TomFlannery.com

The muse is hard to pin down. Like trying to grab a fist full of water. Or a wisp of air.

When it arrives, we sit hunched over guitars or notepads or keyboards, thinking of lightning in a bottle. It’s been captured, and there’s no way it can get way. And then….

Well, you wake up the next day and suddenly you’re playing the guitar with all the subtlety of a meat cleaver. Your legal pad is filled with games of tic-tac-toe and hangman. And your computer screen is as white as Glenn Beck. What the hell happened? Why am I all of a sudden spending much of my day studying a piece of lint on the floor? Didn’t I used to be good at this shit?

Maybe. And maybe you will be again. But not today. And maybe not tomorrow either. What you could pluck out of thin air has now gone underground, like a guerilla army, and you start checking to make sure you can still spell your own name without pulling out your license.

And so it starts to eat away at your confidence. Maybe I was never that good to begin with. That would certainly make a dry patch like this easier to deal with. I mean, what can one expect? Maybe he was born to be a Salieri with a greying beard and a creeping suspicion he’s become a misanthrope? As Ted Knight put it so succinctly in Caddyshack, “the world needs ditch diggers too.”

But please don’t bury me in the cold cold ground. John Prine said that, and he’s a cancer survivor whose songs have done more for mankind than any politician’s policy’s I can name. And as a cynical political junkie, I can name way too many. Liars. Thieves. Partisan maniacs. Sex fiends. What does it say about the brainpower of a nation that it elects somebody (twice) to be President who believes in the rapture? It says we need a new pack of John Prine songs desperately. Or maybe we need to listen to “Angel From Montgomery” closer. We’re alienated. In our own homes. Fear keeps us in front of the TV with a 6-pack. “How the hell can a person go to work in the morning / come home in the evening / and have nothing to say?” These lines taught me more than all of Shakespeare’s poetic wanking.

But on some nights, that’s me. I’ve got nothing to say. The day sucks the air out of your lungs. Spend 8 or 1o hours doing what you need to do as opposed to what you want to do, and try not to arrive at the dinner table with a chip on your shoulder. A successful life these days is defined as one spending more time with people you largely despise (co-workers if you’re lucky enough to have a job) than with those you genuinely love. Wife. Kids. Your dog. When that mortgage payment comes and you can pay it, you’re officially a boring old fart…..the kind of parent your kids walk 10 paces ahead of at the mall so nobody thinks they actually belong to you. The only time they allow you to catch up is when they need money. Pay up and they like you. Say no and you’re the anti-christ and probably on the hook for untold future therapy bills. Want to talk to your kid? Hope he or she hasn’t de-friended you on facebook. If they did, you’re pretty screwed. It’s like when the astronauts disappear behind the moon. Total communication blackout. Wake up one day and your kid has a tattoo of Che Guevara on their left buttock. Nobody seems surprised but you. So you ask, “a Che tattoo. Interesting. Where’d you get the idea for that?” And they’ll give you that look that says “when did you get so old and uncoll?” But it comes out that one of the latest Disney Poster Boys of the minute showed up at some premiere wearing a Che t-shirt, and now it’s an obligation to show support. And oh by the way I owe her money to pay for it because I’m the father and that’s what father’s do. They pay for Che tattoos.

Course none of this has happened to me yet. Politics for my kids during the last election boiled down to the “African American” (never “black”) vs. the “Old Dude’…..who seemed a lot smarter before he picked his running mate than he became after. It dawned on him that first day that he’d asked a crazy, unintelligent bitch who when trapped one on one with a real journalist kept looking for the nearest fire exit so she wouldn’t be bothered with pesky foreign policy questions that could not be put off by the “I can see Russia from my house:” stock reply. It was an interesting, almost surreal time in which John McCain, for whatever reason, pulled the pin on his last grenade and blew himself back to Arizona and his trophy wife and her vast fortune….never to be heard from again. He suffered the kind of presidential beating that even Fox News couldn’t spin. Obama was president. We rejoiced. It was a miracle. Surely, here it came. Another great society. End the wars. Bring the boys home. If not guns and butter, then butter only. Feed the hungry. Take care of the sick. Take this disparity between rich and poor and start hacking away at it. Things were gonna change.

Except they didn’t. Wall Street took all our retirement and 501k and suddenly we owned nothing but clothes on our back. House. Two cars. All that middle class stuff. We paid the bank and they said as long as we did they wouldn’t huff and puff and blow our house down….which was pretty nice of them since I’d just chipped in giving them a $600 billion dollar bailout. Obama was supposed to rise us up. He was supposed to make us all feel better about ourselves. “Yes we can” and all that shit. Well, “yes we can” if we work for wall street and suddenly have $600 billion extra George Washington’s to spend with no need to provide receipts. But for the rest of us. “no we can’t” afford the mortgage and nobody is offering me a bailout and the sheriff is outside with a piece of paper I’m in no mood to read……and a crowbar.

