Ticket purchase confirmed, I will be attending the Tom Waits concert at the Ryman Auditorium on August 5.
Row P, baby!
Now back to the sand.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Lucky Shirt? Check.
In less than 12 hours, I will be on a flight to Jacksonville, Florida to see my baby. She will meet me at the airport and we will enjoy the beauty of Fernandina Beach on Amelia Island. There will be no blogging from me for a week's time. There will only be relaxation and reflection. I will take it easy and I will take pictures. The only thing that is very important to me is that I wear my lucky shirt on the flight. It's been good to me.
I recall a beautiful May day in 2002, I put on my favorite blue button down shirt. A few hours later, I asked Paige if she would marry me. I must look good in blue because she said yes. On that day, it became officially known as my lucky shirt. In this shirt, all things are possible. In this shirt, I look good.
What's your lucky something?
Also, despite tough financial times, I am still committed to buying Tom Waits tickets. Well, I may just buy one. I don't mind going alone. I just want to watch him play. My concern is that I won't be able to find a computer Friday morning so that I can attempt a purchase. I may bring the laptop on vacation. If so, I still need to find an internet connection. My wife has been there a week and has not been able to get online anywhere. Searching online, I see that the Hampton Suites has free wifi. Wonder if I could just sit in their lobby and get on. This is important. Even more important than my lucky shirt.
More on Tom: So, news is that Keith Richards, Johnny Depp's inspiration for his Jack Sparrow, will play his father in the third installment of Pirates of the Caribbean. Wouldn't it be cool to see fellow musician and actor, Tom Waits, in a role as an aging pirate? I already know that the answer is yes. They are already friends and collaborators. It would be perfect.
I recall a beautiful May day in 2002, I put on my favorite blue button down shirt. A few hours later, I asked Paige if she would marry me. I must look good in blue because she said yes. On that day, it became officially known as my lucky shirt. In this shirt, all things are possible. In this shirt, I look good.
What's your lucky something?
Also, despite tough financial times, I am still committed to buying Tom Waits tickets. Well, I may just buy one. I don't mind going alone. I just want to watch him play. My concern is that I won't be able to find a computer Friday morning so that I can attempt a purchase. I may bring the laptop on vacation. If so, I still need to find an internet connection. My wife has been there a week and has not been able to get online anywhere. Searching online, I see that the Hampton Suites has free wifi. Wonder if I could just sit in their lobby and get on. This is important. Even more important than my lucky shirt.
More on Tom: So, news is that Keith Richards, Johnny Depp's inspiration for his Jack Sparrow, will play his father in the third installment of Pirates of the Caribbean. Wouldn't it be cool to see fellow musician and actor, Tom Waits, in a role as an aging pirate? I already know that the answer is yes. They are already friends and collaborators. It would be perfect.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
I Listen To Moby And Think Of The Beach Lady
On a recent vacation to Amelia Island to visit the in-laws, I took a solitary drive to American Beach. Amidst the wealth and luxury of this small island is a place with character and humility.
What I know of American Beach:
The bad news is that it looks now to be quite rundown and no longer a popular destination. The good news is that it is because it is no longer necessary, thanks to desegregation. Mr. Lewis' great-granddaughter, Marvyne Betsch, i.e. the Beach Lady, has lived there since 1977, doing what she can to give the area respect and recognition. I first read about her in a National Geographic article many years ago.
While taking that solitary drive to American Beach a year or so ago, I had Moby's Play in my CD player, and it just seemed to fit. I drove slowly through the tired streets in a quiet beach town and felt the despair in the air as I listened to "Natural Blues." I parked my car and walked around the neighborhood, taking pictures and soaking in the atmosphere. I walked between a couple of run-down houses and saw the same Atlantic Ocean that washes up and down the entire East Coast. Rich toes and poor toes all feel the same sand and water, and whatever toes are mine depends on who's reading. But I stand there and try to feel what I am supposed to feel, and I respect the elements and I watch the seagulls live their lives above me.
Turning from the ocean and back to the neighborhood, I see her - the Beach Lady, walking down the long, sloping asphault road. I have read about her and I have googled her. And now I see her. Feeling very Caucasion, I can't find the guts to go and talk to her. I have no idea what to say to her. My life is tough, but I don't know her pain; I don't know her struggles. I just feel like another stupid tourist. So I stand still and I take her picture from afar. It turns out well enough and I'm happy that I saw her.
