This is a very confusing time. I suspect that this is just part of the process, and I am eternally grateful for a year ago when I began learning how to separate myself from my emotion. Thanks again, S. I will go no further.

I sincerely miss the days when country songs were this simple. At a workshop last Thursday, someone played a song by D0n Willi@ms. To me, his voice is the voice of country music - perhaps a shade behind Hank, Sr. but not by very much. I really appreciate this song of his tonight, and am truly going to try to write this simply tomorrow and hope someone gives a damn.

I am not normally one to post song lyrics, but I think these are just perfect. If you don't own this recording, do yourself and Don a favor and buy it. It will make a rainy night particularly valuable. It seems particularly valid right now, but I think it was and always will be valid. That's why I have loved it since I could walk.

I Believe in Y0u
(R0ger Cook/Sam Hogin)
Performed by Don Willi@ms

I don't believe in superstars
Organic food and foreign cars
I don't believe the price of gold
The certainty of growing old
That right is right and left is wrong
That north and south can't get along
That east is east and west is west
And being first is always best

But I believe in love
I believe in babies
I believe in Mom and Dad
And I believe in you

I don't believe that heaven waits
For only those who congregate
I like to think of God as love
He's down below, He's up above
He's watching people everywhere
He knows who does and doesn't care
And I'm an ordinary man
Sometimes I wonder who I am

But I believe in love
I believe in music
I believe in magic
And I believe in you

I know with all my certainty
What's going on with you and me
Is a good thing
It's true
I believe in you

I don't believe virginity
Is as common as it used to be
In working days and sleeping nights
That black is black and white is white
That Superman and Robin Hood
Are still alive in Hollywood
That gasoline's in short supply
The rising cost of getting by

But I believe in love
I believe in old folks
I believe in children
I believe in you

But I believe in love
I believe in babies
I believe in Mom and Dad
And I believe in you

PS (sorry) - Just sitting here reading this, fact-checking in my non-journalistic way, I read it again and said "Yeah. That's why I want to do this." And the town is telling me not to. That leads to confusion.

But damn, that's beautiful.

I'm very excited for an old friend. The man who played guitar on and recorded my first demo (in 1996!!!) just got a cut on this person's new album. I'm thrilled for him and his cowriter, who is no slouch.

In the meantime, what I wrote today sounded like a third-grader who had been huffing Easy-off. This truly is the life (*wink*).

Two mo things

Two things:

Thing 1: I saw a woman running today, and she was patting her head and rubbing her stomach at the same time. I was immmm-presssed.

Thing B: According to ESPN ("the Eine"), the Georgia Dogs defeated the Michigan State Bluedogs, 32-01 in Skratvilee. Coach Richter was dissapointed with his team's performance, as they were 2-4 from the charity stripe. Gordon Elie-Kelso had a pretty good game as he scrimmed for over fitty metres. TJ Shockey hit Pope John Paul III for a touchdown, not to mention Geogria's first scoring strike to Daniella Where.

Thank you, Walt Disney. Thanks for nothing.

Boo freaking hoo

So, some of you who know me well know that I went to dinner with My Very Dear Friend at Five St@r D@y C@fe before the Athfest gig with the Funkles in July. Those of you who know me very well know that I had a moment of weepiness in the middle of dinner as J0hnny Cash played over the establishment’s hifi.

We had a discussion of the various sadnesses that tend (for me) to accompany the moving away from the loves of your life, the “Very Special” episodes of Every0ne L0ves Raym0nd, or the choice of new paint swatches at L0we’s. My Very Dear Friend knew me well… as I sat and all but choked on my meatloaf, she waited patiently until I could regain my composure and then changed the subject to something related to international politics or the future of radio, in a hope that I could act like a man until out of the public eye.

I have wondered ceaselessly until today what that song was,and why it hit me the way it did. Today, I decided to find the song, and in fact the exact moment in that song, which caused my occasion to emote excessively. I finally found it. It took me until now to realize that it was this song (track 15). I later realized that I had just watched Dr. Strangel0ve with Trina and Gunner not one week earlier, and that this song had played at the end of the film as the world was being destroyed.

Being the music nerd that I am, I decided to pinpoint the exact moment when I choked. I apologize to those who don’t read music or changes (or God forbid, lyrics), but this is when it happened (see example A). So, if you want me to get sappy, play this moment for me, especially after the chorus enters. Yet another killer moment in song. I’m such a sap, and I guess I wouldn’t have it any other way.

And thanks, Sarah, for not getting embarrassed.

No hidden meanings...

... no cry for help. This is just what's on my mind. Two things.

1. When everything is not fine, I don't like listening to the pretense that it is. It probably means one is not looking hard enough. It's one thing to appreciate being where and when one is, to enjoy the moment of being there, and to acknowledge and choose to set aside the imperfections of a situation. It is a different thing entirely to ignore imperfections and pretend that everything is fine. Everything is not fine, and that fact is okay. It is not okay to lie and say everything is perfect.

2. Perfection breeds lifelessness. The neutral, grey, or safe is to me the most unforgivable condition. I love euphoria, and in fact crave it. I do not care for a passionless absence of flaws. I will always take the scarred, flat-chested, pimple-ridden, greasy, flaky, unsightly, assymetrical creature with an understanding of the fleeting nature of being over the complacent, clean, perfectly organized, bleached, saintly craft kept carefully between the lines with never a thought of venturing beyond the field of visibility. How boring and pointless. How completely pointless.

Oh, and I have been meaning to point out how depressingly perfect the lyrics to this song were... way back when.

I am there. I wish I had known it was this easy.

Getaway day

It's been yet another great four days in the greater Athens area. I will do my best to update more later, but I think I am finally convinced that Athens indeed does exist when I am not here to witness it. I'm going in to hear the Wind Ens. for a couple of hours, probably followed by a trip downtown for some grub. Finally I will head to Gwinne++ for tonight's installment of the exhibition. Then I'll head through the soon-to-be chilly night air, up 75, out 24, back to the land of milk and honey.

Uh huh.

A little more motivated. A little more at peace with what is really true versus what I once made myself believe. A little more convinced not to create people in my head who aren't really there. A little calmer. And a little more ready to make enough to afford a place right here.

A quote for you:

We must picture Hell as a state where everyone has a grievance, and where everyone lives the deadly serious passions of envy, self-importance, and resentment. - C.S. Lewis

Unfortunately...

... my mind is racing tonight and I can't sleep. I'm supposed to be on the road to the ATL (etc) this morning at 8am E, and I don't see how that is going to happen at this point. If you happen to be up between 7 and 8am Eastern Time, give my cell a buzz and see if you can make it happen.

I have several disjunct and incoherent thoughts tonight, so don't think I've gotten into the meth or anything... it just happens.

1. I've been working on this tune tonight, and frequently find myself doing these menial everyday things while thinking about the place in a song in which I find myself. In my mind, I see the characters sitting still, waiting for me to tell them what to do or what to think. I literally will move clothes from the washer (or things even more menial which we just don't talk about in blogs, now do we?) to the dryer, and see the supposed face of the singer of the song staring at me waiting for the next move he's supposed to make. This is weird.

2. I just saw a mid-night rendezvous by way of away messages between two people that I know. It was sorta like sleeping in the den of an RV with an amorous couple in the master bedroom. I should have been born poor, British, and without genitalia. I quit.

3. I'm heading home to see my brother in the morning. He's in Orlando (the big "Oh!") in jet school for his new job, and is only in town for a few hours. Then I'm off to Athens until Monday, before the Gwinnett thingy on Monday night. I will be back in Nashville early Tuesday morning. If you read this and you know me, you know where to find me, and I would love to hear from you.

4. [Portion of post about one's perceived relevance removed due to whine factor. It will have to do to say that there is stupidity going on in portions of my existence.] Again, I quit. You can have my cards, just don't bend them.

5. I don't know my theology just yet. But I keep waiting for this great big reunion to happen, when everyone I ever cared about will be in one large venue with a keg and lots of sausage balls and celery and ranch dressing. A reality with any component of justice must include a reunion at the point when the house lights come up. I think that's what Heaven is supposed to be.

6. Never shower in water that has been soaked in human feces.

7. If you aren't listening to the Michael McDonald Motown album and Marc Broussard's "Carencro," then you are missing out on an essential part of life. Thank you Ken Simps0n.

8. I have found my local coffee shop in Nashville that makes coffee without putting it under the hood of a Peterbilt truck before brewing. When (not if) you come to see me, we will go to Caffeine and grab a cup. It will cure almost anything that ails you.

9. I agree with Paulwesterdawg. The only reasonably just outcome of the Fl-Tn game is a collision with a meteor.

10. Go Dawgs! Beat, um, Indians? Really?

I just heard these total hicks outside my apt yelling at this big old dog: "Come on, Lil' Bit. Get in the truck, Lil' Bit." I guess they named him that because that's what they're going to be back in a.

Quotes from the first trip home.

Back in Nashville, somewhat scarred, but alive and well.

I will allow Blog This to give you the details, as I can only give you a “second-hand” account of some of the “rockin’” events of this weekend. So, I will be somewhat cryptic.

“You scared me.” – Trina
“I’ve got the perfect job for you.” – FDR
“How’s Nashville?” – about 80 people, every one of which is appreciated and hereby thanked for wanting to know.
“It sucks. It’s a blast.” – Me
“Aaaaaaaaaaah!” – Sarah S.
“All that’s left is 1%.” - Gunner
“O” – Ln
“and if you think about it, he was vicariously [copulating with] me.” – Me
“Ok then, she was.” – Me
“Hello, my name is L#$%h S&#$h, and I will be your event coordinator.” - L#$%h S&#$h
“Dude.” – Cyper+
“Man.” – T0m W@ll@ce
“You know me, I’m a tree-hugging yellow-bellied liberal.” – Tony
“Shrett!” – Farrieb
“If you want to hear G0d laugh, tell him y0ur plans.” – song currently on the radio by unnamed group, but cited frequently by many
“They should run the ‘Win-the-game Play.’” - Molly
“Sorry, Dude!” – Blog This

There is much more philosophy back there, but I think I will just relax tonight and remember how much fun this weekend was.