Barack, I voted for you. I believed you. You let me down. I get lip service for TV sound bytes. But my dreams? What do you know about my dreams? Nothing. You take care of your boys now while the getting is good, and I wonder how I’m going to be able to send my girls to college. I work hard. I do the right things. But I’m priced out, That seems unfair. Worse, it seems Un-american. And people tell me I’m one of the lucky ones. I don’t feel lucky. I feel used.

Being pissed is good for the muse. It can kick start it…..and set up a roadblock to get it back on the right tract. I have these songs. They’re about my father. His life. His Alzheimer’s disease. His battle. His refusal to not rage against the dying of the light. Watching him die was the worst of times. But it was also the best of times, because for the first time I saw what the human spirit is capable of. Hell, Alzheimer’s had it’s claws in my father, but I’m convinced he was aware enough to go on his own terms. He shut down and said….enough. Forget me. My family has suffered enough. I’m going to close my eyes and not wake up anymore.

And so that’s what he did. Some 5 months ago. He never went to work in the morning and came home in the evening and had nothing to say. Not Pop. Alienation is for weaklings. Like me. Pop had too much to do. Too many people to help. No time for this self-pity shit.

I want to be more like him. I want my muse back so I can pay him this compliment in song. A song lasts forever.

That’s what I’ve learned in all this. A song lasts forever. Everything else dies.

So, that should clear this up. My muse? Where are you? I’m waiting.

In a bit…

–tf

Odd country we live in. A lone nut can now affect US foreign policy….by just threatening to do something. In this case, burn piles of the Koran. Some evangelical pastor from Florida with a congregation that can fit on my back porch. Guy has been surrounded by cameras for weeks now, no doubt relishing his 15 minutes….thinking of upcoming book and movie deals, and perhaps even a spot on Dancing With the Stars.

All in all pretty lame stuff. I deal with folks crazier than this guy from 9 to 5 M-F. Except that this is front page news. With another 9/11 anniversary upcoming…..this sort of thing gets folks worked up into a frenzy. Mostly news directors.

So instead of ignoring the guy, this gets elevated to the fucking White House. The President of the United States makes the Bushlike observation that burning the Koran will “endanger our troops” (as if they’re not in enough danger stuck in the middle of a shithole like Afghanistan already). In Afghanistan the Islamic fringe has gotten in on the act, rioting to the tune of 11 injured….keep in mind protesting something that hasn’t happened yet. It doesn’t take much though. This crew went batshit over a cartoon, so motives are questionable. They just might like to break stuff and this gives them a reason in the eyes of a world that thinks little of dropping bombs on each other over ecumenical details. Nobody says…”wow, isn’t it stupid to get so worked up over a cartoon?” They instead say, “oh shit, they’re gonna start breaking stuff again. Get rid of the cartoonist.”

It’s all a bit nutty….this killing ’cause we love god so much. Of course, Christians aren’t above shedding some muslim blood in the name of their deity. Anyone remember the crusades? So long ago right? We would never do so ghastly things these days. Right? Perhaps a Wikipedia search on Bosnia in the 1990s will give one pause. Perhaps not though. Such short memories these days.

I’m against book burning myself. Reminds me of a Nazi newsreel on the History Channel. If I don’t like a book I either throw it away or wrap it and give it to somebody as a gift. There’s probably a bible in my house somewhere….although like most I’ve read “The Catcher in the Rye” way more times. I don’t care if somebody burns the bible, or “The Catcher in the Rye” for that matter….as long as it’s not my copies. If they bought their own to burn, have at it (would be interesting to know where the Florida preacher and his gang procured their copies of the Koran they mean to burn. Some book store owner is giggling up his sleeve). Is it sacrilegious? I guess that depends on where you’re at on the god-meter. But isn’t cutting someone’s head off sacrilegious too? How about stoning an adulterer? Or in this country, how about hating someone for the color of their skin, or for their sexual orientation? All this goes on and on while the lead story on the news is about book burnings. It’s very depressing.

Live and let live I say. Pick someone up when he falls, and expect he’ll do the same for you. Don’t kick dogs or throw cats. Keep the noise down, build a big fence, and wave back when somebody waves even if you’re not sure who it is. Don’t drive a Hummer ’cause you’ll look like an asshole. If you are a member of a church that sponsors book burnings, it might be a good time to question your beliefs. Or to suspend them all together and read “Catcher in the Rye” again.

