Home

     Are those of us with a fixed "home" better off, somehow, than people who might not have a constant place to call home?

     Wait. I don't feel like I have a fixed home. Those of you who've known me for more than a little while know that I've long struggled to be truly comfortable in my environs.

     My friend Kir's mom still lives in the house in Columbus that Kir and her brother grew up in. But that doesn't make Kir immune to the vagaries of life in 21st century America. 

    My favorite 13-almost-14-year-olds have each lived in ... let's see ... at least four different houses apiece. I love them both and I know they like me, but are they damaged because they haven't been able to really put down roots? They're glorious kids, effervescent and lovable and witty and creative and brilliant. They know they have people who love them, I know they know that. I'll have to ask them what they think about this. I'm optimistic that they'll be OK.

     This afternoon, I drove past the house I grew up in, the place I called home for, gosh, 35 years. It's just a 1920's house, solid and friendly, and I always have to try not to cry when I see it. I mean, why cry over a house? But I usually cave, especially if I'm alone, and let 'er rip. It was a good place, and it feels good to have a connection to it. But it's somebody else's home now, and that's out of my control.

     So I drove farther, to some land we own that's really not in the middle of nowhere but looks like it could be. It's three miles close to a couple of little towns, but you can't see them from the property. When I was a little kid, it was pasture land, and Mom and Dad and I would drive up there once every weekend just to check the fence and check on things and make sure somebody's beer party hadn't left too much of a mess. I'd catch tadpoles and turtles and snakes and run around with abandon. I'd sit by the windmill while my parents were driving around checking fence (hmmmm.... hmmmm ... that's an interesting euphemism, now that I think of it ... ) and sing at the top of my lungs and imagine that I'd be famous someday. It's probably the place where I learned to drive, too. 

     Today I drove my rental car through the mud and snow to get out there, where it's 150-some acres of corn stubble this year, potato leavings next year. It was so glorious to stand at the high spot and just stare at the clouds and the horizon ... and breathe.

    

     Here, a few things I like about being home:

     ... driving down the middle of our blacktop road with impunity.

     ... waiting for a miles-long Union Pacific coal train, bedecked with garish Homer Simpson graffitti.

     ... meeting my dad's new friends at the place where he lives, and reconnecting with old family friends.

     ... meeting people from my past and finding out how nice it feels to reconnect.

     ... staying at the marvelous old house in my hometown that's been turned into the sweetest b&b.

     ... being able to see forever.

     ... $2 hamburgers and cheap beer at Glur's.

     ... hearing the trains go through town.

     ... being reminded of just how beautiful Nebraska is.

      

You just never know

Do the sidewalks in your town roll up after about 9:30 p.m. or so?

 

It's awfully hard to find a companionable place to hang out here after I get off work at 12:30 a.m. on weeknights. I just want to be with people for a little bit, to hear some stories, hear some jokes, connect with the regulars. I don't ask much, and I don't aspire to have more than a beer or two.

So on a recent Monday night after I'd worked my last day shift ever (more on that another time), about 10 or so, we decided to check out Abilene's Christmas party. Admittedly, we were fashionably late, considering things got started about 7 or so. But there were maybe five cars in the parking lot, seven cars on the street, total. And I'm thinking, "Geez, Rochester, c'mon!"

  

Now, the thing about Abilene is, it's in a bizarro neighborhood, across the street from the hall where Lucinda Williams was supposed to have played last fall and around the corner from a hip-hop joint. But the lighting is good and security vigilant, so I've never not felt safe there. 

And once you're inside, well, I think I like it so much because it reminds me of Glur's Tavern in Columbus. (Ah, finally, a Nebraska connection in this blog!) Great wooden floor, nooks and crannies, edgy but lovable bartenders. Except that Glur's wasn't a gay bar in a previous incarnation. It's always been Glur's. 

Abilene's a little snug, and that's a good thing. It's hard to tell how many people are really there, usually not as many as it feels like, unless there's a great band playin' and then it can get very cozy.

And once we got inside that Monday night, it turned out to be just cozy enough. The band was decked out in Christmas goofiness, as were a few folks in the crowd. There was a little dancin' goin' on, but mostly people just relaxing and having a good time. And then I spied Mr. JazzFest, John Nugent. OK, spied isn't exactly the word; it's kind of hard to miss a guy wearing a Santa hat rimmed with flashing lights. And lo and behold, he breaks out his sax and starts playing Christmas carols. He didn't steal the show, just played a few songs with the band and wandered the bar playing songs like "Frosty the Snowman." Stuff so irresistably sweet and corny, you had to smile.

