TomFlannery.com

Writing for a living is a dastardly business.

So I’ve heard anyway. Even though I fancy myself a writer of sorts, I’ve never attempted to earn the family bread at it, which is just as well. My father made his living as a writer. He seemed a happy man, mostly because he cared not a whit about money for money’s sake. He made just enough coin to keep us all clothed and fed, with enough left over for a week at the beach every summer…which cost $150 in them days….or about half of what you’d pay to get a hotel room for a single night at the same beach today.

A tough nut in either era for sure, but things seem more obscene now. You could do more with less when I was a kid…and maybe that’s one of the things that makes growing up such a pain in the ass.

After my Dad retired, I actually found out what his salary was. And how many times he re-mortgaged the house to keep the carnival running. And about his assorted 2nd jobs. And all the free-lance work he did so we wouldn’t be humiliated on Christmas mornings when exchanging notes with the neighbors.

So I got a business degree in College, which is the degree you get when you have no idea what you want to do with your life, but you’re pretty sure you don’t want to be brutishly poor. Like a social worker. Or a newspaper man.

Nobody is more boring at parties than people who have a business degree. Their eyes are all glazed and they frequently make no sense whatsoever and have an alarming tendency to bogart everyone’s joints. All they talk about is the novel they’re just about to start writing. It’s depressing. These people should be stomped out with winkle-picker shoes.

At least I never threatened to write a novel. I know better. That would be ghastly business. I can barely sit still long enough to play “I Can’t Explain” on the guitar. My mind wanders in curious ways. Frequently, when driving, I end up heading in the wrong direction and don’t notice until I’m so far from my initial destination that I decide to go someplace else. It once wandered so much that when I showed up for a final exam in college I was asked what I was doing there. It was the first time I’d made it to class, apparently.

I passed the exam with flying colors, which tells you as much about a business degree as you need to know really. It was like 3rd grade, except they didn’t call your parents when you didn’t show up.

Actually, I’ve written just about everything except a novel over the years. Songs. Plays. Essays. Political diatribes. A short story or two. All varieties….some of it printable….and some of it incontrovertible gibberish. But really, it’s the only thing I ever felt like I had an aptitude for.

Some of my writing I’ve even been paid for. Some. But the net result is horrifying….a financial catastrophe of gargantuan proportions. Maybe farming or organizing democrats pays less per hour. Maybe. Which is why I refuse to refer to myself as a writer. Because it’s bad juju. I’d feel like a wretched failure. Lucky me I’ve got a business degree to fall back on, so I spend my days in a mental fog of number crunching and being subjected to the Peter Principle over and over….pure data overload, occasionally staring out the windows….like a convict peeking through bars. And, as I keep being reminded, I should be grateful. I have a “real” job and I’m not wearing a name tag and a goofy hat with my other Business degree pals from the class of 1988. (Or perpetually stoned, like the ones who decided to stick around and get Master’s degrees. These poor wretches should have their own telethon).

What a year that was. 1988. Free from the excuse of “I’m not a grown up yet”. Set loose on coin operated laundries and unsuspecting roommates. Paying for beer with rolled up coins and pretending that I was well qualified to live this way until I turned 65 and retired so I could then get sick and die like a good catholic. It was a hideous year of heartbreak and fear. My first job out of college was with the defense industry, so I was immediately confronted with the evil truth that nothing I’d learned in college was relevant anymore….especially not when you’re 22 and fleecing the government like it’s a morning-after-unpaid-sleeping-hooker with a head full of benzos.

Trapped like rats for 60 hours a week (OT was rampant and turned everyone into greedy savages) we’d only be let out early on Election Day…..told to vote Republican, otherwise we were surely doomed.

Ah youth. I was still smart enough at the time to notice that I was surrounded by old people who seemed resolute only in their sense of defeat. I’d drive home from work every day weeping like a little girl….desperate to reach a bar, where I could be surrounded by more old people who seemed resolute only in their sense of defeat. But at least they’d buy me rounds because they felt bad for me. “Don’t worry son”, I was told. “At least you still have hair.”

So yea…where was I?