An hour or so later, I get back into my foreign car and drive back to my family. They are kind and loving and the food is fantastic...and they are five miles and worlds away from American Beach. Call me a photographer and call me a man who met the Beach Lady, in my own shy way. I just learned tonight that she died in September 2005. I now wish I had spoken to her when I had the chance.
I'll be back there Thursday. I'll be enjoying my vacation and I will try to forget about my current financial struggles for a few days. I'll try to forget that I struggle to find my place in this world. I'll try to forget that I am sad much more often than I am happy. But I will absolutely remember that segregation never kept me from feeling the sand between my toes.
I listen to Moby and wonder what it felt like for the employees of Abraham Lincoln Lewis to feel this same sand underneath their feet. Humans on Earth, happy that someone allowed them this experience, certainly smiling and withholding tears at the same time. I struggle, but not with humility. I am filled with it.
What I know of American Beach:
American Beach was founded in 1935 by Abraham Lincoln Lewis, Florida's first black millionaire. Mr. Lewis owned an insurance company and bought a section of the island so that his black employees would have a nice place to vacation without having to deal with the nightmare that was segregation.
The bad news is that it looks now to be quite rundown and no longer a popular destination. The good news is that it is because it is no longer necessary, thanks to desegregation. Mr. Lewis' great-granddaughter, Marvyne Betsch, i.e. the Beach Lady, has lived there since 1977, doing what she can to give the area respect and recognition. I first read about her in a National Geographic article many years ago.
While taking that solitary drive to American Beach a year or so ago, I had Moby's Play in my CD player, and it just seemed to fit. I drove slowly through the tired streets in a quiet beach town and felt the despair in the air as I listened to "Natural Blues." I parked my car and walked around the neighborhood, taking pictures and soaking in the atmosphere. I walked between a couple of run-down houses and saw the same Atlantic Ocean that washes up and down the entire East Coast. Rich toes and poor toes all feel the same sand and water, and whatever toes are mine depends on who's reading. But I stand there and try to feel what I am supposed to feel, and I respect the elements and I watch the seagulls live their lives above me.
Turning from the ocean and back to the neighborhood, I see her - the Beach Lady, walking down the long, sloping asphault road. I have read about her and I have googled her. And now I see her. Feeling very Caucasion, I can't find the guts to go and talk to her. I have no idea what to say to her. My life is tough, but I don't know her pain; I don't know her struggles. I just feel like another stupid tourist. So I stand still and I take her picture from afar. It turns out well enough and I'm happy that I saw her.
An hour or so later, I get back into my foreign car and drive back to my family. They are kind and loving and the food is fantastic...and they are five miles and worlds away from American Beach. Call me a photographer and call me a man who met the Beach Lady, in my own shy way. I just learned tonight that she died in September 2005. I now wish I had spoken to her when I had the chance.
I'll be back there Thursday. I'll be enjoying my vacation and I will try to forget about my current financial struggles for a few days. I'll try to forget that I struggle to find my place in this world. I'll try to forget that I am sad much more often than I am happy. But I will absolutely remember that segregation never kept me from feeling the sand between my toes.
I listen to Moby and wonder what it felt like for the employees of Abraham Lincoln Lewis to feel this same sand underneath their feet. Humans on Earth, happy that someone allowed them this experience, certainly smiling and withholding tears at the same time. I struggle, but not with humility. I am filled with it.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
On Brevity And Levity
Recent posts have found me in a very troubled and worried state of mind. Today I want to talk about something different, just a brief story.
On my moving day, it was only toward the end of it that I realized that I had a rather large hole in the back of my shorts. Upon asking my wife and son how long it had been there, they replied with a smile, "Pretty much all day."
I usually don't go commando, but I had forsaken underwear that day. Everyone had seen my bare ass and no one had told me. The worst of it? My wife and I had been filling out paperwork with the very cute and very female apartment complex agent and at one point, I got up and walked away from her desk to get a Coke.
And you just know that she looked.