It was one of those sweet moments that makes it so darn hard to hate Rochester for very long.

P.S. And for those of you who might have been at Abilene on Saturday  and saw us dancing perhaps a little too, uhm, vociferously ... we're OK. Bruised, yes, but OK. I just hope I didn't land on somebody's iPod.

Twisted communique

A man I've known for a really long time, who lives more than a thousand miles from me, will contact me out of the blue once or twice a year. That's often enough, because we haven't seen each other for so long that we do run out of things to say. Even though we care about each other a great deal.

So yesterday, unprovoked, at least consciously, I get this from him:

"A dream upset me, and I awoke, mad at you! It was silly. I googled you, and now I feel better. Must sleep more."

Boy, isn't that just the state of life in the 21st century?

We dream, we feel, we google.

C'est la fromage.

Prep work

What prepares us for life? Eating a good breakfast, a stop at Starbucks, Kool-Aid, Wonder Bread? Sadism, monochromism, elitism? Nonpartisan, exertion, Capri Sun?

Can you prepare for a decidedly indulgent weekend by bulking up on decadence? By being in solid physical shape? Or does debauchery take less of a toll on those who have less to lose? How much is too much to lose?

How do we prepare, then, for change? How does a man prepare for his daughter's departure into adulthood?

Two of my guy friends have daughters now who are the same age I was when I went off to college. Seeing these men struggle with this, the letting go, makes my head spin. 

My grandfather's third wife died the week before I was scheduled to leave for college, a time zone away. So my mom stayed behind while Dad drove me off to my freshman year. It was just us – and everything imaginable shoehorned into that 1978 Chevy Impala – on that 8-hour trip. Thank God it was a time before PCs, laptop or otherwise, and before microwaves were small enough to fit in dorm rooms.

I'm sure the drive felt to me like any other drive across Nebraska at age 17: Desolate and predictable and conducive to a good, long brain massage. I was thrilled to be leaving so much behind, and thrilled to be entrusted with so much uncertainty.

Did Dad and I talk along the way? I can't imagine that we did. What would we have said? We couldn't exactly talk about the weather, because it was laid out there in front of us in a thousand miles of horizon. Did we talk about money? Yeah, right. I'm sure it was a very, very silent trip. 

A trip punctuated, after about six hours, by the mountains in the distance, and the thrill of knowing that after a lifetime of dreaming it, I'd finally BE in Colorado.

We found the dorm and did all that check in stuff and unloaded the car and I shooed Dad away. I'm sure I hopped on my bike and rode around campus and around town and was spared the altitude sickness that badgers me as an adult. I found the convenience store across the street from the dorm and had my first-ever bagel with cream cheese and sprouts and felt scared and victorious at the same time.

I never stopped to think about what that drive home must have been like for my dad.

Dancing barefoot in the rain

(Originally posted 07.25.08; revised to fix goofy line breaks.)

Do people train for festivals? Can you prepare yourself for four days of madness by, say, jumping up and down non-stop for 30 minutes three times a week? Shouldn't we be dancing like maniacs in our living rooms every Saturday night for a couple of hours? Just so that when the festival finally comes, we can be cool about it. We won't sweat, we won't ache, we won't get sunburned. Our calf muscles will be resilient and our bladders extra durable.

But it's the brain that can really take it all in. The brain can hack it. Your brain WANTS all the music you can feed it. My experience pales next to that of people who were at the GrassRoots Festival all four days. But in the course of two days, I saw – listened to, experienced, connected with – a dozen bands. And my brain could have taken  – no, it CRAVED – more.

There was some goofy crap. The self-absorbed and poorly named Sutras, for example.

And that donkey stuff – Cyro Baptista and Beat the Donkey. Holy Moses! Such glorious chaos. It was Arcade Fire meets The Electric Company. 

The best shows? Let's just go with my favorite shows.

The sweetest shows are always the ones where the musicians are having a great time ... and they're marveling at the fact that YOU'RE having a great time as a byproduct of THEIR great time.

That's the way it was with Balfa Toujours and with Eilen Jewell. Both bands were so fun, so sweet, so engaging. I can't wait to see them again. Can't wait to see The Lee Boys again, too. What a deal: I got to stand next to three guys in three different bands playing three different styles of pedal steel guitar. Lorrrr-dee!

