spent the two days recording Bob Dylan not too long ago
and on the second day Bob strolled into the control booth and started asking Phil about satellite radio.
Phil was like, well the kid out there bringing you your coffee and plugging shit in is my son, (his other son, not the video one)
and he's a huge fan of yours and he knows all about it.
So Bob says, "Well bring him in!"
and they talked for two hours about all kinds of stuff, (his kid's like 18 at this point)
and mostly satellite radio and a month later BINGO Dylan's got a satellite radio show!
Coincidence? I think not. So the SHAVE ED'S HEAD video game is a Mutant Ninja Turtles cultural explosion waiting to happen!
Remember the times of transition I was talking about earlier?
This could be just the thang!

I just drove back straight from New Orleans
20 hours so I'm a little fried
But, oh, t'was fun. And I didn't didn't see any sights,
I just worked.
Had played a couple of cool gigs on the way down, one in New Bern Carolina and the other
a dinner party in Atlanta, .
The dinner party kind of threw me for a loop when I initially arrived because the house was, um, how do you say...elegant. Mansionesque, if that's a word.
I'm thinking, hmmm, I'm performing for rich folk, how's this gonna go?
Isn't nice when you meet rich people that are classy and cool?
Kinda reinforced your faith in human nature.
They were playing Tom Waits and the New York Dolls.
Way to make a guy feel at home.
10- people, the woman all beautiful, dressed up but...here's the clincher...,
in their bare feet. See...it's that little touch that let's you know that they're classy
but down to earth. And everybody smelled really good. I'm not making a joke here.
Not that over the counter Old Spice bullshit, but some kind of vanilla vibe
that makes me think that it was specially made for them.
But in a cool unpretentious way.Just really warm, smart people. Ain't THAT refreshing?
Catered meal, crab cakes, astonishing, sushi, greens, very well done.
Them we gathered in the living room, they sent the kids upstairs and I gave them the Terrorism of Everyday Life show.
Standing ovation, lots of hugs good bye and I was off to New Orleans.
They had seen me do the show at my successful run at The Soho Theater in London
so they were fully aware of what they were in for, and the topper was they were all sober
so the show had a weird resonance as I talked about my misspent youth.
Anyway, have I mentioned that I love house concerts?
I know, many times, but I gotta say that it's as close as you're going to come to a black box theater
without all the bullshit of paying for the bar, ushers and insurance.
More house concerts. Take a chance, you won't be sorry! It's new, it's hip and I'm a fucking expert at it.
Got right to work in New Orleans. Ani and her husband have a beautiful house and above the garage
they got a really cool studio, Pro-Tools, but with tons of analog gear, great mics, and a boatload of ideas.
For my part I was pretty damn prepared, I had gone over the songs, demo wise and in live settings many times
so I got there on Friday, we laid down 2 songs, they hit the sack at one and I did a bunch of stuff in the studio, in that I was sleeping in the loft above the studio,
so I could play Itunes, restring 12 string guitars, watch Ike and Tina Turner videos
and dug the rock and roll scene alone at what I was calling Pee Wee's playhouse.I'm a night owl. Hooo!
The next day we polished off 11 more tunes and the following day 4 more for a total of 17, two of which won't see the light of day as Ani edits them out while sequencing.
Cool moment: Ani was interviewed on CNN with Anderson Cooper but she opted to continue recording me
and figured she'd see it some time later.
Best meal from the cajun kitchens and bayou country: Alligator sausage po-boy
closely followed by a crawfish etoufee.
Back in the car Sunday night at 12 midnight and arrived home this morning at 8:00 AM to feed my kid breakfast.
I have a feeling this album, Tacklebox, (Because it has so many hooks), it going to be my best yet, just me and a guitar
but jam packed with surprises, melodies, my best songs to date,sonic roller-coasters, and soul. I'll keep you posted, I best sleep now.
Dangerous Technological Advance: I now have ITUNES in my car. I can listen to Lou Reed into Doo Wop into Dylan into The Monkees into The Beach Boys into The Libertines into Tammy Wynette into Professor Longhair into Miles Davis into Jimmy Rodgers, into Ramones, into Charlie Rich, the time flies by and I'M HAVING SUCH A GOOD TIME I JUST WANT TO KEEP ON DRIVING! AFTER 20 HOURS! Yeesh!! Music is sure something isn't it?

