Hecan'thitHecan'thitHecan'thitHecan'thitHecan'thitHe Sssssswiiiinnnngggg Bataaaaaaah

There is very little that I can tell you about our experience at Wrigley Field yesterday. I can describe the way tradition seizes you the second you exit the Addison L Station, but you won't feel it. I can suggest how much better a $6 Budweiser goes down when it is consumed five rows from the top of Section 525 on a perfect day for baseball inside the Friendly Confines, but you won't be able to taste it. I can narrate the friendly ribbing between opposing fans, the roar of approval after Scotty Pippen released the final note of "Take Me Out To the Ballgame," or the sweetness of a fortunate bat's crack, but it would be useless.

So, I will post a few pictures for your perusal. Just know that they do the experience no justice. Everyone should do this at least once. I will do it again. Apologies in advance to Knight (who's team is the subject of a great jab on a pictured t-shirt) and to Russell (who was there, but isn't pictured at all).

























When you do it make sure you pick a game that means something, root root root for a team (even if it isn't your normal team), and take good company with you.

Winner of the day for June 28, 2007

This guy.

This guy was complaining before the bus ever left Midway. This guy had an intense conversation with his wife on the phone about some mixture of orange juice and milk that he really needed her to shake well. This guy then called someone else to tell them to check on his wife and make sure she shook that thing. Then this guy called his son's baseball coach to ask if he would be ready to pitch this fall. This guy then called his son to tell him what his baseball coach said. This guy embraced the words shit and f*%k like they were the first and last names of his long lost love. And then, in an instance of further proof that God loves and wants us to be happy, this guy left the bus. I wish he had been accompanied by the flight attendant sitting behind me, who spoke fff and filed her toenails the entire way to Racine.

Brewtown Brett

In 67 minutes I will get in my heterosexual Honda Civic and drive it to Nashville International Airport (Motto: "Y'all come back now, y'hear?"). I will leave that Civic in a parking space in the economy lot (always at bus stop #7 if you need to borrow my wheels), and will then trust my travel to the friendly pilots of Southwest Airlines. They will take me to Chicago's Midway International Airport, where I will leave the rest of the driving to a coach operator for Wisconsin Coach. The coach operator will take me to Milwaukee, Wisconsin ("The Emerald City"), where Scorley will meet me.

On tap for us for the next few days are a brewery tour, some music, some drinking, Cubbies vs. Brewers at Wrigley (He is going to be so pissed when he sees me wearing a Cubs hat), and a lot of catching up. Russ[el]ty will join us for a portion of the weekend as well.

On Sunday, I return to Chicago ("Beantown") where I will work with this group. I return to Nashville on Friday, hopefully to find an apartment that contains the same belongings it will contain when I leave.

Life is funny right now. Some things completely suck (being robbed, hitting every traffic light in greater Nashville, razor burn) and others are amazing (what I get to do for a living, learning to like beer, Athens and its contents).

7:59 A.M. EDT

On the Thursday of my recent beach bummery bumnation bummification relaxation/work, I played a mighty fine round of golf with my dad and brother. Around the ninth hole, I realized that I had left my cell phone at the condominium and wondered to myself whether the absence of its distraction had contributed to my relative success (120 was the score, and yes... to me that is success). I decided that it had and I continued to play as though I hadn't a care in the world, though I was truthfully worried about what awful things might be going on without my knowledge.

When I returned to the condo, I raced to my cell phone in typical me fashion to find that I had missed five phone calls, one of which was from the 615 area code. At this point in my life and career, an unrecognized call from 615 either means something very good or very bad. Voicemail revealed that this was probably not a pleasant ocassion, as my apartment management company called and needed to speak to me the same day.

I already knew why.

When I reached the office, the property manager reported that my apartment had apparently been burglarized overnight. A resident had noticed a hole and broken blinds in a window. The manager and a maintenance worker entered the apartment and said that it appeared that nothing had been taken, though my Kurzweil keyboard was on the floor which she "thought was odd." I asked if there was still a television in the den. "Yes." Was there still a computer in the den? "Yes." It couldn't possibly be that bad if that was the case.

After leaving Myrtle Beach, I headed to Athens for the balance of the weekend. When I arrived in Nashville early this afternoon, I entered my apartment to survey the damage. Here is what I found.