And then there's Walter Mouton and his Scott Playboys. Walter, who's nearing the end of his career, has played the festival since the beginning. He was talking up his New Year's Eve show, and after that, he'll be sittin' still down in Louisiana, letting people play for him.

But the sweetest thing: He's playin' Saturday night, 7:30 or so, and a little-bitty girl, probably about 3, is dancing like little kids do, with a sense of discovery and abandon, right in front of him as he's playing his accordion. And he's grinnin' like there's no tomorrow, like this is what it's all about: Making people happy and setting a new generation up to carry it on.

There was a point in that very same tent when I thought, where AM I? It was the oddest sense of deja visite. It was this spatial blend of North Carolina and Colorado and California and all my favorite places, right there in the Dance Tent.

The best times were when it looked like rain and nobody else was dancing, down front or anywhere. So here's a neat trick: You lift the nearest construction-zone barrel, the orange-and-white things they use to cordon off space so cars and people stay separated. You lift the puppy up every so slightly and tuck your extra shirt and your purse or backpack underneath, and they'll be dry and mighty when you're ready for them.

Why are people afraid to dance in the rain? You've got nothing to lose. I saw the crew put fresh straw down over the mud puddle toward the end of the Lucinda Williams' show, so I knew it was clean. It's just dirt and water and straw, folks. The manure doesn't get into the straw until later, OK? Why are people so uptight sometimes?

Next chance you get, find your sweetie or a reasonable facsimile thereof and dance in the rain. Barefoot makes it all the better. It just might could change your life.

Of course, I feel bad for the nice gentleman wearing white denim jeans who was standing next to the mud puddle we were dancing in. I tried REALLY hard not to splatter him, I swear I did.

One last observation:

Thousands of people at this thing. Some you'll see more than once or twice. Sometimes you'll wind up next to the same guy at the next show. It's kind of cute – ahh, you again!

So, on my Day 2, who do I stand in line for the shuttle bus with, and sit next to on the bus?

Rainey.

What a treat it was to get to visit with him again. We were both pretty tired out, but happy as pigs in shit.

This whole thing was possibly the most fun I've had in New York since moving to New York.

Even getting a sure-to-be-budget-altering speeding ticket 45 minutes into the drive home didn't faze me. I was so mellow about it, I wonder if the cop just figured I was hungover.

Alas, the new Sam Phillips album will always have a bit of that "busted" taint to it, I fear.

It was so nice to give my feet a good, long soak when I got home Sunday.

And the calves go "Mooooo."

Safety third

I didn't plan sufficiently for attending the GrassRoots Festival last weekend, but maybe that's the whole point.

Spontaneity. 

Safety third, as one woman's t-shirt said.

Taking just one day off for the four-day shebang was just plain dumb. But I didn't know. I knew it'd be cool, but I didn't know I'd be hooked. That first day was so ... intoxicating (and it was an alcohol-free day, too, bizarrely enough) ... that when the option arose to come back for another day, I forgot I'd made other plans and decided to blow my budget and do it again.

Here, let me try to convey to you why you should make the trip to next year's festival and, in the process, remind myself of why I loved it so much.

KARMA. The parking is free. The shuttle bus is free. These people are nuts. Have they forgotten that this is New York, and patrons are to be squeezed and screwed at every opportunity? 

The shuttle bus is obscenely air conditioned. I wind up sitting next to a guy in a floppy hat named Rainey. Rainey's from North Carolina, down by Fayetteville, and we compare notes. Is this your first time here? (Yup, and yup.) Did you ever go to the Eno Festival? Where did you go hiking? Which do you like better, Topsail or Wrightsville Beach?

He's not sure he's happy in North Carolina, and I try to tell him what fond memories I have of being there.

He's a sweetheart, but he's not so sure. Still, it's a treat to reminisce about North Carolina with him. Hanging Rock State Park; Eno River Park; what's that state park down by Buies Creek, I ask him? Raven Rock, right? (How is it that I can remember Buies Creek, home of the Campbell Camels, but not the name of the park?) We laugh and shake our heads at the coincidence of running into someone who knows about the same stuff. 

He has driven up here, alone, for the festival. His kids, 19 and two 16-year-olds, wouldn't be caught dead hanging out with their dad, couldn't abide this music. Rainey knows no one up here, but has attended the sister festival in N.C., the Shakori Hills fest, over in Chatham County, so he knows he'll enjoy this one. 