Hope everyone had a good mother's day. I went upstate where I grew up to visit my wife's mother.
My wife had gone there first, she had a business meeting.
I went up late Saturday night with my son, stayed in a Motel, The El Skanko, (The Quality) (The Lack of Quality) Inn with my son.
It was fun. I kept calling it an adventure.
He was disappointed there was no pool. There was a pool outside but it cold and the water looked like green pudding.
No pool. But we had fun. Because we ALWAYS have fun together.
For those of you that have moved away from the place where you grew up you may share similar feelings.
Upstate New York is a different beast. It has changed radically since I was a boy.
It was a heavily populated, fairly flourishing industrial manufacturing town and much of the business had moved out in the 80's.
There was a mayor, Lee Alexander that was tried and convicted for taking bribes and cuts from the construction that went on there.
There are different theories as to whether this was advantageous or not.
Admittedly it was unethical, he spent years in prison for doing it
and was even featured on 60 Minutes, a minor Syracuse "claim to fame" but that having been said
under his domain the town was solvent and lucrative. Heck if I know. All the youth has moved out or is unemployed.
Anyway, it's been tough up there for almost 30 years. Not unlike Detroit or Flint Michigan. So there's a lot of wonderful memories,
and it's hard for me not to believe that my "hard edged confrontational style"wasn't developed there, but there's a lot of ghosts and demons that like to haunt me.
We tread with great caution in those parts. A slip of the tongue can land you in a bunker doing 5 to 19 with some hardened criminals that had been housewives in a previous life.
Wild dogs roam the streets with orange bandannas looking for signs of life to chase out to the border towns. Porn shops sell illgal goods under the counter and a college degree
will get you a passport to nowhere, and many have become exhausted because of the fight and camped in the hills,
tuning in short wave radios that broadcast local sporting events to the deer and fish.
My son sports a coon skin cap that was a gift from a trapper who lives in the minefields around Solvay.
So we often turn around as fast as we can to head home which is what I did.
I head out towards New Orleans tomorrow. Got a recording date with Ani and have a couple of gigs on the way. Be home in a week and it's unlikely that I'll be blogging.
If anything great happens I'll let you know, although I have a feeling it's going to be work, work, work in light of the fact
that this will be to a large extent the culmination of two years worth of work. Wish me luck.
I hope you like the album, (do people BUY albums anymore? Probably not, but they still buy music.
I sure would like to have access to my Itunes sales figures. Particularly after I release this radio friendly baby.)
I think you'll find that it's going to be a great departure from my previous efforts, a tad more, ahem...mature if you will.
More melodic, just me and a guitar and I can guarantee I've never worked so hard crafting the tunes, they're a LOT of fun to sing.
Had you been at my show in Philly last week you would have caught a bunch. Didn't do much on the stage with Ani during this last tour,
got a lot of work done in the dressing room and what not, on the bus, there's so much time to rehearse when you're on the road with her
because you don't have to do any driving, or looking for food and you only play 35 minutes a night,
I mean basically your every need is catered to, handled by a team of experts, it's pretty darn sweet.
Plus the pay is great. My joke is that the only thing bad about the Ani tour is that it ends.
Not to mention that I wasn't even sleeping on that tour giving plenty of time to write, edit, review etc.
That, I must confess, was the darkest time I've ever encountered in my life. You start distrusting the motivation behind, well...everything.
Good thing I don't Twitter. Hamell is paranoid now. Hamell is turning on the TV now.
Hamell thinks the commercial was written by Satan now. Hamell is talking himself out of suicide now.
Hamell is taking a couple more Tylenol Pm's now. Hamell is staring at the top of his bunk now.
(45 minutes later) Hamell is still staring at the top of his bunk now. Hamell is walking the streets at 4:00 in the morning in Geneva New York now.
Hamell feels like there's broken glass in his veins now. Hamell feels like he's high all the time now even though he hasn't done drugs in years.
Hamell keeps losing his luggage now because he's hallucinating and doesn't know where he is now. Glad to get home.
I've got some pills from my doctor so that I'm fully equipped for this next tour, can't afford insomnia.
Do you guys ever get in the shower and try to scrape your skin off?
Just wondering.
There was a great TED TALKS that Ani turned me on to about this woman whose name escapes me
but she was a neurologist who had gotten into the field because her brother was schizophrenic and then she suffered a heart attack or a stroke
and she was able to disassociate herself from it and study it from the inside
and she talks about the near death experience and the euphoria and bliss she experienced at one turn
and it was incredibly inspiring. Although in the weird coma state I was in
it was also hugely spooky. Hey, I don't know, I write these blogs initially just for me.
I didn't think anyone was going to read them. Yet I meet people all the time on the road who say, "I read your blog"
And theres some huge competition out there. I was selling a boatload of CDs in New Jersey to an indie store and they had want ads for bloggers.
What's the fucking pay? I can write stupid shit all day long.
But here's the thing, I got people saying, "Geez Hamell, you're obviously going through some weird domestic times,
and we feel for ya, but Hell we don't want you stepping on OUR buzz." And I don't blame ya. these are weird times,
you need to keep shit upbeat and I understand that. But then I have other people going, (and some of these people are blood relatives) who say,
"Well it can't be effecting him THAT much, I mean he's still writing about the rock and roll."
And I'll tell you why: Because I'm conscious now of a "readership." Before I felt they were more like diary entries.I think that if you scroll back to some of my earlier stuff
I was talking about certain sexual or drug related things that happened to me in my youth.
Cut that shit right out when I found my mother in law had signed up to my blog.Then I had intended to keep things topical
but after the last administration, the democratic primaries and the stuff that's going on in my life
I decided to just write personal things with a universal slant. But the more I meet the parents of the other kids,
and I say this, and my heart is PURE when I say this, I mean this in no disparaging way, but I ain't like them.
I mean my "universal" is a select group. Maybe the disenfranchised, (seems like that's a group, in light of our current economic situation that's getting bigger all the time),
maybe the more adventurous both in terms of life path and sense of humor, maybe just people with too much much time on their hands that gravitate towards my writing.
I think I'm going to watch a movie now, something to take my mind off of everything for awhile. Haven't been able to do that for awhile so I'll treat myself.
Y'know something dark and upbeat, deathly but inspiring, I guess just like life itself.

Whens the last time you uttered this phrase: "That's the most fun I've ever had in my life!"
Has the definition of fun changed for you over the years?
Have you stopped saying, "God, that was a lot of fun!"
What's fun for you?
Sometimes it feels like you fill up your life with so much stuff, activities, working towards some elusive goal
that you forget what fun is. Fun will come down the line. Something you can buy.
Nope.
Fun time is now.
Last night I had the most fun I've had in a long time. Maybe ever.
I attended my son's "Physical Education" night at his school.
29 Activities. Rope ladders. Basketball, Bowling, Golf and more. Mucho.
Huge beach balls about 7 feet tall on a rope, you stood on tires in a circle
and tried to knock each other off. The kids were the "teachers" and the parents were the "students"
I learned a lot.
First of all I learned that I sweat like a frickin' pig.
I should have brought a beach towel.
You can't meet Tommy's mom with a shower pouring down your noggin.
I mean, I DID, but you don't want to.
Blowing sweat out of your way so you can talk.
Should have taken salt tablets.
Maybe I shouldn't have worn my scuba suit under my clothes. With all this global warming it's hard
to gauge how to dress these days. Soundtrack: Disco and Rock and Roll. The Village People to Joan Jett.
(You guys would have been SO proud of me. I'm tempted, because of the way my mind works, to say to another parent, "It's so cool they play YMCA by The Village People. Nothing like getting a bunch of kids together to listen to a song that celebrates sodomy." But I DIDN'T DO IT!!! My son would call that 'Inappropriate Behavior )
All the parents were well behaved. The gym was mobbed.Bueno.
The hallways had activities going on, bean bag toss, pail stacking, and this really cool Indian game
where you tossed a bean bag at a stack of piled rocks,and your opponent had to stack them up
as the shooter ran between two designated points, earning a point at each one.
We didn't get into the American Indian thing. The word "genocide" was never uttered.Gracios.
I beat my son 6 to 4. I also beat him at the 100 meter dash, (compliments of Nintendo),
he killed me at everything else. 27 other things.They should have had a Latte machine there.Would have made a fortune.
All the parents huffin' and puffin". Activity #30: The Iron Lung and Oxygen tent.
Then at the end, after 90 minutes that went by incredibly fast, we played some kind of square dance like "Cha Cha'
where the gym teacher would yell out directions and all the kids and parents would do the stuff at the same time.
Like 150 people. No inhibitions.
My son goes to a primarily Hispanic school. Excellent school by the way here in Ossining.
Anyway, I'm going to make an observation here that is going to seem like a generalization,
and I'm sure it is, and quite frankly I don't follow the immigration issue very closely
I know it sends Lou Dobbs into a tizzy but I don't get too worked about it, anyway, observation:
The Hispanic community really gets off hanging out with their family.
They didn't give a shit who was looking at therm, what they were wearing, just celebrating the family unit.
You gotta admire that. All captured on video tape.
Although in retrospect I wish I had used my sweat repellent lens.
A lot of the footage looks like it was shot underwater.
Buenos Noches.

