The Greatest Story Never Told.
WARNING: This story contains elements of graphic and mature content. Some names were changed to preserve dignity. For others, it's too late. If you are easily offended, go away. Now. This isn't for you. If you're OK with stupid college kids being stupid college kids, you can stay.
It was the second week of May 1992. I can remember it quite clearly (it was a sunny day; I took Jones Hill to Wagner Place to Elm to Campbell to Forest, then cut over by Sheridan Middle, across Whalley and down to Valley Road, then took a left on Blake and a left onto Hard St., a right onto Austin; Delbert McClinton's "Every Time I Roll The Dice", the Spin Doctors' "Little Miss Can't Be Wrong", and The Black Crowes' "Hotel Illness" were on the radio that night, and their "Thorn In My Pride" would escort me home in the morning.) The birds were singing, the Kraft-Mac-orange sun was almost setting, the beer was in the trunk, and there were supposed to be all kinds of prospects at the party that night. I had about twenty bucks and a fresh pack of Newports in the pocket of my good purple paisley shirt, my beloved 1985 Oldsmobile Delta 88 Royale had a full tank of gas, and I'd shaved recently. All was right in the world, and I dare say I was at my most pimptacular, given my circumstances.
It was very nearly the last day of my life. Looking back, it might not have been the worst way to go.

Two things must I give you.
I will fret no more forever.
Friday night was the most incredible night in my short life. I feel a renewed sense of purpose, of focus...and as always, it wasn't my idea. I was hanging out with a friend at her townhouse when she smacked me down...it was an Urban Legend Par Excellence, the kind you used to have to pay winos for (prior to the Internet), but she made it sound so sensible, laid down the science so clean and clear that it grabbed my cerebellum and spun it like cotton candy.
My rational brain rebels, but my creative side says that, even if this is strictly nonsense, there's got to be some meat to this notion.
Fretless bass excites women.
There it is. My two favorite things, working together like Siskel and Ebert.
I was floored. Ok, I was actually couched at the time, but the thought floored me soon enough. I had, as you might imagine, a good-sized handful of questions. My friend silenced these with: "It has something to do with vibration and the uterus." That's all she shared about the pimptacular science that she has now challenged me to drop. This was cagey on her part, an excellent parry to my curiosity's thrust. Nicely done. Why, you ask, was this such a great deflection?
Because no guy ever wants to talk uterus. We don't. Ever. Even doctors, although they're well-paid to hide this fact. Nope. Nil dicto uteratimum, or whatever. We'll talk about all kinds of other parts, and we'd certainly love firsthand, empirical research on the topic, but when you get to that strange, foreboding Circle of Life we call the cervix, that's like a conversational stop sign. There are no Uterus Monologues, and we won't be in the audience if you create them. Sure, you ladies can talk about our plumbing-it's all external, at least the important parts-but there's only so far you can go, when discussing the distaff counterparts, before a guy just stares into space. We don't get periods because God knows we couldn't handle them. We're stupid, we're useless outside of reproduction, we keep you from being paid fair wages...say what you like, vilify us as necessary, burn us in effigy (or in my boy Dave's case, in person)...but don't make us talk about the U word. We can't. You want to talk about your ascending colon, your experiences making stag films, the fact that we are unimaginably inadequate as husbands, boyfriends, or bassists? Cool. Just leave the U word out, and all is well.
Anyway...
If I want an unfair advantage, all I have to do is play fretless...and I can do that. I bought a cheap fretless back in 2002, when Strangler Mike and I were hawking mortgages in the City of Filth. Two years later, I can whomp the snot out of that beast (these are technical terms, I realize). We'll see what shakes loose on Tuesday night. No, I can't believe I said that either.
I can feel the pendulum, and it is swinging.

Yet Another Shout-Out.
Bill Steinmetz was, at one time, my personal savior. He's going through some rough stuff right now, and I just want to start this out by telling anyone who'd read this that he is an OK Guy, always was, and you should send him an email or something. His blog is at http://www.livejournal.com/users/theferrett (cut and paste it like I do; I'm still working out the link thing). Sure, he was dumb enough to date my cousin, back in the day, and maybe he didn't mean to save my life, but he did. I owe him, and I know it. I'll tell the whole story some other time, but right now let's just walk off with a big dose of gratitude.