I tell him I admire his courage.

With a big grin, he tells me his car broke down and he was late getting here, but he's here now and it has all worked out just fine.

We get to the gate and laugh and smile and marvel at our good fortune and wish each other a happy festival. 

MORE KARMA. Bagged ice, hard to come by at the campground. On Day 2 (which was actually Day 3 for real festivalgoers), I schlep some in. No big deal. Not like its contraband or anything. I don't think there IS such a thing as contraband at this festival. A friendly guy pitching an evil-looking camouflage tent sees me walking with my bag of ice and shouts, "Hey, where'dja get the ice?"

Ahh, I brought it from home, I say, shrugging my shoulders and smiling.  Sorry!

I get to the tent and dig around to find the keys to the car, where the cooler is stashed. My ineptness gets the better of me and I cannot find the freaking keys. 

Here I am, on an 85-degree day, and no place to stash the extra ice.

So on the way to catch the shuttle bus to the festival, I bestow the ice upon Mr. Cabela'sTent. He wants to pay me for it and I just smile and laugh and shake my head and walk away. 

SAFETY THIRD. What are the odds that my partner-in-festival-attending-crime and I would agree on what should be first and second? Without even missing a beat. 

(Have you noticed a problem here? We're talking about a music festival and I haven't even begun to talk about the music. Which truly was the best part. Or maybe the festival WAS just as much about the people, now that you mention it.)

OK. More about the music in the morning, then.

She is my inspiration

... well, sort of.

For starters, I can tell you that Lucinda Williams is an outie.

Yes, it was that hot and her t-shirt was that tight when we saw her play the other night at the Grassroots festival down in Trumansburg.

Lordamighty, that girl ... . 

She reminds me of some of the, shall we say, more adventuresome girls I knew in junior high (Kir and Kerri, you're not on the list, believe me). From time to time, I'd seen pictures of Lucinda and I knew that surely a picture of her is in the dictionary under "rode hard and put up wet."

But that's not the inspiring part.

She's written some great songs, and aided by lyric sheets, she cranked out a few of them Thursday night. She can put together a fantastic band -- great guys who make her sound like a million bucks. She's a captivating temptress of a singer ... even when she's a little under the weather and easing the rasp with jello-shooter-cups of honey. Toward the back of the stage, a jug of Maker's Mark and a Dixie cup are at the ready.

And she wasn't even fazed by the boorish gaggle of young gentlemen who thought Lucinda and all of us down in front would appreciate the simultaneous smoking of two or three cigars during the entire show.

Nope. Here's the really endearing thing about L.W.:

She has love handles.

Woo-hooo!

(The dorky ads on Facebook call it muffin top, which must be some 21st-century construct from a movie I missed or something.)

I know that's cheesy and catty, but here's a performer who obviously doesn't have a personal trainer. 

At least she's no hypocrite.  She's who she is – bed hair and Chuck Taylors and all.

And that suits me just fine.

We're all for more soul

Our friends over at the Music Critics Association of North America are rousing a little rabble this week:
"Having writers on staff qualified to report and comment on local classical musical activity -- and the other arts -- should be as important as having good reporters cover athletic events or town hall meetings. Critics are among the writers who help to give a newspaper its personality, its value and, we would argue, its soul."

Those of you who know the likes of Chris Shull, John Pitcher and Scott Cantrell know that to be true.

Why didn't we think of this?

This Fourth-of-July-celebratin' list of songs about (regarding, mentioning, referencing) every single state is pretty cool. 

The Texas ones are the best.

Maybe it's catching on

So, what would it be like if newspapers covered the arts the way we cover sports?
Somebody must have lit a fire under those crazy Brits, from our friends at MPR.
Tell me what you think.

Worth the trip

Let me tell you a little more about this little venture we've got goin' up here affectionately known as jazz fest (lowercase, thank you very much).

When you've got nine days and a laminated thingus that gives you access to just about any show you'd want to see, as long as you're occasionally willing to stand in line for 60 or 90 minutes, well, it's easy to feel reeeeeally hungry for jazz.

Psychologically, you want to pack it all in. You want to get your money's worth. You think, geez, if I go to the 5:30 show at Club L, I can catch the 8 o'clock over at K, and then the 10 o'clock at M.

And you do this for six, seven, eight, nine days straight. You're proud of yourself for having it all figured out ... and you get a little batty.

Maybe it's like being a cruise ship virgin.