This is the rock that someone threw thru through my window, reportedly somewhere around 4am Thursday morning. That thing that looks like a piano in the background is supposed to sit on that thing that looks like a keyboard stand in the background. The rock on the floor seems to indicate that this was probably not the result of unnoticed activity in the New Madrid Fault.


This was apparently where the rock struck the coffee table that sits in my den. Also, someone who matters is this very second saying, "Know how I know you're gay? Your real couch pattern would strike Charles Nelson Reilly as 'flamboyant.'"


This is what my closet looked like when I arrived home. You don't have to believe me when I say that it didn't look like this when I left, but you should. It was apparent that the intruders were looking for something.


This is what they found... family silver, given to me by my grandmother. I thought surely it was hidden well enough, but it apparently wasn't.


This is my computer desk. There is a monitor, my Jack Daniel's thermometer, my RCB Christmas ornament, my "Go Dawgz" Chick-fil-a cow from the '98 Peach, and my prized "We Are The Champions" photo from '03 Tennessee. But something is missing from that computer desk. If you guessed "computer," you guessed right.

All told, it appears that I have lost my computer, my PS2, and possibly some silver. After two phone calls and a four-hour-and-thirty-minute wait on a stormy Monday afternoon, I still haven't seen the police. I haven't touched a thing in my apartment. I am hungry and ready to unpack and get to work, and I can't.

I wish I could be entirely peachy about this and write it off as "just stuff." I was not conscientious about backing up every single idea I ever had, and so some are lost with the computer. Some demos will have to be re-recorded from scratch, and some lyrics recreated from memory. Some previously written show material that has already been sold but is undelivered will have to be re-written. And most unfortunately, some potential seeds of something great and some moments of someone else's semi-sober whimsy that were secretly captured on disc will simply have to be remembered.

I don't like this. Life was infinitely better at 7:59 this morning.

Pilot - "Sea Change" or "The Morning After"

I am in North Myrtle Beach, SC with my family soaking up a few rays, drinking a few drinks, and doing a lot of work. This is the final week in a month away from my apartment in Nashville that has been far more eventful than I anticipated. If I had known some of what has happened was going to happen, I would have packed much differently.

On Sunday morning, I claimed a spot at the Starbucks at College and Broad (Walker's was closed) and sipped on the usual. Minutes later, Brad pulled up a chair and was followed closely by Kit. It is notable that both of these gentlemen (as many of my friends do) enter a social situation as though it is assumed that they have always been theoretically present in the situation... as though they are actors playing bit parts who have been waiting in the wings in view of all of the other actors in a television show. There is rarely fanfare when either arrives. Each simply sits and joins in the conversation already in progress, though Kit is likely to let you know the seriousness of his hangover and Brad the seriousness of his gas.

Their actor-like entrances only enable one of my more excessively romantic exercises, as I often over-dramatize my life by looking at it like a television series that changes name, tone, night and time on an all too frequent basis. Their entrance on Sunday morning was particularly appropriate for my pensive review of the previous weeks in Athens and their culmination at Saturday night's event. It felt like the wrap-up of the pilot of a one-hour drama.

(At this point, you should play the Wrecker's song "Hard to Love You" starting at the 2:55 mark. Fade it in and continue to read. This is because the music fits, not the words. No better way to end a pilot episode than with a Medium F%#k Tempo shuffle.)

As speculation about the feelings and next moves of people who matter concluded, the weight of those far too brief weeks in Athens applied itself to me. My throat lumped. Scenes that resulted from the ecstatic curves thrown me by Whoever Is Making Decisions presented themselves a page at a time in chronological order. As the latest scenes played, the feeling began to settle that the next thing was now.

The camera slowly began to rise from the three of us as we prepared to move on, and the music became louder. I sat, delaying the moment when I would stand and depart, heading to the sea and a million thoughts about what all of these changes might mean. College square became smaller and smaller, soon put in context of the downtown area at large, then the city, then the continent, then the earth. Finally the screen went black.

Two brief still credits appeared, and the pilot was over. This could be one hell of a show.

I so badly want to write about the events of the last week or so, but I just can't right now. In fact, I really won't even be able to discuss it on Saturday night. It is complicated, beautiful, and painful for many all at once. It is also very much unresolved, and may remain so for quite some time. That's going to have to be enough.

There are hearts on high alert tonight.

