What’s buggin me

If there’s one sentence making me gnash my teeth and scream to the heavens right now, it’s…“You’ll never hear about this in the mainstream media, but…” Also its eye roll inducing cousin, “Nobody’s talking about this but…” and the makes-me-want-to-stomp-on-you “Crickets.” 

It’s always followed by a story I’ve read or heard, over and over again, all day, all week, or all month. On main stream media.

This week in Crickets we have, on the left, the fact that the Austin bomber seemed to be targeting people of color. On the right, we’ve got the fact that this week’s school shooter was neutralized by the armed school officer. Both left-wing nuts and right-wing nuts were off on idiotic rants about how the MSM wasn’t covering these aspects. Which they were, of course. Constantly. Sort of like, you know, actual crickets. Crickets never shut up. They say the same thing over and over again until you go down the basement and stomp em.

It would be easy to think of Crickets as being to the newfangled opinion-shaping “alt” media what the word “literally” is to today’s common speech. Sprinkled liberally throughout, with no regard for its actual meaning, as a way to impart greater significance to something that is not, in fact, distinctive and maybe not even true. Silly, but mostly harmless, reflecting only on the user’s lack of knowledge. But Crickets is not harmless. It exists to undermine that which is real and helpful, reinforcing a negative dialogue that pits neighbor against neighbor and citizen against citizen by sowing suspicion. It’s dangerous and subversive and needs to be stomped on.

As our social media platforms sort out how to deal with this new world order, I hope one algorithm could target Crickets stories and banish them to the netherworld. But since the tools they are currently using seem convinced that what I really want is a ring with a golf-ball-sized aquamarine, a huge box of diapers, and a size 20 swimsuit, none of which would look good on me right now, I’m not feeling really good about that.

So we’re just going to have to do this by ourselves. Any time we read Crickets, we call bullshit. That’s the only way we can stomp on it.

 

Obligatory election post

I haven’t written anything for this site for over a year, for a variety of reasons including being tired of writing. But it’s 4:30 in the morning of this most insane day, and who can sleep.

In a few hours I will hold my nose and vote for a woman who represents the worst of machine politics, a system that produces grasping, entitled, and enabled pocket-liners, a candidate foisted on voters by my party over more experienced and deserving competition. I’ll vote for her because she will vote in line with my interests and defend my rights as a woman, and, I hope, in line with my policy views more of the time than less. That’s why politics sucks – it means sometimes we have to vote for the likes of Katie McGinty for senate.

So I sympathize with Republicans who may be feeling caught in the same trap. But there really is no equivalence.

The Democratic presidential nominee is, indeed, a product of that same hated political machine, and therefore comes with the smell of unearned privilege. She is flawed but capable, prepared, and would take very seriously the responsibilities that go with the mantle of first woman president.

The scrutiny this woman has had to endure is mind-boggling, and the worst it has turned up seems to be she’s got a sleazy husband (I’ll give you that), she’s made a little too much money in 16 years (agreed-too much to be likeably humble, but not too much to be honest), she’s too cozy with Wall Street (maybe), she made a dumb-in-hindsight decision about her email server, and she’s got connections like any politician.

The Republican nominee is a cartoon character of willful ignorance and outlandish pomposity coupled with terrifying neediness, rampant dishonesty, disgusting vulgarity…the list is too long. He is not America, he is a parody of the worst of America.

My alarm is about to go off. Please, America, may we sleep in peace tonight.

Last time I was here it was raining

It ain’t raining anymore. 244,920 minutes, two seasons, and a radical perspective later…Ryan Adams, yet again. The man cannot be stopped, and I can’t stop seeing him.

Overall the song selection wasn’t as epic as the Hammerstein Ballroom show, which was pretty much made for me. But it didn’t matter one bit. I got to hear some stuff not covered in the last three shows, including (yay!) I See Monsters and an unforgettable Wonderwall. Maybe you’re gonna be the one that saves me. 

Last time I was here you were crying, you ain’t cryin anymore. The set’s highlight was an insanely mind-blowing Dirty Rain. Why do you see a guy over and over again? Because your mind can be blown by a somehow more intense rendition of song you’ve seen performed four times in 10 months. That’s why. And because the same notes can strike completely different nerves 244,920 minutes, and maybe a world, away.

Follow your gut, follow your heart. 