In the meantime.
I'll keep this brief, as brevity is supposed to be the soul of wit.
If Muggsy can go all-list, I can too. So there.
Sounds Abound In The Minivan of Doom:
-Damien Rice, O. It's good. Reminds me of This Picture or Feargal Sharkey...wish I could bring a copy of this back to my chillout days of 1990; I'd have gone nuclear, in terms of macktacularity (see below).
-Radiohead, OK Computer. Also good. What I like about these guys is that I hear something new every time I listen, and this is my favorite CD by them.
-Motorhead, No Remorse. This was my all-time favorite makeout CD, back in 1990...which may explain why I wasn't doing a lot of making out.
-Helmet, Meantime. Geeeeeeetar. Welcome to the Missing Prong/Glenn Branca wrestling album.
Lyrics With New Depth, Leonard Cohen Division:
There's a mighty judgment coming, but it won't take long...you see, you hear these funny voices in the Tower of Song.
All these hunters who are shrieking now, do they speak for us?
More later.

In memento mori.
It's been a tough year so far, and this week was not immune. My friend Jim's grandma died over the weekend.
When Jim and I took up instruments (drum and bass; we predated techno, house, and trip-hop by decades), the only mammal who would house our rather noisy and unpolished collective was Grandma Bozzi, or, as she was referred to with great reverence among all the post-pubescent idiots who were fortunate enough to know her, Jim's Grandmother. (I think some of us called her that to her face, too. Didn't faze her a bit.) She loved Jim, and treated all who crashed that basement (a veritable Who's Who of Washed-Up Local Talent, nowadays) with love and respect that many of our own parents didn't offer. She kept a fridge stocked with candy and Little Hug drinks (those "fruit punch in a barrel" things, 12 for a dollar at Stop and Shop), and she let us smoke (cigarettes, at least in my case) downstairs. The place was available pretty much 24/7, too; many a dim blue hour saw Jim and I wheeling a Radio Flyer wagon, with my semi-monstrous amp on it, through the neighborhood. I could not have played Toad's Place if I did not play South Street first.
Just as we were approaching the end of high school, she took ill and vacated the house on South Street for a time. That was the end of the era, really. We'd spent two years, on and off, in and out, making a godawful racket and practicing our interviews. By that time, Jim had a girlfriend, I had...well, Jim had a girlfriend, and I guess that's the important part. (I didn't date much between ages 6 and 19. That's another rant for another time, though.)
I guess all you need to know is this: God bless her, and God bless everybody who shows such boundless love and hospitality to weird-looking idiots like Jim and I were. Everyone who knew her, or someone like her, is a better person for it.
More later.

I am keeping it real.
Do you know how real it is?
I have two car payments, a mortgage, daycare, and insurance to pay...but the RIAA thinks I should pay $20 for two semi-decent songs and 15 chunks of worthless filler.
The government makes money off of the interest from my overpaid taxes during the year, but doesn't even send me a Christmas card.
My governor cut all kinds of illegal deals to get paid, but he already makes more than ten times what I do.
The CEO of my employer just got a bonus that is approximately 1000 times my annual salary, but the company is looking to reduce administrative costs.
My neighbor is constantly being visited by repo men in the dead of night, but he just got back from a cruise and feels free to comment on the appearance of my property. His is spotless, given its postage-stamp footprint...I'm sure the repo men in question enjoy the verdant scenery.
My house was overvalued to secure a mortgage I will probably never live to pay off. When the housing market sags again, I will be paying far more than the house is worth...maybe twice what it will go for in five years.
Girls don't talk to me because I don't hang out in bars. Both sides are sober, and that makes things more difficult for both of us.
I have a friend who wants me to form a bar band, but I don't drink, I don't like the idea of playing other people's stuff, and I'm trying to make something my kids can be proud of. All the bar bands are getting paid, and all kinds of people like them, I am told. Then I look at those people, and wonder how many will be carpooling with Bill W. by this time next year. I am not getting paid. I think I might be allergic to getting paid, at least that way.
I am keeping it real.