A quick breath

The first week of camp has passed, and things are basically good. For the first time ever under the current camp administration, no one was sent home. I think it has less to do with an alleged "smoothness" of the operation, and more to do with a softening of a once rather stern administration. Regardless, the experience so far has itself been more pleasant than most years I remember.

I continue to be nothing short of giddy about being in Athens. When I lived here, I was more conscious than most of the charmed life I was leading. Being away confirms that I was right. A bad day in Athens is still better than a great day at Tech, or anywhere else in the world for that matter. The thought of making my part-time home here again at some point in the future constantly remains in the front of my mind. I'm trying very hard to appreciate it while I am here.

An aspect of Athens that is at once refreshing and sad is that the people change. It really is heartbreaking to be here and witness a part of what amounts to the end of an era on the first floor. There are a million things one could say (and I'm sure one will next Saturday), but none will do it justice. I don't know if it really was simpler and more enjoyable ten years ago, but my memory says it was. I miss that very badly. I know I'm not the only one...

And while those you love and care about move on to other things, there are also new people whose paths cross yours. For all of the bitterness about impending departures, there is consolation in the joy of new associations. This has been one of the nicest things about being here.

Probably a very light week of blogging once again this week. I'm under the gun to finish a lot of work and help run a camp at the same time. Life will be busy. But life will also be in Athens. Be jealous.

So glad I am not in Nashville right now...

In Athens in prep work for summer camp, just like this time last year... Time at a premium... Verbs also at a premium... More later.... Vowels also at a premium...

Brtt

A few things I have learned since I moved

By the time I return from my impending month-long trip back to Georgia, it will have been nearly two years since I left the world of the gainfully employed to pursue this whatever-it-is that I’m after. I was at another show tonight, and it occurred to me in the middle of the show that this was the case. I began to think about some of the things that I think I have learned over this period of time, understanding that more time behind the pen can prove some of these things to be true or false. I thought I would jot some of those things down - if for no other reason, so I can look back in a couple of years and laugh.

1. This business is huge. There are simply a lot of people in the game… way too many to meet.

2. Among those many are some incredibly talented people, and a few not-so-talented people. Many of the talented people won’t make it, and a few of the not-so-talented people will. Even if you are very talented, work very hard, treat people right, and follow the steps you’re supposed to follow, there is a distinct possibility that you will not make it. The cost of the attempt is that it takes a long time with no guarantees.

3. There are ways of being encouraging and “community-minded” without being untruthful.

4. I have made a good decision not to act in haste in my activities in the business. It has always taken me a long time to get comfortable, and even longer to find my way. That is a process of which I am still in the middle, and may or may not continue to be for some time.

5. In this business (much like in relationships… I wish I had known this earlier), there are situations that require your obsession, aggression, and persistence. There are also many, many situations that require your patience, passivity, contemplation, independent confidence, and willingness to walk away. Good judgment about which of these applies in a given situation comes only from experience. And experience comes – as they say – from bad judgment (or if you’re lucky, observing someone else’s bad judgment).

6. You can not judge what you wrote yesterday against something that a 20-year pro wrote and re-wrote with another pro many years and spins ago on their best day and expect to feel adequate.

7. You can not assume that you are as good as you are going to get and expect to want to continue.

8. You can not get better by sitting around thinking about it.

9. There are reasons why there is a songwriting “community,” and among them is not “so you can sit on half of a great song wondering when the rest of it will become obvious.”

10. If it sounds like something that "could be on the radio right now," then it is probably two years behind its time.

I very strongly believe that the decision to move was a very very good one. But in all honesty, if I had known two-and-a-half years ago that things would be as they are now, I am not sure that I would have made the move. It's a good thing I did it when I did.

Truth in greeting cards

Well, Adam H. sent this to me, and he didn't put it on his blog, so I am putting it on mine. Here are several particularly strong greeting cards from someecards.com (Motto: "When you care enough to hit send."). How about five that would be appropriate from me to a few people I know? Who would get which and why will be left up to your imagination. Sorry in advance for pissing you off if you think one is intended for you... it probably is.

Card #1
Card #2
Card #3
Card #4
and finally, Card #5.

PS - I have been debating about whether to accompany this story (which took place just outside my actual childhood hometown) with a headline contest or a monologue questioning why so many people still think that their government can somehow be trustworthy. I'm going with the headline contest if you've got something.