Heard ya missed me. I'm back.
You'd think, after being on the road for ten glorious sold out shows with Ani DiFrano that I'd have exciting road stories to relate.
Hi-jinks on the tour bus and what not. It was a lot of fun.
Always nice to play to thousands of people at a pop. Great, receptive crowds, Ani's crew are the best as is her band.
Not to mention the gal herself. But I got bamboozled by a bout of insomnia that turned my world around.
Was up 80 hours at a stretch. Upside: Your days are filled with a lot of hours being awake.If I was cramming for a final you couldn't beat it.
Downside: Hallucinations. But I wasn't driving, barely eating so hey, what's to worry?
So I thought I'd tell ya this story which has nothing to do with the tour because it just tickles me.
I was cleaning out my garage and I put some old stuff on Craig's List.
Had a little set of drums that I used to record with that I haven't used in years, figured I probably never would,
and decided I'd sell them. They sure weren't much to look at. But they'd be cool for a beginner or a little garage band
and I hated to just throw them away so I put them up for $50.
BINGO!! My email lit up like a sky rocket.
But the first guy, Harlen, well, was the first guy. So, I called him up
and he was busy doing something, carpentry work I found out later,
but we talked and he said, "Well I just like to fool around,
I got every other instrument but the drums would REALLY drive my wife crazy."
I figured Harlen had to have 'em.
Sure enough one guy wrote and asked if the price was negotiable.
$50 for a set of drums?!?!
This would be like offering up a house for $200. (Which I guess IS the going rate in Detroit these days but...)
So I immediately wrote him back and told him they were sold, even though they weren't.
You don't know you're dealing with when you come across a freakazoid mindset like that.
Craig's List. Geez...
Then another guy who had the word "drummer" right in his email address wanted to come over, right then,
or yesterday if I could manage it. You know this guy was WAY too pumped up on percussion to need my little set.
Probably enjoyed Neil Peart. Even the lyrics. What a can of worms....
So my son had an ear infection Monday so we hung together at home and frankly I didn't want to sell the drums in front of the kid.
My son harbors some Partridge family like dream where he's gonna play drums,
I'm gonna play guitar and Mommy's gonna play bass and we're gonna tour the world together. Name of the band: Detroit.
I don't tell him Mitch Ryder already used the name and it tanked. Once the drums are gone he'll never know.
And in another 9 years he's gonna wanna be as far away from mommy and daddy as humanly possible so no worries on drum sale.
So Tuesday Harlan comes over with his van to get the drums.
He's about 60 and sure enough when he opens the van it's filled with all kinds of musical instruments.
I saw a guitar, a keyboard, a mandolin, a banjo for starters.We get talking and he tells me he has a trumpet next to the driver's seat and
he practices while he's driving. I've been around the WORLD man and I've NEVER seen a guy driving towards me blowing the trumpet!
I KNOW I've saved these drums for the right guy.
I had a buddy that would practice his tuba outside at night in the Middle of the University of Texas quad because no one would hear him although he kept getting tickets from security.
I know guys that blow harmonica, CHROMATIC, and steer with their feet.
Lots of people play air guitar and drums, heck I'm guilty of that all the time.
Who hasn't put a little Casio keyboard next to them in the passenger seat and diddled out a Carpenter's song when they're lonely?
But no trumpet in the van.
So if you see Honkin' Harlan coming your way tell him I said hi and ask him how my drums are doing. Is his wife pissed yet?

(C)
Some people play the odds, it works out every time
(G)
Some people live the life, they drink the finest wine
(Am) (G) (F) (C)
They don’t seem sharp, they don’t seem cool, they don’t seem bright
(Am) (G) (F) (C)
They don’t do good, they don’t try hard, they don’t try right
(D) (G) (D) (G)
Who’s to say what’s fair? Who’s to say what’s fair?

My kid he likes to ask, he’s got inquiries
He wants to know ‘bout God, he asks bout destinies
He’s only 8, he thinks life’s great, the good guys win
That if you got a dream you end what you begin
Who’s to say what’s fair? Who’s to say what’s fair?

I had to sit him down, and tell him he was wrong,
We talked ‘bout war and hate and victory of the strong
I told him all the dirty tricks that life could play
That God’s a cosmic joke; you’re dust on dying day.
Who’s to say what’s fair? Who’s to say what’s fair?

It is a wicked world, compassion far and rare,
There’s sickness all around, and no one seems to care,
You’re born alone and you’ll die the same way too
It’s all a senseless mess the universe plays on you.
Who’s to say what’s fair? Who’s to say what’s fair?

And do you really think, I looked him in the eye?
And uttered words like these, to watch him break and cry?
I told him God was waiting just to hold his hand,
And lead him right to me in eternity we’d land.
Whether I believe it or not, this is what he got.
Who’s to say what’s fair? Who’s to say what’s fair?

Thought I might write about four particularly inspirational things that I witnessed in my life. Let me preface this by saying that these very well could mean nothing to you. Some have seen the Pope or Oral Roberts or Ghandi or even met the doctor that gave them a heart transplant. That's gotta be pretty high up there on the inspirational scale for them. (My friend George, by the way, who had the heart transplant couldn't stop sobbing or hugging his doctor. He didn't even really know the guy, but just the fact that his doctor had held his heart in his hand made him spontaneously become overwhelmed with emotion. I can understand that). Met a fan once who had donated a kidney to a stranger. There's tons of these stories that go on daily, which we'll never see on reality TV but these are our true unsung heroes. So let me give you my four and maybe you can find something in your life that you can relate to. See, I find it weird that people go on Facebook and say stuff like, "Bobby is brushing his teeth now." I don't get it on any level. Unless you've been following Bobby and you sort of respect his opinion and he says, I'm reading the new book by Juno Diaz and you go out and buy it and it changes your life, but the little I know about Facebook doesn't allow me to believe this is happening. But hey, most of that demographic is teens, is it not? And how much life experience do they have? Anyway, back to my four: Oh, I should also mention that I saw Jimi Hendrix and The Who with Keith Moon when I was 13 so this set the bar pretty astronomically high so when I write these things, for a touring musician such as myself who comes across a LOT of live music you can understand why this shit was pretty intense for me:


1) I opened up for the band Badfinger in the mid-eighties. It was a shitty gig in Albany, one of the members, Pete Hamm had already had committed suicide and the little band I had at the time, which drew pretty well in that area opened up. They were in sad shape. They had hired a guitarist from L.A. who they had yet to play with, all the rehearsals had been done over the phone and they were carrying all their gear in a car and a U-Haul trailer. They had to borrow high hat cymbals from us. We did our set, which went over pretty well and then joined them in the dressing room prior to their set. At the time I was into drink and drugs pretty heavy and was pretty bold while under the influence and I started up a conversation with the bass player. (Who, incidentally has also since committed suicide). He was very guarded initially, he might have thought I was from the press, or was copping an attitude with him, (which sincerely I wasn't) but he was tight lipped none the less. Then I asked him, "Where are you from?" He answered Liverpool. I asked the natural question as any true rock fan would, "Have you ever seen The Beatles?" And the veil was lifted. His eyes lit up and he said, "It was the first band I ever saw. Saw them everyday at lunchtime. Must have seen them 200 times." Now I'm shitting. "How were they?" I asked. And he responded, and I believed him, "Like nothing you ever could have imagined." And just the way he said it I knew. So then it was time for Badfinger to play. There might have been a crowd of about 150 people. They ran through some of their hits and then said, "Here's some songs we used to do back when we played The Cavern in Liverpool." It was astonishing. They did Hippy Hippy Shake. They did Money.It was uproariously pounding. It was the closest I'd ever come to seeing, hearing and witnessing The "Merseybeat". It was the sound that changed the world. They did about 11 of these covers, ended with their hits which were a massive disappointment after the chaos I had just witnessed but it opened a door that The Beatles records, movies and books could never convey. It was larger than life.

