TomFlannery.com

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

Today is my 44th birthday. I noticed more pain than usual getting out of bed this morning. More gray in the beard. More shuffling.  More thinking and less doing. More planning and less following through. More expecting the worst and getting it. More blind without my glasses. Need the Ipod volume up even louder to get a good buzz. Money disappears quicker. My kids sucker me into things and they don’t even have to try anymore. I just want to give them whatever they want. Maybe it’s because I adore quiet. Or maybe I love my kids so much I can’t stand to see them not smiling. When you get old a pretty smile from pretty little girls is worth 1000 miles.

I make up my mind really fast now. It’s just that I keep changing it once I make it up. I don’t think this is the same as being indecisive. I think it’s just getting old. I have 5 siblings, and I always seemed to be way younger than all of them. All of a sudden I’ve caught up. How did this happen? When my Dad was my age Nixon was President. I remember Nixon being President. When I was in high school it was considered cool to listen to Bryan Adams and LeBron James was not born yet. The world has gone mad. Everything is too loud and too crowded and too expensive. It pays to be young, assuming you’ve got some sort of freakish talent. Otherwise, being young is sorta like being old without the aches and pains. It’s a day to day struggle…..stay above water….stay under the covers as long as possible….stay indoors unless you want to get mugged by a polar bear in desperate search of ice……stay hydrated…..stay employed until somebody in Mumbai gets paid 1/10th your salary to do twice as much work…..stay out of airports unless you have days to kill, and turn on red, except here. If all else fails you can still wear your Chuck Taylor’s. They never go out of style, although they double in price every 10 years or so.

My hair hurts. That’s when you know you’re getting old. My idea of exercise is to get the mail. I dream all the time but wake up and can’t recall the details. Athletes and musicians I used to hang on my wall when I was a kid are dead now. I can remember not having remote control. The first remote control I did get had a wire. I used to listen to the radio. How sad is that?

High school classmates are grandparents. My daughter is about the same age as the Iraq War. I still wear clothes that are older than both of my kid’s combined. Most people my age have been married multiple times. I can still remember when people used to send letters in the mail. The kind with a stamp. I can recite the dialogue to “Jaws”. The dark circles under my eyes are so pronounced that yesterday my daughter asked me if I was wearing eye-liner. That’s a bit freaky.

So I’m 44. Old perhaps. But lucky to have loved ones who look so close.

In a bit…

–tf