Mr. Jack

I can only add two things to what Russ had to say:

1. It will change the way you drink whiskey.
2. Here's what I got with the $60 I spent but did not have.



Actually Russ bought the bottle, and we didn't get it there. But we did spend quite a bit of time sampling the product once we got back. That's what was left of the bottle.

I have so been tagged

Traci tagged me to complete the "8 Things" meme, which theoretically requires me to complete the requirements and then tag 8 other people to do the same. I, however, am a bit of a party pooper when it comes to things of this nature. Because I know the people who read this blog, I would guess that 80-90% of you will respond to the message that you have been tagged with a loud verbal "What the f*ck!??? Come on, Brett! Really. Really?" And then you won't think I am cool, and I am not ok with that.

However, I can not say "no" to Traci... partially because she is smarter than I am (I am simultaneouly intimidated by and attracted to smart women... a true double whammy), partially because someone supposedly under my charge was somewhat responsible for her unfortunate #5, partially because it might be in my best interest, and partially because bullets are soooooo April 2007.

So instead, I will "suggest" that a few people undertake this, and let Darwin do the rest. 8 random facts about you... blog about 'em, preferably with details containing sexual, violent, or gossip-laden undertones... tag recommend the exercise to someone else (preferably someone who either doesn't blog enough or wasn't around for the last such exercise... I'm going < 8), and let them know about it... watch the words as they fly through the internet.

The facts:

1. I have three permanent scars above my neck:

- One on top of my head from falling in my elementary school hall on the way to day-care in second grade.
- One on stage right of my forehead. My dad pulled a napping Brett from the back seat of the car when I was three-years old and, thinking I was awake, set me down in a standing-like position. The wheel of his mid-70's Buick Century interfered with the path of my forehead to the ground.
- One on stage left on my cheek. My face was cut open by the teeth of a baseball teammate diving for a fly ball in a scrimmage game in fifth grade. I am horribly self-conscious about it, which is why I don't tend to smile a lot (I only see it when I smile) and why I mistakenly think growing a beard is a good idea every few years.

2. When I hear dummy lyrics to a song I'm writing, they are real words but they make no sense. One I'm working on right now has the dummy lyrics, "Rides like hell, burning like a lizard in an old man's shoe." I know. I know.

3. I hate my apartment but I need to stay in it one more year. The AC is so loud, however, that it is literally becoming a cliche. When it comes on, I have more than once caught myself saying, "Oh, puhhhllllleeeeaaaazzzzeeee!" Again, I know.

4. I get tv crushes on women who are not the normal tv crushes. Here are four of them:

- The Movie Star
- The Domestic Woman
- The TV Personality
- The Singer

5. Whenever I instant message anyone, I always think it's a nuisance. When I get a phone call about business without an advance email, text, or IM, I also almost always think it's a nuisance.

6. I think I can tell if someone has bad breath just by looking at them.

7. I almost always despise working in groups, and pretty much have from the start. The first time I ever cursed was when my second-grade teacher assigned a group project. I think I almost always work better alone and slowly.

However, in extreeeeeemely rare circumstances I find working with an individual to be far superior to working alone. I can count those times on one hand, and sometimes it feels like that is what I am looking for when I'm just looking around.

8. When I remember things I miss, I remember very tiny real or combinations of similar instances and the feeling that accompanies them. I spend a significant amount of my thought and energy attempting to recreate or improve upon those moments. Examples would include:

- The last 4 notes of Chorale #3.
- My grandfather laughing.
- The moment right after the "money line" of your best song, from behind the guitar.
- The vacuum of activity in the rest of the world that comes with a first kiss.
- The taste of Big League Chew, as my Mom and I were walking out of Food Town.
- Catching a glimpse through the portals of the seats in Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium for the first time.
- The first sip of Jack and Coke on a spring or fall evening in downtown Athens, followed faithfully by the words, "Well, how are ya'?"
- Diesel fumes three minutes before the buses leave for home.
- My first and last names called out from a distance from an old friend I haven't seen in years, as though they aren't sure that I am alive but that they're glad I am.

Who should do this?

- Scorley
- Hagood
- Adam H.
- Anyone who doesn't like dead kittens

Participating in the re-tagging pyramid scheme not necessary.

The Bluebird

It has now been over ten years since I began making the trek to the Bluebird C@fe. My first trips were in the middle of college. Sometimes I came by myself, and other times I had as many as three friends with me.