2) My mother in law, who I adore like my own mother is afraid of flying. When my wife and I lived in Austin we convinced her to get on a bus, (she's got all kinds of fucking phobias) and meet us in Nashville. My wife and I drove to Nashville, picked her up at the bus station and then I convinced my wife to go with me to The Grand Ole Opery. I'd never been there and I wanted to check it out. My wife was dog tired and slept through the entire show, except for the segment I'm about to relate to you. Now for those of you that don't know The Grande Ole Opery is a radio show, there's a shit load of dead air for commercials and they pretty much fill it up with old timers like Porter Wagoner or new country who at the time I think were Alabama or Billy Ray Cyrus. Each act introduces the next act. It's ultra-polite family fare and you've never seen so many white people in your life. So, out comes Grampa Jones. You remember Grampa Jones, the caricature from Hee Haw that was the old geezer with the banjo. Except this time Grampa Jones ain't doing schtick, he's playing old mountain music and it's also kind of apparent that he's got a touch of dementia. They have to lead him out and place him at the microphone, announce him, and then he's off and running doing his 3 songs. You've never heard anything like it. He probably didn't remember his own name but he starts pounding on the floor with his foot, hard, my wife woke up off my lap and shook her eyes like, "Wassup with this?" and then he attacked the fucking banjo, and in a roaring yelping mountain voice sang 3 spine tingling rockingly raw tunes. He was completely exhausted at the end of his show and yet had PLAYED AT THE TOP OF HIS GAME! He didn't even remember the names of the acts that was following, he said something like, "Well, I forget who they are, but they're good boys." and was gone. He made everybody else look like dogshit. One of the most incredible things I ever saw.


3) Best show I saw last year: Jerry Lee Lewis at B.B. Kings in NYC. I'd never been to BB Kings before, it's a pretty sterile Applebees looking kind of joint, overpriced drinks, long picnic tables where you sit with strangers and I happen to know that Jerry Lee, who had canceled on me 3 times prior had just turned 73, because his birthday is 5 days before mine. As a matter of fact the ticket was a birthday gift from my wife. So the band plays 4 pretty vapid songs and then they introduce Jerry Lee who walks out on stage hunched over like he's 93. I'm worried but I figure fuck it, I love the guy, he's probably my favorite rock and roller, at least I'm going to get to see him. So, he's 73, looks like he's 93 and he sits down to play.....and he's 23. The fucker rocked the house. I'm not a man who cries often but tears were in my eyes. And the cool thing was the people lost their shit. They hooted and hollered. All kinds of people, old couples, young rockabilly hipsters, he transformed that dump into a roadhouse. Awesome. Beyond my widest expectations. You know those gigs where you go, "I wonder where the artist is now? I sure would like to hang out with him." It was one of those, and I'm here to tell ya, I don't feel that way very often anymore, I'd just as soon be left alone with my IPOD.

4)Through a weird series of events I was able to meet and play with Les Paul last year. My friend, ex-writer for Howard Stern, Jackie The Jokeman, (I honestly know nothing about Howard Stern. I know this puts me in a strange cultural vacuum but it's just nothing that catches my fancy. I've got nothing against the guy, I saw his movie and I thought it was pretty inspirational but his radio show doesn't click intellectually for me-but hey, more power to him. What the fuck do I know about success? But I do know a classy guy with integrity when I meet him and Jackie Martlin is one of those guys.) so back to Les Paul. He plays every Monday down at Iridium on Times Square and Jackie brings me down there, we don't pay, right through the line through the kitchen, you saw the shot on Goodfellas and we end up in the dressing room shooting the breeze with Les, later I go up and play a couple of my tunes with the band but the best part is after the show I get engaged in a conversation with Les for about an hour. Les, by the way, is 94. For those of you that don't know he invented, among other things, the electric guitar, sound on sound recording and echo and reverb. Now in the time I have taken to write this blog computers have already been updated. The computer or cellphone you currently own and think is "state of the art" isn't any more. Technology is happening that fast. But the Les Paul guitar, probably first invented in 1949 is STILL STATE OF THE ART. This is virtually unheard of. Any guitar out there that is supposedly modern is taking it's design cues from the Les Paul. So anyway, Les, who is a really down to earth guy, is dropping names, (In a completely unpretentious sort of way) like, "I introduced my friend Bing Crosby to my other friend Frank Sinatra. My OTHER friend Orson Welles never liked those two guys" Now, I can safely say I hang out with some pretty smart people, Ani, Wammo and Alejandro Escovedo are three that immediately come to mind. But this was a level of intellect, at the age of 94 that I was completely unaccustomed to. I literally felt like I was tripping. To give you an idea of how sharp this guy's mind was he was telling me that when Dick Nixon was vice-president under Eisenhower, Eisenhower was a big fan of Les Paul and Mary Ford. So Nixon called him personally and invited him to the White House. I said, "You talked to Nixon? You should have go told him to fuck himself!". Without missing a beat Les said, "Well, he did." C'mon, huh? I asked Les when he first got the idea for the electric guitar and he said, "When I was 11 years old. We had a railroad track that ran behind our house and I could put my ear to to the railroad track and hear the train coming 2 miles out. I knew that if I had a, (here's the genius part people), MAGNET I could pick up this sound and put it through a speaker" I was flabbergasted. Eleven years old. I asked him, "Did you tell anyone?" He said, "Oh yes. I went in and told my mother that I had an idea that was going to change the world." I asked, "Did she believe you?" He said, "Oh yeah, she always very supportive of what I did." There's a fucking parenting tip for ya huh?