Set list:

Gimme Something Good
Let it Ride
Stay With Me
Dirty Rain
This House is not for Sale
Dear Chicago
Be My Winding Wheel
Magnolia Mountain
To be Young
Love is Hell
Peaceful Valley
Wonderwall
Kim
Nobody Girl
Oh My Sweet Carolina
Shakedown on 9th Street
When the Stars Go Blue
Houses on the Hill
New York New York
I See Monsters
Come Pick Me Up

My 52 Places #7: Staunton, Virginia

Quick spring break breakaway, down to Charlottesville figuring the boys would like to go to Monticello. Girls, not so much, but…

I decided we would stay in what looks like a bit of a funked-up town a few miles away, Staunton. Unfortunately, it’s Easter and it’s not tourist season yet, so not as much in the way of live music or even open restaurants going, but it’s my kind of place anyway – an improving downtown, a burgeoning music scene, a beer culture, and a general crunchiness. It would provide for my morning walk requirements.

A cute downtown:

A comfy coffee shop to watch the world go by. Of course due to timing not much was going by…

Easter baskets…

Residential neighborhoods on the upswing.

With sweet little streets and cute Victorians being rehabbed.

My weakness: yellow houses. And my morning walk companion.

This porch has my name written all over it.

And cats. Lots of cats.

Where are you now? Where have you been…

A beautiful blur of a week at the end of March. One post with a few themes because life is too interesting and busy to actually work at this, which is why I’m just finishing up the post in April.

First, Houston

Some pretty good property tour action and a fun dinner with colleagues. But it’s Houston, so…ick.

Then, Philly

I did not want to do the Houston trip since I had tickets to the amazing Lone Bellow, and could not figure out how to get home in time for the show. I do not understand how there can be no mid-afternoon flights from Houston to Philly. But sitting in the airport twiddling my thumbs, I chanced upon a tweet from a LB fan asking for clarification of the show time because their website and the ticket seller site said 8:00 (what I thought) and the venue site said 9:00…and YIKES! 9:00 start! With a little luck and help from USAir I could make it back to Philly and zoom into the city and find Underground Arts, which is new and a mystery to me and YES! Ran in (down actually – it really is underground) just as they launched into Take My Love which of course means all is right with the world and this week is gonna be just fucking great.

This venue, another new place to go in the Eraserhood, is not a great place to see music since it is littered with enormous obstructions so sight lines pretty much suck from much of the room. But it’s got a cool, cavelike vibe. And it’s a block from Prohibition Taproom, so…yeah.

You’re the woods at night on fire…

The LB was amazing, giving props to Philly for helping launch their career (their first gig was here – a last minute open for the Civil Wars. I was not there) and to WXPN of course. They played something called Motown Philly, which is apparently a Boyz 2 Men song. Everyone knew it but me. Other Boyz 2 Men stuff too. All fun, this band has a sense of humor. The best thing is I will see them again, very soon…

Then we take Manhattan

IR conference. Learned a few things. Mostly talked, because that’s what I do. Down to the stock exchange for a reception before the IR Magazine awards dinner (which I’m not going to. Nobody wants to give me an award, waaahhhhh).

And they actually pull my name out of a jar to be on the closing bell podium with some of my fellow IR officers. Gotta admit this was pretty cool. The folks in evening clothes were going to the dinner.

Never been up in the balcony before. This is the view of the CNBC folks getting ready to do the closing show.

Be there soon…on the L Train to Williamsburg…(wrong band, but who cares)

But on to more important things. Subway from Wall Street to Union Square. L-train to Williamsburg. It’s 55 degrees. People are playing baseball in McCarren Park. Check into my Brooklyn digs. The nice young folks welcome me back and make me feel all happy. Out of that damned suit and into a concert dress and boots. Out the door.  Down to the Cuban place next to Music Hall. Mojito. My buddy Bob calls and is actually early, will be here in a few minutes. Doesn’t know this place any more – hasn’t spent much time here since he worked in the Koch administration. More Mojito and good food. Lovely walkabout and talk before the show. It’s still 50 degrees.

And then, it’s on. Lone Bellow. Again. In their native habitat. Tree to grow, to let you know, my love is older than my soul.

I could see this band twice every week. Bob is gobsmacked. I am happy. After this we sing karaoke in a bar until 1:00. Not sure why the DJ took one look at us middle-aged straight people and decided Billy Idol was the thing, but hey. In the midnight hour, we cried more, more, more. 

Then came the morning

The next day I wake up at 8:30 (somehow Bob had texted me at 7:30 – I am really impressed – how is it possible to be awake that early after that late night – later for him since he had to go all the way home to Jersey and was probably still in the cab when I was already sound asleep – dude is hardier than me for sure I got to work at this) work in the hotel sky lounge all day while nice people bring me loads of coffee and later food. Overall it’s been a lovely stay in Brooklyn, so I’m making it Number 6 of My 52 Places. Home on the 6:00 train. If only every week could be this.