We would leave Athens at 1:00 PM on a Monday and arrive at the front of the room just in time to get my name on the list for the 0pen mic night. Usually, however, there were enough people in front of you who didn't get to play the previous week that you left only with the experience of having been an audience member and a slip of paper that moved you to the front of the line the next time you came to play. So in essence, you had to make the ten-hour round trip once just in order to get the privilege of playing your two songs the next time you made the ten-hour round trip. Nevertheless we did it several times during college. We were usually home by 1:30 the next morning, and we usually (read "rarely") made it to class the next morning.

Over the years, the place has alternately thrilled and disappointed me through no fault of its own. Just as the industry ebbs and flows, so does the quality of the artistry that it produces, and thus also does the intensity of fascination with said artistry and the venues that offer it. I was back there tonight to hear a friend and c0-writer, on a night that normally doesn't bode well for crowds in Nashville. I heard some very nice stuff, and had some realizations about the business and my place in it or not in it that will remain private.

All that is to say that my appreciation for the little joint is on the positive end of the curve right now. I will probably go back soon, perhaps with you. Maybe you'll even stop in to see me there someday soon.

But if you never make it by, hopefully you will at least get to drive past it to see it in its own environment. Though I'm sure this is a mountain of a molehill, I have always found the setting of the Bluebird to be a highly appropriate symbol of the relative insignificance of even the biggest participant in the business of music.

First, the view from the front of the unofficial mecca of s0ngwriting (Sorry... you can't read the banner for the glare... It says "The Bluebird C@fe").



And now the view from fifty yards away, still within the confines of the strip mall in which the Bluebird sits (It's the little blip of light shaped like a backward "7" just to the right of the center of the picture).



Just something to remember, whether you're the next Santana or the next Sanjaya.

Not much to tell...

• I am home again, and actually don't have to travel again for a couple of weeks. I am more pleased than I can possibly tell you, but I'm also completely exhausted.

• I finally got around to seeing The Godfather Part II last week, having only seen The Godfather last October. The more I think about it, the more I realize that both are films that are so great that they ruin all other films (like Steely Dan is to music, or Sorkin is to television). If you haven't seen them (and I know you are out there), hurry up and do it before the war.

• If you're like me (and that seems highly unlikely), you are frequently disturbed by what is sometimes referred to as "Art." In my prior job, I spent an awful lot of time mumbling under my breath about the king's nudity. I recently ran across an article written by one of my songwriting heroes about what is and isn't Art. After reading it, I feel justified in my cynicism.

• I'm restless, but I don't feel like moving.

The last of my "weekend" escort jobs (not what you think... if only it were) begins today. Pigeon Forge and memories of a lifetime are the destinations (pffft) Thursday through Saturday.

Musically, this has been one of the most interesting weeks in memory. My musical confidence has swung from a big high Saturday evening, to a pretty brutal low Monday morning and then back up Tuesday afternoon. If you have ever tried to write music of any kind, you know that confidence makes or breaks your productivity. It has done both so far this week.

And in other news, it is so on.

Two pictures from the second Charlotte trip

I still giggle like a middle school trumpet player every time I see this.



Oh, and apparently the state of North Carolina finally has that whole time travel thing down. (Click it and read carefully)


Where we're going, we don't need roads.

Also, I reeeeaaaalllly want to meet the person who first thought it was a good idea to memorialize a dead friend with a decal on the back of their car.

Look at what my Dad bought today

Looks like he might ought to learn to park it before he drives it.

This is one of those rare times that I am going to blog simply to do so and, I guess, to document that I have nothing about which to blog. Between running to Charlotte or Pigeon Forge on the weekends for one job, and busting my tail to get work done the rest of the week for the other, I'm just thinking of work most of the time and not really of anything that would interest you. I'm sure that will change soon.

Thing #412(c) that you could say to make me realize that things just aren't going to work out between us:

You remember that time in "Norbit" when...

Virtual Attic

I cleared all of the photos out of my phone this evening, just in case I want to take any pictures in Charlotte (riiiiiiiiight).

Enjoy...

Drummers from the random meeting at the indoor show in Franklin. I will introduce them as though they are Monkees, and as if you don't know them. You probably do.


Eric M.(who incidentally never seems to remember me when he sees me someplace where we're not both drinking).