In a bit…

–tf

Finally. A bit of crispness in the air. Full days of school. And football. Taken together, nearly enough to make one forget how messed up things are. Jobs have packed up and moved south. Way south. Those still clinging to a paycheck are left with fewer and fewer options. You take what they dish out. You take what they give you in a “thank you sir may I have another” kind of way. And you walk away gritting your teeth, but you dare not grit too hard ’cause your insurance most likely does not include dental.

But then again, it’s for times like these that Brent Musburger was created. And so I still have hope. When fall fails to roll around, then it’s over.

In a bit…

–tf

 A demo of a new song…

That Ring It Don’t Fit Your Finger Anymore

Flowers fade away
left where they lay
things may have come to pass
just a little too fast
when time goes by
like a thief past a door
that ring it don’t fit your finger anymore

Now and forever
’till death do us part
some things invade
in the shape of a heart
like expired foodstuffs
on the shelves at the store
that ring it don’t fit your finger anymore

Father forgive me
I know not what I do
I’m guilty of nothing
‘cept no belief in you
still reaching in the pockets
of the clothes that you wore
that ring it don’t fit your finger anymore

Line ’em all up
and knock ’em all back
six guns six shooters
sixth senses dressed in black
plaques and tangles
and grooves in the floor
that ring it don’t fit your finger anymore

Anesthitize familiarize
streets with corner bars
long dead prescriptions
and stranded winter cars
don’t accept nothing
but always wanting more
that ring it don’t fit your finger anymore

Father forgive me
I know not what I do
I’m guilty of nothing
‘cept no belief in you
still reaching in the pockets
of the clothes that you wore
that ring it don’t fit your finger anymore

when time goes by
like a thief past a door
that ring it don’t fit your finger anymore

Strange days. I’m in the process of making what is probably my quietest, most personal record, and all around me storms are raging. Katrina was 5 years ago, and the debris is still littered about. People are still living in FEMA trailers. Neighborhoods that our government promised to re-build remain un-re-built. And now forecasters are keeping their eyes on new potential hurricanes forming in the Gulf. New Orleans is no more capable of handing another Katrina-like storm today than she was in 2005. It’s only a matter of time before a great American city disappears completely….like a modern-day Atlantis. It’s not just sad, it’s criminal. If we can’t take care of our own, I’m not sure we should be believed when we claim to be “taking care” of someone else. Like Iraqis and Afghans for instance. Meanwhile, “Brownie” now works as a “consultant” for a disaster management company. If you tried to make this stuff up you’d be prescribed enough pills to lay out every animal in a circus.

The mantra is still “drill baby drill” even though BP proved that we really don’t know how to without possibly fucking up countless lives, and maybe even the ecosystem for about 1000 years. What of a 3rd generation fisherman in one of those small gulf coast towns turned overnight into a large tar-pit? He wakes in the morning now and….what? Puts on the War-Mart smiley face pin? Goes to class to learn how to use Microsoft Word? Meanwhile, the rest of us yell at the waiter for the rising price of shrimp at Red Lobster. Do we even know how to pull together anymore?

Gotta blame someone though. Illegals are a good pick. They can’t really fight back, and they’re ….you know…brown. That’s close enough to black for those lily whites who put on Uncle Sam hats and attended Glen Beck’s rally yesterday in Washington…..a rally that managed to desecrate the memory of Martin Luther King and embarrass a few republicans. No mean feat that. Just another chance for pissed off white people to commiserate under the banner of god and country. Any crowd that allows itself to be whipped into a frenzy by Sarah Palin is bound to be the type that keeps other nations laughing at us. The entire spectacle makes my head feel like it weighs 50 pounds. As the song goes, “someday we’ll look back on this and it will all seem funny”, and I can only hope that day comes before I die because I need a good laugh right now more than ever.

Why is everybody so mad at the wrong people all the time? I’ll admit to being a pissed off white guy too. But my fury ain’t directed at the quiet hispanic guy on the landscaping crew down the road….or the single black lady across the street desperately trying to care for her 3 children, or the lesbian couple around the corner. I want the guys who stole my 401k. The guys who force me to work more hours than they’ll pay me for. The guy who writes that small print on credit card applications. I’ve got investment bankers and oil executives and professional Washingtonians and insurance companies and guys who tailgate and corporations who ship jobs overseas in my sights. Let’s have a rally against them in DC. And invite everybody this time….not just those who think god is a republican.