5) I lied. There's one more. And it's the piece d' resistance. I played The Redding/Leeds festival in Europe a few years ago. I, of course was on a small side stage with a couple thousand people and when my gig was over my pals from The Moldy Peaches said "Hey Ed, you got a laminate you can go backstage at the big stage and see anybody you want. Now if I remember correctly the largest acts on the bill were Green Day, Travis, P.J. Harvey, Coldplay, The Donnas and Run DMC. Stuck in the middle was Iggy Pop. I love Iggy but I'd only seen him play to a thousand or so fans in New York and Boston and I was curious as to how he was going to go over in front of 60,000, well, to be frank, children. That's right. As I looked around it became apparent to me that this was a YOUNG crowd who's probably only exposure to Iggy was the soundtrack to Trainspotting. So here's what Iggy's got working against him: His band, which wasn't the reformed Stooges at the time, kinda look like Motorhead, i.e. not trendy, it's broad daylight, there are no lights or smoke bombs or Motley Crue production techniques, he's got no hits to speak of and he's pushing 60, although buff. He's shirtless with jeans so no snazzy costume either. Not the best odds to win a crowd of non-believers over, especially if they are waiting for Coldplay. Iggy comes out, sings a couple of high energy numbers and then proceeds to "talk" to the crowd about how he won't take any shit, isn't going to take any shit and throws down the mic and much to the complete surprise of the muscle bound bouncers and leaps into the crowd. All of this is being transmitted on the huge screens and now people mulling around on the hills above, you know the new hippy/punk kids getting henna tattoos are going, "Holy shit! For the first time today a real moment is happening on the stage" and they start swarming to get closer to the action. The bouncers are grabbing Iggy to get him to safety but the crowd's attitude is "Fuck it, he's OURS" and there proceeds to be an all out brawl. Now everyone in the joint, all 60,000 is rooting for Iggy. Iggy jumps on stage grabs the mic and screams, "Come on up!" You should have seen the look on the bouncers faces! So sure enough 300 brave souls jump the fence and hit the stage to sing, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" with Iggy. Fantastic. The people get ushered off, Iggy ends with "Wild One" and throws down the microphone stealing the day. I was standing next to P.J. Harvey. I like P.J. Harvey but she was like green, going, "HOW IN THE FUCK AM I EVER GOING TO FOLLOW THAT?" It truly was an amazing show. A man, a microphone, and with sheer will, SHEER WILL, stole the day. Once again with tears in my eyes I thought, you might be able to do this 'til you're 80.

As I travel around the country, and the last couple of weeks have been a mother load, 7000 miles through the Carolinas, Texas, Missouri, Wisconsin, Pittsburgh, Alaska, and Oberlin College, I'm continually flattered to hear that people read my blog and enjoy it. Initially I was skeptical on a number of levels. I'm already going through a lot of transitional periods of my life and I'm humbled that my "calling" if one was to call it that, is to stand in front of people, tell them my inner most thoughts, a few dirty jokes, rail against the empire and expect them to not only devote time from their busy everyday lives, but pay money to do it, and then rise up and applaud me afterward. Doesn't seem to be a life of great substance does it? But you hear wonderfully flattering things, inspirational and humbling, I see a lot of the world, I love my job, and FINALLY I'm making some pretty good money doing it. But there's plenty of people, tons of people doing infinitely more righteous work than me and getting paid and acknowledged far less. People are continually saying to me"Write about what you do, that's what people are interested in" but man, with the exception of playing, writing and recording which I do every chance I get, most of my time is spent waiting around. Mostly in airports and train stations and shitty hotel rooms. Truck stops, rest areas, dressing rooms sometimes which are nothing but broom closets. Go watch Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler, it'll pretty much give you an idea if where I'm at. Although I like to believe that my art is a little more, um...profound let us say than pro-wrestling. But hey, who am I to judge? But there is an incredible satisfaction when I craft a show and it transcends even moments that I could have predicted, which kinda happened at The Bowery Poetry Club last Wednesday. The show went off without a hitch but the best part, and I had been practicing and honing the son of a bitch for a while, it seemed to raise above even what I had expected, that I felt I grew as a performer, (I sure wish I could get to this point in the recording studio) and I walked away with an incredible sense of pride. That's sure all you can ask for, because a lot of times lately my wife has been bringing my son to a birthday party or a play date to another kid's house and telling me what a mansion they live in. And it's hard not to get caught up in this shit. It's hard man. Let's be honest here. If you can be COMPLETELY immune to this, and I'm not saying there's a few of you who can't, I know someone, and I won't drop names here, but MAN she is truly a Righteous Babe. This woman is the most down to earth, non-envious, non-name calling cat like person I ever met. She is generous in spirit beyond belief. And in my opinion, above and beyond her talent, which is extraordinary, she deserves all the success she's reaped just by the genuine good Karma she puts out. But I'm here to tell you, these are people that are few and far between. I've opened up for some real talentless prima donna doozies and they shall remain nameless as well. And you'd like to think, well, they have no talent and they'll have a limited shelf life but the reality is they're still around. Drawing well, in some cases better than ever. So it must boil down to: What do you want to do with your life? Some people will tell you that the Karmic wheel, the wheels of justice if you will, turn slowly but they in fact turn. Some people will tell you there is a God or Goddess, (I personally like to think of it as a Goddess as humankind did for centuries, [look it up people] before the whole patriarchal thing got started) (just because I'm attracted to strong woman which was almost the death of me recently but that's a different story for another time, maybe even another time in this very own blog), but we can only pray for justice and integrity in this lifetime and hope that we see it. I'm here to tell you, and it's no more fun writing than it is you hearing it but: life ain't always fair.

So getting back to the point of people reading my blogs: I'm wondering how far they're willing to go with me? In other words, were I to write THE WORLD'S LONGEST BLOG would you be in to the bitter end? I mean I realize I have some responsibility here, I've got to make this entertaining and challenging enough for you guys to want to climb aboard and take the ride to the final destination. And I'm not going to lie to you, I've got no set design here, no script, no outline, I just want to see how far you sons of guns are willing to go with this blog thing. I was reading in The New York Times, (yes, people still read the newspaper) that many bloggers are turning their wacky blogs into highly profitable book deals. One guy had a website devoted to nutty outfits people dressed their animals in and he got a deal with Random house. I don't care people, I don't want to make a judgment call here, but this is what the guy is going show his grandchildren? Hey look, grandpa put out a book about a chihuahua with antlers. "Geez Gramps, despite your smell of urine we have the utmost respect for you now." Why do I care about immortality? For those of you that don't, for those of you that can't understand why someone would try and leave something behind that would outlive them and possibly resonate centuries from now I have no way of explaining it to you. For those of you that immediately understood what I meant when I wrote that then you realize the futility in me trying to explain that to the people that don't get it.I hate to get partisan here but it appears to me that a LOT of people who don't understand or appreciate the value of art are Republicans, but honestly in light of this new administration I'm trying my damnedest to let bygones be bygones and be bipartisan and work together to at least save the planet and each other. It only makes sense and I'm inspired by Obama's desperate desire to appeal to out intelligence and integrity so fuck it, I'm hopping on the bandwagon. My railing against the powers that be for the last 8 years didn't do me a bit of fucking good in this country. But one can only be true to themselves, I mean if they want to look themselves in the eye in the mirror in the morning and think they've maintained some sense of moral fiber.