Lance


Dave



Giant Happy Keith


Rob, of "My uncle is a dick. What is this box for?" fame. He also used to play at the Tate Show.


Leigh. Not technically a drummer.



More New York (As though you really needed to see more)


The silver dude doing his thing. Moments after this, he flicked off a pre-teen-aged girl. It was awesome.


The Brooklyn Bridge.


Scient0logy from a different perspective.


A random picture from my parents' new land near Nashville.




DC: The basics


The National Mall, much like your local mall, is a little worn and unkempt in places.


Enough said.


Abe


I will tell you what this building is when I get back from recess.


A really rushed pic of the White House from the south (by the Washington Monument).


The White House from the north (Lafayette Park). Someone was at the door the whole time, as though they were expecting company.


My maternal grandfather's entry in the World War II veteran's registry.


DC: The Trivial


Read closely. Even our nation's most respected treasures aren't immune to blatant commercialism. Every time I saw something like this, I thought back to "Freedom Fries," and wondered if there weren't more opportunities for endorsement of food products by American institutions and principles. Perhaps Habeas Corndogs or High Crimes and MisdeMeatloaf. Bill of RiceCake, anyone?



Found this, and the next three items, in the Nati0nal Museum of Natural Hist0ry. Upon seeing this I thought, "Well then who in the hell invented the internet?"


I realize that this is the cyber-peer of farting or talking about boobies... but the barely readable caption on the label is "Günther's Dik-dik," which I had never heard of.


This one you have to look at just right. I did, and I saw an iceman in Vict0ria's Secret.

Just plain bullets

• Yay for GeorgiaGirl, and her impending recovery. Also yay for Galarza surviving to her birthday this year. Also yay for Dave and Bean for coming back south, Trina for removing a portion of the thorn from her side, Big Oob for the beer he bought me last week, Probst for his hoop-jumping being nearly finished, and to Warren T for having reasons not to blog. Also yay for spring... and peanut butter.

• Because Gunner's blog is down, I will have to post my latest haiku for him on my own blog. (*Insert sound of clearing throat*)

Boo ooo ooo ooo ooo
Boooooooo ooo ooo ooo boo ooo oooooo
Booooooooooooooooo ooooooo oooo damnit

• It has begun to occur to me recently that the dumbing down necessary when writing a song for popular consumption involves more than just avoiding big words. That is getting more and more difficult.

• I recently grew a beard, much to the delight of Big Oob. Then he called me Chris Elliot in the parking lot of his school, which I thought was funny. I called him the OxiClean Guy.

Then, I was at a bar the other night, and the only thing anyone bothered to say to me was to ask me if I was told that I looked like Chris Elliot a lot. I was a good sport as usual, but then I remembered why I shaved my beard the last time...

and out comes the razor again.


I mean come the hell on!!!! Wouldn't you have a complex? At least Gunner's doppelgänger's character is a marine who gets to yell at people a lot and has the cute wife (I do not mean Delta Burke).

• I have two brief Charlotte trips remaining on my schedule, then I finally get almost a whole straight month in which to finish the bulk of the rest of my work for the year.

• AMC seems to have become a much cooler channel over the last several months. I'm not sure if it's because they have changed what they broadcast (er, transmit) or if it's because I'm getting older.

Oh shit. I am 33.

Damn the torpedoes! Full Speed Ahead!

I can obviously say nothing that will come close to making sense out of what happened in Blacksburg yesterday. Some others to your right have already written rather eloquently, so I won't.

I would like to comment on the approach that these particular victims have taken in contrast with the way many seem to meet negative events these days. On an almost daily basis, I worry about my colleagues in whatever generation it is we find ourselves classified. And when I do, I worry most that I am one of a generation of quitters. I worry that we all too frequently walk away when things get rough, that we choose termination of a person or experiment over forgiveness and the opportunity for redemption, and that we would prefer a sterile, safe, and fearless existence to one of engagement, intense pleasure and pain, and the opportunity for progress. (For the record, as this principle concerns one's dating life, I could probably stand a dose of my own medicine).

I think the surest route to that sterile existence is the removal of every offensive, dangerous, and risky element from our lives. When no one speaks, none can be offended. When there is no sun-bathing, there will be no skin cancer. When no one drives fast, there will be no speed-induced accidents. When there are no guns, there will be no shootings... or so the extension of this thinking goes.