May the building in which you sleep be sturdy.

There's no place like home.

Surreal

Yesterday was one of the most surreal experiences I ever remember.

I have always been very intrigued by the first time an expected event takes place. By that I mean the first performance of a new song by a veteran artist, the unveiling of a new model year’s automobiles, the return of a friend who has moved away, and yes the first football game. I love to see the new wrinkles in a game day, the new unexpected haircut (or God forbid tattoo) that your returning friend has assumed, and the weirdnesses of the new vehicle which initially look ever so weird but eventually become normal. I like that sort of new environment in which the tried and true becomes simply true.

I wisely took a cab downtown yesterday to view the return of the Dawgs with 40 of my newfound closest friends, who were just as homesick as I was. We were in a nice little restaurant just off of Music Row, and had a room reserved for our little delegation of the Bulldog Nation. The nausea to which I had referred on the night before was my typical pre-game pang of nerves, and was not induced by any sort of imbibed substance. That nausea got worse as kick-off approached. As I banged my sandal-clad feet against the hardwood floor of the restaurant, no one looked at me like I was weird… they were doing the same thing.

When the opening shot of the broadcast appeared, the perfect sun of a virtually cloudless evening in the Classic City was more stunning than I ever remembered seeing it on television. I realized quickly that I was watching the game in high definition. The clarity was amazing, and the homesickness was exacerbated by the feeling that I was right there – almost.

As the new scoreboard and ribbon boards began their frantic flashing on screen for the first time, the new wrinkles became more apparent. As the band began playing Glory and the team continued to wait for the television officials to release them onto the field, I began screaming for the team to "go, go, now, go, go,” and realized that I was in no position to do anything. When the team finally entered and the new material of the uniforms became obvious, it was apparent that this was a new version of something very old and once completely familiar.

This was very uncomfortable for the next several minutes. This changed a bit as we intercepted the opponent’s opening pass. It became more ok as we scored our first touchdown, and even more acceptable when we intercepted the opponent’s second pass and scored our second touchdown. I gradually settled into the new order of my little corner of the world, and decided that it was finally time to accept the greatest tradition of all: “Things change.”

Nevertheless, I don’t look forward to watching another game there for a while. I can’t wait to get back home next week and enjoy the company of my best friends and the surroundings of a place that I hope always feels like home, in spite of the fact that it too will change. And when I do, I hope you like my new haircut and tattoo.

I have become nauseous.

Man, you just can't find anyone to take care of you in this country.

Aaaaaaaahhhhhh!!!! Kick-off should be right now!

And I should be there.

The Streak Ends

You may have figured out by now that I will not be at the Georgia game this Saturday. It absolutely breaks my heart, but I know it’s necessary for me and them.

Along with missing this game, a streak comes to an end. So, I thought I would first offer some statistics on Georgia football since I have been a regular attendee:

Total number of games attended to date (not counting the 1981 Georgia vs. Vanderbilt game I think I attended in Nashville as a child): 149
Composite record of the Dawgs since I started attending games: 101-47-1
Last game I missed: Georgia at Kentucky, October 24, 1998
Consecutive games attended since: 76
Record in that time: 58-18

I can’t believe it’s ending, but I’m ready to start a consecutive home-games-attended streak next week. In the mean time, I would like to share a letter I wrote to the Redcoat alumni, which will appear in their newsletter next week. This note, which I wrote the night before camp began, is just my little way of remembering and smiling. I hope you enjoy what I remember.


Dear Alumni Redc0ats,

As you have probably already heard, I stepped down from my position as Assistant Direct0r of B@nds at UG@ as of June 30, 2005. Many of you may know of the songwriting bug that bit me at age 17. The effects never really went away, and in spite of my love for my alma mater, and specifically the Redc0ats, the time had finally come to move to Nashville and take care of business.

Rebecca asked me to offer a few of my favorite memories from my
thirteen-year trip from rank code I-2 to past-director. I can think of
hundreds, but will have to choose for the sake of space.

I don't think any wind or percussion player ever forgets their "firsts." My jaw dropped just as low as anyone's did the first time we gathered in the old Fine Arts Auditorium and played the first note. For the record, that feeling never went away as each year's first rehearsal rolled around. The first time entering Sanford Stadium was also awfully special. No one forgets the way the dark of the Northeast Tunnel gives way to that vision of the sun-drenched mother church of Dawgdom (excuse me while I clear this lump from my throat) with the Chant echoing in perfect accompaniment. I also remember being speechless on our first road trip, exiting onto a cloverleaf and seeing the other eight of nine buses barreling toward the game site. I was on bus six.

Seems as though there were some football games in there somewhere. I remember Georgia sitting on the ball in 1992 at Auburn and the "what just happened" loss to Vandy in '94. I remember pure joy as the Dawgs came back to take the lead late in the '95 Peach, only to watch the Cavaliers run the kick-off back. I remember my body shaking worse with each passing overtime against Auburn in '96. I remember stopping LSU in 1998 down there, and laughing with the Derbies on the bus as we listened to the Tiger Network radio call-in show on the way back to the hotel. I remember the comeback at the Outback in 2000, and I will never forget the Angel Tag after the game. I remember Tennessee in 2001. I asked someone with a radio on their ears what Munson was
saying moments after Haynes caught that pass. "He said something about a 'hob-nailed boot'" Now I know what that is. I remember eleven losses to Florida, and one very sweet victory (I wasn't in Florida in '97.).

There were also those idiosyncrasies, the "no way that just happened" moments that resulted from the uniqueness of my fellow Redcoats and the unique circumstances under which we found ourselves. I remember Mark Bull0ck's interpretive reading of a Harlequin Romance novel over the speaker system on bus 6. I haven't laughed that hard since. I remember working successfully with then-Props Chief Jim C0x to convince a Redcoat (who shall remain nameless) that Williams-Brice Stadium was "portable," and that Gamecock fans helped erect the stadium at the beginning of the season and take it apart at the end. She figured it out by the third quarter. I remember the time at Auburn that a car had parked directly behind the properties truck in such a way that the crew couldn't load the truck. We didn't call the cops because the car had a UGA donor sticker on it. The swagger of the participating Redcoats walking back into Jordan-Hare was priceless as they told me, "We moved it." They did… by hand.

Most important, though, were the people. I won't name any specific
names, as about 2000 Redcoats entered and left the program while I was there. I remember the smiles at the rehearsals before we left for St. Augustine. I remember the tears after Tech in a few non-bowl years. I remember the stupid jokes that are very funny years after they were told. I remember break-ups between perfect couples, and engagements between the unlikeliest of soul mates. I remember my Redcoat friends saying, "If you ever need anything, call me," and I remember learning that they meant what they said.

As I write you now from Twangtown, the Redcoats are preparing for
tomorrow's first full band rehearsal of the 2005 season. I know that
many of you join me in raising my juice-box in a toast to many more memories, for many more current and future Redcoats, for many more years. May they have as much to remember fondly as we do.

Most of the friends I will know until I'm gone were made through the Redcoat Band. Every time I hear from one, it reminds me of how blessed I was to be a part of something so singularly wonderful. And then I remember that old phrase, and remind myself that I will always be blessed to be a part of it.

"Once a Dawg, always a Dawg. How sweet it is!" As I told the band in my farewell letter, it really, really is.

See you at Homecoming,

Brett

I hope those of you in Athens this weekend have the time of your lives. If you listen carefully, 265 miles to the northwest, you will hear at least one guy barking at the top of his lungs.

Here's my imitation of the southeastern U.S. right now:

"Oh my God. OhmiGod, OhmiGod, OhmiGod, Ohmig, Ohmig, Ohmig, og, og, g, g, g, g."

It would be different if it was a scream that resulted from extreme pleasure, and maybe that's [on the way]. To borrow some advice my mother gave me when I freaked out at about 4 years old, let me say: "Ssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

Animals Speaking for God

I’m sure I am like a lot of people who are aghast at what has happened on the gulf coast over the last three days.

I was horrified when I realized the true destruction that took place in those cities and towns. I’ve never really been one to sympathize with a camera whore, and I don’t tend to feel the anguish for those who emote on camera as much as I do for the faceless, who choose to suffer and mourn in silence and relative privacy. It doesn’t take a nun or a relief worker to perceive the suffering that is taking place from still pictures of nothing but the environment that is left, sans the commentary of a field reporter who hopes to one day anchor the evening news or the sympathy-starved victim who produces tears and shrieks when the red light turns on. If you have a reasonable amount of room in your heart and a little bit of imagination, you can tell how bad it is. “Horrible” is nothing but a word, and it doesn’t adequately serve the real loss of property, history, direction, hope, and life that anyone with even a tinge of a capacity for sympathy can at least perceive. Comment and drama simply aren’t necessary. It is Hell down there right now.

I became angered, however, as I watched the generous rescuing the able and the opportunistic raping the property and efforts of the productive. I am not referring to those without the ability or the means to evacuate. The bravado of those who would “ride out” a hurricane is well known… in fact, I have often thought until today that I would like to do that some day (though I wouldn’t have stayed around for that one, and I would have told you so before this past weekend). What some once thought brave or stupid has now been proven far worse: selfish. For every person capable of leaving the coast who was rescued today, a person who had no choice other than to remain and hope for the best waited for help, stranded by circumstance… or worse. I don’t know from watching which ones to be angry toward, because I don’t know their backgrounds. But, the history of human nature tells me that some of them are the ones whose rescue is celebrated at the top of the hour on basic cable.