I’m trying to keep my wits while all around me is madness. This record I’m trying to make is about the quiet dignity of one man who is no longer with us. The one man I could talk to who could sum up the madness and put it into perspective….and gently nudge me back onto the path I should never have deviated from in the first place. I fear failing with these songs so much I’m having a hard time letting them go. But I will. I know I will. Soon. I need to sit down in front of the mics and let it come out.

I miss him so.

In a bit…

–tf

Starts tomorrow night. Have a producer this time….so I can argue with somebody other than myself.

We’ll run down the songs and see what’s what. Have ten songs that I hope will make the cut. These are for Pop. I hope he approves.

In a bit…

–tf

Fresh off my visit to the Baseball Hall of Fame, I’ve recently read a slew of baseball books. Bios of Pete Rose (dickhead), Roger Clemens (dickhead), Joe Dimaggio (supreme dickhead), and Roberto Clemente (non-dickhead, although he had his moments). Also great books on college baseball, the wild 1908 baseball season, and the wonderfully titled “Pitching Around Fidel”, a book about sports in Cuba. Suffered through a book about Tony Larussa and how much of a baseball genius he’s supposed to be….and it was an abomination. 300+ pages of verbal fellatio from a hired hack. Give me a team with Albert Pujols and I could win more games than I lose…..and not be such a self-centered prick in the process. Larussa is a baseball cyborg, about as fan-friendly as bird-shit in the bleachers. The book reminded me anew why I always root against Saint Louis no matter who they’re playing.

The book about Cuba was fascinating. A great sports country….filled with amatuers ’cause Castro forbids professional athletes. Somehow they continue to provide some of the greatest baseball players and boxers in the world….all who tout the party line relentlessly then climb into rickety boats in the middle of the night and row like hell to Miami. Some make it. Most don’t……battered by the sea and eventually rescued or eaten by sharks. Those who do manage to defect are immediately rolled in front of the press by the Miami Cuban community and tell the world what a monster Castro is before being whisked away by limo to start spending George Steinbrenner’s money. Meanwhile, Cuba is suddenly saying that the guy who was an island legend the day before is really a sore-armed pampered pussy who couldn’t win a big game if his life depended on it and was barely worth the $10 monthly stipend Castro’s government thoughtfully paid him. It’s a very interesting dance. Great 3am reading.

On the listening front, been devouring the new double CD by the Grip Weeds…..a glorious collection of power pop without a duff track on it. Awaiting new releases by Richard Thompson and Ryan Bingham and The Weepies and a bunch of others. Musicians must time recordings for when their kids go back to school. Lots of new stuff coming out so I’ve got an itchy Ipod trigger finger.

Still tinkering with my new songs. Made some real progress last night on a song called “Don’t Let the Sun Hit You on the Way Out”. Melody just sorta leaped out of the air and I grabbed it. Found a good middle eight for it too. So the work continues. It just seems these songs will be ready on their timetable, not mine. Have asked my friend Eddie Appnel to produce the new record and he has agreed. It’s good to have somebody rational involved with one of my schemes for a change. Working alone can turn one mighty lazy. Eddie asked for demos of the songs but I’m afraid if I record them I’ll just release the demos…..fearful that I won’t be able to do any better. So Edward has his work cut out for him in many ways.

But he’s a way nicer guy than I am, so it should be a pleasure. We’ll start recording in the upcoming weeks.

So there.

In a bit..

–tf

It’s still only early August. ‘Tis the summer that won’t let go. If fall doesn’t arrive soon I may go searching for it. Heat saps my strength and makes me sluggish. Autumn reinvigorates. I need a healthy dose of Brent Musburger and Kirk Herbstreit. I need the ghost of Keith Jackson.

In a bit…

–tf

Working on new songs.

Lyrics come first. I’ve got 10 complete sets.

I’ve found melodies for 2 so far (I’ll tinker with the lyrics for meter’s sake…or maybe re-write them all at this point). And I’m satisfied. I really think this is my best batch of songs. And I know it’s my most important. I have a clear goal. I’m not going to rush anything. I have no time line and no expectations other than creating something I can listen to a year from now without cringing. And maybe sell a few.

Any maybe have a little fun. Messing about with notepads and pens and guitars and microphones should be fun. After all, it’s referred to as “playing music”. That’s what musicians do. They don’t “work music”. I’d rather do this than work, although it must be said that it might be even more fun if I could expect checks in the mailbox. Alas, not just yet. Greedy git I am. Gotta pay off the Gibson jumbo from a few years back. Still sounds good though no matter who owns it. That’s the nice thing about guitars. They ignore technicalities. And they’re portable. My brother recently brought his to Honduras to sing “Los Elephantos” to kids for 10 days. Now that’s a gig.