It’s alright, it’s alright…

Worn out wood and familiar songs

It’s a gray and cold and never-ending winter and I’ve already had one concert snowed out. Today the snow whammy descended again on a day when Jay Farrar is supposed to play…Arden Gild Hall. WHAAAT? By mid-morning if you were driving the view it looked like the snowpocalypse was coming. Beautiful, dismal, and disturbing.

It’s a full throttle train, an existential bane
It’s only grays and blues, when nothing else matters
It takes a strong will, to keep it caged and still
It’s only grays and blues, when nothing else matters

But something else always matters.

In early afternoon World Cafe Live at the Queen announced the cancellation of Rhett Miller’s show there. I had been disturbed for months that these shows had been booked in competition – who does that? – so now that didn’t even matter. I watched the email and social media for the inevitable kick in the teeth.  It didn’t come.

“Jay is in town and wants to go on,” the email said, “Chip Taylor can’t get down from New York, but we are lining up another opening act.” Leave it to Jay Farrar to make it better for me.

Southbound, you can taste the weather, it feels like home…

With practically everything cancelled, the plows working and rush hour, such as it was, over, the short trip to Arden was uneventful. We had visited Arden a few years ago, but had never been to the Gild Hall. Sure feels like home. The place was renovated as the Gild Hall contemporaneously with Will Price’s renovation of our home, and it’s got the same feeling.The basement, where the extra bathroom room is, certainly feels like home with its exposed…everything.

And our boy Will’s on the wall, looking at the stage.

He’s gonna love this. When I take this picture, I just don’t know how much.

Our host takes the stage a few minutes after 8:00, while we’re still all milling around and getting beers and reading painting inscriptions and deciding whether to buy the poster (yes). He apologized again for Chip Taylor not making it down (that’s OK, just saw him), and hopes we will welcome the last-minute opening act, which is

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME????????

He settled down and said hi there. And then he launched into Doreen…

With only one guitar, for which he forgot his capo and had to cutely — Rhett Miller can’t help but do every single thing cutely — sneak one off of Jay’s, Rhett did what Rhett does. For an in-shock and oh-so-smug hey this is our reward for not being snow pussies crowd.

The non-snow-pussy crowd thankful that Rhett and Jay are also not snow pussies and that Rhett never passes up an opportunity to play for his fans and that Arden is basically on the way to the airport from Wilmington and that Rhett had to catch a flight there, so hey, yeah, that worked out.

Also thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, WCL at the Queen for being snow pussies. I promise to thank you for this by coming to see Rhett when he is rescheduled.

We didn’t get talkative Jay tonight. He did his hey how you doing, noted that the gild is a cool place, said hey how about Rhett Miller coming over. That’s it. Guess no namesake Zinfandel to get the talky juices flowing.

He did the exact same show as at City Winery last month (see The Farrar Paradox). It sounded better here in the converted barn, with no lobster and no Jay Farrar Zinfandel and no $200 tab and with a crowd that included folks who walked over from their funky homes and who helped stack up the folding chairs afterward.  The cool merch was not wine but a great poster. The folks manning the merch table were not slumming models. I’ve got no interest in being a reverse snob, I love New York, but for this you sure can’t beat that Will Price vibe…

And the banishment of grays and blues. Or at least of grays. Blues and browns. Works great here. And friendliess and trust. That’ll do.

 

Walkin in the sand

For the second year in a row I have not been given my preferred oceanfront room in which I can sleep with the sliders wide open with the breeze floating in to the gentle sound of the waves…I drown my 1% sorrows with a walk on the beach.

It’s covered with these lovely, jewel-like (and very dead) jellyfish things.

Nice, but it’s time to clean myself up and go to work.

It was all yellow. For a few minutes.

It’s gray and cold. Cold cold cold. Gray gray gray, cold cold cold. Also the Phillies stink. Stink stink stink so it feels even colder and grayer. So this morning I added some color, at least for a few minutes. Palascinta time!

My 52 Places #5: Baltimore

It’s been cold, gray, and dreary for over a month now.

There’s been little snow, just way-below-freezing cold. With no incentive to go outside, I’ve been mostly hibernating. One of the bands I saw in Athens came to Philly — it was so cold that night I couldn’t bring myself to venture out. Depressing.

Abby had a sleep-over night at her chosen college, so I drove her down to Maryland. Tom came with me for quick vacation break. We planned to drop her off in Owings Mills, then head in to Baltimore, check into our hotel then cruise around Fells Point for a bit and get some dinner. Unfortunately by the time we got downtown it was so cold we could only head to the restaurant next door for dinner, then back to the hotel to watch TV. So more fun foregone. Bummer. We watched the Saturday Night Live 40th anniversary show. Tom to me: why is this funny? It’s not — the real show was funnier. Trust me.

This is our second trip to Baltimore this year, so I’m calling it one of My 52 Places, even though we’ve spent only one night each time.