On my moving day, it was only toward the end of it that I realized that I had a rather large hole in the back of my shorts. Upon asking my wife and son how long it had been there, they replied with a smile, "Pretty much all day."
I usually don't go commando, but I had forsaken underwear that day. Everyone had seen my bare ass and no one had told me. The worst of it? My wife and I had been filling out paperwork with the very cute and very female apartment complex agent and at one point, I got up and walked away from her desk to get a Coke.
And you just know that she looked.
The Grapes Are Probably Sour Anyway
Due to recent financial setbacks, I don't believe it's likely that I will be attending the Tom Waits concert in August. This lottery ticket in front of me could change that though. We'll see.
Monday, July 10, 2006
Closing Time? Please?
The stress continues. After the long, somewhat documented process of selling our house while trying to find a house to buy closer to our workplaces and settling on an apartment because the timing just wasn't working, things finally seemed to be coming together. We would close on our house on June 30 and move into our new apartment on the same day.
And then, with all of our stuff in the truck and ready for the haul, we got a call from our agent. They buyer's lender had dropped the ball and the closing wouldn't be ready when previously stated. Struggling financially already, this call was not well received by us. Were we now responsible for a mortgage payment AND a rent check at the same time? We were assured that all would be settled by the 10th, and before our mortgage payment could officially be considered late. We were told to go about our plans and not to worry about it. We would close on or before the 10th and it wouldn't be any big deal.
Well, here we are looking at July 10 and I have to be at work in an hour and we have heard nothing from anyone so far today. We have called and gotten people's voicemails. I am stressing. Broke as we are, our credit is actually very good. I don't want to look at having a late mortgage payment hanging over our heads when we try to buy again once our lease is up. And I really don't want to borrow money from someone, even though she is happy to lend if needed. I guess I can fall back on her generosity and pay it back as soon as the closing happens. But still.
I am not trusting this.
[Update: The call came in. The closing is not happening. We're screwed. And hearing the love of my life fight back tears on the phone as we just try to make it is my new least favorite sound. She doesn't deserve this.]
And then, with all of our stuff in the truck and ready for the haul, we got a call from our agent. They buyer's lender had dropped the ball and the closing wouldn't be ready when previously stated. Struggling financially already, this call was not well received by us. Were we now responsible for a mortgage payment AND a rent check at the same time? We were assured that all would be settled by the 10th, and before our mortgage payment could officially be considered late. We were told to go about our plans and not to worry about it. We would close on or before the 10th and it wouldn't be any big deal.
Well, here we are looking at July 10 and I have to be at work in an hour and we have heard nothing from anyone so far today. We have called and gotten people's voicemails. I am stressing. Broke as we are, our credit is actually very good. I don't want to look at having a late mortgage payment hanging over our heads when we try to buy again once our lease is up. And I really don't want to borrow money from someone, even though she is happy to lend if needed. I guess I can fall back on her generosity and pay it back as soon as the closing happens. But still.
I am not trusting this.
[Update: The call came in. The closing is not happening. We're screwed. And hearing the love of my life fight back tears on the phone as we just try to make it is my new least favorite sound. She doesn't deserve this.]
Goodness Gracious, Indeed
You can have your Jack, and you can have your Lightning. You can go to Venus for all I care. I find my musical heaven on WRVU 91.1. Any given hour will find any genre you like. I had never even heard of jump blues (more horn based than guitar based and popular in the 1940s) until I stumbled upon Pete's Nashville Jumps show a few years ago. It's one thing to discover something cool that is a brand new sound; it's quite another to discover something cool that precedes your own earthly existence by thirty or more years.
Whether old music or new music, I find the best on WRVU. I awake on Thursday mornings to the mellifluous voice of Ashley on Alphabet. Her love for bands and artists from Bowie to The White Stripes is obvious and I thank her for making me aware of music I would not likely hear elsewhere. Silver Jews? Fantastic! Jeffrey Lewis? I had heard "The Chelsea Hotel Oral Sex Song" before, but she turned me on to his deeper and richer catalog.
I listen to WRVU (and college radio in general), not to hear songs that I like, but to hear songs that I don't know I like yet. To paraphrase The Kids In The Hall, request lines are for housewives and little girls. (Obscure enough reference for ya, Charly?) I don't call in and ask the DJs to play songs I like; I sit back and trust that they will play something that makes me call in and ask who that was.