For that reason, I couldn't have been more pleased to see the Virginia Tech community respond the way it did. While there are a few (mostly press) people pointing fingers, most are trying to find a way to recover - to be honorable of the memory of the dead, to grieve appropriately and without self-serving public demonstrations of emotion, and then to move on with life with a greater appreciation for its brevity and value. Few are placing the blame on guns, the administration, the police, or anything else. They know that no sense can be made of this tragedy, and that any attempt to place blame is rooted in falsehood and empty symbolism.

But they also seem to know that the freedom that makes things like this possible is the same freedom that makes an American life so full. The freedom of speech that facilitates a person's being offended is the same freedom of speech that brought us Vonnegut, Woodward and Bernstein, "The Devil Went Down to Georgia," and "South Park." The freedom from unreasonable search and seizure that makes the safety of our skies tenuous at best is the same freedom that keeps Rosco P. Coltrane from "finding" some blow in your glove compartment. And yes, the right to bear arms that allows a loner to take 32 innocents with him is the same one that keeps individual agents of the government in check and makes the prospect of foreign invasion ridiculous.

Like it or not, the leading cause of death is life itself.

I had a bit of my confidence in my generation restored when I heard the determination in Professor Giovanni's words:

We are alive to the imagination and the possibility
We will continue to invent the future
Through our blood and tears
Through all this sadness
We are the Hokies
We will prevail
We will prevail
We will prevail

We are Virginia Tech.

I admit that I lost it when the crowd began to cheer, and then to chant, "Let's Go Hokies."

Someone got hurt and decided not to quit. Someone suffered a horrible wound, and decided it wasn't worth laying down over. Someone decided to live, in spite of the fact that living guarantees more pain.

These days, that's news.

You've Got To Be There

I'll be there. In fact I'll be there the last time Will wrote a meaningful entry in his blog.


The 25th anniversary of the opening is May 1. Was that President Reagan in mission control?

Pots, Stones, Kettles, and Glass Houses

I have really tried to avoid writing on this topic, but the stupidity on the American air (or cables) right now is stunning. I could write for hours about this, as I'm sure others could, but I'm going to try to get this down to a few points. (Ed.: I just finished writing, and I made a IV in the brevity caption.) I write in fear of your judgment, but I can't quit thinking about this without expressing it... and I live and work alone.

- What Imus said was stupid, ignorant, and wrong... like very stupid, very ignorant, and very wrong. Was it "unbelievable" or "shocking," as I have heard it described by television personalities and one presidential candidate? I don't think so. I can think of a few things that I have heard that I couldn't believe I had heard. I can think of a few things that I have heard that literally jolted me. This wasn't among them. Hyperbole doesn't make anyone's supposed outrage any more believable or influential as far as I'm concerned. (I could frankly never stand the mumbling of that guy anyway, and I never understood why anyone ever listened to him.)

- What he said really was a true shame. At a time when the citizens of our country can't help but get fatter and give our jobs away, it's more than a little unfortunate that student-athletes are belittled by (once-)respected personalities. If you have any idea how hard those people work, you know they deserve better.

- If something equally derogatory were said about me and my university paraded me in front of the press to try to evoke some sympathy and attention, I would walk away immediately. I do enough to embarass myself. I don't need anyone's help in finding pity from others.

- One of the players said she thought she had been "scarred for life." Scarred for life? By words? That a person said? Really? It sounds as though the "Sticks and Stones" verse should be reviewed in the literature department at Rutgers. These athletes may actually be scarred for life... they can never look at a naked woman again without being suspect. This woman is scarred a little bit (and I kinda like it). This guy's scarred a lot. You're not scarred. Someone said something insulting about you and it hurt your feelings. And if the mentors and administrators around you were concerned about your dignity, they might have helped you realize that before throwing you in front of the press.

- You can attempt to silence the words of those who disagree with you all you want. If you succeed, the only thing you have done is make sure that those who believe something incompatible with the mandated belief will not speak about it. It doesn't mean that they won't act on it. Better the devil you know...

- I am tired of our need to have perfect public personalities. (eh... truly a weak but thought-provoking link) I don't believe a good drummer who who says he didn't smoke pot at some point. I don't believe a good songwriter who says he hasn't gotten drunk and done something stupid. I don't want a girlfriend who hasn't done something that she wouldn't talk about in public. I don't want an offensive lineman who never commits holding. I don't believe a professor of divinity who says he has never questioned the existence of a deity. And I sure as hell don't trust anyone who says they have never felt ever-so-slightly fearful of or threatened by someone who looks differently than they do.