Writing is a bitch. But it’s fun. And you get to set your own hours. And wear pajamas. Shelby Foote wore nothing but pajamas for 20 years while writing his monumental Civil War trilogy. Beat that boyos.

The place I worked at out of college? It’s now an empty hulk, with grass growing through the cracked floors. Rumors say it was built on an ancient indian burial ground, and anybody who toiled there will have nothing to look forward to but lay-offs and rehabs and looted social security. Even right wing warmongers at the highest level of government couldn’t save the place.

We have 2 choices in life really. To float or to swim.

Well 3, but failure is not an option for a writer.

We can take the flogging….but will not surrender.

In a bit..

–tf

I’m pretty sure I was in 7th grade when I bought my first Led Zeppelin record. Bought all my records from Ralph’s Record City in Scranton….a glorious little hole in the wall run by some pretty cool heads who were never condescending, no matter how much you asked for it. Ralph’s Record City and places like it are the reason why people still love records. The camaraderie of it all. Knowing you were not the only freak in the neighborhood. It certainly isn’t because of how good they sounded (assuming they didn’t skip, requiring things like taping pennies to the arm of the needle…it gives me the willies just thinking about records…”Whole Lotta Love” skipped horribly when I brought it home….and when I finally heard the song the way it was supposed to sound….I swore there was something wrong with it……as if the song isn’t fucked up enough with Plant having his orgasm in the midst of it and all…)

But I digress…which I am prone to do on a Sunday night after too much sun.

Those first few records were pretty staggering stuff for a 13 year old. One listen to “Communication Breakdown” could turn you into a speed freak….just trying to capture that feeling over and over again of Page in overdrive, with Plant’s screechings reaching every corner of my house. Enough so that my Mother was constantly banging the ceiling with a broom in a mostly vain attempt to get me to turn it down. And I was listening on one of them portable cheapies….not much bigger than a piece of carry on luggage today. If I had today’s sound equipment when I was 13 our house may have fallen in on itself.

During my 8th grade year I was on a state championship caliber basketball team. I was the Ralph Malph…the guy who never bothered to change my street clothes under the warmups because I never played. But they were some good times bad times nonetheless. On a team trip we were let loose in some mall, and I bought a copy of “The Song Remains the Same” with the money my parents had given me for food. Double album. Of course I couldn’t listen to it until we’d gotten home. If it were up to me the team would have forfeited then and there so I could find a record player and fire up “The Rain Song”.

I survived “The Song Remains the Song”, one of the most self-indulgent live albums of the 70s (and that’s saying something), but what I remember most is taking the liner notes of the album (by Cameron Crowe as I recall) and copying them nearly word for word for some English project. I got an A. It was the first time I was ever called a good writer.

I’ve tried to hate Led Zeppelin ever since.

They were part of the natural order of things though. Most near-teens found them, started drinking and drugging and dreaming, and lived happily ever after. Some of us veered left…..found The Kinks and The Who, and got all snotty and started making fun of “Moby Dick” and “Dazed and Confused”, and waited patiently until the Clash came around and made us feel good about turning off the radio every time it played “Stairway to Heaven”….even then an overplayed chestnut of “classic rock”…which had just been invented.

But a funny thing happened on the way to….well….wherever it was I was supposed to be going.

I never hated Led Zeppelin. But….still….so what if I was hiding in the back-row during those midnight screenings of “The Song Remains the Same”….wearing a hoodie and nipping from a flask…trying to feel superior. Why was I there? What ghastly force kept pulling me  back towards Jimmy and his evil band of groupie ravaging, depraved Aleister Crowley worshipers?

And what in the sweet name of Blanket Jackson am I doing speaking such gibberish now? Get a hold of yourself son! The 70s are long gone. Bonham died like a Spinal-Tap drummer…..and Plant is now a country music frontman playing the Harford Fair circuit with Alison Krause. Nobody really cares about Jones because he’s only the bass player. Page is as grey as a badger, forever having to endure the shame of playing with David Coverdale. It’s over.  Nothing to see here. Move along.

Except it isn’t of course. Page has spent the past few years alternating between re-working the band’s entire catalog and calling Plant names for not wanting to tour again and make a kajillion dollars (recently Plant was heard to say that Page needs a “good rest”. Some good old fashioned prima donna press bitching!)  Zeppelin is back.