Walk.
If you have anything to say, no matter how terrible, no matter how awkward it may seem, now is the time to say it. Your demands are agonizing, and I don't care how little of a surprise it should be that we're parting. I am very aware of my own stupidity, my own inadequacy, and the fact that I just never had a damned thing to begin with. I deluded myself, actively at times, about how you were what I needed, what I should want, something I could turn to if I had a problem. In the end, you only created more problems, and I don't consider it irrational to hate you, to a varying extent anyway, for the rest of my days. We were supposed to be so much more, but it's apparent that there wasn't anything to back up those promises. We were both making believe, and it doesn't matter who quit first. It's going to hurt, it's going to make me angry, and it's going to inform my life decisions for, in all likelihood, the rest of my days. You didn't play fair, but nobody ever said you would. I should have been so much smarter, but I'm not. I'm only smart enough to know that I've been giving away something semiprecious and will never be compensated for that sacrifice. If I'm lucky, I'll eventually recover from the shaking hands, desperate stares into space, and the odd wheeze when I try to say your name to strangers.
How bad could it have been? Probably not much worse than it honestly was. The money, the time, the social stigma of our being together...it would have overwhelmed me anyway, in time. I'll always think of you when I see a bottle of Corona, and the sight of a pack of Marlboro Menthol Lights is always going to slow my pace by a step or two. I've gotten over worse in the past, especially from your kind, but right now I'm in the thick of it, the long dark as I like to call it. It is nothing I would wish upon an ex-spouse, and given my devoutly petty and self-centered nature, that's saying something. There's nothing distracting enough to keep my mind off of you for a full day; thankfully, I get a lot of encouragement from my friends, or I'd have lost my mind. I can fight this impulse. I have to remind myself that things have been worse, and things will get better. This is just the hard part. I'll find something new to do with all the time we used to spend together. You'll always be around, buzzing in my brain like the chemical hooks attributed to most opiates...I don't know if your lingering damage will ever completely heal, but I have to keep my head up. I wish we'd never gotten started, really, but, as with so many of my more grievous errors, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
And yes, gentle reader, I just quit smoking AGAIN. What did you THINK I was talking about?

Let's keep this brief, part 2.
It's hot tonight, despite the rain. The smell of wet concrete still permeates the air, stifling the rank odor of overaged chicken soup. I don't understand; how is it still so hot, so humid? Somehow, this is Muggsy's doing. I can't prove it, but I know this much is true.
The walls in my dining room are buttery yellow; I didn't pick this color, and on a night like tonight it is obvious that it is not healthy. My tired eyes play over it, in the smeifunctional half-light, and the walls appear to be mottled, like certain yellow roses, with mild reddish streaks.
Yeah, I'm tired. Nothing but work all around, and frankly I am worn out. I'm trying to keep my chin up, but all that seems to do is allow some folks a clearer shot...all's well for the weekend, at least. We're About 9 is playing at the zoo, and there's the possibility of some free meals somewhere (it being Father's Day and all).
Something tells me this will be an utterly unmemorable Father's Day, since the two older boys will be at their biological mother's (thank you, Family Court) and the wife will be taking my youngest to see her father (half a state away). Ah well. Someday all of this will seem like a bad dream.
Hopefully, that day will come before I'm too senile, screaming and drooling, to appreciate it.
Recommended listening for all you uncultured sorts:
Eschellon, A Sample Of...

Astronautalis, You And Your Good Ideas

I'm Your Fan: The Songs of Leonard Cohen, as performed by various artists you've never heard of.
Picturing Lily

Give the local kids some traffic. Some day, they'll be famous and you'll want them to think kindly of you.
Me? I'm already famous. I just don't know where.
Good night. I'm off to dream of large women.