Listening to Paul Thorn’s “Pimps and Preachers” as a type. I love a guy who can write cool rock and roll songs about religion and survive in the ring against Roberto Duran, a man who once punched out a horse. Something special in that combination methinks. You write a song called “I Don’t Like Half the Folks I Love” and you’re pretty special in book.

It’s impossible for me to create my own music without immersing myself in the diversity of my Ipod’s 8000 songs. I don’t want to leave anything out.

Well, that’s it for now. I hope you care.

In a bit…

–tf

Vacation. I believe that’s what it’s called. Just back from one. The beach kind.

I don’t like the beach. But my kids love it. Not much of a dilemma when it comes to your kids. You just go and make the best of it. And I did. If you can’t enjoy yourself watching your kids smile from ear to ear for a week straight, it’s probably time for a med check.

One of my problems with the beach is that it’s far away. For Scrantonians, anything further than Wilkes-Barre is far away. And we booked the dreaded Saturday to Saturday thing. Half the east coast would be heading to the same place as me. What’s supposed to take 4.5 hours took 7. The car was packed so tight my rear window was obstructed by a boogie board. The kids were hungry. They were thirsty. They had to pee. Where we there yet? What road are we on again? What state are we in? Didn’t I just pay a toll? I swear I paid the same guy. Maybe we’re driving in circles? But all works out in the end. A GPS is, after the Ipod, man’s greatest invention. Just follow it blindly, like someone in an Orwell novel. Maps? Ha! Maps are bourgeoise. A GPS device might seem like it’s making fun of your driving, but it always gets you there.

So we arrived. The good part about taking hours longer than anticipated was that our room would be ready. Only it wasn’t. Your room is never ready. They always act like they’re surprised you actually showed up. How long does it take to make a bed and run a sweeper anyway? Five hours should be sufficient. The lobby is now filled with sweating masses of people, all miserable and wanting nothing more than to be given a room key so they can start drinking. The line stretches out the door into the parking lot. Kids sprawl on couches in the lobby, whining incessantly. But it’s vacation….a “quest for fun” as Chevy Chase once called it. so nobody snaps. All is kept in good order, and eventually we drag our gear up to our room, immediately realizing that the place is dreadfully short of elevators. You hit the button and can run across the street and grab a pizza before the door opens. At one point a little kid had a mini-fit in front of the open door and by the time his father had calmed him, the door had closed. Nobody said anything. We were all so battered there were no words. Things had to get better.

And of course they did. You settle in. You learn the lay of the land. Where the food is. Where the drink is. Where the shopping is. You learn to treat money as an irritant. If you actually consider how much you’re being gouged, you’d be eating Ramen noodles all week. And you can’t have that. So, ATM machine anyone?

The beach. Water was fine. Waves a good size. It’s very crowded but you carve out your little space and wonder why you’re the only one having trouble with your umbrella. Kids love the water. Maybe too much. I’m a nervous wreck. I keep looking for fins. Can’t help it. Some punk kid is wearing a “Jaws” t-shirt. Thanks kid. But I’m out there, getting tossed around like a piece of wood. People are sorta staring at me ’cause I wear my Chuck Taylors in the water. But I think they’re just jealous they didn’t think of it first. I’m not gouging myself on sharp shells. And those water socks look kinda gay on a guy. I see a lady running the shore line wearing a “ain’t no party like a Scranton party” t-shirt and call to her but she either doesn’t hear me or ignores me ’cause I’m wearing Chuck Taylors in the water. Whatever.

Loads of states represented in the parking lot. Two stand out. Hawaii. What the hell? And Kentucky. The KY license plate said “where we love our children”. Hmmph. That’s a bit….er…insulting to the rest of us no?

Temps hovered in the mid 90s all week. At night they dropped to the mid 80s. Not a hint of rain. Not even clouds. The heat was unrelenting….and us pasty faced Scrantonians soon looked like undercooked steaks. My nose actually fell off but luckily there was a new one underneath it. I’m home 24 hours and sand is still pouring out of my sneakers. I’m sore in body parts I can’t identify. I don’t really walk anymore. I shulffle. Like someone using an invisible walker. But I knew this is temporary. In a few days, I’ll be all rested up from vacation and need another one.

I actually miss it. The sound of the sea. The salt air. The seagulls. The look on my girls faces when they fleece me out of  yet more money. They know there’s nothing I would not do for them…..and they proceed accordingly.

The ride home was much easier. We left very early to beat traffic, and the girls immediately went to sleep. They awoke around Wilkes-Barre.

“Almost home” I said.

And I meant it. Wow, I guess it changed me.

In a bit…

–tf