So my dear friend and working buddy Ricki C has told me that many of you have written asking how I'm doing, in light of some of the soul searching and tumultuous blogs I have been writing and I'm glad to announce that things are genuinely getting better. I admit, without going into detail, that there have been some domestic problems that have been going on since last Thanksgiving and it has caused me a LOT of pain. I also want to state without going into too much detail that there is no "blame" here, no one was unfaithful, or betrayed or even disrespected. It's probably nobody's business, my wife is a private person and let's just say that there is a light of reconciliation on the horizon. And a ray of hope is a very welcome sight these days. I'm sure for all of us. So...in this department things are looking up, and I'm very grateful and maybe my prayers have been answered. So...on with the show...

But all this pain that I have experienced of late has not been without it's rewards. First of all, it's been proven to me that if a man's wealth is judged by his friends I'm truly a wealthy man. There have been many, too many to mention and I don't want leave anybody out so at the risk of offending anyone I won't mention anybody by name but these are people that I could call day or night, anytime, wake them up and talk. And friends work in different ways, some try to reason it out with you, why you wouldn't want to take your own life, some with stories that are just humbling, a mother dying of cancer and leaving behind 3 daughters ages 3,6, and 9.These kids are shell shocked. It kinda puts your pain into perspective. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.I had conversations with total strangers, who I would say, "Man, it can be a wicked wicked world" and they would readily agree but point out all it's beauty when they were in more dire straits than I. Humbling to say the least.


Ah...the confidence of youth. The best laid plans of mice and men do ofttimes fail.Yet, I'm glad that the dreams that I had in my youth didn't come true. Would have been awful to have grown up in public, and Good Lord the mistakes I would have made.The joy I find in the writing and performing now so far exceed the way that I felt before. I'm sure there's many reasons for this, the birth of my son, the years ticking by, the almost fatal car accident, the watching the young ones that take themselves so seriously come and go. I'm here to tell you I watched MANY fall along the wayside. And I really don't feel any older, it's usually when I see them 6 years later working some corporate job and saying, "Remember we opened you up in blah blah blah and gave our bass player shit because he blah blah blah..." and I always smile and say, "Oh yeah, I remember..." but usually I don't. I'll tell you theres only a few that really stand out, you see an Ani Di Franco or a Kimya Dawson, or Against Me or The Black Lips and you think theses fuckers have got "it" whatever the hell "it" is and they're going to be into in for a long time. I remember reading Lost Highway by Peter Guralnick as a young lad and thinking, "yeah, that's what I want to be. A legend." Like that scene in The Natural where Redford goes "I just want people to go 'There goes Roy Hobbs, the best that ever was' " I just thought the pay would be better but I can't complain people, I got a job, a lot of people don't, I love my job, a lot of people don't and very rarely do people who have jobs that they love have their fellow employees rise up and applaud them at the end of the day. So you can't bitch can ya? But also in this learning experience I'm currently going through I realize now why so many of the songs on the radio are about love. Because I don't care what's going on in the world, Baghdad burning, Afghanistan in flames, Terrorist attacks in major urban areas in the US, unemployment rate at an all time high, when you got heartbreak all you can think about is, "Hey, hand me my cellphone she might have texted me". I leave the phone off so I don't have worry that she hasn't called. Maybe when I turn it on in a day or so I'll be surprised by a message. Just something cordial. Grasping at straws I guess, a tad pathetic but we're working through it. It's turned itself into some pretty good art too, I gotta say I'm armed with the best set of songs and, (here's the most important thing) I think the most focused philosophy of what the album should be, in other words, what's the distinguishing factor between me and the 9 billion other voices clamoring for attention in this Andy Warhol predicted celebrity and fame obsessed culture? Yeah, it's me and just a guitar but how can I put my best foot forward, in terms of songs, guitar playing, personality, vocals etc? So, the pain has not been in vain.Or, so time will tell.

One would think, as a lyric guy, you know someone that digs, Bob Dylan, Lou Reed, Leonard Cohen, Tom Waits, Joe Strummer, Patti Smith, Neil Young, and David Johansen, (and I don't want any arguments here because I think Johansen is one of the most underrated lyricists in rock songwriting) that in light of this heart break I've been going through that I would gravitate towards Blood On The Tracks or Blue by Joni Mitchell but the reality is I've been listening to Tutti Frutti on a loop. Sometimes, (and I'm not kidding here) I'll listen to it 30 to 40 times in a row. Just like in the old days when you bought singles and played them over and over. I realize nowhere in the song does the singer, (In this case Little Richard) articulate that he is a gay black man who has been picked on all his life, is feeling even more ostracized by the fact that one of his legs is shorter than the other and that he is washing dishes in a bus depot in Macon Georgia to support his 12 brothers and sisters. He doesn't specifically say this but I swear to God I hear the shear joy of his chance, his shot at the "big time" or possible an interjection of desperation that if he fails he goes back to washing dishes and yet maybe there's a little"fuck it" in there too, like "if you don't GET IT, YOU LOSE!!". That my friend is rock and roll, a lifetime clocking in at under 3 minutes. This is what I listen to a LOT these days. (Along with Roy Orbison but of course that makes total sense. As does Sinatra's "Sinatra Sings Only For The Lonely" But those wrist slitting bastards are not going to inspire you to live again and I guarantee that Tutti Frutti will.)

So what am I trying to say with all this rambling? As I go around the country and I meet people I can't help but think, what are you doing with your life? I mean, I think I've said before in these blogs that I'm under an incredible impression that we are in the midst of SOMETHING. Some king of evolutionary change. Some huge universal power saying it's time to change course. You've done a great job with this cyber thing but you've gone as far as should go for right now. I'm not saying that there won't be technological advances but right now it's time to stop. Take a breath. Look around us. Adapt, and particularly have our children adapt and then reevaluate our priorities. Once again, I must reiterate, we will evolve whether we want to or not. The universe will dictate. Do not be so arrogant as to think that YOU can force things to happen. The earth will RID us if it feels we threaten it to the point of extinction. It'll fuck up our economy as a warning. Better start changing direction because all your material goods are not going to save you when the whip comes down.

Hey, I'm just a rock and roll fan. That's all I've ever been. Of course as I say every night when I'm performing, I don't know where this ride is going to lead us. It's going to have music, fast and slow, spoken word, ad libs, scripted elements, dirty jokes and pot shots at big wigs. And what is it to me? Rock and Roll baby. I never wanted to be a blogger, or a political pundit, I just got off on singing "Gloria" by Them at the top of my lungs. It made all my troubles, (and living with alcoholic parents, there were plenty of insane times) it made all that shit disappear.At least temporarily. AND IT STILL DOES. If it didn't, Good Christ, I don't know what I'd do. And lately I've been thinking about that a lot.Maybe the guy living in the mansion that my son had his play date with today does righteous work. Maybe he's a doctor or a social worker and he changes lives for the better everyday. Maybe he's a teacher or a spiritual leader. Maybe he's a honest politician, (oh baby, I'm skeptical about that one) but how come when a young lady brings home a young man to meet her parents and says, "Jason is going to be a poet!" the first thing the parents, (or MOST parents anyway) think is that they got to get their daughter out of this relationship as fast as they can. Now if she were to bring home a guy and say "Jason wants to be a politician, a lawyer or a police officer" they'd think, well goody goody. Um...most of the poets I've met have infinitely greater ethics than the lawyers, cops, and politicians I've come in contact with. The next decade is going to be us taking stock without any stock if you know what I mean.