Not that they ever went away.

Their first 3 records have been re-mastered and re-released with scads of unreleased and live material, alternate takes and different mixes. I wanted to be cynical about all of this.

My daughter has their entire catalog on her Ipod. She is 15.

I said…..”what about the Clash?” She said, “who?”

So you see….we are doomed to repeat the past. And I still can’t figure out the riff to “Heartbreaker”.

I miss them days. I miss Ralph’s Record City. I miss the anticipation of hearing the music. No leaks in them days. No short cuts.

I miss the decadence, even though I was always way too much the guilty irish catholic to participate (well…mostly).

Today I listened to “The Battle of Evermore” and “Four Sticks”…..grinning from ear to ear. “When the Levee Breaks” forced out the headphones. Those drums are way too much for my quiet neighborhood.

And “Fool in the Rain”. You might not love it….but I sure do. Still.

Lots of people and things have broken my heart over the years. But Led Zeppelin never did. And, I don’t expect them too. Ever.

In a bit..

-tf

We have crossed some sort of Rubicon here.

A US soldier, after 5 years of captivity, is brought home. And many of his fellow countrymen and women are outraged. Some genuinely so….but most simply because outrage is what they’ve been told to feel by the radio and TV they’re allowed to listen to (Not exactly boat rockers these people…but very reliable when election time rolls around).

But regardless of the level of sheeple-ness…all would prefer that Bowe Bergdahl be left behind…apparently. Because the US never negotiates with terrorists, except when the US….you know….negotiates with terrorists. Iran Contra ring a bell? Gipper? Rumsfeld and Saddam and the double secret probation handshake? Osama the Russian hating freedom fighter…give him some stingers! Anyone? Anyone? Is a US soldier’s life not worth 5 whacked out jihadists buried in a Cuban jail…..convinced virgins are waiting with open legs once they die?

Is that the argument?

If so, you sound sorta un American. Sorry.

Can we not prove the man’s guilt before we suggest that the proper punishment for him is to forever leave him in the hands of our mortal enemies?

Bergdahl has been accused of desertion. Serious charges to be sure. As I said…hopefully he’ll have his day in court and if he’s guilty….well…military justice can be brutal. It’s not for me to decide. Keep in mind that, if you believed initial press reports, Jessica Lynch fought to the last round, and Pat Tillman was shot by the enemy and died gloriously on the field of battle. Also keep in mind that Bergdahl has spent the last 5 years as a prisoner of the Taliban…who are surely not the most morally enlightened people on the planet. My guess is that his time with them was not always pleasant. I’m sure he’s glad to be coming home.

The truth is, nobody but Bergdahl knows the truth…yet.

But then the truth matters little in this case.

What the haters know for sure is that they hate Obama. I mean they really fucking hate him. Like Hillary hate. The kind of hate the lights up the sky in red white and blue clusters. The same people who were screaming about Bergdahl being held are now screaming that he’s still not being held. Because….you know….what good is outrage if it’s not coming out of both sides of your mouth at the same time?

They hate Obama so much that they have gone from the sublime to the ridiculous. Their hate has mutated. It’s like cancer cells. It has no conscience. It goes after anything healthy.

And once again, Americans look like rank, raging goobers in the eyes of the rest of the world.

But we all must opine on this, do we not? Front page news. When you knock gun nuts off the front page, that’s the business. But hate sells. Hell….they hate Bowe Bergdahl’s father because he grew a beard.

I’m not sure why anybody would want to be President. Here’s a guy making less money than an NFL punter, and whatever he does is put through the meat grinder of social media and instant punditry….where rationality goes to die. Folks on the left see George W Bush Lite, while folks on the right see….well….a black guy in the Oval Office….but they see more than that.

Wait a minute….I’m not sure if they do. Regardless, if Obama was dying of thirst on the side of the road, these folks wouldn’t piss in his mouth for fear they’d be giving aid and comfort to the enemy.