Flashes and dots.
I watch a lot of television, as you might surmise from my lengthy posts with only a modicum of actual content between them, and last week was no exception. I promised you advice on better living, and here it is.
- I liked The Shipping News. I still have no idea what most of the Newfoundlander characters are saying, but that just proves that the dialect coach should have won an Oscar. (Speaking of which: if anyone can tell me the name of the movie that had Scottish-to-English subtitles, I'll give you a dollar. Seriously.)
- I still like X2, but certain parts of it really irk me. The two female leads, for example. Now, Halle Berry can act sometimes, I've seen it (Monster's Ball, Die Another Day, and Losing Isaiah come to mind), but nobody's ever given an Oscar to Famke Janssen. There is a reason for this. Even Meg Ryan, America's Perkiest Cuckolder, looked good when they stuck poor Hugh Jackman into a frame with her. Famke ain't hard on the eyes, as my beloved Uncle Fred would say, but she cannot act. Can. Not. Act. It's like asking Dustin Hoffman to dunk a basketball, or Ben Stiller to be funny without a solid supporting cast. Never happen. Halle looks like she's about ready to take a nap, even during the action sequences...maybe she was all tuckered out after Monster's Ball. I was.
- If I Should Fall From Grace With God is a phenomenal documentary about Shane McGowan, the once and future leader of the Pogues. If you don't know who they are, go find out. It's what WinMX is for, for Grodd's sake. While you're doing that, I'll summarize: Shane is a transplanted Irish drunk in England. Shane took traditional Irish music and tugged it sideways into rock. Shane has a knockout girlfriend who thinks he's the greatest Irishman since Dylan Thomas, and he's still drinking more than any rugby team I've ever seen. Every slogger in an "Irish band" (the Reilly Clan, the Highland Rovers, Black 47, the Prodigals, the Tipperary Knights, U2, etc.) owes Shane, and most of us admit it.
Shane is truly blessed, truly touched, and truly gifted. Here's to the man, and to the biographers who did such a great job without demystifying the situation.
- Mean Machine is the English Longest Yard. It stars Vinnie Jones and Jason Statham. They made Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels, as well as Snatch (two of my favorite movies, if you bothered to read the profile). This is good, if lightweight, stuff; I imagine the pitch was "Imagine Bend It Like Beckham, but with convicts." This movie will not raise your consciousness, but it will make you laugh a bit. That's good too.
See, Muggs? I can write about movies, THEN switch it up to a more serious topic. I'll write about the serious thing later.

Let's keep this brief, part I.
Fear is a showcase.
You're afraid. Don't ask me of what, but you are. We all are. I know people who are so afraid of certain things, it clouds their otherwise-solid faculties and makes them do things that, in the cold light of day, they are not proud of, or at least know they shouldn't be. Fear grips the brain like Wilt grabbing a rebound; there's no slapping sound, to my knowledge, but the feel, the steely grip, seems to surround you. There's no release (unlike Wilt's outlet passes) until you beat the fear back, and then there's a flush of red heat as your shame and anger come flooding in. Sometimes that's worse than the fear itself; that anger, that epinephrin flow subverting any apology for hasty action or perilous inertia, can be the most memorable part of the moment. (Anger is something I'll discuss at another time. Trust me.)
Fear kills, sometimes. It finds friendships sleeping, and makes an abattoir of sacred trusts that would make Ed Gein nauseous. It takes marriages and other commitments unawares, uses cheap ire's power tools to vivisect faith, until the walls are covered in the gore of regret. That's assuming you get your left brain back in time, and can actually regret what your cowardice has made you do. Otherwise, you just leave a trail of carnage that you never see. What's worse than that?
I have always prided myself on my ability to reason my way out of most tense situations. Certainly, I possess certain physical advantages that give others pause, and during that break from hostilities, I try to find a common bond, exploit the shared tension to relieve the pressure. I have a lot of pride, in that respect; I haven't needed to engage in a physical confrontation in over a decade. I'm trying to reason away my insecurities now, and I am having an amazing degree of difficulty. That's going to make me do stupid things, frightened things...but I know it. Call this navel-gazing, but I think that will help.
All fear is of the unknown. Fear's first words, a husky whisper in the ear of an ordinarily-sensible person, are "what if?"
That whisper gets louder if you keep listening to it long enough...finally, it's a pandering scream, a plea for hasty and often ill-advised action. It picks apart the fight-or-flight reaction, almost always rooting for flight like a deranged Cowboys fan. It can be deafening; my own ears are still ringing from all of its recent advice, none of which is very good. Fear is not an intellectual exercise; it is a state where the intellect has been carjacked, where faith and hope are trying valiantly to restore control against diminishing odds. The more things you're afraid of, the longer the ride home (if you even have a sense of home left after the desperate, reprehensible behaviors that this icy stranglehold encourages).
I've been very afraid of a lot of things for a very long time, and it has definitely caused some damage. I'm not saying I'm all better (not even close), but I think I have a much firmer grip on myself as of this writing. I've had some help from some very unexpected sources lately, but that's a rant for another time.
More later.