Cruise ship virgins try to pack it all in, every day, every meal, every land excursion.

But the veterans know you might as well relax. The midnight chocolate buffet will be there again; every day is worth savoring because you just don't know what might happen next. Your itinerary might be dismantled by a hurricane and you'll miss St. Barts, but you'll get more time at Half Moon Cay.

You say I digress, but there's logic at work here, trust me.

There's something to be said for weaving in some good conversation, some pool playing, some cocktailing along the way instead of trying to pack so many shows onto one's plate at jazz fest. 

Maybe that's a nice metaphor for life, too, now that you mention it.

The thing about having lived through a jazz fest or two is that I've learned I'd rather take it easy. I love the way I can decide at 6 p.m. that I'll just lock my door and walk on over and stand in line for the John Scofield show. What the heck. Now, remember, I trashed his ass last year. Just could not abide that Trio Beyond stuff. But I have to admit, maybe I just wasn't in the mood. I was all gooey-eyed over ... smirksigh ... I'm almost embarrassed to say it ... I was all besotted over Jean-Luc Ponty. Hey, I have more Ponty LPs than Scofield LPs, OK, so it stands to reason.

Sort of.

But this year, the John Scofield Trio was worth the walk. Listening to their gig was like watching art being created. The interplay between these guys was breathtaking. Toward the end of the set, the most amazing thing happened: During a Bill Stewart drum solo, Scofield and the bass player, Steve Swallow, backed him up in a way that almost let Stewart create the melody, like reality folded over on itself.  I've never seen or heard anything like it. They bookended him in the most magical, supportive way, keeping the beat and letting the drummer go off on a lyrical flight of fancy.

Sco', as my buddy Jack Garner likes to call him, was HOT. If you've never seen this guy in action, you really ought to check him out. You know I'm a fan of great guitar work, and Scofield has become one of my favorites. I'm not sure I'd die to have a beer or a baby with him like I would Clapton, but he's right up there. 

Perhaps you'd prefer to catch them (plus the ScoHorns) now through Sunday at the Blue Note.

By the way, The Bad Plus exercise a different sort of addition next week at the JVC Fest down in NYC, so maybe you can see them there, too. 

I'm off in search of more pool and more Porkslap Ale for my music-lovin' friends.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Camping, my arse

Guys, the next time I tell you I'm going to go camping instead of going to a nine-day music festival in my back yard, would you hit me upside the head, please?

Camping. What was I thinking?

Don't get me wrong. I like the idea of camping. Being unplugged for a few days, hiking my butt off, avoiding the ordinary stressors – I can get into that. 

But doing that in lieu of attending the jazz festival, while it felt like a good idea for the last six weeks or so, was just ... wrong.

I knew it as soon as I slipped my Club Pass lanyard over my head for the seventh year in a row. What kind of fool am I, I thought, to walk away from THIS? As Timo Lassy and his band got going at the Lutheran Church of the Reformation, I knew I had no business curling up in a tent anytime, anywhere this month.

Jazz has been a natural, expected part of my life for what seems like forever. From my Uncle Ed putting Kind of Blue on for background music during Thanksgiving dinner to a high school band teacher named Larry Marik trying to impart things he had learned at North Texas State to a bunch of ornery flatlander kids, I've been lucky. Jazz just is; I've taken it for granted, really; never really stopped to think about how or why it is what it is, or why I like it, in most of its forms.

So from catching that first gig Friday night, through The Bad Plus and its Plus One on Saturday, a quick set with Robin McKelle – "If you like that sort of thing"– and on to John Scofield and his trio Sunday night, I am definitely in the right place at the right time. 

Aided and abetted, of course, by the gracious confines of the fabulous new Abilene Bar and Lounge, with its pristine new pool table and Porkslap Pale Ale for $2 a can. The music here has been surprisingly superlative, and we'll be back.

Covering classical music the way we cover sports

How do we come by our passions? What fires you up? Who turns you on?
And how does that happen?

I was a musical kid, playing violin, piano, guitar, French horn; making up music on the piano, making up songs to sing out in the middle of a pasture or cornfield where nobody could hear me. Everybody figured I'd be a music major in college. I grew up knowing that Oberlin, Juilliard and Eastman were places to aspire to.

All along, through youth symphony and All-State and music camp and weekly treks to Omaha or Lincoln for lessons, as I got older, my musical friends and I seemed to have a sense I was better suited to a supporting role in the world of music than to a performing/creating role.