Let’s be clear here and tell it like it is. These lunatics would rather see a US soldier die than even suggest the possibility that Obama may have simply acted to re-unite a family torn asunder by a needless war. And if he did not act, and Bergdahl died while held captive by the Taliban…what then? If word got out that President Obama could have gotten him home by releasing some raw sewage from Gitmo? Sweet mother of Blanket Jackson! Batten down the hatches and Annie get yer guns!

The bat-shit-edness would be barely fit to print. “Impeach” would be the most tame word they’d use. Ted Cruz might choke to death on his own bile. John McCain could once again conveniently forget that his country never gave up on him as a soldier. I mean….no point in being a hypocrite if you don’t intend to take it as far as you can go right?

And so here we are again, feeling outnumbered….once again allowing the inmates to run the asylum.

I do not know if Obama did the right or the wrong thing. I know it’s the kind of decision that I would not want to make. It’s the kind of decision a President has to make. Every damn day. History will judge him. It can be a ruthless bitch. Or, in the case of Reagan, it can fellate a reputation until the truth becomes irrelevant. It all depends on who is writing it.

Good luck Mr. President. You’re gonna need it.

In a bit..

–tf

As a kid I always figured I was the heir apparent to my Dad at the Scranton Times. After all, Scranton may not have invented nepotism, but we came damn close to perfecting it. I was counting on this.

My Dad was a newspaper man….an elegantly curious reporter, editor, and columnist who claimed that never once looked at the clock while he was working. Author of over 4000 columns. I couldn’t wait to take over for him. I never actually ran my plan past the powers that be at the Times, however. And I didn’t have much experience. Or any experience really. But I was a romantic dammit. The job was mine.

And what a job! Writing. Words. For a living.

But still, something was nagging at me.

One time in my teens I actually convinced my Dad that I could write one of his columns. So he said, “go ahead”. My chance at fame. Jimmy Breslin, check your rear view mirror!

As a recall, it was a masterpiece! I handed it to him, perhaps typed out on a scroll. He read it and chuckled some. Then said it would run “next week”.

It did. Only I didn’t recognize it.

My Dad had gone rogue on me. He’d turned into an editor.

Granted, he managed to turn 800 words of mis-matched gibberish into something he could put his by-line on without fear of retribution, but still. What kind of wretched business was this?

I began to have second thoughts.

Then, I actually spent a few weeks at the Times as an intern. Not as a writer, but as a coffee fetcher/delivery boy. It was I who personally delivered papers to the District Attorney and the Mayor, among other deities. And filled up company cars with gas. Romantic it was not.

But still, I did get to hear of the one reporter who so hated editors that he constantly dreamt of (he used the word “dream”, not “nightmare”, by the way) dragging his nemesis down the stone stairs by one leg, so that his head bounced off every step.

Clearly, this was a world I was unfamiliar with.

My second thoughts multiplied. The newsroom seemed like a lunatic asylum. With smoke. Lots and lots of smoke. The place, essentially, smoldered 24 hours a day. Nobody talked in a normal voice. It was like being at a cock-fight.

And then I accidentally found out what newspaper people were paid. I could probably make more doing something else. Like busking with my guitar outside the Pub Charles.

Anyway….years go by. It’s time for my Dad to retire. And there’s a new kid in the newsroom. Irish kid. Kelly. Dad says to me one day…”this Kelly kid….he’s got the sizzle.”

And, as it turned out, my job too. Carpetbagger.

Dad was a sort of mentor to Chris Kelly. And Chris respected my father. They shared a bond.  I really think it was easier for my Dad to step away knowing that Chris Kelly was in the wings.

Two totally different styles. Chris more in your face. My father more low-key. But both were offended by boors, especially boors in positions of authority. And both utterly fearless. My father refused to get a private telephone number, despite the fact that the phone would ring like crazy….from friends and foe alike. I’ll never forget how he dealt with one persistent critic. “When you get a newspaper column, you can write about what you want. Thanks for calling.” Click.

Dude never called again.

I don’t always agree with Chris Kelly’s pieces. But then again I never always agreed with my father’s pieces either. If anything I think my Dad was almost too loyal. A guy could be an incorrigible asshole, but my Dad would get a hold of some story of the guy secretly visiting sick kids in the hospital, and choose to write about that. “Everybody knows the other stuff”, he’d say. Basically, if he could think of anything nice to write about you, he probably never wrote about you at all. And maybe that, in a slippery sort of way, was even worse than being in Kelly’s cross-hairs. Ok, maybe not worse. Being in Kelly’s cross hairs has got to be like jock-itch mixed with indigestion. I’d ask Corbett…but if he thought I even knew Kelly the Governor might have me frog marched into a mine fire.