For awhile I was unable to read, or watch films or listen to music. This was the first time in my life that this had happened. I'd always found just going into a bookstore, record store or a cinema a very inspiring thing. Like these were people that had not died in vain, (I mean providing the authors were dead). that they had achieved immortality. This was a concept that struck me at a very young age. I wrote that song, "Inquiring Minds" and I naively thought that the toughest questions that my son was going to ask me were what I had done that was against the law as a youth. It was inspired by a real conversation that my wife and I had, where she was going to tell him the truth, that we didn't know the effect the drugs could have on us, that some of our friends had suffered serious consequences because of drugs, some were incarcerated, some were dead. Jesus, that seemed like an awful lot to lay on the kid so I figured I'd take the easy way out and just say, "Fuck it, no, I never did any of that stuff, talk to your mother." Seemed easy enough. But turns out the toughest questions are these: "Is there a God? What's he like? Where does he live? Is there a heaven? Is there a hell? Will I see you in heaven?" And I realized it was easy for my parents because despite the fact that I went to a public school I had "catechism" classes and they told me there was a God, and Heaven, and Purgatory and Hell and if you sinned you didn't get into heaven. Even better God was forgiving and on Fridays you could go to the priest and confess your sins and you'd feel great and pure over the weekend and you had a sure fire in into heaven. My parents, as I recall didn't really lay a lot of religious stuff on me. Once I started doing the folk masses and the only reason I did those was so I could pick up guitar tips from some of the guys that were in the folk mass club and I don't think my parents ever went to church after that because they were too hungover.Plus the guys that played in the folk mass were a little older and had really good drugs. So now my kid is 7 and his consciousness is expanding and he knows I'm going to die and he knows that he's going to die, and that his mommy's going to die. So what am I going to tell him? "Well son, the universe is some kind of universal cosmic joke that the greatest minds in humankind have struggled with and come out the other side with nothing but existential philosophies of futility and depression and the best we can hope for is that we become one again with the universe, like see that piece of cow shit over there? There's a very good possibility that that's your dead Nana. Okay? Run along have a good day. A black hole of nothingness awaits you for eternity. Want me to hook up Guitar Hero for you?" No, you bastards, of course I don't tell him that. I'm not arrogant enough to think I know any of these answers. So I tell him, sure there's a God, sure he awaits us, sure he's probably a she, (even better) and I'll meet you in heaven and we'll play video games for eternity. What would you fucking say?

So I'm very satisfied with what I'm doing with my life,no regrets, looking forward to the future and if I got to lie to my son so be it. But as I told you before I've recently become a praying man and hey, I don't mind working with a net.

Well, I figured if you read yesterday's blog you probably have figured by now that I had to let Mr. Gel go. He was the young buck in my head with all the new snappy marketing ideas and it just wasn't working out. I mean, the hair gel looked stupid, and the cologne was pretty intolerable but I think what pushed it over the edge is I walked by his cubicle and he had Nickleback playing on his ITUNES. I mean, what's this guy doing in my brain anyway? I want to have my finger on the pulse of a new generation, even if for no other reason than I'd like to steer clear of it at all costs, so I was kinda using this guy as a gauge as to what NOT to do. But no matter how essential this guy proved to be in terms of heading me in the wrong direction, (so ultimately in the "right" direction if you get my drift) there's no way I can tolerate Nickleback on any level. It's contrived bullshit. And the only redeeming factor is that the band, as I heard on an interview on VH1 actually openly admit that their main purpose in writing is to sell "hit" songs. You got to admire their honesty as opposed to other idiots I hear, Rob Thomas from Matchbox 20 immediately comes to mind, who refer to them themselves as "artists". Good Lord, is there a God? I've recently become a praying man, (I know, I know, I keep telling you) but when I hear Rob Thomas talk I have serious agnostic fits. Of course it's now public knowledge but Ann Coulter fell and had her jaw wired shut for 9 months, (honest, I couldn't make this shit up) and so you know there is some kind of Karma.


So anyway, I let Mr. Gel go. It was sad, I'm autonomous not only because I have a problem with authority but I also having a problem BEING authority. In other words, I don't want to be the boss. I don't want to fire anybody. Despite my on stage demeanor I'm pretty non-confrontational. But Mr. Gel was coming up with all these bullshit ideas that reeked of reality shows ala Brett Michaels or Tommy Lee Super groups and it just made me fucking nauseous. There's plenty of integrity out there people, I witness it everyday but it takes place in hospitals and soup kitchens and rarely in the arts, sad to say. So waiting in the wings, unbeknownst to me was this really cool tattooed, pierced hipster gal who has been itching to get her mitts inside my brain and as soon as she heard Mr. Gel was gone she stepped up and gave me the pitch. And what a cool pitch it was. She knows Mr. Gel is the enemy and to combat the enemy you have to think like the enemy and she was hip to his ill formed plans and she started suggesting really cool outside of the box ideas like fringe fests and house concerts and blog writing and new plays and books and cool ways to get my head out of my ass. But heres where I really hit pay dirt. She immediately befriended the old doll that's been working inside my brain for 50 years, and COMPLIMENTED her on her filing cabinet abilities and said theres nothing like a concrete sheet of paper especially when the hard drive in your head goes down, and then they started talking about flowers and restaurants and art and a whole bunch of other stuff like William Burroughs who it turns out they're both big fans of, (The old doll actually dated John Cale from The Velvet Underground for awhile which is a whole freak show in itself, remind me to fill you in on the gun toting details of that one sometime) before she came to work in my cranium. So, the long and the short of it is I got a happy little family in my head now. As matter of fact, I think I mentioned yesterday that I got a couple of cops in my head to remind me that I can only push the envelope so far no matter how much Lenny Bruce was crucified for my sins and this new tattooed girl, who I'll call Polly for lack of a better name bought a big box of dough nuts for the officers, (there's this really weird little mini-mall that sits at the top of my spine, around T-1, T-2, T-3, for you anatomy majors, and it sells all kinds of weird shit, snake heads, and prayer candles and switchblades and Spanish fly, and it appears only the immigrants from Tangier and Istanbul visit the place) but this new girl Polly has got everybody on the same page and she's only been there for about 3 days but I'm really anticipating synergistic results. She's subtle as hell too. She boosts my morale in weird little ways, most of the time I don't even know she's doing it and then just as we were talking yesterday about Satori's and the like I'll go, "Hey, I've been inspired, that little gal just got me moving in the right direction."