I became angered at the looters. I’m sure several could justify their wading into and stealing items from the Walgreen’s on Canal as “fair.” “After all,” one might say, “that’s a big corporation, with way more stuff than I’ve got. I need it more than Walgreen’s.” What that person either doesn’t know or respect is that that corporation is usually just a front – the namesake of the investment of the enterprising, (yes) the rich, or (yes) the responsible. There is a 75-year old woman in western Tennessee who worked blisters and arthritis into her future at a sewing machine in a shoe plant for forty years, quietly and consistently putting a little bit aside while barely getting by, because she refused to retire on the government dole. Money saved doesn’t simply become more valuable by being saved. When it is coupled with the mental and physical work of human beings, assuming that the money is well managed, it becomes an investment and (hopefully) does become more valuable. Thus, some of her life savings is in Walgreen's stock, because it's safe and pays enough of a dividend to make sure her savings beat inflation by a little bit. Those who looted from that store stole from the retirement account of a rural grandmother who has nothing but her nest egg and her memories. She worked for it the hard way, she still lives in the same shack her late husband built in 1955, and she by God ain’t rich.

I suspect Lord of the Flies disturbs us because we fear that it is true. Actually, we know it is. I am disheartened by our resignation to that without resistance. I lose the faith in humanity that I gained after 9/11 when I hear those who justify our cruelest deeds with the reminder that human beings are animals, and are victims of their own instincts. Some are content to accept that the absence of civilization must result in the absence of civility.

I want and expect a little better than that of myself, and I hope you do too.

I am also struck by the recollection of several people claiming to interpret God’s intentions at disasters of the past. I still laugh in disbelief when I hear someone claim that AIDS is God’s punishment for homosexuals. Tell that to Ryan White. I still shake my head when I remember a prominent evangelist’s accusation that those who tolerate abortion in America were complicit in the World Trade Center attacks. I don’t suppose that this hurricane was God’s punishment for a nation that allows its evangelists to call for the assassination of foreign leaders. You don’t think?

Of course not. Even to the most fundamental of fundamentalists, that is bad theology. So are “Death to the infidels” and “Death to Chavez.”

At the end of the day, it all comes back to that glorious tragic imperfection. The facet of our being that allows freckles to make a person singularly beautiful is the same one that allows us to disregard warnings of impending disaster at the expense of the life of someone who was incapable of helping herself. The part of us that yielded Post-It Notes is the same one that stole from that grandmother. The trait that gave us the perfectly imperfect “blue” note (the harmonic necessity of jazz and everything after it) is the same one that foolishly recommends killing in the name of God.

We’re absolutely imperfect. That imperfection results in our greatest quirks, discoveries, and inventions, and also in our most destructive acts of selfishness. The difference in the two is in that humans have the ability to listen to themselves – to think, to self-analyze, to determine the compatibility of the potential result of our flaws with a basic morality that only exists to perpetuate our existence – and then to discipline themselves to honor only the best manifestations of their imperfections.

The way I know to sum it up best comes from one of those silly lists I sometimes make of nothing more than things I believe. And the most fundamental of those is that, yes, we are animals.

But we’re not just animals.

---------------------------

PS - If you've got a little something to spare and want to help out, you can donate to the Red Cross with your credit or debit card right here.

1. A tree limb of considerable girth fell moments ago onto my bet-roon window. No damage, but I am pretty sure I will wake to the sound of a chainsaw, or worse yet, a nail file.

2. I figured out what bothers me about the name of the fading hurricane. The rhyme and meter of it remind me of the name "Funky Cold Medina." For some reason, the thought of Matt L@uer saying "Funky Cold Medina" disturbs me.

I'm not okay with that.

I don't even know why you would take coffee in the bathroom.

And, I'm sorry? Hurricane Katrina?

Sounds like the opening act on the 1985 Falco North American Tour. Can't we do better? Why not Hurricane Gertrude, or Hurricane Crack Ho?

Seriously.... I get it.... change songs!

"I'm stayin' up. Wooooh!"

Thing #1 - Name that band.

Thing #2 - In the style of Warren and Russ...

Dear Weather Channel,

I realize that you are trying to better "brand" yourself by changing your music to "Foxnews-esque Variations on Our Audio Logo" for Loud Drums, Synthesizer, and Fake Piano during Local on the 8's. But I really used to enjoy basking in the shame (the type that can only exist in one raised hard-core protestant and trained in the classical musical tradition) of enjoying the occasional Pat Metheny or Rippingtons that you used to play. So, I present a simple "either/or" request:

Could you please either:

1. Go back to playing that naughty, naughty Quiet Storm music, which I will probably consider "sensual" by the time I'm in my 40's.... or
B. Could you play the second movement of the piece. This one is getting old.

Grazi.

Thing #3 - I swear on all that is holy that the following phrase is in the latest advisory from NOAA for the greater NOLA area: "WATER SHORTAGES WILL MAKE HUMAN SUFFERING INCREDIBLE BY MODERN STANDARDS."

Wow.

The Sh*t is Katrina, K-A-T-R-I-N-A, I said the...

Wow. I'm totally not messing around on this.

My sleep schedule is completely whacked. At one point in time I would have treated my insomnia with a nightcap, but those days are gone. Now, I just kinda suck it up and lay in the bed until I fall asleep.

When I went to bed at about 1:30 this morning, the We@ther Channel was talking about a Category 3 which could become a Category 4. I just sorta thought, "You know what, it looks worse than that." Somewhere around 3:15 this morning, it moved to a 4, and it just seemed like it would get worse.

When I finally fell asleep around 7am, it was still a 4. When I woke up a little after 2 this afternoon, it had become a 5 and the whole world was freaking out. Obviously this thing is pretty serious, but I didn't and don't understand why they were underestimating this thing, especially as devastating as it could be in New Orleans.

Our weather calls for gusts over 60 mph starting in the early morning Tuesday. It's the wrong kind of quiet outside, and lots of people are at the grocery store. No, I didn't buy milk and bread. Every good southerner known that milk won't keep if the power is out. The answer is beer and pork rinds (though I bought neither).

But that's nothing.

Man, I hope you guys in Louisiana are taking care of yourselves. I promise to resume my disdain for LSU as soon as this thing clears up, but seriously... duck and cover... stop drop and roll... put your right foot in and shake it all about... whatever.

But take care.

I should have known

Warning: Portions of this post could be deemed flat-out inflammatory. So, please don't get pissed. Just enjoy. For the record, to make sure no one gets mad, I have insulted myself three or more times.

I don’t know if you knew this existed or not. At some point tonight, I decided to make tuna salad (you know what they say… when you get tuna shit, make tuna salad). It occurred to me at some point in the process that I had forgotten the best way to hard-boil an egg. This site popped up when I Googled "How to hard-boil an egg." Laugh now, and I will pee in your wheaties when I have a hit song on the radio and still no money to show for it. Then I will ask you for money.

Now… thinking I know the regular readers of my blog, I have hand-picked some timely articles from this site for you to peruse. Don’t thank me, I’m just trying to help.


Trina and Dave

ln

Gunner and Sarah S.

Chief

Brett

Princess Jen

Tony... or this one.

Russ

Brett again

Stacy

Mr. Band Director

Brett, yet again... oh, and don't forget this one.

Kit

Dwight

Brett again


EVERYONE!

I'm "sorry" if I left anyone "out." Leslie, I just couldn't do it... and they didn't have a category called "how to support your virgin friend who is well into his twenties." Will and Natalie, I'm not sure if y'all read regularly, and I don't have anything on you right now. There's still time.

Good weekends.

Ode to a Coffee Maker

When I realized at twenty years old that I wasn’t “very good at waking up,” my Mom shelled out a few bucks for me to get you. You were so young, innocent, and loyal, and you worked like a charm (the “working” type of charm).

You sat on my little dorm room refrigerator, which had been converted to a beer cooler/bedside table. Every morning at 6:30 you would “perk” up. You would still be there, waiting patiently for me after I hit snooze for the seventh time on the dog alarm clock (which was really a cat alarm clock… some of you know the one – broken trumpet in one hand, blasted Reveille and “WAKE UP!!!!!! Rrrrriiiiisssse and sshhhiiine!!!”). When I cursed after spilling hot coffee all over myself and bedsheets as I tried to pour a cup of coffee while still asleep, you didn’t laugh. No, no, you just sat there, and made sure that the next cup I spilled would scald my fair skin even worse than the last one.

When I moved into a place by myself for the first time, you got one hell of a workout. You never complained when I abused you… running multiple pots on a late night of drill writing, then waking me up when I had to be at the trucks at 3:30 in the morning for yet another loss to Tennessee.

You were never stylish or fancy. You offered no frothy milk crap concoction to put on top of a cup of pure caffeine. You just spit out wake juice, over, and over, and over again. You cured multiple hangovers, got me through comps. You even cooperated on that New Year’s eve when Russ, Ellen, and I decided that we would try being Irish.

That worked out.

When I moved to Music City, you pledged to continue feeding the caffeine addiction which I share with my fellow musicians. You did so nobly, and with never a vile word.

And now, you have gone to be with Mr. Coffee himself. As I drop by the new Target tonight on my way home, and I toss you into the dumpster some twenty feet in front of my apartment door, a little part of me will be gone… nay, a large part.

You were the truest friend.
You were (sniff) the greatest enabler.
You were the one thing I could count on (except for my cable modem…. wait).

May you rest in pieces.