So after deciding that making newspapers was more fun than making music, life kind of took over and my awareness of my musical options ebbed and flowed. Thank God for WCPE-FM; as a volunteer announcer there, I made so many good friends and learned so much about classical music.
When I moved away and got divorced and tried to re-calibrate myself in the Central time zone, classical music took a back seat to ... I don't know. I just kind of backed away from it for a few years in the mid-'90s. I had a house and a dog and a new Cannondale bike and my mom had cancer, and I guess I started sitting still less.

And then, one night in the most fabulous city in Kansas, I met HIM.

With a laugh as big as Texas, rose-colored glasses and a Ketel One martini, he blew me away. He loved NASCAR and the Dallas Cowboys and OPERA.

Ka-POW!

And I started going to concerts again. Started shooting pool with classical guitarists and anybody else who'd be passing through town, looking for a pre- or post-concert diversion.

When we would go to a concert, say, a symphony concert in a traditional auditorium setting, this guy would, when appropriate, GO NUTS if the performance warranted it.
Hoot and holler, stomp his feet, pump his fist in the air -- he was unabashed in his enthusiasm for great art.
It scared me at first. Embarrassed me. Gaaaah! Who IS this freak?
But then it dawned on me: This is a perfectly normal reaction to being MOVED.

And we'd shoot the breeze with the performers afterwards, and his sometimes obnoxious gregariousness was so very real. He CARED about great music, whether it was being performed in a city-sanctioned venue or a renovated barn out in the country.

In the course of rediscovering classical music -- in Kansas, home to just as much culture and talent and passion as anywhere, thank you very much -- I started thinking that there had to be a better way for newspapers to help make the connection between readers and all the options out there.
Why NOT tap into the enthusiasm, the curiosity that's a natural part of art? Why not fire up conversations about it? Why not talk to the performers about how the concert went, how they felt about the program, what the soloist was like to rehearse with?Why not go backstage after the show and interview the conductor, the soloist, the last-chair second violin, and get a sense of how it felt for them. What might they have done differently? How did they feel about playing freaking STRAUSS for the umpteenth time that season?

Well, maybe it'd be too much like pulling the curtain off the Wizard of Oz.

But wouldn't those observations open up another layer of reality and give more people an opportunity to discover classical music? Wouldn't that help people make sense of it, come to terms with it? Wouldn't that be so much more interesting to read than some bozo like me
opining about what we heard and saw?
Wouldn't it help make classical music more accessible to more people?

Call me a dreamer. But my career won't be complete until I get a chance to see if we can pull this off. You'd have to have a good understanding, a good relationship with the local performing entities -- you'd need to explain to the music director of the local symphony what you were trying to do, and how it would affect her, and you'd need to get them on your side about post-game interviews in the locker room, because it's such a ... well, it's just not done. Much. Yet.

This is Rochester ... or ... Life. Is. Too. Short.

This afternoon, I managed to find my way across the river to The German House,  where a few hundred folks had gathered for a fundraiser to benefit Ben, a key member of the Wild Geese.

I'd first encountered the Wild Geese exactly 7 years ago. My friend Greg was visiting from D.C. for the weekend, and we were spending a Sunday afternoon up by the lake. We'd taken refuge in an Irish pub and proceeded to dominate the pool table ... accompanied by the fine work of this young band. 

I shot the breeze with one of the guys in the band -- could it have been Ben? He's a gregarious sort, so I suspect as much -- and fell in love with them (not him; his bride Maeve seems like she'd be a good friend of mine, were we to actually meet).

And I proceeded to sit on my ass for the next half a dozen years and never encounter Wild Geese again.

Until this afternoon.

See, Ben got bit by the same nasty (I'm going to swear here, because it warrants it) by the same nasty fucking disease that killed my friend Frosty three years ago. 

Ben was lucky. They got it before it got him, but it's not been an easy road for him.

Hence, today's fundraiser. 

The German House was packed to the gills with Irish folks, and friends and lovers of Irish folks. Being there was like being a special guest at an Irish family reunion.  Great beers, great cocktails, great company, great music. People smiling BIG, kissing old friends on the lips. 

When the Wild Geese -- let's see; five guitars, a violinist, a drummer, Maeve on bass and Ben on guitar and mandolin -- took the stage, it was Irish bedlam. He looks so good! He sounds so good!

I was balancing my checkbook in my head like an accountant on crack, trying so so hard not to cry. Numbers, Jann, numbers. Think about something else. You don't know these people. Don't cry.