The next morning it was still too cold to go outside, but we managed to get some relief from winter with color. The coffee shop in our hotel had the most amazing pastry selection, all made by the in-house chef. Chocolate-dipped cherry danish pudding…WHAAAT? It was yummy.

Then the aquarium. It was indoors. And felt tropical. So, yeah. What else do you do in Baltimore when it’s too cold to go outside?

Abby enjoyed her stay at school. Zoom home. Happy presidents day.

The Farrar Paradox

Throw this love down the highway, see where it takes you.

I just wrote about Jay Farrar a few days ago, and I wondered if I would have anything to say after seeing him again tonight. Answer: yes.

This was my first visit to City Winery, a chain of wine/food/music venues. It’s like World Cafe Live kicked up another notch on the white privilege scale. Odd place to see Jay Farrar, but it turned out well if a bit surreal. The lovely young lady at the merch table asks if we need anything. Got it all…wait…is that a wine bottle with a Jay label? We’re offering a Jay Farrar Zinfandel tonight. Uh…hmm…not sure how to process that.

Who the hell is Dow Jones anyway? He’s the guy paying for our scallops, cheese plate, lobster spaghetti, and Smuttynose IPA. Don’t think I’ve ever had a $200 tab at a Jay Farrar show. The privileged class is here in suits-suits not flannel at a Jay Farrar show. Hard times…these hard times…hard times come again no more.

The opening act is a guy named Chip Taylor. This guy’s got a story, and he’s here to tell it. He’s from Yonkers. His brother is John Voight. His other brother is a world-renowned volcanologist (cool). Chip’s bookie was Meyer Lansky. Chip is a songwriter. He hung out at 1650 Broadway, and if you think the Brill Building was the thing, nope, 1650 Broadway was really where it was at. Chet Atkins once told Chip’s publisher he wanted to see everything Chip wrote. Hey, at pretty much exactly this time a week ago I was hearing Jason Isbell telling his own Chet Atkins story. Chip Taylor wrote Wild Thing. THE Wild Thing. And Chip Taylor is Jay Farrar’s friend. Of course, this is all we need to know. Also if we go to his bar, Parnells on 53rd St. on the east side and he’s sitting on the first stool drinking Laphroaig and we say hey, Chip, we saw you with Jay, he will buy us a drink. This may prove useful someday.

Just touch my cheek before you leave me, baby. Chip don’t actually sing much, Chip talks, and interrupts the fun storytelling once in a while to play one of his hits, which also include Angel of the Morning. This makes him the exact opposite of Jay Farrar. Jay speaks through his music or basically not at all.

Talk to me, Jay! pleaded one well-dressed guy a couple of tables away. Yes, please.

Except tonight Jay is talkative. He not only mumbles “how you all doing” his requisite once, but later he says it again! He says he’s glad to be back, and he seems to mean it. He intros one song. Chip, and maybe the idea of having his own personal Zinfandel, have brought out happy Jay. Maybe even he is charmed by the sight of the privileged class enjoying its privileges. Or more likely, resigned to it at this point. (I have a minute of deja vu about that word, then I realize I’ve used it to describe Jay before. See Seasons On The Road)

When we’re all passed over, the rhythm of the river will remain…

He also seems to be resigned to the legacy of Trace, from which he sampled heavily along with Honky Tonk. He finished the show with Tear Stained Eye and Windfall and they didn’t seem throwaways, like the old days when he would rush through them while seeming to want to replace the lyrics with I’m only doing this because I know you’ll burn the place down if I don’t but I don’t know why, which to my mind says he accepts the fact that to many people these may be the two most perfect songs ever written, and maybe he’s finally at peace with that. Wanting change but also being a bit resigned and at peace with stuff is what this music is about, after all, and we all get that.

Never feel alone, you’re really not alone…

Music as the great equalizer…you can stand in puddles of Coors in dingy halls in your holey flannel shirt or you can sit at swank tables in suits and diamonds slurping lobster spaghetti with saffron and fennel tomato ragout. But you will still fall into a rapture and sing quietly, or whisper, your eyes wide or closed tight and thank your god or nature or the muses or just Jay Farrar that these songs exist to make us sad, contented, more whole, and…at peace. I look around the room as I sing and they sing and we smile. Can you deny, there’s nothing greater?

Setlist: The Picture, Live Free, Hard Times, California Zephyr, Bakersfield, Wild Side, Brick Walls, Seawall, Strength and Doubt, Barstow, Highways and Cigarettes, Hoping Machine, Methamphetamine, Grindstone, Down the Highway, Back in Your World, Route, Afterglow 61, Hearts and Minds, a cover I don’t know, Tear Stained Eye, Windfall, Still Be Around.