First, better, or different

There is a great quote from Loretta Lynn which basically said that, in order to succeed wildly in Nashville (or anywhere for that matter) that one needs to be “first, better, or different.”

One of the big ideas Adam and I had for the weekend was to write together. We’ve been doing this on and off for years. While Adam would not characterize himself a songwriter, he’s been listening to country music long enough (28 years) to know the difference between something not good, something good, and something great. We wrote some interesting things together years ago… in fact, my first big trip to Nashville was a direct result of Adam’s repeated absence from co-writing sessions… I got pissed off enough that I needed to leave Athens for a few days. That trip was long enough that some people thought I had actually moved.

For the record, Adam also brings something else to the table in that he dates a lot, has a girlfriend, and in fact probably rarely spends a night alone. That's a welcome perspective around here. No pity, just fact (Leslie!).

We got started on Friday night, to little avail. We got pretty serious about it again on Saturday night, and actually came up with something interesting that I don’t know that I had heard before. By the time 5:00 am had rolled around, my writing chops were somewhere in the bottom of a bottle of JD. I woke up, knowing that Adam intended to head home fairly soon that day, to the sound of his continuing to debate lines. Never the one to turn down a qualified and knowledgeable co-write, I fought through the morning doldrums to the point where I was ready to debate lines with him. We finally got to the point at which I was content enough with the tune to put it on a disc. For those of you who don’t know, I decided some time back not to spend $700 a piece on demos, but rather to sink about $3500 into a home studio, because I knew I could do what the studios in town can do in the comfort of my own home… and usually be damn happier with the results than those of the alternative.

What started as a “quick demo” that should have taken 45 minutes (at the very most) turned into a full-on 12-hour home session. For the record, sessions are normally three hours, but we re-wrote and re-wrote, and messed with the recording, and aimed a little higher than the washed-up producer on Demonbreun who only wants your money. He stayed in Nashville one more night to finish the demo, and we did fine.

What was really cool throughout the process, though, was remembering that quote. I’m definitely not first. So I tried to make sure I was driving our writing in a “better,” or “different” direction throughout the course of both the writing and the production.

Truth be told, most of the lines were Adam’s. My job was to say “no.” I said “no” enough, that Adam dug a little harder on lines, and I wrapped them up. And eventually we wound up with something that made both of us rather uncomfortable. Which is good.

One hard thing to remember when you’re writing, is that if what you are writing sounds like the stuff that’s already on the radio, then you are two years behind. There were little awkwardnesses - moments where it felt like there should be lyrics and weren’t, asymmetries, rhymes where we didn’t expect them to be, and ways of saying the only thing country music ever says that I hadn’t heard before.

In a way, this was just a microcosm for the whole “learning who you are” bit that I have been sick of hearing about since watching Mister Rogers as a child. Maybe it isn’t so much who you are as much as it is what part of what you have to offer that might be different enough to be right on the money. I have been learning to appreciate my own differences – all of those little things that I bring that it seems no one else does, whether it be in teaching, writing, simply being around, or whatever it is I happen to be doing.

And after listening to the tune for a day and a half… yeah, it sounds like something that could be on the radio, but currently isn’t. I intend to keep chasing those strange things… those moments or components that are awkward, and see where they lead. I think that probably applies no more to writing than anything else.

It feels like a matter of time right now, and in many ways I am made of that these days. But I don't see the point in waiting around to do the same old thing that everyone else is doing.

Toddles

I pulled the entry on Todd's ad, then said, oh what the hell. I guess if I had done that ad, I would have expected it to be all over the world pretty soon. So, I just put it back up.

For the record here's a picture with Todd (sorta) in it, from 1995. You've all seen it before.


You can see Drum Major M@tt King looking straight ahead, but refusing to join in. Todd and Carrie C. are to his right... pretty much doing the same thing while I'm getting my ass kicked.

Some of you may remember the goofy "Thanks!" picture that sat in my office forever, with me, Candy, and Adam posing in concert and marching apparel. There was a fourth, Tin@ M0tley, but she lives in Mew Mexico. At any rate, Adam and I caught Candy, Bryant, and Grant in Mufreesboro this weekend, and recreated the pic ten years after the fact. That will be up soon, along with a scan of the original.

Ahayes

Adam joins me from Cincinatti today for two and one-half days of revelling in the music business and bitching about why I'm not getting cuts and he's not getting gigs. This is an old pastime that we have been practicing for about 11 years, but haven't had a chance to do since spring '03 in Albuquerque.

In a way, it will be sorta sad when he's working as much as he wants and I'm getting cuts all of the time.

Who am I kidding? No it won't.

14 days, plus, for y'all. About 19 for me.

Additional observations:
- I am highly disturbed that the phrases "Peace on you" and "Piss on you" sound so similar. I think this may be the cause of the current problems the Americans seem to have with the Muslim world... just a little dialect problem, that's all.
- South Carolina is way better in NCAA Football 06 than I think they're going to be in real life. It is making me nervous, though.
- Everytime they talk about that BTK killer, I always think of Burger King.

Note to those who comment

1. That's what makes this fun, so keeps those cards and letters coming in.
2. I finally got comment spammed, so I added the word verification requirement for comments. I apologize in advance for the additional 4.3 seconds this will require.
3. Maybe I will come up with something to say soon.

More letting go

I headed out today for a meeting with this guy. I’ve actually been anticipating this meeting since I first let my then-boss know that I was leaving UGA. He had some contact with him regarding a little project he’s working on for Georgia. A few days later, I was talking with this guy as I did and still do frequently… one of my very dear music friends and one hell of a good human being. Turns out, he was working on the same project with the first guy. A nice relationship developed there, and they have since begun working very closely.

After numerous failed attempts to meet in Athens, we were finally to meet today at this place. About the time I hit Edmonson Pike at 4:30, the skies opened up. As is the case in many towns, the rain slowed traffic to a pace slower than the most sensitive version of “Lush Life” you have ever heard. Wisely, so I thought, I got off of I-65 and turned left onto Wedgewood and right on 12th. Somehow, I wound up on the north side of Broadway without ever remembering crossing it. As the rain continued, I maneuvered to 17th, heading south, in an attempt to get back to Demonbreun. Through four lights I sat as drivers in the road perpendicular to mine crossed into the intersection, failing or refusing to accurately calculate their likelihood of passing successfully to the other side of the intersection before the light changed.

When I finally arrived (fifteen minutes late), I met Bruce. I had seen his picture dozens of times, and had heard his tunes thousands. For some reason, I was taken aback when I heard his accent. I don’t know… I guess I should have figured that someone from Gainesville, Georgia would have a fairly southern accent, but his picture didn’t look like he would. He did, and I was naturally much more at ease when I realized it.

We talked about the project he’s undertaking, and my goals here. When it was revealed to him that I did have aspirations of writing pop music and doing some producing, he reminded me that this wasn’t just a country town. “That girl in the black dress behind you?” he whispered, “She’s an A and R director for C@pitol in town snooping around for new bands. It’s not just twang and 1, 4, 5 here anymore.” I just laughed and thought about how cool that was.

He pulls out his cell phone to check the time, and says, “I’m sorry but I’ve got to get out of here, oddly enough for thi…. wait… you should come with me!” Before I could say, “Where?” he was on the phone leaving a voice mail saying that I would be “perfect to help out with what we’re doing before the Vanderbilt game” and asking if it was ok for me to come along. The person whom he had intended to reach called back immediately, and it was, of course, fine for me to come along. I guess I should have mentioned, Bruce is a UGA alum. In fact he’s now got a place in Athens because of the “project.” It’s right above Masada, and I’m jealous.

I made my way to Cool Springs, and found myself at a restaurant being introduced to six other alums and a development officer and telling my story repeatedly… often hearing, “So you just dropped everything and moved up here?” or, “What did you do with the band?” Three hours of a dinner three pay-grades above mine and discussion that frequently included such phrases as “Coach Magill,” “right there on Clayton,” “hop over to the Grill,” “the Redcoats,” and “D.J.” ensued. I learned of famous Nashville personalities who share my collegiate affiliation, and traded stories which revealed much fewer than six degrees of separation between me and the old friends I just met. Email addresses and numbers were exchanged and we began to leave the restaurant. Across the parking lot, echoes of “We’ll see you soon,” and “Write a hit” bounced off of the walls of the adjacent mall, and then I was back on my way home in more ways than one.

I just love it when plans change for the better. Almost invariably, the allowance of life to happen to me results in a far more satisfactory end than any design I could ever have written. The more “delicious ambiguity” I experience, the more I realize that there is far more value in this move than potential financial earnings. I am learning to enjoy the ride.

It’s about time.

The Biz Rant

Ok, I am officially in a pissy mood. Probably just another side effect of learning to be by myself a lot more. Plus, I'm ready to be writing and I can't just yet.

At any rate, because a few folks wanted to see it, I am posting a link to the music business blog. I put it on a separate page for several reasons, but I will include a permanent link on the right (your right, my left). It's pretty involved, but maybe you will find out something new. I think I'm going to bed, and hopefully my mood will improve.

Entry of necessity

This is one of those entries that you post because you haven’t posted in a while and you don’t want to be made an example of. How about a glimpse into the random thoughts that have been in my brain lately? Excellent! Glad you agree.

1. I had a nice convergence of thoughts on Thursday as I watched DCI Quarterfinals. Boston’s show centered around “Joy” - the emotion not the girl or the dishwashing liquid. The “B” section of “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” hit me particularly strongly at about the same time as the Skirt’s last album title “This is Winning and Thinking,” the latest Foo Fighter’s tune “The Best of You,” and my slow but steady progression into the business. I don’t imagine Bach necessarily thought that he was writing something timeless when he wrote that. But it now, to me anyway, seems to say “This was the best there was in the early 1700’s. This was being true and beautiful in 1716,” or whenever it was written. Makes you want to be pretty careful about what you write down and call art.