But geeez, it was so awesome to see this guy who laughed at death playing like nothing had ever happened. And the audience, singing along to just about every song.

This is Rochester, folks. 

I've hated this fucking town a lot over the seven years I've been here. It's cold, it's pushy, it's overcrowded, it's rude, it's old and dingy.

But today, for all of you who've listened to me bitch these last few years, I wish you could have been with me at this performance. 

It's things like this that make Rochester what it is -- an irresistible, funny, sweet, endearing place.

I'm thinking how lucky I am to be here -- today, great music on the first day of a month that is going to be obscenely filled with great music -- and just marveling at the power and the love in this place ... and who do I see out of the corner of my eye but ....

the freaking MAYOR.

The damn MAYOR shows up.

We have the coolest mayor anywhere. I love this guy. He's a straight shooter and he supports his people and the things going on in his town. He LIVES this place. He knows what's going on and he's OUT HERE.

I'm not traditionally a big fan of mayors. They tend to be pains in the ass; pompous blowhards.

This guy? He's the real deal. God bless him.

Dr. John, playing here last year for the jazz festival, was ranting between songs about how crappy things were in Nawlins after Katrina. He had a few, uhm, unsympathetic things to say about mayors.

"But not your mayor," he said. "I'm DIGGIN' on your mayor," who was out and about and sharing the love of the jazz festival.

So. Get out there. Listen to some live music. Love your friends before a nasty disease sneaks up on them and screws up their life and yours. And have the damn huevos to make a difference where you live.

Friends don't let friends ...

Well, there once was this grand plan for some fabulous reportage this week.

So many times, when I've reviewed concerts and shows for MSM outlets, I've scurried to get my act together and make sure I know what my options are. What charts might be played, what the encore will probably be, whether there'll be more than one encore -- all that stuff, you carry with you into the hall so that you're capable of walking out of the hall and writing a review in 60 minutes or less to make your deadline.

It's a pain in the ass, to a certain degree, but playing Beat The Clock is a game I've gotten fairly good at, so it feels as though I'm making a contribution to something somewhere.

Maybe.

So as concert season really heats up in our part of the country -- and yours too, no doubt -- I'm thinking I want to do things differently here. 

I knew Bruce Cockburn's gig Monday night would be radically different from last week's Donna The Buffalo show, where I was inspired to toss aside my sandals with abandon, leaving them and a perfectly good blanket behind, and to dance barefoot in the grass down by the stage for what felt like two glorious hours. (Fie on the alleged boyfriend who didn't bother to share that with me for seven years, and god bless the one who has set me on the right path.)

No doffing of the shoes with Bruce, I figured, but surely it'd be a radical, noteworthy gig.

So I'm thinking, he deserves better than a review like I'd write if I HAD to write it. I'm gonna write a review off the top of my head, just this once. No prep, no background, just here's-how-it-was-and-here's-why-you-guys-shoulda-been-there-instead-of-down-the-street-at-Andre-Rieu.

Let me say this: You should have seen Bruce Cockburn here this week. 

But I can't tell you why I loved his show. Masterful guitar work, yes. The 12-string stuff was beautiful. I can't tell you why some of it made me cry. I enjoyed the show so much that I stayed through the whole thing, even though I promised friends I'd leave early.

Nope, I can't really tell you squat about the show because I wound up getting drunk off my ass.

 

And friends don't let friends blog drunk.

We all deserve better. I won't pull that crap again.

Somniloquence

Are we all beautiful when we sleep?

I suspect that's one of the great equalizers on the planet. Babies, lovers, adulterers, murderers.

Some more than others, I can't help hoping.

If I were as beautiful as you are when you're sleeping, I'd never get any rest.

Shoot me now #1

One editor to another, in the newsroom before tonight's big-ass RPO gala performance:

"Yo-Yo Ma ... should I know who that is?"

"Yeah, he was on Sesame Street, remember?"

You can't make this stuff up.

Less talk, fewer plans

Wouldn't it be nice if people who talked too much would somehow know they were talking too much ... and thereby shut up before you wished they would shut up?

I think I've been talking too much lately. Not sure to what that can be attributed. Just ... I'm giving out too much information for no apparent reason. And in an inexplicable way, it's getting me into a tacit sort of trouble.  If I'd just keep my mouth shut, maybe I'd have less to worry about.