Well, that happened again last night. While driving my shift, I heard a show called Goodness Gracious for the first time. It's on Sunday afternoons from 4:00 to 6:00 and focuses on traditional music from before WWII. (Here's the most recent playlist, and here's the latest show's audio stream.) After enjoying a version of "Black Betty" that I never knew about, I was struck by a song called "Old Rattler" that resonated with my pale white privileged skin. Sung by Moses Platt and James Baker in 1939, it's about a black man who has escaped a Texas state prison and is being pursued by the guards and a dog named Rattler. The N-word is all over the place.
Up until last night, the only thing I would think of when hearing of the year 1939 was The Wizard Of Oz. Now, I have a little reminder that life was going on then just as tough and cruelly as it goes on today. It was the year that The Grapes Of Wrath was first published. It was also the year that we refused 950 Jewish refugees entry to the United States. Left no choice but to return to Europe, many of the ship's passengers were killed in Nazi concentration camps. The more I read about history, the more I understand and appreciate the words to "Somewhere Over The Rainbow."
I thank the hosts of Goodness Gracious for playing some music that inspired me to think, research, and write.
Whether old music or new music, I find the best on WRVU. I awake on Thursday mornings to the mellifluous voice of Ashley on Alphabet. Her love for bands and artists from Bowie to The White Stripes is obvious and I thank her for making me aware of music I would not likely hear elsewhere. Silver Jews? Fantastic! Jeffrey Lewis? I had heard "The Chelsea Hotel Oral Sex Song" before, but she turned me on to his deeper and richer catalog.
I listen to WRVU (and college radio in general), not to hear songs that I like, but to hear songs that I don't know I like yet. To paraphrase The Kids In The Hall, request lines are for housewives and little girls. (Obscure enough reference for ya, Charly?) I don't call in and ask the DJs to play songs I like; I sit back and trust that they will play something that makes me call in and ask who that was.
Well, that happened again last night. While driving my shift, I heard a show called Goodness Gracious for the first time. It's on Sunday afternoons from 4:00 to 6:00 and focuses on traditional music from before WWII. (Here's the most recent playlist, and here's the latest show's audio stream.) After enjoying a version of "Black Betty" that I never knew about, I was struck by a song called "Old Rattler" that resonated with my pale white privileged skin. Sung by Moses Platt and James Baker in 1939, it's about a black man who has escaped a Texas state prison and is being pursued by the guards and a dog named Rattler. The N-word is all over the place.
Up until last night, the only thing I would think of when hearing of the year 1939 was The Wizard Of Oz. Now, I have a little reminder that life was going on then just as tough and cruelly as it goes on today. It was the year that The Grapes Of Wrath was first published. It was also the year that we refused 950 Jewish refugees entry to the United States. Left no choice but to return to Europe, many of the ship's passengers were killed in Nazi concentration camps. The more I read about history, the more I understand and appreciate the words to "Somewhere Over The Rainbow."
I thank the hosts of Goodness Gracious for playing some music that inspired me to think, research, and write.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Remembering Bobby Thompson
The good people at Steel Guitar Forum got to talking about my step-dad, Bobby Thompson. Here's what they said.
An excerpt: "I remember, back in the day, when I started out as a rhythm player here, I got to work as Bobby's "second" from time to time. The first time I saw him slide a capo to modulate without stopping, I was amazed. He showed me how he did it. The next time we worked together, I slid mine right with him... and he just grinned. He is missed much..."
Michael Douchette
An excerpt: "I remember, back in the day, when I started out as a rhythm player here, I got to work as Bobby's "second" from time to time. The first time I saw him slide a capo to modulate without stopping, I was amazed. He showed me how he did it. The next time we worked together, I slid mine right with him... and he just grinned. He is missed much..."
Michael Douchette
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Behold These Tremulous Dreams
Three beers down and half a bag of Doritos consumed, and it's apparent that this parent is home alone. Tom Waits plays on the laptop and I doubt he'll play these songs when he plays the Ryman next month. This is the early stuff.