2. The visit from S. Oob Thursday night was great. Of course it was great to see her… she always has intelligent thoughts and observations, along with an interesting narrative of her own day-to-day. It was also the first person whom I really knew that I had seen in two weeks. I hope my downloading songs from iTunes and my annoying piano play-along didn’t keep you awake.

3. I accidentally called FDR right in the middle of RCB staff introductions on Saturday. So I was reintroduced to the band as a staff member by way of cell phone. Their response was very generous and exactly what I needed. Gunner later called as they were playing Battle Hymn and The Chant for the first time. It sounded great from what I could tell. I can’t wait to hear them live… four weeks.

4. I heard a very interesting tracking session for a major gospel act last week, thanks to an old acquaintance (the engineer) who was kind enough to invite me in. The process is amazing, and is loose enough around the edges that I think I would be very happy in production some day. You wind up having to put a lot of your own money up for those things, so that’s several years away.

5. This coming week, co-writes begin becoming more of a reality. Two co-writers (or potential ones) are returning from out of town, and at least one that I have established here looks as though it may take place this week. More of why I’m here in the first place.

6. I’m about 8 days from being done working my “day job” for quite a while, and I will be able to focus a little more on writing the good stuff.

7. Kit, thank you. I think I would take that over money any day, though some money would be nice.

8. Very special thanks to ln, and Gunner who helped me fact-find for a tune I’m rewriting. For the record, I’m glad I checked with you, because I was way off.

9. Lastly, I have decided not to post my music business explanation blog because it sounds too didactic. That is, unless I hear from you that you really want it, in which case I will post. Please don’t say you do out of pity… I only want to put it up if someone wants to read it.

Hoping my schedule gets back to normal pretty soon. I have seen the sun come up before getting to sleep each of the last four night/mornings. That is all.

An old true... um... ism, a thought about real love, and a note to Peter Jennings

1. This is old as dirt, but I read it in a book again today and thought it was worth revisiting.

The following is an actual question given on a University of Washington Chemistry midterm.

"Bonus question: Is hell exothermic or endothermic?" Most of the students wrote proofs of their beliefs using Boyle's Law (how gas cools when it expands and heats when compressed). However, one student wrote this:

"First, we need to know how the mass of hell is changing with time. So we need to know the rate at which souls are moving into hell and the rate at which they are leaving. I think that we can safely assume that once a soul gets into hell, it will not leave. Therefore, no souls are leaving.

As for how many souls are entering hell, let's look at the different religions that exist in the world today. Some of these religions state that if you are not a member of their religion, you will go to hell. With birth and death rates as they are, we can expect the number of souls in hell to increase exponentially.

Now we look at the rate of change of volume in hell. Because Boyle's Law states that in order for the temperature and pressure in hell to stay the same, the volume of hell has to expand as souls are added. This gives two possibilities:
1) If hell is expanding at a slower rate than the rate at which souls enter hell, then the temperature and pressure in hell will increase until all hell breaks loose.
2) Of course, if hell is expanding at a rate faster than the increase of souls in hell, then the temperature and pressure will drop until hell freezes over.

So which is it? If we accept the postulate given to me by Ms. Teresa Banyan during my Freshman year- that ‘it will be a cold day in hell before I sleep with you.’- and take into account that I have still not succeeded in having sexual relations with her, then #2 cannot be true; and thus I am sure that hell is exothermic and will not freeze.”

2. I feel terrible about Dana Reeve and her news from today. But the entire time I watched her with her ailing husband, I completely gushed in private admiration for her, the grace with which she carried herself, and the absolute unconditional love she exhibited for her husband.

Hang in there, Lois. Lots of people are pulling for you.

3. I don't know if you went by Pete to your friends or not, but that's what I'm going to call you. Pete, if you're looking back, I hope you appreciate the way that people remember you. Not very many people are talented and personable enough to enjoy tribute like your memory is receiving now. I suspect that we wouldn't have agreed with each other on a lot of things, but it sure would have been fun to waste an afternoon trying. Men like you and Brokaw are what I would choose to be if I wanted to be someone other than myself.

Waaaaahhh!

The new M0tley Crue tour is called the "C@rnival of Sins" Tour. That's too much.

Oooh scary.


Boo!

Purely on the merit of the idea...

... this is funny.

Letting it happen

Today was a neat day. I spent the first part writing drill and helping around the old office by email and phone.

This is the flashback portion of the entry. Flashback with me to last Monday (Dlalalaloo, Dlalalaloo, Dlalalaloo).

I sat at the 'Bird for several hours almost entirely unhappy with the experience. After his performance, I said "Nice work" to the one writer on the night who I felt deserved more stage time than he got. He said, "thanks," and went about his way.

Fast forward to Tuesday night. You will recall that I sat in a cool green chair. Well, the same writer came up and sat down next to me, and I introduced myself. His name is Scott. He told me he was playing a "round" on Friday night at this place. I told him I would make it a point to be there. (Editor's note: A "round" is what most people would consider a "line." You take turns playing 3 or 4 songs, then it's someone else's turn.)

Moments after this, four women were looking for a place to sit, and they chose the edge of the raised portion of floor upon which the afforementioned chair sits. When they did, they realized that I was sitting behind them. In an effort not to be rude, they asked if that was ok. Of course it was fine. Nothing else was said that night.

Fast forward to tonight. I went to the Quarter to hear Scott. I was one of five people in the audience in the beginning. So, rather than introduce the performers to the crowd, the host of the night introduced the audience to the performers. I think this was a good idea. Scott's stuff was good, and you can tell he has great ideas and really wants to do this. When he finished we agreed to keep in touch and write when he gets back to town.

Moments later, a woman walks in and sets a fiddle on a table and asks the bartender for an ice water. I recognized her as the attractive woman at the far end of "the group of four" who sat by me on Tuesday. After hearing her play and sing (which she does quite nicely), I learned that she had once attended this fine institution, then this fine institution, then this fine institution. After discussing career goals, etc, she invites me to the lounge of this hotel to hear her roommate play another round.

I went, and loved what I heard and who I met. Her friends, who are writers are very cool. She introduced me to the unofficial "may0r of music r0w," who was very encouraging, and an established writer or two. She also talked me through the process of getting on that writer's night.

I'm glad I didn't sit on my butt and write drill tonight. There is time for that tomorrow. And if you ever read this Alisa, thank you very much. This is starting to feel like the right move.

Makes you feel like you're home

Mmmk, Dawg Fans. My dear old Redcoat friend/bassoonist/mellophonist/mom Amy has a station on Live 365 that is worth tuning into for a while. Lots of cool stuff that makes it feel like it's a gameday in the Classic City. Take a listen if you get a chance. If you have the means to donate to help with licensing fees you can do that there too. Click here to check it out.

Little to report

Wrote drill most of the day today. Saw Cooper's band this evening, and they're doing really well. I like hearing my own stuff being performed well.

I started your blog on the business tonight, but it is going to be very involved and very long. It's coming soon, but more pressing things are at hand. I guess that's all.

Oh yeah... I wrote the beginning of a song tonight. Been awhile, and that's kinda why I moved here. That's probably a good thing.

That's More Like It

Let me be very plain about this. I don’t have a plan. I just know what I want to do and that I probably need to be here to do it.

At least ten times since 1997, I have been in town and heard something great, only to return home knowing that I was, or was capable of something, better. What I thought I would do once I got here was to simply experience the town, the industry, the community. Get a feel for it. Find out where and when it’s okay to drink. Learn the idiosyncrasies of this particular place, and then feel my way into it.

Last night was obviously pretty pathetic, but tonight was much better. I went here to hear this person, this person*, and many other writers. In fact I sat in this chair to hear the show.


I heard great stuff. I heard writers that I think I could write with, and do so very well.

But most importantly, I watched and listened. I realized about 30 minutes into this show, “Man, these people are almost as screwed up as I am.” And I liked it.

I guess a part of leaving was also the desire to be around more people like me. Not that the people at home aren’t, but very few of them want to do this like I do. Here, they do. No one lets a good song be performed without making sure it has a good harmony part or four. People scream "Damnit" when someone sings a hook they wish they had written, and they shake their heads in disbelief when someone makes perfectly perfect sense in a tune. It’s reassuring. It lets me know that this idea isn’t crazy… that in fact, there are thousands of people who do it everyday and think that the opportunity to do it is worth ridiculous acts of carelessness or self-endangerment. In fact, there are parts of this town in which that is normal. Hmmm.

I still owe you a blog on how the business works, so this won't make sense to some of you. But, purely for the purpose of my own comparison from good days to bad, right now I think I am 14 months to signing and 18 months to first cut. This is the most random speculation possible, but I'm just curious to find out later on if I knew what I was talking about.

In related unrelated news, I caught up with an old UGA friend who is an engineer here. After some discussion about my goals, he agreed to let me sit in on a tracking session for one of these. Just another part of the learning experience that I am really looking forward to.

* Totally recommend Shelly's tune "Tiny Town." What country could be if it ever decided to be.

Archetypal Moving Misery

It is settling in slowly. That I am actually here and doing what I am doing after talking about it for at least 12 years, that I can be defined primarily as “struggling songwriter,” that the rest is up to me… it is settling in.