It shouldn't be about being perfect. It should be about management of our prejudices, temperance of our worst instincts with our intellects and experiences, and the growth and improvement that result when the revelation of our destructive beliefs is challenged in an open forum of free and uncensored speech. If we turn off the mic every time we hear something we don't like, nothing will change.

Apparently I'm not the only one who enjoys making lists. Here are a few good ones to get you started.

Dr. Knight will really like this one.

Other Than Myself

Below is another result of my incredibly annoying habit of making lists of random things. Today's installment is a list of people who - at this very instant - I would choose to be if I could choose to be someone other than myself.

12. Kevin Spacey
11. Abe Lincoln
10. John Wayne
9. Joe Montana (sans butt cut)
8. Tom Brokaw
7. Cal Ripken, Jr.
6. The male nearest Teri Hatcher when she decides she's lonely
5. Colin Farrell
4. Jack Nicholson
3. David Letterman
2. Leonard Bernstein
1. Frank Sinatra

Comment with your own if you feel like it.

Last NY Entry for this year

So I promised a recap a couple of days ago and didn't deliver. I have been completely exhausted and completely busy. Life truly is a bitch.

I don't feel like giving you a blow-by-blow account of the last trip, if for no other reason because such an account would be inaccurate (see JNC, c. 1996). But I have a few more pictures and ocassional comments that I thought I would pass your way. Enjoy.

On my first full day in DC, I had to meet the group that was coming into town at a restaurant in a place inside the beltway in Virginia. They were running behind, so I sat in my rental car and read the paper. They arrived a bit earlier than I expected, and in my Sauvannah-like excitement I jumped out of my car in a bit of a hurry. Unfortunately, I returned to find this.


That is the inside of my rental car with the keys firmly in the ignition in the forward and "on" position. What could have been a nightmare actually worked itself out nicely, in spite of the fact that I left the car running with the keys in it for two hours while I escorted the group to the Smithsonian via bus. Please don't tell Hertz.

The only other notable thing about DC this time that would interest you is that one of our chaperones was an SEC coach.


Fill Phulmer himself was on the trip. And it turns out that he is quite well versed in the differences between the Magna Carta and our own Constitution. I was more than a little impressed.

In New York, I had the chance to kill about an hour and a half with Lauressandro M0ates and Rudy Wils0n. Laura developed some kind of obsession with those machines that make an imprint on your otherwise perfect penny. This is an action shot of her second attempt at a succesful imprint at the M&M's Store in Times Square.


You should congratulate her on her worthy use of her spare cash the next time you see her.

This is a passing shot of Carnegie Hall. I didn't even need directions, though I did need directions to the band room the first day I was in Athens. They are the same.


I finally got my chance to take the sterotypical Grand Central Station Terminal shot.


Here is the last of the "fun" shots. A look at the Brooklyn Bridge from the south.


These are a little more sober. The next three are of Ground Zero through the fence. The new construction continues.






And nearby, a cross made of support beams is draped with a scrap of thin metal. According to our guide, that metal is a part of the fuselage of one of the aircraft. It's more than a little out there to spend time in that place.


Gunner, I will never forget that Tuesday afternoon: writing script, drill and music; drinking to numb the shock; worrying that you would be called back; and just watching. Being there brings it back like it was 6:30 that night.

The bullets are up and the battery's down

First person who can identify the reference in the title will receive a gift certificate to Webvan in an amount equivalent to my 2006 contribution to my 401(k). Brief bullets tonight while I recoup. More details tomorrow.

• I was actually briefly scared for my life (or something like that) for a few seconds tonight. Film at 11.
• Here are some things that I routinely forget:
- The name of Gunner's new place of employment.
- Laura M0ates birthday.
- The words to the chorus of "Rocket Man."
- What "FBO" stands for. (Fixed Base Operator... I looked it up.)
- To shave.
• I predict that, by the end of the week, several of us will refer to this week as having been "eventful."
• Purchase and consume hot dog on a Manhattan street: Check.
• Win BracketThis in a fluke: Check.
• To Iran I would like to present the following souvenir of my trip:

The ass of the Statue of Liberty.