Just this week Chris Kelly was named best columnist in the state of Pennsylvania. I wish my father was here to see it. He’d have been damn proud.

So Pop, this column is for you. And no pesky editors either on the interwebz.

And Kelly….it’s for you too. Pop never wore a Ramones T-shirt, but he could rock too.

Maybe when you hit 4000….some hungry kid is gonna start hovering around your desk. Wanting what’s in your head to be in his head too.

Man, I hope so.

And…er….am I the only person who think that every year Kelly looks more and more like JXF? Dudes have the same jowls. And hair. Uncanny.

In a bit…

–tf

Every year I pay my respects to one of my two heroes (my Dad being the other). Today I met with Gino’s daughter and her family. I haven’t seen them in nearly 10 years.

It was a true honor. Remember Gino and those like him this Memorial Day. They deserve so much more than we give them. If you don’t know Gino’s story, you can get it here.

I wrote this song. But I don’t own it anymore. This made me cry….

I can remember picking up Badlees records (CDs actually….some of the first CDs I bought were from The Badlees) at Gallery of Sound. I think the store is still there. The one across from the Viewmont Mall. People still buy music. What a concept.

I used to work way up 81 North, so the record store was on my way home. Bought “Diamonds in the Coal” there. And “Riversongs”….before it got picked up by the major label. I didn’t give a shit what label they were on. They were a great band. And they made great songs. And for me….plugging away at my own songs, singing in half empty coffee shops….I felt a kinship. Because they were my age. And they were doing it.

(I’ll pause here momentarily….and venture that nobody ever mentioned the Badlees and Russell Crowe in the same sentence before. So I’ll be the first. I have no idea why this came into my head but when Crowe won his best actor Academy Award he made an amazing speech that finished like this…”a dream like this seems kind of vaguely ludicrous and completely unattainable….[so] for anybody who’s on the down side of advantage and relying purely on courage, it’s possible.”)

So yea….I was buying these records. It was possible. These were our guys. They had coal balls.

These weren’t old dudes. And they weren’t young punks either. They were just like the guys I hung around with. They came from nearby. Places I knew how to get to. And suddenly they were all over the radio. And not just the local stations either. You don’t open for Queen or Plant and Page from local spins alone. “Angeline is Coming Home” was irresistible. “Fear of Falling”. Tight. Compact. Instantly hummable. Palladino’s pipes. I remember some guy saying “wow this guy really sounds like Hootie”….and thinking….”no man, Rucker sounds like Pete, asshole. Check the fucking dates on the package…”

Anyway, we love to label things. To compare things. We require fixed points of reference, otherwise we get lost. Like astronaut Tom Hanks flying blind without the earth in the window.

Success is a funny thing. It inspires all sorts of things, one being jealousy. There are lots of bands out there. Some are damn good. But not everybody gets to the level that the Badlees got to. I can only speak for myself and the guys I know…but I never heard any bitchiness about what was happening. I never knew anybody who knocked them just ‘cause that’s the thing to do. We rooted for them. They seemed like good guys. I didn’t know them. But when a band makes glorious noises, you feel like you know them. That’s one of the great things about music. It forges bonds….even between total strangers.

Maybe they never made a record that hinted at the power of their stage shows. You’d see them live and they’d be blowing the roof off these places. Their records were quieter. More introspective. The Badless were not robotic. They didn’t mimic their records. They explored them and kept digging deeper and deeper, excavating stuff that kept the same folks coming back time after time. It’s how you do it.

Just recently the band announced that they were calling it quits. Twenty five years is a long time to be in a gang. That’s what a band is. Band members can carry on private conversations without saying anything. It’s a closed society. Nobody else is allowed in. When a member starts to stray….the rest herd him back in. When they start to play, it’s all telepathy. The better a band is, the simpler it looks from the outside. I’m reminded of a great LBJ quote about loyalty. “I’d rather have him inside the tent pissing out than outside the tent pissing in.” Nobody pissed into the Badlees tent.