I got up today and did several things around the house. I learned from Ln and Sarah S. that staying organized has the potential to make things easier, so I’m doing my best. Hopefully the 7th time is the charm. After around the fifth load of clothes, I was making a snack when I heard a dripping noise. Though some may find comfort, or even pride, in that, depending on their domestic circumstances, I currently do not. It usually means one of the following things:

1. A liquor drink has been spilled and forgotten.
2. I have done a poor job of connecting the washing machine hoses to their appropriate mates (see the great Washing Machine Floods Brett’s House on His Third Day In Said House Caper of the Year 2000).
3. A dead body has been planted in my dwelling place before being appropriately drained. Side Note: If you are going to plant a dead body in my house, please do so with some sense of tidiness and selflessness: Drain the fluids first, then plant the body. Grazi.
4. Trina has chosen Chinese Water Torture over sleeplessness and wants some company (but didn’t bother to call, which is fine).
5. It’s raining.
6. The neighbor upstairs clogged her toilet, and still believed she could “handle this one” after the water had flooded half of her den.

Well, in this case, #6 applies. I fully expect to be compensated, preferably in the form of a homemade desert or a publishing deal. At this point, however, I have not been contacted regarding a settlement. I do believe that the Garden State Soundtrack will have to play loudly at, say, 4:15 AM. Maybe that will teach her to lay off of the fiber.

In my progressing age, I have recalled that everything goes wrong when I move and become uncomfortable. This usually waits to occur until I am completely alone. Then it roars. When I moved to Michelle Drive, I arrived alone on move-in to find my bedroom window busted by attempted burglars and made unsuccessful phone calls to attorneys in an attempt to get out of the lease. When I moved into the ‘kstone, the aforementioned caper happened, then I struggled mightily to get everything into the house, then the filing cabinet stayed in the front bathroom for six weeks. Here, you’ve got the Great Feces Shower of 2005. Along with that, evvv-uuuu-rrrr-yyy damned time I bent my head toward the coffee maker to check my “grounds level” or make a strategic ergonomic change in coffee maker positioning, I promptly jammed my forehead into the corner of the stove hood in exactly the wrong spot and with authority. Five times!!! This is a known complication of moving with the idiosyncrasies and accident-proneness that I am well known to possess. It is also directly related to being in a really pissy mood. I will get through it, but now would not be the time to ask me to help you move or assist with your do-it-yourself enema. I’m probably not game.

After touching base with a few people in town, I made my way to the BlueB|rd Café. From now on, I will refer to this establishment as “the Bird,” for Googlic reasons. Regarding the night, I will attempt to be vague and not overly opinionated… let’s just say that 0pen Mic Night at the Bird completely sucks ass. Merle H@gg@rd appeared twice, yet was never there. I also heard Yoko Ono in the shape of a 57-year old man who closed his eyes and acted like he was blind every time someone approached an acceptable level of mediocrity. When he sang high notes it sounded like Darth Brooks. Two kids under the age of 14 performed, and frankly much better than most did. I plan to attempt to circumvent this part of getting into the business, to fail, and then to blog more about how pissed I am that I have to listen to this.

But there was a moment or two today when I realized that it has finally happened. I was driving up 65, and noticed that I didn’t feel like I should be anywhere else. I made the turns like I knew them. I listened to the local traffic, like someone interested in local traffic. I realized that I had no place that I had to be, and that I was free to do this… slowly, quietly, and under the radar – the only way I know how to do anything.

I am still a little scared and progressively a little more comfortable. I get a little excited every time I find another empty picture frame, but then I get a little lump in my throat every time I find the picture that will fill it. And occasionally, the lump gives way.

I miss my friends. I miss feeling like I’m at home. You don’t have to comment anymore saying you’re with me, because I know you are. It simply is. It sucks. And it will get better. There was never any other way. If there was I would have taken it.

On the other hand, I remember this feeling precisely. It was 1992. I was sitting in a dorm room on Lumpkin pissed because I was at a university that I didn’t want to attend, separated from my family, and only knowing three people in my new home. I was sure, just positive, that if I stuck it out that I could be a part of it, and hopefully I could be good enough at it to be drum major some day. But one thing after the other went wrong… profoundly wrong. That seemed to have worked out ok, and I don’t have any reason to believe that this will be any different.

If you’ve ever heard me describe myself frankly, you know that the Dwight-esque party line is “Horrible initiative and tremendous endurance.” Here’s where part two kicks in… along with a little bit of belief and a whole lot of patience.

Peace.

I am not Purdue, but I am here...

and safe. The fridge and pantry are stocked and half of the 'splorer is unloaded. The rest I will do in daylight.

I'm pretty worn out tonight, so I won't offer a great deal of commentary tonight. However, here are three pics.

The first is from great old friend A. Kirkland. He was driving to a BOA Symposium and snapped this pic in rural Illinois. Apparently HDS has gotten into utilities and is still just as possessive and self-absorbed as when he was a band director.



The last two are from my trip through Dacula today to meet my new nephew. Here is Ben. D in my arms. I was comfortable but I sure as hell don't look like it.



The third is a tight shot of his little hands. It's a little hard to make out unless you know that this is Ben holding onto my index finger.



More commentary and hijinx tomorrow. Good night, America!

Wrap up

Last night in Clinton, SC. On to play with the Funkles in Seneca tomorrow night, then through Athens for a few minutes with a great friend (possibly two or three? boys?), then to Dacula to see the newest nephew for a few minutes. Then it's back to Nashville.

And this time, I'm physically alone. And that's cool.

I am just amazed by what this band is doing with what we put together. I love things that are singularly special, and this seems to be one of them. I have said this out loud a couple of times, but this show is what I have been trying to write since I was 17. I hope they keep it up... if they do, it will be a really special fall.

Record: Some of you won't understand this, and don't worry about it if you don't. But I wrote a note or two in this show that I knew would haunt me in a good way. No one knows like Sarah S. does about the way that music in certain commercials causes my brain to stop and me to tune out everything else and listen. Those moments are in this show, on purpose, and they are doing that to me tonight. I love that. I hope someone else out there gets those moments.

I am really happy to be free to do this. And I'm really happy to have the opportunity to write those moments in stuff that might reach more people. I know I am doing a piss poor job of explaining this, but I am digging the freedom... the experience, in spite of the poverty.

When I was 14, I thought I would one day be rich. I had no idea.

Day 3

We got through the ballad today, playing and moving. The UGA staff is doing one hell of a job getting the music in shape. Progress is slower mid-week as should be expected, but we may have 3/4 of the show on (playing and moving) before we leave. Gunner, the lick is getting there… lots of laughing and knee-slapping from the more senior staff every time it hits.

We have now reached the point where they don’t know enough music to continue teaching new drill. In an act of certain futility, we will probably teach two pages of the drum break tomorrow. We’ll break and the band will learn new music in normal drill time, then we’ll see if we can’t get the break on. I love being ahead of the curve, even if it is behind my own curve.

I just stuck my head out the window for a minute and heard a train leaving town. The whistle and groan-chug of the engine made its way toward parts unknown and I got to hear a new sound… the last half of the train makes a really interesting sound of its own, like a gradually accelerating rope on a pully, ever increasing in pitch. I liked that.

In two unrelated vague thoughts: I think I’m going to quit looking for answers and start letting them find me. And, I will from now on spray a pleasant fragrance in all of my snail mail. Hopefully, no one who receives mail from me has bad allergies to commercial masculine scents.

Update through full Day 2

I can't sleep.

I keep thinking about how well things are going here. There are definitely issues, as there always are. But there seem to be fewer issues than normal.

We didn't waste time learning drill without the horns... we were playing from the time we learned the first two pages. The music sounds pretty damn good for where we are... in fact, better than I have heard this band, maybe ever. I have heard them every year since 1990.

The drill is fine. I'm no Geo. Z, but it works. It makes the ensemble sound good. The hits are hitting. It is cleaning without a blatant attempt to do so. The opener is on, and without any question as to whether or not they know it.

You know me better than to think that I would ever suggest that an ensemble's success has anything to do with my involvement. I have always believed that the best thing an instructor or conductor can do is to stay out of the way. But it is going very very well. It is nice to be a part of improvement. I was never able to get away from Georgia enough to tell if we got any better while I was there.

I don't know how long this improvement will last. I have to give the band back in four days. But I have been impatient long enough to know that I should enjoy the moments of success as they happen rather than expect something greater. And I am.

But if this keeps going like it is, it could be very special for this band, this school, this community, and the staff and directors who deal with it every day. I am tickled at that potential.

On the other hand, I might have done something right. I am thoroughly enjoying myself. I hope they are too.

Cheers.

And in other news...

My brother and his wife welcomed their third boy shortly before 1:30 PM today. Benjamin Davis ("Ben D") was 9 lbs. 9 oz, and 21' long. Boy and mom are fine, besides a little broken collarbone on the way out, which is nothing. He's breathing fine, and so am I.

Ooooooppphhhh. The burning sensation means, "It's working!"

"I'm needing you burning, searing, raging"

Not to quote one of my own songs, but dayumm it is hot here. It's ridiulously unhealthy. The field temperature (not the air temperature but the surface temperature of a thermometer on the field in the sunlight) peaked at 118 degrees at about 11:20 this morning. Unfortunately, we have no choice, so we are watering the students about every 25 minutes. It is slowing us down a bit, but they are playing right through it.

Funny, last year we had three days of overcast conditions with temps in the low 80's and a nice 15 mph breeze. When the temperature broke 85, we had more people faint or quit in one afternoon than we have all of this camp so far. Much to be said for conditioning, but there is much more to be said for air conditioning.

Restocked on Gold Bond today, and all is well.

Um, Untitled Blog Entry

I had a blast with good friends Trina, Cub, the Lamberts, and the Martaaaans this weekend. I am currently in a dormitory room in Clinton, SC with the 'kwood. Not the whole thing, hell, none of it actually. But I will be "with it" this morning at 7:30 for breakfast, and on to teach the Gershwin show over which my fingers and medulla oblongata (not "ooblongata"... that's something else entirely) have slaved for several months.