This stuff has piano and I can just close my eyes and see him at his piano in a small and very smoky bar. The tip jar is half empty and I'm reaching into my pocket to see how much I can add to it. Maybe a buck or two and I'll save the rest for another round or two for me and the sweet-looking redhaired girl from Georgia sitting by my side.
She's really something to look at, but she sure likes her drinks expensive. I'm an innocent victim to her every nuance. She told me her name, but it got lost in the noise. I'll ask her again in a minute. But for now, I'll just listen to her talk and imagine what it's like to share a future with her. Just off work, she's still in her uniform. A smart, black pantsuit, she's tougher than any Reservoir Dog and prettier than light itself. Her own touch of flair is a silver pin on her jacket in the shape of a horse's head. I will remember this woman forever no matter what happens between us tonight. And if she only gives half a damn about this barfly who is finding uncharacteristic bravery by talking to her, then I'm better off than you tonight.
I can tell that she really doesn't care much for the guy at the piano, but she's too polite to say. Country music is her thing. She likes the stories in country songs. For the most part, the songs she likes have happy endings. The piano player is singing "Blue Valentines" and she takes another drink and gives me a smile. Brother, that smile will change my life. A smile from a pretty redhead will leave me either domesticated or incarcerated. I'm thinking this one will not lead me to the wrong kind of bars. I imagine that a stubborn part of me will fight it, but I'll probably end up buying a house with her.
I tell her that I heard some cool stories about this guy at the piano. Tom Waits. One time, his wife went away for a bit and came home and found that Tom had replaced all of the doors in their home with actual hotel doors from places where he had stayed from the road. Perpetual vagabond that he is, he just likes opening hotel doors. And now, they are all hotel doors in his house. True story. I like that there is no way that she cares about the story at all, but she sure likes that I like it. I get a bit giddy when I talk about music and she thinks it's cute.
I can see that even if things go the way I am imagining, she's going to like me - not despite my eclectic tastes - but, in part, because of them. And I can also imagine that there will be a peaceful night, way off in the future, when she will be my wife and we'll have this wonderful family together. There will be a night much like this, and she will be out of town on vacation with the kids, and I'll be all alone in our home. I'll be able to do whatever I want, go to any bar, let loose, whatever. But it'll be enough for me to sit quietly alone, play old Tom Waits records, and think of how lucky I am that I get to be her husband. I miss her and look forward to joining her next week when I get some time off work.
Sometimes these things just work out perfectly.
This stuff has piano and I can just close my eyes and see him at his piano in a small and very smoky bar. The tip jar is half empty and I'm reaching into my pocket to see how much I can add to it. Maybe a buck or two and I'll save the rest for another round or two for me and the sweet-looking redhaired girl from Georgia sitting by my side.
She's really something to look at, but she sure likes her drinks expensive. I'm an innocent victim to her every nuance. She told me her name, but it got lost in the noise. I'll ask her again in a minute. But for now, I'll just listen to her talk and imagine what it's like to share a future with her. Just off work, she's still in her uniform. A smart, black pantsuit, she's tougher than any Reservoir Dog and prettier than light itself. Her own touch of flair is a silver pin on her jacket in the shape of a horse's head. I will remember this woman forever no matter what happens between us tonight. And if she only gives half a damn about this barfly who is finding uncharacteristic bravery by talking to her, then I'm better off than you tonight.
I can tell that she really doesn't care much for the guy at the piano, but she's too polite to say. Country music is her thing. She likes the stories in country songs. For the most part, the songs she likes have happy endings. The piano player is singing "Blue Valentines" and she takes another drink and gives me a smile. Brother, that smile will change my life. A smile from a pretty redhead will leave me either domesticated or incarcerated. I'm thinking this one will not lead me to the wrong kind of bars. I imagine that a stubborn part of me will fight it, but I'll probably end up buying a house with her.
I tell her that I heard some cool stories about this guy at the piano. Tom Waits. One time, his wife went away for a bit and came home and found that Tom had replaced all of the doors in their home with actual hotel doors from places where he had stayed from the road. Perpetual vagabond that he is, he just likes opening hotel doors. And now, they are all hotel doors in his house. True story. I like that there is no way that she cares about the story at all, but she sure likes that I like it. I get a bit giddy when I talk about music and she thinks it's cute.
