Mid Sixties. That Junior Walker Is Really Something, But Buddy And Stacey Need To Ditch That Lefty Guitar Player If They're Going To Make It Big

I Need Something Beautiful Right Now (Again)

I've too much to do, and not enough time to do it.

That's fine; we all seek out that situation, if it's not supplied to us already. The newspapers are always filled with things about simplifying our lives. It's nonsense, always. We'd fill up whatever space we made in our lives with something else, the minute we had a free moment.

Life is richer, and fuller, than at any time in the past. I'm not that old, but I remember the limitless road of drudgery laid out in front of me when I was a young man. Get a job, do it, make your replacements on this mortal coil, watch Gilligan's Island, die. Join the sepia ranks of the anonymous.

Work and family are still all that matter to me in the world, that hasn't changed; it's the dreary wallpaper of everyday life that's improved, and I'm all for it.

Sometimes I catch people wishing for misery, nostalgic for a time when they were forced by circumstances to huddle together. They feel lost out in the landscape of life, and want company. And if you're not willing to go back to their crabby world, they'd like to thrust you back into it. No thanks.

I know people I would not have known if this box of electronics wasn't on my desk. I've seen places I've never been to, and will never visit. I know things I would not have known. I've been reminded of things that would have remained forgotten. I've seen that anybody that thinks they know very much about any one thing is a fool, and that anyone that thinks they know very much about everything is a total ass, and should mind their own business.

As I said, I'm busy, and pressed for time. I've seen the inside of one room for too long. I need to see something beautiful right now.

No sweat.

The Museum of Fine Arts in Boston.

Carpenter Poets

Reader Jason Gordon wrote to tell me about the Carpenter Poets:

On a Thursday night back in 2004 one of the men came into James's Gate Pub with some poems from a book called "Hammer" by poet and carpenter Mark Turpin. Inspired by what they read, this group of Jamaica Plain carpenters challenged themselves to each write a poem: a poem about their work, a poem about carpentry.

Thank god for the Intertunnel; if it wasn't for this intellectual periscope I have going here, I'd never know about nuthin'. That's about a 50 minute drive from here, and I'd never hear about it. At first blush, I thought I'd never seen such a thing, and wondered at it. I've written a few lines of doggerel for a lark here, but I'm no poet, though my feet are longfellows, har har. Upon reflection, I realized I'd participated in something similar my whole life.

Not poetry, though. Music. I've played music, for money, with dozens of carpenters and painters and general contractors and cabinetmakers. Hmmm. Oh yes, I forgot; set painters at Universal. Welders. Carpet installers. Pool masons. Plasterers...

I realized all of a sudden that the majority of musicians I've known have worked with their hands at the same time. If you watch the video of my son playing in a pick up combo of his father's friends, there's a General Contractor/framing contractor and a shingle sidewaller turned cabinetmaker in there along with me, who is a -- well, whatever I am, I fit in there. Only the drummer was an academic -- a college professor. If he didn't show, Lumpy the plumber would take his place, so we could have gone the whole megilla if we wanted to.

We were the opposite of the stereotype. We weren't frustrated musicians working menial jobs waiting for our big break in music. We liked our day jobs and played music for a little money and some laughs. Only the contractor types were worth a damn anyway, as far as music. A real music job is very much like a building contract. You have to plan, and show up on time, and stay sober, and understand the logistics of the equipment. You have to be able to set up and repair your broken tools on the spot. You have to work closely with others. You have to figure out in advance what the customer wants, and deliver it skillfully. There's a great deal of heavy lifting, generally at two AM in a sketchy neighborhood. You have to work whether you're sick or not; the only serious injury I've ever had since becoming a wood butcher was a chisel stuck to the bone in the meaty portion between the thumb and index finger of my left hand about a dozen years ago. That's the spot the neck of your instrument rests on. I assure you I was on a plane to Denver two days later to play with my hand wrapped like a mummy.

We had lots of guys come and go that had way more talent than many of us that stuck. Talent don't matter all that much. You gotta show up. That seems to be hard for artiste intellectuals to understand.

I see the Carpenter Poets, and I see many things. Above all, I know they'll show up and the poems won't be half done. Their performance won't be a sneer towards the listeners because the performer thinks they deserve a better class of audience. It will be real, and real is hard to come by in this world, and precious.

I feel better about the world knowing the Carpenter Poets are in it, doing the two things in this world worth doing to me. I feared I was a brontosaur, and there's a comet in the night sky.

The Carpenter Poets.

Hilaridad Ensues

My son the loon was required to produce a commercial for an imaginary restaurant of his own invention. In Spanish. I cannot recommend having a mouthful of coffee while pressing the play button.

Aaron Copland (November 14, 1900 – December 2, 1990)

He named it "The Promise of Living."



Funny, I've been promised a living my whole life, and it never seems to show up. Ah well.

The Entertainment Value Of Commercials Is Generally Higher Than The Programming They Interrupt

To Work Alone (But I Repeat Myself)

[Editor's Note: Something like three years old, this one is.]

{Author's Note: Something like Yoda, that comment was. An editor there is not}

I work alone.

Not always, of course, but generally. This was not always the case.

I've worked in about every kind of work setting. Mill building. Clean room. School. Office. Concrete block building. Ditch. Shed. Barroom. Boat. Hospital. Home. Above ground. Below. Hot. Cold. Dry. Damp. Boring. Terrifying.

The vagary that makes any setting go is the other people. And now there aren't any.

I've been responsible for hundreds of employees at one time, and just a few at others. Hundreds of employees is much easier. When you only have two, and one is named "Rob," and you find out that "rob" is a verb, not a noun, you've got a fifty percent failure rate. I had a guy constantly found sleeping at his workstation "working" for me once. He was just one in a hundred. No big deal.

But to work alone is to be your own annoyance. You're the laziest, stupidest person present. There is always a person to encourage sloth -- you; but there is never anyone to shame you into holding up your end. You've got both ends. And the end in the middle.

Sometimes, the light is good. The tools are sharp. The wood is flat. The mosquitoes are on vacation. Your shoes fit. There are no splinters. Whatever you look for is on the shelf. The dimensions add up. Vivaldi comes on the radio. The money comes. The floor is swept. Nothing is late. The phone does not ring unwonted. The blade does not wander.

And when all that happens...

How the hell would I know? I'd settle for two of those things at the same time. I'm all alone.