And you know as well as I do that Mr. Gel will do great. He'll end up as Brittany Spears tour manager and all his friends back home will be proud to know him and buy him drinks in the local bar. I, for my part, will be glad if someone 100 years from now puts on a piece of my music, or reads one of my blogs and goes, "Holy Shit! Where did this come from?" Won't do me much good now but at least everybody's getting along inside my head these days which is a welcome relief. Leave it to a woman to get the job done. Amen.

I can't remember if I've mentioned this or not, (ahem) but I'll be playing this Wednesday, April 15th at The Bowery Poetry Club in NYC at 8:00 sharp, (and I DO mean sharp, they don't mess around there), I plan to give the show of my life, tapers, filmers, etc are always welcomed and encouraged and bring your friends, I won't let you down. And know, as you're watching me up there that both the old school filing cabinet and the new mega bite hard drive are working hand in hand to give you the best show possible.

Don’t you love those minor awareness’s? The epiphany or Satori? Maybe like me you grapple with a song lyric, or sometimes a bit for the show, or just a snag in your everyday road, and you mull it over in your head, and continue to think about it and it won’t let you rest, and you turn it over and turn it over and then maybe you forget for a little while and then BINGO in the shower, (there is where I traditionally break the code on this kind of stuff) it comes to you in a flash, you’ve been over- thinking and it’s something simple, a solution or a new way and you think, “Geez, why didn’t I think of this before?” Its awful cool when that stuff happens, you try it out and it fits like a glove. And it’s a fine line between over- thinking and wringing the initial passion out of something and worrying about it for just enough time to find just the right words or plan to get the thing, whatever it be, in the right mode.

One would like to think that inside one’s head there is a team of experts, solving problems, looking to the future, making the right visionary moves so that your ass is covered but I recently came to the conclusion that the team of experts that are working in my brain are not on the same page. That there is some “in fighting” that needs to be addressed. For instance, when I’m on stage and I’m just kind of “riffing” which is my favorite thing to do, maybe just improvising on a theme, deviating from the script if you will, maybe utilizing some things that are happening right there at the moment and working them in hopefully a fresh new way to give the audience something special, something they’ve never heard before, nor will again that let’s them know they are participating in a one time experience. Yesterday, I drove 11 hours, fighting Easter traffic, (it I had thought about this more I would have come to the conclusion that on a Friday, Highway 95, a failed route from Maine to Florida on the best of days was going to be hellish) and it sure was. I left my house in New York at 11 and didn’t arrive to the gig in Charlottesville Va until 9:30, immediately played and was back on the road at 12:30 and home and 6:00AM, and having listened to Jailhouse Rock by Elvis 20 or 30 times in my car I felt inspired to review the songs I will be recording for my new record produced by Ani in May with some new insight into a singing style. Bear in mind that this album is going to be my first with just me and a guitar in the studio and I need all the help and inspiration I can muster to get across what I’m hoping my masterpiece to be. So I hit the sack a tired but happy man.

Now let’s get back to this team of experts inside my head. They say that everything you encounter is stored in your subconscious whether it’s readily retrievable or not. And it appears that there is an old lady inside of my head who has been there for 50 odd years. She has no desire to retire, she’s content with her job, she kind of knows me to be the idiot I am but she’s established a mild respect, possibly even minor affection for me, she has seniority and she is tenured and she’s reluctant to move into the modern age. She has meticulously for years guarded the filing cabinets that make up the info in my brain. And when I need a funny obscure reference at a moments notice while on stage she’s been with me long enough to retrieve said file at a moment’s notice and get it over to my mouth and spew it out very quickly. But unbeknownst to me there’s a new kid, a young Turk if you will, you know with the spiky gel in his hair and some kind of fashionable cologne that wants to relay all this information onto the hard drive of my brain and he’s constantly at odds with this old woman. I can sense the internal stress that the two of them run into on a daily basis. Both of them digging in their heels in stubbornness. While they’re fighting I think I was joined or somebody was hired in my brain in the form of a Slacker. I don’t even remember this being internally posted. I think he just wandered in, felt comfortable and never left. Must have been when I was recuperating from my accident and was high all the time on Percocettes. He hangs around, doesn’t do a whole lot of work, he’s resented because of this by the old doll and the youthful corporate up and comer and yet oddly, (and I think I acquired this guy while living in Austin) he occasionally mumbles stuff that is absolutely brilliant. He’s worth his weight in gold with the occasional genius comment. Then he gets back on his computer and you don’t hear from him for days. He has an elitist disdain for both the corporate guy and the old lady. And probably me too which pisses me off in light of the fact that I give him free room and board and he NEVER buys any toilet paper and leaves graphic novels all around the floor of my head. He’s kind of like the Jack Black character in High Fidelity or the fat comic book store owner in The Simpson’s. He was the guy at the indie record store, you know when there used to be indie record stores, that condescended to you even though he was only making minimum wage and hadn’t been laid in 5 years, if ever, frankly, his personality being his greatest form of contraception. But, he’d send you home with an album that would blow your mind so were kind of a slave to his condensation. Was that a run on sentence? Fuck it. You got the idea.

Anyway, these are just the dominant figures currently that are consuming me. Then, of course,there’s the stand by Devil and Angel. You know, I guess your conscience trying to steer you from right from wrong. And it’s a tough world out there these days. You want to remain ethical, if for no other reason that it’s the right thing to do, and Karma can bite you in the ass, but sometimes you’re tempted to cut corners because you got a family to feed. You all know what I’m talking about here, there’s no need to go into details. So now there’s like 5 people running around in my head all vying for priority. And what about the guy yelling to eat? Or when the muse strikes and you need to do something creative? This is a lot to juggle. And I ain’t the most intellectually superior son of a gun that walks the planet you know? I call meetings to try to get all these people together, I’m calling it the Sybil sessions but people fail to show. And how am I going to reprimand them? With a lobotomy? I need all the help I can get up there. I’m letting young Mr. Gel (as I’m calling him) relay all the files to hard drive and letting those two fight it out. I’m doing both Prozac and Lexapro and they act as policeman and occasionally report back but there’s a manager up there, not unlike a Colonel Parker that tries to shield me from the hard choices so the cops stay clear of me. Plus I have a real problem with authority. And then as Jiminy Cricket once said, “I’m letting my conscience be my guide” I guess it’s the best I can do. Although lately I’ve been noticing that Jiminy is hanging around with the wrong crowd upstairs, you know smoking cigarettes and God knows what else in the playgrounds of my mind so I’m worried I’ll make the right call. (That "playgrounds of my mind" thing could have been a bad Rod McKuen poem, I’ll steer clear in the future.But I meant it literally as opposed to metaphorically so cut me a break.) Rumors around the water cooler located in the rear of my cranium is that I’m losing my mind and that all these brain participants will be out of a job soon if I’m committed to an asylum. It sounds so appealing and relaxing to me. A robe and slippers, playing bad checkers and downed to the max.Infinitely better then taking a hack saw to my forehead and trying to release the demons.