I can see that even if things go the way I am imagining, she's going to like me - not despite my eclectic tastes - but, in part, because of them. And I can also imagine that there will be a peaceful night, way off in the future, when she will be my wife and we'll have this wonderful family together. There will be a night much like this, and she will be out of town on vacation with the kids, and I'll be all alone in our home. I'll be able to do whatever I want, go to any bar, let loose, whatever. But it'll be enough for me to sit quietly alone, play old Tom Waits records, and think of how lucky I am that I get to be her husband. I miss her and look forward to joining her next week when I get some time off work.
Sometimes these things just work out perfectly.
Friday, July 07, 2006
Bloggers Downtown, While I Work
So, as is typical, I missed another blogger meetup last night b/c of work. Am I becoming mysterious yet? Do people wonder if Chez Bez isn't really some fantastically wealthy and strikingly handsome fellow living on his own private island somewhere but just pretending to be a modest, struggling Nashville local? Maybe WKRN didn't supply the snacks after all. Maybe it was all paid for by some anonymous donor. Some anonymous donor who wants Nashville bloggers like you to be happy and sated.
Whatever. I really just had to work. I shared some M&Ms with three friends last night, but that was the extent of my generosity. While you good people were mingling and drinking downtown, I was doing exciting things like driving hotel guests to the airport. (My fave line of the night as I dropped off two Canadian women at their terminal: "Tell the people at your hotel that we appreciate the ride." Um, how about you just thank the guy who drove you?)
Now, I do wonder if I would have gone even if I had the night off. It is well known that I am a bit shy when it comes to social situations. Going to a bar, no problem. Going to a bar with the intent to meet people, not so cool. But from reading so many posts from so many who attended, it appears that I am not the only person who is more nervous than necessary at times. It's kind of nice to learn this. Maybe next time, with better advance notice, I will attend and get to know some of these writers whose blogs I always enjoy reading.
As I reach out though, I must make one warning. If I invite you all to a bloggers meetup at my apartment on or around June 30 of next year, be aware that it is then that my lease is up and I might be tricking you guys into helping me move. I'm not above that. This last move was a bitch.
One last thing. I saw some great pictures from last night's event and I am a bit disillusioned. Rex from Rex L. Camino just looks like himself. I really wanted him to look like that rascal in his profile pic. Oh well. Gotta go walk around my island, I mean, drive to work.
Whatever. I really just had to work. I shared some M&Ms with three friends last night, but that was the extent of my generosity. While you good people were mingling and drinking downtown, I was doing exciting things like driving hotel guests to the airport. (My fave line of the night as I dropped off two Canadian women at their terminal: "Tell the people at your hotel that we appreciate the ride." Um, how about you just thank the guy who drove you?)
Now, I do wonder if I would have gone even if I had the night off. It is well known that I am a bit shy when it comes to social situations. Going to a bar, no problem. Going to a bar with the intent to meet people, not so cool. But from reading so many posts from so many who attended, it appears that I am not the only person who is more nervous than necessary at times. It's kind of nice to learn this. Maybe next time, with better advance notice, I will attend and get to know some of these writers whose blogs I always enjoy reading.
As I reach out though, I must make one warning. If I invite you all to a bloggers meetup at my apartment on or around June 30 of next year, be aware that it is then that my lease is up and I might be tricking you guys into helping me move. I'm not above that. This last move was a bitch.
One last thing. I saw some great pictures from last night's event and I am a bit disillusioned. Rex from Rex L. Camino just looks like himself. I really wanted him to look like that rascal in his profile pic. Oh well. Gotta go walk around my island, I mean, drive to work.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Is This What They Mean By Animal Husbandry?
Amy Sutherland wrote about what she learned while writing a book on animal trainers and how she improved her marriage by treating her husband like a dolphin.
"I listened, rapt, as professional trainers explained how they taught dolphins to flip and elephants to paint. Eventually it hit me that the same techniques might work on that stubborn but lovable species, the American husband."
The story is here.
"I listened, rapt, as professional trainers explained how they taught dolphins to flip and elephants to paint. Eventually it hit me that the same techniques might work on that stubborn but lovable species, the American husband."
The story is here.
My Blogger Star Of The Day Goes To...