And when the rain stops, the burning sun begins.
Long day, peoples...Ray Charles is gone, my beloved managerette at work appears to be en route, a girl I briefly crushed on in summer theater went from cancer, and frankly, there's a lot more of me gone than here right now.
I'll catch you all tomorrow, I guess.

One and done.
This one will be brief and cryptic to anyone but its target.
A lot of people will think it's for them, and if that makes them feel better, well...take it for yourself, then.
Thank you for being who you were, when you were. I really, really needed you, and for that brief time, you were amazing. I'm sorry I was a jerk, and I wish you every happiness.
That's all I have to say on that. More later, and on (hopefully) a much different topic.

From the dreams to the trees to the cracks in the pavement...
Scattershot to start the shooting match:
Man, I can't get enough of Astronautalis (www.modelcitizens.org). I wonder if he'll say the same of my stuff, someday. Here's to hoping... Detroit 87, Lakers 75; even as a Magic-era Lake Show fan, it makes me happy to see that. Detroit, people. Kid Rock. Eminem. Dennis Rodman when he still looked human, but played like a machine. Alice Cooper before VH1 got ahold of him. Joe Dumars and the quiet competence that built this team and fueled the only non-Boston threat to Laker supremacy after Larry Bird got old. The White Stripes. Magic Johnson. Mitch Ryder, who warned me about that devil with a blue dress on (I should have listened, Mitch; my bad). James Jamerson and the Funk Brothers, without whom AM radio would be a perpetual stream of Perry Como or news radio. Detroit ain't a bad alternative to my beloved Nets, given that pedigree. Go Detroit. Teach them why the East is still in business, especially if it means making Shaq and Kobe cry... Coulrophobia is just a cool word. I have to find a way to use it more often, especially since this IS an election year... Good thoughts go out to my longtime sparring partner/hetero lifemate Mat, as his wife is due to deliver their first baby (a girl, no less...oh, Mathew, you poor devil...) even as you read this. L'chaim, kids... Ok, time to start focusing. I promised a sequel to the other night's rant, and I can only improve on the hastily-dropped science of the other day.
Signs and portents.
I've finally got the handle. I am at a crossroads, and while it's nice to think I have options, I really don't. Nobody who lives by a set of rules, or even a personally-crafted libertine code of conduct (I swear to God, Mike, I'll leave you out of this one as much as possible!) has as many options as they think. We are, to paraphrase Anthony Robbins, locked into the patterns we make, and until we take control of those patterns, we will always be within spitting distance of our dreams and goals, but never any closer. I know how touchy-feely, Leo Buscaglia-esque that sounds, but it's true. In addition, most of the sages who'll trod your nightstand for the low, low price of $24.95 (and up) want you to know that you have to enact change, not just react to it. Amazing. If I'd thought to compile these platitudes into a veritable phone book full of bumperstickers, I could be worth millions. That would make my dream of a big house in the hills, chock full of showgirls and vintage guitars (and no, those showgirls will never be allowed to touch the guitars; I learned my lesson when the ex-wife had Mat's sister model for her, using my beloved American-made Fender Jazz Bass...I was wiping the sweat/perfume smell off that thing for a week), a reality. As such, I have finally found my dream. I will become a self-help guru, that most popular of guests on any talk show, those uncostumed superheros who offer less contact with reality than a Superman comic, the unanointed popes of the First Church of Insecurity. Everywhere I've been has led me to this place, and I think of it less as a staggering pile of hubristic nonsense, and more as gleaming spire of folkish truisms just waiting to burst forth from the pathetic mesa of trite self-promotion.
Now, some of you may recoil somewhat from that spire, and I certainly don't blame you for your reluctance to believe in my lofty goal. How can I, a self-avowed indecisive failure, become such a staggering media personality? Can I cut it as a talking head (thank you, Marshall McLuhan, for that tag and so many others)? I know I can. You see, I was born to be famous. I was groomed for the notion of reality television before the first Real World ever aired. I was breaking the fourth wall before anyone ever put a camera on me, so I stand poised for personal greatness. They said I was mad, said I was a fool...and now they're all balding misanthropes, feeding at the very bottom of the bar scene, waiting for their chance for personal glory. I have that chance, and a full head of hair, to boot. (which is not to suggest you boot me in the head. Go back, reread it, and examine it as a turn of phrase. I repeat: do NOT boot me in the head. Violence upon the August Personage will not be countenanced.)
I have control of the patterns. I am ready to take control of my own life and many others, especially given the net worth of these self-appointed messiahs.
I can do this. Admit it: you can feel it, too. Now, all I need is a few investors to back my dream. That, and some practice showgirls.