All this just to say…the Badlees were a band. In every sense of that word. And one of the best to ever come out of our area. NEPA could have been Seattle if anybody ever bothered to come here. So it wasn’t like the Badlees didn’t have any competition.

I’ve since gotten to know some of them. Bret Alexander and Ron Simasek are both class acts….every bit the “good guys” I always presumed they were. I’ve talked quite a bit with their sometime songwriting collaborator Mike Naydock, who is just pure gold. They don’t make ‘em any sturdier than Mike.

I don’t know the reasons behind the breakup. Sometimes the time is just right to move on. The Badlees gave and gave and gave for 25 years. They don’t owe anybody anything. I have these records. That’s plenty good enough for me.

Go on YouTube someday and look for clips of the band bashing away in Bret’s kitchen…..like the basement tapes on the first floor. It’s glorious stuff. These guys were brothers.

I truly hope that they still are.

In a bit..

–tf

Feels odd that we still don’t get that while we have an inalienable right to be an asshole in this country, that doesn’t mean we lose our “rights” when folks like….say…our employer….decide to punish us for our actions. It’s totally within my rights to go stampeding around saying I hate gay people….but if I hang a pro Westboro Baptist Church sticker in my cubicle, I probably have no legal options when the company I work for fires my ass. It’s the way things go. It’s known as “consequences”……and they can indeed be pesky.

Most people are all for freedom of speech….until that speech is something they disagree with….in which case they turn into Kim Jong-un with a really bad attitude. So if some hippie from Vermont calls Reagan a doucebag in an editorial in the “Greenpeace Gazette”, Sarah Palin is on Fox News wanting an immediate amendment to the constitution that bans calling the Gipper a doucebag. And this is news. (If is ok, however, to call Clinton a doucebag, because this is “free speech”)  In the same vein….it’s ok for Obama to eavesdrop on my phone and internet conversations, but when Bush does it Democrats want to go all Nixon on him.

It’s the same logic in calling yourself “pro-life” and then saying it’s ok for the state to execute somebody. If everybody has a “right to life”, why is it Ok to say, “except this guy?” I say it’s the same “logic” because….well….there’s no logic at all. I have friends who call themselves pro-life. I have friends who say they support the death penalty. There’s not much I can do about what somebody believes and I really don’t lose sleep over either. But I reserve to right to be confused when the same person claims both. It’s quite American, I think, to feel this way. I feel like I’m being constitutional and stuff. Makes me feel red white and blue all over.

Burning the flag? How many men and women have fought and died for the freedom that flag represents? But our nation is not sturdy enough to handle a few crackpots with lighters? Disconnect? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

Immigration? Those damn illegals. Deport ’em right? Well…ok. But when all those pesky jobs those illegals do, like picking your food, suddenly cost agricultural companies a lot more to fill….and the “legal” people filling them start getting all Union -antsy when they realize how dangerous and shitty these jobs really are….and then prices go up…and corporate profits shrink….and them dividend checks get lighter…make sure you say “well that’s ok because it’s all part of the glorious free-market system..” You’ll say that right? (And you’ll cut your own grass and plant your own fucking garden too, right?)

And then there is really creepy stuff….like this NBA owner. A private conversation he has is leaked to the world. In it he’s outed as a run of the mill bigot. And old rich white guy boinking a dumb-as-a-stump 20 something who just happens to not be his wife. This guy is outed as a bigot. We’re shocked. Shocked I tell you!

Nobody can really defend this guy. I mean….he is a cretin and if anybody was paying attention (we weren’t) we’d know this already because he wasn’t shy about openly discriminating against brown people when it came to renting out his very public real estate properties. For this…..there was no public outcry. At all.

But this? Batshit crazy went the nation.

Still and all, I know lots of cretins. If every private conversation any of us had was suddenly placed into the public domain, how many of us are not gonna look like cretins from time to time? Answer? None. It’s the whole “people who live in glass houses” thing. It’s a pretty good analogy when you think about it.