In case you are interested, you can go to br00kwoodband.com and watch the live feed from band camp. No link and poor spelling because I don't want the band pulling my blog. Type it.

A ton of thanks for all of the well-wishes you have sent. I really appreciate it, and it does make things much easier. I'm getting excited. More to come.

Side note: Incidentally, that just made me think about the old still shot they used to show as the old Tonight Show was going to commercial. I recall that it was the great technicolor curtain and something else along with the words, "More to come..." Anyone remember more details?

The Mantle of the Dawg

Here is the pic as promised. Honest to goodness, this is actually pretty accurate. There is a "Lllllaaaaaaaa" light right over the mantle that makes this look like the holy grail of sport in real life. Enjoy.

Our house, in the middle of our street.

Hi, all.

I know I haven’t told you much, and unfortunately I don’t have much more to tell you… or, better said, I don’t have time to do so. That will change.

I’m in the place. Everything that ln didn’t throw out is in the place. Russ is asleep on the couch (note the singular “couch”), Jamiroquai is playing very softly on iTunes. The unpacking and hanging (no Volunteers were harmed) is basically done, with the exception of the Strang Originals to be hung in the bedroom and the “Kind of Blue” print that will be housed there as well (Pat Metheny is now playing).

The den is basically an homage to the Dawgs and my (wow) thirteen years in Athens. It’s really kinda cool… neat phone camera pic from Russ to come from the mantle and my signed footballs and basketball. Minor early issues with the washer/dryer connections, sticky doors, and non-functional land-line jacks have been solved. The abundance of crap that used to reside in a back closet has been reduced to a Cliff’s Notes version of the original abundance, now stored carefully in boxes in the bedroom closet.

In more real terms, I consciously know that I am here and am not currently suffering from any withdrawal. I can tell that the back of my head is saying “but that’s not where your bed is” and “you haven’t been to the office today.” Fortunately or not, I head back to Georgia tomorrow (Tuesday) to do some wrap-up work at the mother church and enjoy some time with dear friends, along with old apartment cleaning. This may help ease the transition, but it is ultimately delaying the inevitable. A part of me is ready to move on to the inevitable and get on with the business of fulfilling this dream, or fantasy, or destiny, or stupid prank… whatever the hell it is. Limbo’s getting old, and I’m looking forward to productivity.

And that is fine and good. I'm sorta into anything right now... limbo, homelessness, unemployment, hypoglycemia, humanism, protestantism, loneliness, socializing, spackling, charity, movie rental, conservatism, mud-bogging, surfboarding, education, dry goods, and pest control are all in my near future.

For now, I have some loose ends to tie up, great friends to thank, and work and sleep to do.

Update

Not a lot of time for detail right now...

But we made it to Nashville fine. It was actually rather painless compared to the way most moves go. More about that later. Trina is here today and leaves tonight. Russ comes in tonight and we head back to Athens mid-week.

Friends are amazing.

Caller by number

In case you were wondering, here are my phone numbers, after my search on phonespell.org.

If you had wanted to reach me on my old office phone, all you would have to have done was dial 70-OK-I-CARE-0.

If you would like to reach me on my cell phone, the number is 770-BUZZ-US-5.

If you would like to reach me on my Nashvillain home phone, the number will be 615-VERMIN-7.

Odd, isn’t it? Happy dialing, America!

The impending madness

Here’s my sched for the next two weeks. This is as much for my benefit as it is for the alleviation of your boredom. As goofy as this may seem, I swear on all that is fit for primetime that I will print this and use it as a datebook.

Mon-Wed: Write drill… write lots of drill, and maybe two arrangements. Pack the stuff that Ln didn’t throw away. Finish typing my exit notes (I’m on page 14, and I just got into August [starting in July]). Put the scattered crap in my former office at the Hugh into boxes, and get ‘em “thu hayull” off of university property. Have dinner or drinks with some friends. Be Athenian.

Thurs: Drive to the ‘twood. Sign lease. Pick up keys. Pay rent for 17 days of the month, of which I will spend exactly four in the apartment. Play with garbage disposal. Giggle. Stop when I become alarmed that my left index finger got too close for comfort to the dyna-mega-stealth-titanium blade. Remove fuse from circuit which powers said disposal. Drive to Comcast offices to get cable connected (don’t ask… it’s not my fault). Return to Athens. Continue being Athenian.

Fri: Realize that I have failed to pack something, probably an entire room or class of possessions. Pack said items. Get the truck. Make approximately four trips to the Potter’s House. Here, I will dispose of unplayed board games (damn, “Truth or Dare Jenga” sounded like such a good idea at the time), misguided gifts from ex-girlfriend, items I unwisely accepted from individuals who were moving, and items that I was “sure I would have a use for” yet somehow never did. Begin packing truck.

Sat: Finish packing truck. Leave essentials for Russ (who will be utilizing the floor/air mattress as he gigs). Drive to Cumming (huh). Drop off things that my parents said I could have “as long as they never return to this house.” Continue the convoy to Nashville with Trina, Gunner, Chief, Diva, and the as-yet-un-nicknamed younger son of the Gunner. Unload truck. Bitch about something because it is not in Athens. Say bye to all but Trina. Have a drink and play NCAA 2006 with Trina (if I can get it). Sleep (hopefully).

Sunday: Wake up later than planned (I am planning on Noon EDT). Say hi to Russ. Say bye to Trina as she takes Explorer to Athens. Try to talk Russ into helping me organize my filing cabinet. Write drill. Go to the Bluebird and see Writer’s Night. Come home, have a drink. Play some type of game.

Monday: Wake up (hopefully). Organize house. Do something fun. Wait for the cable guy (?).

Tues: (see Monday)

Wed: Get up at the butt crack of dawn to get Russ to Mar’etta for his retail gig. Meet Trina with the Explorer. Return to Athens. Clean the old place. Write drill. Be Athenian.

Thurs: Clean. Write. Athenian. See the new guy and help him decipher the garbled mess I have left him.

Fri: Shave. Clean. Write. Athenian. Leave the key and say bye-for-now to my dear friend and neighbor. Head to the mountains for two days of inadvisable behavior.

Sat: Inadvisable behavior continues.

Sun: Aftermath of inadvisable behavior makes itself known. Drive to Clinton, SC for a camp. Revel in doing the band thing again.

Mon-Fri: Band thing.

Sat: Band thing wrap-up. Join the Funkles in Seneca, SC for a guest spot.

Sun: Return to Nashville.

Mon: Be Nashvillian.

By the way, neighbor Sarah hooked me up with a free washing machine to replace the one I looked at wrong. The old one had two knobs. This one has five, and I can already tell the difference in the cleanliness of my clothes. Grazi!

I’m scared, but not really of the things that you would think I would be scared of. I’m gonna be fine, and I’m starting to look forward to parts of this. Parts of it are going to suck. And that’s fine too.

Cart before horse

I blogged moments ago, and then realized that I had not acknowledged the terrible things that took place in London today. But I have no idea what to say.

... little help, please.

So, after the recent passing in the family, my brother contacted me, asking if I would be willing to “help out” while he and his wife were in North Carolina at the… eh, you shouldn’t say festivities, but everyone seemed to think that it was a pseudo-happy time for a generally very happy man.

Side note: Some people say that they hope people won’t mourn them at their funeral, or that their friends will treat their funeral as a “celebration of life.” I halfway think some of these people are about as sharp as Tom Cruise on an overdose of Paxil. Some of them may be right. Not to elicit comments, but I’m curious about your thoughts on the matter.

Personally, I am hoping for a funeral which will take the place of my wedding festivities. Specifically, I think my survivors should name “Best People” (as in “Best Man”) and “Worst People,” as in… um… well… nothing comes to mind. The best people would be people that liked me. The worst people would be those… you know. I also envision a rehearsal, and thusly a rehearsal dinner. I think this would be a great time for the best people and worst people to have awkward moments (ie – Best Person eulogy statement in rehearsal: “Brett truly was a great man.” Worst People in unison: “Pfffffft!” That was for you, Dwight.). Then the best people and worst people would be forced to eat dinner together. Then they would go drink together, and find out that they “really aren’t all that different.” Then all those old friends and enemies of me would hook up, and wake the next morning in a local hotel, realizing that they were all frankly ambivalent about me all along. Then they’ll all say, “Brett? Sure, he was ok.” No one will be worse for the wear, and everyone will have a new “buddy.”

Due to the final installment of my grant drury doody, I told the fam that I would be unable to be around in the morning on Wednesday. My brother said that they “had it all taken care of.”

Just as I had gotten comfortable, thinking I wouldn’t be needed, I got a call from my dad. He said he needed me to “help out with the boys,” referring to my brother’s boys, who are 2 and 4.25. Being - not “the,” but - “a” good son. I graciously agreed.

What I found when I arrived at the prescribed place and time, was that I, in fact, was not needed to watch the boys (for the record, this doesn’t bother me… baptism by fire in the techniques of dealing with infant poop and company was not something I was “itching” to experience). I was needed to be the subservient worker to a seventeen-year-old gentleman that my family has hired to assist in their golf cart business.

So, Wednesday, I headed to the shop. I “worked” all day, and learned how to modify golf carts from “course models” to “I don’t feel like walking 30 yards and I have a kick-ass Barbie golf cart to prove it and rub your poverty in your face” models.