Performance metrics are my life, or Why I'm Here And Not There.
This may surprise you, but sometimes folks just don't catch my drift.
Why am I wasting words on words, anyway? I'll just cut to the chase, and use my boy Strangler Mike as an example. (To add a rather wordy disclaimer, I love Mike like an autistic little brother that my parents were smart enough to put up for adoption. He rocks, in his own short bus way, and his success at superficiality in all aspects of life must be respected, but sometimes I wonder if he even knows I'm talking, much less that I'm trying to tell him something/anything.)
Mike is deeply into cover bands (I believe he was bitten by a radioactive bar band as a child), and as a member of the inner circle of a rather successful local bunch of future 12-steppers, I view his insights into that realm as relatively verifiable, if somewhat disturbing on a sociological level. Mike came to see me play the open mic at The Space on Tuesday, and, upon my completion of a somewhat ragged, but otherwise satisfying, pair of original tunes (neither of which could be easily covered by Blink-182, Green Day, Limp Bizkit, or Avril Lavigne), he turns to me and says, with full knowledge of my history in his chosen field of endeavor, "You can still play. Imagine how much money we could be making in a working band."
Now I must give you the boring part of why he deserved a wedgie. I apologize, but the truth would have come out eventually.
I've been playing bass for 17 years in July, and over that time, I've done a lot of work playing a wide variety of crappy cover songs. In January, I capped off a nine-month stint in a cover band of growing renown by playing the biggest club in the county...and quitting five minutes after our set. I was done wasting time away from the kids, playing other peoples' music for no money, being (at best) underappreciated by any sticky-floored date-rape showroom that bothered to call us back, and generally spending more time in a practice space (see also: a shoebox with a door, shabby even by UNICEF's standards) than I did in the house I'm overmortgaged on. Now, I'm no John Entwistle, Jaco Pastorius, Stanley Clarke, etc. (Oh, what the hell do YOU care who the bassist is? Only the drummers and bassists honestly care who the drummers and bassists are...and most of us are really ok with that. You can go fawn over the cirrhotic imbecile guitarists and egomaniacal lead singers; the bassist is the guy in the back, occasionally tormenting the drummer to stay awake, counting the crowd so those typically inebriated cerebral nullsets up front still get paid. We're cool with that. We know those cats are lunch meat without us.), but I do figure that if I'm going to work that hard, I should be happier at the end of a night. That never happens unless I'm working with people who made their own stuff. I've told the same to Mike about 70,000 times since I quit the cover band...ok, maybe it was only 50 times, but it was still pretty often. Mike's the one who rode with me the first time I went to The Space, when a very dark cloud had obscured the stars, and I had a very real need to be somewhere more nurturing than one of his dive bars full of hepatically-questionable karaoke stylists. (That's all the cover band scene is: it's karaoke at its most egotistical, and yet it makes enough money, at least in the case of Mike's acquaintances, to strangle any hope for an original-music scene in local bars.)
I just looked at him, eyes awash in disbelief, and asked him when the crack habit had started.
There's more to this, but it'll have to keep. I'm just about passing out now.