Toss this guy out of the league for breaking the law? Surely. You can’t decide not to rent property to somebody because of the color of their skin. Good riddance. Except nobody gave a shit. Not juicy enough apparently.

Toss him out of the league for a leaked phone conversation? A leaked private phone conversation. Um….isn’t this a bit Orwellian? A bit of a slippery slope? Wasn’t there a line crossed here?

Today the soup du jour is a gay football player who was drafted into the NFL. Historic for sure. Not because he’s the first gay NFL player (boys…really?…insert head in sand much?), but because he’s the first openly gay man in the NFL. Our nation has come a long way. But then again, maybe not, since when in his joy at being selected the player kissed his male friend on live TV, it became front page news on CNN. The kiss became front page news. Not the selection.

Um…yea.

In a world where religions extremists, in the name of God, kidnap little girls with the plan to sell them for $12 each, Americans are apparently more outraged at the sight of a gay man kissing his partner.

So yea….there’s that.

I wish what I’ve just written made more sense…but it’s the best I can do at the moment. My head feels woozy.

In a bit..

–tf

My daughter is a gymnast. She started young but gave it up for a few years. Then 2 years ago she got back into it with a vengeance…determined to make up for lots of lost time. From not being able to do a cartwheel to nailing double back hand springs. It’s been an amazing transformation.

She’s not a natural by any means. She’s gotten where she is by sheer will…..out-working just about everybody else. Her drive is inspiring. She’ll do something over and over and over and over until she gets it right. Then she’ll do it over and over and over again until getting it wrong is no longer an option. And then she’ll actually go to the gym. Her main work is done in our basement and in our backyard. We spent the weekend in Allentown so the hotel hallway became a place to practice her floor routine. I’ll walk into a room and frequently see her upside down, against the wall, trying to stay vertical. Her walking around the house has mostly turned to a series of ballet-like leaps. Anytime she encounters anything on the ground about 3 inches wide she treats it like a balance beam. Curbs. Cracks in the sidewalk. Ask her to stand still for a few seconds and invariably she limbers up but putting one leg above her head. She’s not even aware she does it anymore.

Of course gymnastics is a contact sport. In the space of 6 months she’s broken a toe and both ankles. The latest mishap happened last night. Landed wrong off the beam. Ankle rolled. She heard a pop. Others heard a pop too. By the time I got there she had what looked like a golf ball sticking out of the side of her foot. She was crying not from the pain (which I know was considerable), but because she knew this weekend’s scheduled competition would go on without her. She adores competing. Craves it. Wins some and loses some and always handles herself gracefully. But the rides home are more enjoyable when she wins. It’s validation for her that all the work she’s done has paid off. If she doesn’t win, she doesn’t think she worked hard enough. So she works harder.

And now she can’t work at all. She’s hobbling around on crutches mumbling to herself about the 4 weeks the doctor said she’d be out of commission….already planning her return much sooner. We’ll need to convince her the doctor knows best. It ain’t gonna be easy.

Nothing hurts more than your kid hurting. Today has been a lot of hurry up and waiting in various offices. Wheel Chairs and walking boots and filling out forms and digging for insurance cards and me trying to carry her to the bathroom. I used to be stronger. She used to be tiny. She’s 12 now and solid muscle. A few more fireman carries and she’s gonna have to fight her old man for those crutches. But still, I’ll carry her forever if I have to. If I can’t walk she can ride on my back.

The tears are still there. Not as constant, but I hear them. After getting X-ray’s today I took her to get ice cream. I’m not even sure she asked. It’s automatic. When a kid has to go through something like this, ice cream is automatically added to the menu. It helped some. It always does.

She’s napping now. Worn out. In my bed. I just went in and covered her with a blanket. Her iPhone was on her chest. She was watching gymnastic videos on YouTube. Now I’m the one crying.

It’s amazing how much you love them. I’m looking at the X-ray now. Doctor pointed out the break. It looks like a ghastly little smile on the film. Clean.

I wish it was my X-ray instead. Normal Daddy stuff this is. And really minor when you think about it. But when it’s your kid perspective is lost. It sure seems major to me as I watch her sleep with her cast propped up on 2 pillows. Still wearing her jacket….worn out and out cold.