...Janet at Out The Other! I woke up, stumbled from bed to laptop, and peered into the internet with groggy, half-closed eyes. Navigating my way through the news and fave blogs, I lazily gained knowledge on the following:
NATO Urges Firm Response To North Korea
Former CEO Kenneth Lay Dies
Keith Richards To Play Pirate's Pop
And then, upon perusing the site for one of my favorite radio shows, Out The Other, I found some news I could really use.
Tom Waits is coming to Nashville!
Those who know me know that there is no artist I would rather see. He's the rare showman who gets grittier and braver with age. From his beautiful piano ballads and gentle tales of heartbreak and love in the city that he crafted in the late '70s to his ever more experimental music in the '80s and '90s to his all out assault on all things sonic and percussive that he is creating today. Aren't artists supposed to get softer and safer as they get older and richer? Aren't they supposed to go the Phil Collins route and just do Disney soundtracks?
Tom Waits makes music that keeps my "indier than thou" taste always interested and excited. He's always exploring and investigating, willfully diving deep into the possibilities and rewards of creative immersion. Listening to his aural achievements, I feel like a young assistant to a famous archeologist. My eyes wide open, I follow him without question, trusting that all that he uncovers will either be brilliant and fantastic or, at the very least, interesting and worth studying.
The one thing that I was sure of was that I would never see Tom Waits live in concert. He just doesn't tour much. He lives on the west coast and it would be unlikely that he would play any concerts in my region, let alone my fair city of Nashville. But here he is, playing a concert at the famous and revered Ryman Auditorium on August 5th. I hesitate to even talk about it. The fewer people who know about this, the better my chances of getting the best seats possible. But some news just must be shared. Because Janet at Out The Other shared, I woke up to great news. I may as well share the same.
Here's the press release via Pitchfork Media along with the tour dates:
NATO Urges Firm Response To North Korea
Former CEO Kenneth Lay Dies
Keith Richards To Play Pirate's Pop
And then, upon perusing the site for one of my favorite radio shows, Out The Other, I found some news I could really use.
Tom Waits is coming to Nashville!
Those who know me know that there is no artist I would rather see. He's the rare showman who gets grittier and braver with age. From his beautiful piano ballads and gentle tales of heartbreak and love in the city that he crafted in the late '70s to his ever more experimental music in the '80s and '90s to his all out assault on all things sonic and percussive that he is creating today. Aren't artists supposed to get softer and safer as they get older and richer? Aren't they supposed to go the Phil Collins route and just do Disney soundtracks?
Tom Waits makes music that keeps my "indier than thou" taste always interested and excited. He's always exploring and investigating, willfully diving deep into the possibilities and rewards of creative immersion. Listening to his aural achievements, I feel like a young assistant to a famous archeologist. My eyes wide open, I follow him without question, trusting that all that he uncovers will either be brilliant and fantastic or, at the very least, interesting and worth studying.
The one thing that I was sure of was that I would never see Tom Waits live in concert. He just doesn't tour much. He lives on the west coast and it would be unlikely that he would play any concerts in my region, let alone my fair city of Nashville. But here he is, playing a concert at the famous and revered Ryman Auditorium on August 5th. I hesitate to even talk about it. The fewer people who know about this, the better my chances of getting the best seats possible. But some news just must be shared. Because Janet at Out The Other shared, I woke up to great news. I may as well share the same.
Here's the press release via Pitchfork Media along with the tour dates:
Tom Waits will leave his lair for a rare tour this August, hitting Southern and Midwestern cities he hasn't played in decades (if at all).
"We need to go to Tennessee to pick up some fireworks, and someone owes me money in Kentucky," Waits said in a press release.
Yeah, Tom Waits is pretty much the coolest man alive.
Come on up to the house:
08-01 Atlanta, GA - Tabernacle
08-02 Asheville, NC - Thomas Wolfe Auditorium
08-04 Memphis, TN - Orpheum Theatre
**08-05 Nashville, TN - Ryman Auditorium**
08-07 Louisville, KY - Palace Theatre
08-09 Chicago, IL - Auditorium Theatre
08-11 Detroit, MI - Opera House
08-13 Akron, OH - Akron Civic
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
New Lease On Life, Less Time On The Road
My daily commute to work is approximately 35 minutes long.