And lordy, am I a planner. Let's go here, let's go there, let's do this, let's do that. I'm inherently an orchestrator. It's what I do. What's the best way to herd these cats to get from Point A to Point B by deadline? I've got you covered.

I quit planning extra things at work a couple of years ago, though, after I was taken to task for ... only at Gannett ... bringing in snacks for a seminar I was setting up. I was reprimanded for spending my own money to bring in, let's see, Pepperidge Farm Goldfish and some other faux healthy snack and bottled water and not using the in-house catering service for these things. I was appalled that my bosses didn't have the cojones to stand up for me and tell HR to buzz off. Ever since then, I've resisted the urge to plan anything other than daily must-do things.

After 3/4 of a weekend of doing next to nothing -- napping, drinking wine, reading, listening to music I haven't listened to in forever, napping some more, drinking some more wine -- wow, the absence of plans is a sweet phenomenon. 

So, for the month of May, I'm going to endeavor to say less and listen more, plan less and do more. What will that  be like? It's scary -- where's my calendar-based safety net? As long as I have plans, I'm OK, but without plans, what do I have?

No plans, no agenda, no stress.

Let me know what you think. I'll be listening.

You can pick your friends ...

Those of you with whom I've worked and played over the years know that I'm way curious about how we create great places to work and play. 

How is it that some newsrooms, some newspapers, are so much smarter than others? If we could create the perfect place to work, would we?

So I stumbled, I mean totally randomly stumbled, upon Kurt Deutscher's observations today. Had to share: Choosing a new hire? Ask a two-year-old.

Meet my pal, Sandy Mandala

One of my inspirations for this blog is the work of a friend who'd been building a significant repository of thought and observations over at his blog.

I'd give you a link to it, but that'd unravel the story.

It was a job blog, but it was a love blog, too. Love of life, love of selected family members, love of music -- all laid out there for us like so many good-looking snacks at a casual cocktail party. I never really wanted all of his posts on my plate, they didn't all resonate with me, but I was pretty satisfied with most of them. Reading what he wrote made me laugh, made me think, made me cry, made me want to do more with my life. (The best blogs do, don't they? Here's one: And she sings, too!)

On days when things were just too crazy and we wouldn't have a chance to talk, it was nice to have sort of a surreal connection to him through his blog. New posts, old posts, it didn't really matter. Just knowing he was there, wondering what he was thinking, wondering what I'd think about what he was thinking, was ... nice. 

Comforting. Inspiring. 

"Mmmm, I wish I'd written that." Or "Geez, why didn't I go to that concert?" Or "Stacking rocks? Who stacks rocks?"

And then one day -- poof! He nuked it.

I'll let him decide whether to tell you why. It is, after all, his story.

I'm out of town and his blog freaking disappears.

I was at 5,000 feet where the air is thinner anyway, but g-sus, something about not having that connection left me so short of breath, so baffled, so ... adrift.

A couple of days later, I'm in the local art museum gift shop with friends. My girlbuddy A.C., a Zen sort from way back, has discovered this fabulous toy. Except it's better than a toy. It's like a Japanese/Chinese Etch-A-Sketch. She's "painting" on a flat white surface with a brush. It's actually a brush dipped in water, and her creation goes on in black. It's soothing and beautiful -- but after a couple of minutes, it disappears. Evaporates! Poof! Totally transitory!

We don't give enough credence to the transitory nature of this medium. Poof! It could be gone tomorrow. Maybe it should be. Maybe my friend is on to something.

All I can say is, Google caching rocks. 

My turn

I get so flustered when people ask me questions. It's just not my nature; I'm usually not on the receiving end of questioning.
"What's your favorite book? What are your favorite movies?" Geeeez, I don't know. There are so many.
And then I started thinking about it last night.
What HAVE I read lately?
I just can't sit still that long.
I can't even sit still to get through the freaking Sunday Times.
What is wrong with me, that I can't focus and enjoy reading for more than five minutes at a shot?
I'll blame the speed-reading nature of my job.
Which depresses me even further.

So, here's a question for you.
I live across the street from a gloriously smooth and well-maintained bike/hike trail along the Genesee River. I'm thinking about buying some inline skates to sate my off-season skating jones.
What do I need to know about inline skating? Do I really need that package of wrist/elbow/knee pads that Dick's Sporting Goods sells for $30? Are my odds of falling on my ass greater than if I were skating on ice? And how the heck do you stop? Same way as on normal skates?

I'll let you know how it goes. Photos possible.