The day is almost over now. It’s been a long one.  I’m thinking of all those parents who take care of children with way more serious issues than a broken ankle. And I wonder how they do it. It’s heroic is what it is. Tip your hat. Raise your glass. Whatever it is you do. But when a child hurts, you find stuff you never knew you had.

I hope I never have to be that strong. But I hope I am. For her sake.

In a bit…

-tf

Music is such a personal thing to me. Even listening to it feels personal. Music can’t always totally cure what ails me, but it always manages to make me feel better. In that respect it’s like a drug with no nasty side effects. Addiction is optional, and encouraged.

The weekend my Ipod wheel (throwback old school…that’s me) stopped on Bob Mould. His band stuff with Hüsker Dü (with a little research you too can get the dots up there) and Sugar, and his solo records. I’ve got them all. Some of the early Hüsker stuff is so frantic that I get lost…..without melody my ears get bored….but by Warehouse: Songs and Stories I was completely hooked. Just in time for the band to break up of course, but when Mould formed Sugar and released Copper Blue…..this to me was everything good about the music of the 1990s…without the media hype. Anybody who thinks Nirvana created what Nirvana sounds like never listened to “A Good Idea” (or the Pixies…for that matter). Mould was doing this “alternative” thing before anything thought to give it a name. His subsequent solo records have all been crammed into my head….and remain there. In June he’s got a new record coming. At my age I don’t look forward to much…perhaps a morning I can sleep past 8am without having to let the dog out…or watching a good movie on Google Chromecast without being interrupted by the phone….but new Bob Mould music makes this old man smile.

Tomorrow it might be something else. But for now, it’s Bob Mould.

Why certain music at certain times though? Always questions.

Why when my Dad passed away did I listen to nothing but Irish traditional music for 6 weeks? Why do I keep returning to records like Quadrophenia when I’m feeling confused and old…..or Fairport Convention’s Liege and Lief when I’m feeling run down, or something by the Clash when my ass needs kicking? Why does John Prine make me cry? Why do we still care about Big Star even though I hardly even feel the need to listen to Big Star? Why can I not listen to REM for a year and then listen to nothing but REM for 2 months? Why is Stay Positive my favorite Hold Steady record, and not anybody else’s favorite Hold Steady record? How is it that the Beatles….perhaps the greatest band of all time, never improved on “I Saw Her Standing There”, one of their first songs…..and still changed the world? Why did Chuck Berry write some of the greatest rock and roll songs of all time in a relatively short burst…..and then just stop writing rock and roll songs? Why does Bono wear shades indoors? And why can’t the Edge just admit that he’s bald and take off the fucking skull cap? Why aren’t Los Lobos and The Replacements and Warren Zevon in the rock and roll hall of fame? Why are Rush in the rock and roll hall of fame? Why do I despise jazz?

Why did my father, not exactly a lover of pop music (more of a Tommy Dorsey guy), absolutely adore Paul Simon’s Graceland.

I could go on and on I suppose. Sometimes I do go on and on but I won’t tonight. The hour is late….and I must wake in the morning to beg for my supper…..spending 8+ hours doing things that have nothing whatever to do with music, which depresses the living shit out of me. But still. Reality and all that. The house is asleep now. The TV is on, even though I can’t hear it for my cranked headphones. I think the show is The Voice, which is enough to destroy the will of any self-respecting self-taught music freak-turned musician. Can’t these people just bash away in garages like the rest of us….learning how to be good by sucking first? These people are all so technically good they sound fucking horrible to me. I’m thinking of a young Bob Dylan singing “Song to Woody” for Blake Shelton and actually giving a shit about his reaction…and it’s making me desire illegal pharmaceuticals. And if I go there, I’ll never get to sleep.

A final word if I may. There’s a new song (at least new to me) by some dude named Pharrell Williams called “Happy”. Apparently it’s been played to death on the radio and people are starting to hate it…but I’ve heard it about 3 times in total and think it’s fucking great…..a throwback to Motown or Curtis Mayfield….a genuine soul song that sounds old and new at the same time. It gives me hope. If starts my feet tapping. It makes me feel something.

Maybe even happy.

Ain’t that what it’s all about dammit?

In a bit…

–tf