In a “thank you sir, may I have another” moment, I agreed to return today. This time I took the Gunner with me. Here are a few stats:

Number of socket wrenches dropped on a part of my body: 3
Number of socket wrenches dropped on a part of my body by me: 1
Number of times I began to utter the phrase “What the f&*k?” and realized I was with my parents, Protestantly changing the phrase to “What the Fu….nkle Ester?”: 5
Frequency of the shop radio station the entire time I was working: 106.7
Number of times I recognized an old country song on said frequency and wondered aloud what ever happened to the artist behind it: approximately 30
Number of times any sort of bodily reaction – a “hmm?”, a “dunno”, an eyebrow raise, a shrugged shoulder, or an involuntary fart – was executed in response to my question: -0
Size of typical socket as uttered by rather backwoods seventeen-year-old worker: Fourtain Millamaturs
Number of “Yoo-haa’s” consumed by my oldest nephew while at the shop over the course of two days: 1.5 – that is 3, all half-consumed.
Number of cigarettes not smoked over the entire period of time there: ∞
Number of vehicles, to be used for moving, now in my possession as a result of said interaction (and Gunner’s help): 2
Portion of my average monthly UGA paycheck earned in 12 hours at the shop: 1/8

I exaggerate… a little bit, but not much. We actually had quite a good time, and I now have a second fall-back if the writing thing doesn’t work out.

Right!

Write.

Song Lyrics.... "Fotch" (sp?)

I sometimes have a tough time identifying song lyrics. I used to think that the line “I never really cared until I met you” from the Heart song “Alone” was something like “I never read a carrot to Amatchoo.” I also thought Rocket Man went “Rocket Man, burning down the skis I’m carried on.”

A dead soldier

My sister-in-law’s grandfather passed away today.

I feel a bit of grief for my sister-in-law, her family, and my nephews. I was not terribly close to him, so comments of condolence to me are not necessary. But two thoughts come to mind.

1. The man

Francis was a profoundly great human being. I believe we all have pasts that we extinguish with our nobler motives and actions. I am certain that he did things of which he was not proud, but I never saw them. He was cheerful in his old age… non-judgmental, kind, loving, and very happy to have retained his life to an age that enabled him to get to know his great-grandchildren.

He used to ask me about my job (when I had one). We would talk about marching band, and he would recite his memories of being 16 and in the local Boy Scout Drum and Bugle Corps. He probably told me the following story 10 times:

It was the late 30’s. Francis was playing the cornet in the drum and bugle corps. After careful rehearsal and training, the corps was marching in a local parade. Francis, whose mind did tend to wander from time to time, marched on the outside right of the parade block as instructed: Nose-to-spine; maintain interval with the person to your left; the interval must not expand at a corner; you, in fact, must take a curved path.

As the corps approached a corner, Francis was distracted from his music and maneuvering by a young lady. As he attempted to focus, he couldn’t manage to take his eyes off of the woman who stood along the parade route admiring his precision and decorum. As the corps rounded the corner, Francis’s attention would not snap back, and he soon realized that he was playing his part, marking time, right by the young lady…. as the rest of the corps had continued several dozen yards down the street. In a bit of panic, Francis said “Good day” to the woman, and proceeded tardily back to his position in the block.

He was a minister. In the summers, he lived in North Carolina. He assisted at a Methodist church while there. In the winters, he lived in Lakeland, Florida and worked at a Presbyterian church.

He was open, honest, and understood that one person’s conception of what God is might be different than another’s. He did what he believed was right, and was cheerful in doing so. God bless you, Francis. You will be remembered, at least as long as I have anything to say about it.

II. What he did

Francis, as many we are losing these days are, was a veteran of World War II. He didn’t speak about it much, but he was. I don’t know where he was, I don’t know what he did. I know that he served. I can’t tell you much more.

What I do know is that America is losing a generation of heroes. As we do with most superlative descriptors, our society is assigning the word "hero" to a lot of people. I assign nothing less than that term to those who fought on behalf of what was then an inferior America to insure our current freedom, about which we are often unforgivably flippant.

I am very, very proud to have been associated (and related to) ladies and gentlemen who decided that the fight to secure security was worth the potential loss of life. I am proud that my grandfather (Big Daddy) swam, then walked, then shot his way onto Normandy. I am proud of the captured tattered nazi flag that he stole off of that building in France, which to this day sits dormant in my closet, never to be feared again. I am very proud that these human beings believed in something bigger than themselves, and that they were willing to risk their own well being or lives for it.

On the other hand, I am worried about us right now. I am not sure that enough people like Francis (or Big Daddy) are around. I am concerned that the next “crisis” will soon give way to Tom Cruise’s infantile rants about what he “knows,” or our obsession with something even more profoundly unimportant. I’m afraid that we can’t focus our energy and attention on something relevant long enough to correct it. I’m afraid that our generation is bullshit. And I don’t have the first clue as to what I should do about it.

I do know that I owe a tremendous gratitude to the ladies and gentlemen who are calling it quits, after enjoying a fraction of the benefit of the liberty they preserved 60 years ago.

So, here’s to you Francis and Big Daddy (God, rest your souls). I know we don’t act like it, but we really are more appreciative than I can tell you of what you did for us.

I like that poetry... that old soldier dying peacefully after passing out at the dinner table on July 4, following a stroke he never even felt. I hope that's how I get it too, though I have done nothing to deserve it. But, boys, I hope we don’t have to prove that we love what we have the way that you did.

Cheers and Godspeed, gentlemen.

... oh, and thank you!

Err supply

My brother was in his annual training required to maintain his pilot’s license this week. His instructor, a pilot who had formerly been an air traffic controller in Jacksonville, told him a story from his days in Florida. He swears on his life that it is true, and I will now recount it for you as accurately as possible with no apologies for the language or the pilotspeak (which I don’t really understand either).

Bob claims to have been working on a slow day when he received a frantic call from a neophyte aviator.

Pilot: Jac’svl cen’er, Jac’svl cen’r. Cessna 2-5-4, student pilot, student pilot, lost and running low on fuel. Please direct to the nearest runway.

Bob (slow and deliberate, as though he were smoking a Cuban and sipping on a glass of Courvoisier): Cessna 2-5-4 this is Jacksonville Center, you say you’rrrrrre lost?

Pilot: Jac’svl cen’er, Jac’svl cen’r. Cessna 2-5-4, student pilot, student pilot, lost and low on fuel. Please direct to the nearest runway.

Bob (slowly still): Roger, Cessna 2-5-4. Do you see, ah, um, any major roads or interstates around you?

Pilot: Jac’svl cen’er, Jac’svl cen’r. Cessna 2-5-4, student pilot, student pilot. One sec’n.

(ten seconds pass)

Pilot: Jac’svl cen’er, Jac’svl cen’r. Cessna 2-5-4, student pilot, student pilot. I do see what appears to be an interstate below me.

Bob (even more slowly): Roger 2-5-4. 2-5-4, does that interstate run east to west orrrrrr north to south?

(a few seconds tick as the young paduan gets his bearings)

Pilot: Jac’svl cen’er, Jac’svl cen’r. Cessna 2-5-4, student pilot, lost, low on fuel. It appears to run north to south.

Bob: Roger, 2-5-4. I want yoouuu to do something for me.

Pilot: Jac’svle Center, student pilot low on fuel. Go ahead.

Bob: 2-5-4, I want you to get directly over that road and follow it until you see something that resembles a town or city.

Pilot: Jac’svl cen’r. Cessna 2-5-4, student pilot, lost, low on fuel… Roger.

(about one minute passes, as the pilots eyes swayed hither and yon in an attempt to locate a municipality of some type).

Pilot: Jac’svl cen’r. Cessna 2-5-4, student pilot, lost, low on fuel. I have located a town.

Bob: Roger that, 2-5-4. Do you see a water tower anywhere in that town?

Pilot: Jac’svl cen’r. Cessna 2-5-4, student pilot, lost, low on fuel. I see a water tower.

Bob: 2-5-4, I want you to fly down near that water tower and see if there are any woooords written on it.

Pilot: Roger that Jac’svl cen’r. One minute.

(A minute passes, as Bob probably pours another drink.)

Pilot: Jac’svl cen’r. Cessna 2-5-4, student pilot, lost, low on fuel. There is writing on that water tower.

Bob: 2-5-4, would you please read me the wooooords on that water tower?

(a nervous 15 seconds pass)

Pilot: Jac’svl, the words on the water tower read “F&$k You, Class of 1974.”

Bob (Big breath in, big breath out): Ahhhh, I know that one well. You’re in Gainesville, Florida. Turn Right heading 2-7-0. You’ll be at the airport in about five minutes. Have a nice afternoon.

Say, say, say

To say that I am unemployed would be, well, somewhat accurate. For those who don’t know, however, I’m not exactly hoping the new apartment complex happens to have a lovely grove of money trees. I'm not even sure there's any such thing. Leslie?

What I am doing is writing what might technically be called a beaucoupdle of arrangements and drill designs for high school and college bands. The money is pretty good, and it allows for a lot of time to do the things I need to do once I get upwind. However, the workload is very concentrated in one time of the year…

Namely, right now. So, I have little to say that is blogworthy. I could tell you that I am worried about that second page of the ballad. You would probably tell me that a ballad that takes two pages is one page too long. I could tell you that I am worried about a particular part going too high. You would probably tell me that this is a good thing for a man my age.

So, I will simply tell you that I am busier than normal, and not in all of the ways either of us wishes I were.

By the way, I am currently planning a series of entries that I will post after I move aimed at alleviating the perception that I am too cool for school when I write in music-speak. For instance, if I ever say “I got a cut,” I would hope you wouldn’t think I became involved in a nasty gang quarrel. If I tell you I’m hoping for “a deal with a draw,” you shouldn’t think that I have given in and started playing poker with Galarza and Russell.

I also can’t stand it, however, when people speak any type of industry language for the purpose of sounding, um, up in it? Sophistimacated? Like a professionalist? And as you know, my worst fear is offending anyone, so that will be on the way soon.

In the mean time, shutup.