Wait. That is no longer a true statement.
My daily commute to work is approximately 12 minutes long. If I can hit the lights right, it'll be even shorter. The best part of it is that I drive over a dam about three minutes into my drive and have the most fantastic view of the lake. And the drive home at night is pretty sharp as well.
I'm looking forward to more time for family, more time for writing, and just more time not driving. Apartment living as a whole isn't the greatest, but I do like the fact that I have two pools and two health clubs available to me in my apartment complex. I like the fact that I have a jacuzzi and a dry sauna at my disposal. And most importantly, I like that I don't have to maintain a lawn. I never took to that part of home ownership pride. Although I have to admit that I shouldn't complain about that one too much. My lawn was very small and I usually just had my teenage son do it.
Anyway, here at Apartment Living, I look forward to meeting some new friends and enjoying a richer social life than I found in the suburbs where no one ever seemed to do anything but either cut their grass or stay inside and watch TV. Three days down, 362 to go on our one year lease here in our new home. So far, so good.
One more thing on the big move. Today, the day after we officially finish moving all of our stuff, the move in which none of my "friends" showed up to help, my local paper had a feature story on tips for moving. (Beautiful and comic timing, indeed!) The story is here, but the part that really soaked in was this:
AVERAGE WEIGHT
The average weight of interstate shipments is 8,000 pounds, which is what the contents of a typically furnished three-bedroom home would weigh.
8,000 pounds? Elder Son and I moved 8,000 pounds? We loaded and then we unloaded 8,000 pounds. Ladies, the line to feel my muscles starts here. No pushing please.
(Edit to add: I just hit spellcheck to check for spelling errors and none were found. But Blogger did take exception to the word "jacuzzi." It suggested that maybe I meant "jackass." Um, nope.)
Wait. That is no longer a true statement.
My daily commute to work is approximately 12 minutes long. If I can hit the lights right, it'll be even shorter. The best part of it is that I drive over a dam about three minutes into my drive and have the most fantastic view of the lake. And the drive home at night is pretty sharp as well.
I'm looking forward to more time for family, more time for writing, and just more time not driving. Apartment living as a whole isn't the greatest, but I do like the fact that I have two pools and two health clubs available to me in my apartment complex. I like the fact that I have a jacuzzi and a dry sauna at my disposal. And most importantly, I like that I don't have to maintain a lawn. I never took to that part of home ownership pride. Although I have to admit that I shouldn't complain about that one too much. My lawn was very small and I usually just had my teenage son do it.
Anyway, here at Apartment Living, I look forward to meeting some new friends and enjoying a richer social life than I found in the suburbs where no one ever seemed to do anything but either cut their grass or stay inside and watch TV. Three days down, 362 to go on our one year lease here in our new home. So far, so good.
One more thing on the big move. Today, the day after we officially finish moving all of our stuff, the move in which none of my "friends" showed up to help, my local paper had a feature story on tips for moving. (Beautiful and comic timing, indeed!) The story is here, but the part that really soaked in was this:
AVERAGE WEIGHT
The average weight of interstate shipments is 8,000 pounds, which is what the contents of a typically furnished three-bedroom home would weigh.
8,000 pounds? Elder Son and I moved 8,000 pounds? We loaded and then we unloaded 8,000 pounds. Ladies, the line to feel my muscles starts here. No pushing please.
(Edit to add: I just hit spellcheck to check for spelling errors and none were found. But Blogger did take exception to the word "jacuzzi." It suggested that maybe I meant "jackass." Um, nope.)
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Note To Self: Get Some Friends
Kudos to Elder Son for his huge efforts. He and I have moved the bulk of our family's possessions with no outside help at all.
My beautiful wife has had the unenviable job of organizing, cleaning, brainstorming, watching the kids while Elder Son and I moved boxes, couches, beds, etc.
I speak for all of us here at Chez Bez when I say that we are completely beat down by this move.
No time for more updates. Boxes still await.
Have a nice day.
My beautiful wife has had the unenviable job of organizing, cleaning, brainstorming, watching the kids while Elder Son and I moved boxes, couches, beds, etc.
I speak for all of us here at Chez Bez when I say that we are completely beat down by this move.
No time for more updates. Boxes still await.
Have a nice day.
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