From the Depths of the Pocketmachine: Parts 6 & 7

(Editor's Note: this cartoonish short blurb is dated Thursday July 2nd, 2009 at 2:17 p.m. I sent it to Zach but he never wrote back. Although I never actually instructed him to do, deep in my mind I was hoping that he would respond with a continuation of the story. A failed experiment but an experiment nonetheless.)

"An Invitation From the Lionfish"

Sitting in his mailbox, the soft shell crab spied a foreign envelope. He picked up it with his claw and left it on the kitchen table.

He was concerned, but more so with his pants. Work pants are uncomfortable. He also loved coffee. He started a fresh pot after changing pants and was ready to open the mystery envelope.

He opened the envelope with his claw. The front of the card was a picture of himself and the heading "You are Mister Crab".

*****

Editor's Note: I think this is a "poem" but it might just be more of a midnight ramble. An email to Dan, dated Thursday, February 4th, 2010 at 1:13a.m, which means I'm in the driveway after a Bandits gig at Lat43, with a song on the radio and the adrenaline still blasting, not quite ready to call it a night...

"The Dark Cover of Night"

A success on many fronts. The thumping thuds of bass erase the faces of the workplace. I try to keep pace in the jumping mud and swallow complacency in large gulps of rum. We rolled til the rocks folded under the controlled thunder, electric blocks tumbling. we Squeezed every drop of seconds. from the tops of free trees.

From the Depths of the Pocketmachine: Part 5

(Editor's Note: This entry, an email to Dan, is dated Sunday, May 10, 2009 at 6:56a.m. and was the return of a missed phone call the night before. It's been edited because I am a vile and nasty boy sometimes. Dan is getting married now, which is nice....)

"THE RIP"

There's a picture of the new england coast on my dashboard. There's a blue car ripping down a pink line, which is basically how I feel.

We split a bottle of morgan between 6 and 11p...

My jeans are wet. My shoes are soaked so Im barefoot. I have no wallet and my change jar is running low and there are Many More tolls to come. And many miles to go, before I sleep.

Robert Frost never went to Maine. He wrote about Massachusetts. I've got the "Maine Blues Project" on the radio and half a rocket down already. I should remind you that this is being composed at 80 mph at 648am. That should give the prose the Edge that we really need.

I don't know the name of this bridge Im on but its magnificent. Im not sure the exact piece of water Im 200 feet above, but she leads right to the ocean.

Heavy swerves. Quickly I'll share the feeling of captain morgan in my belly. Stomach grumbles foreshadow horrible things to come. The alcohol is thin spreadly in my blood from my nose to my toes. I can feel it. The sugar is a typhoid typhoon in my gullet. Horrible natural bile and acids have eaten at it, for at least the last 3 hours I slept to no avail....

How was your gig? I can't believe I was down and out by midnight when you called. Devil rum. Its been my drink lately. Summahtime. Life is good.

My regards to the queen b. Enjoy your sunday

Love

Joey

From the Depths of the Pocketmachine: Part 4

(Editor's Note: This entry, an email to Dan, is dated Tuesday April 21, 2009 at 2:15p.m. which means I was at the Joke Shop, an extension of Vampfangs. A retail store on Main Street in Gloucester. I learned some interesting card tricks there, one real good one that I still remember but need to practice.)

"The Walk"

I had a good jive in my brain...I decided to park at home and walk to the joke shop. Foolish. It had been threatening rain all day and started spitting exactly at the point of no return.

The cold salty spit felt nice on my face and I felt my soul being cleansed and myself being reborn into the same person, which was now completely unchanged in a beautiful yet dizzying way.

Towards the end my shins started burning and I passed a guy in an apron out front, smoking under the overhang. He wasn't real and he floated away in a ferocious current that streamed in between the sidewalk cobblestones and out onto a deep puddle on Main St, where he drowned and his imaginary body floated out miles into the harbor before being eaten by lesbian sharks.

The spitstream increases. Bad for business. She had 2 customers between 10-2 which means there should be 1 and one third people during my shift. I would settle for just the third of a person, which would either be a dwarf, goblin or midget, or a baby that comes in by itself...

From the Depths of the Pocketmachine: Part 3

(Editor's Note: This nonfictional account is dated Saturday, July 11th 2009 at 1:25p.m. which means I was with my love on her birthday. The description below mentions the video being attached here, but here is no longer Here, and thus it is actually not.)

*****

"Nature"

We finished our picnic lunch and she called to me.

"Look, Darling......Nature."

A wasp was struggling in a spiders web on the barn. He was a shade of blue we had never seen before.

"Tragic", we agreed.

But there was more...the spider herself had this mighty blue wasp in a deathgrip. Her long legs tried to wrap around Blue's wings and her mouth seemed be biting the neck.

"A battle royale!", we realized.

They wrangled for what seemed like hours. Finally, the struggle itself freed Blue from the web, but not the spider. She still clung to his neck as he crawled up the barn, searching for a proper spot to fly away to Freedom. That particular moment of the battle is captured by the pocketmachine, and attached here. This very email.

Afterwards, they did fly off, together. Attached in the throngs of battle. Did the violent flight finally shake the spider off of Blue's majestic body? Were the puncture wounds to his neck of a fatal nature? Would the devil spider ever again find her barn home?

Nature. In the sunny backyard, on a Saturday in July, is Free.

From the Depths of the Pocketmachine: Part 2

(editor's note: This entry is dated Tuesday, July 21st, 2009 at 2:17p.m. Which means I was at Vampfangs. I'm sure all my work was complete and I was taking a moment to relax my nerves before the final push at the end of the day...

I sent this to my friend Zach, I don't think he wrote back. It's fiction, but not that strange. Rereading it makes me think of one of Kurt Vonnegut's rules for writing a short story that I should have followed more closely.)

*****

"The Frenchman"

The Frenchman stood just inside the entrance to the cafe. He was torn.

On one hand, he was tired and parched. The stiff wooden chair appeared as a holy blessing to his tired feet. The tall dusty bottles with fire on the inside beckoned to his throat and to his Spirit.

But he was not welcome here and he knew it. The back table of bikers seem ready to fight. The bartender took one look at him and said "If you take another step, I will call the police" although no one except The Frenchman heard him say that. The patrons were calm.

The Frenchman twirled his mustache in his fingers for a moment and thought of a raunchy comment to make about the bartender's wife. It was true.

The Frenchman then turned and left, without saying anything.

From the Depths of the Pocketmachine: Intro & Part 1

My first smart phone was fun. It opened up in a fancy way. It had a large keypad that inspired jive.

Somehow these seven segments survived from that phone. 3 fictional short stories. 2 jivestreams. 1 non fictional short story. 1 post-gig reflectional jivestream.

They are as pure to their original form as possible.

*****

(editor's note: this fictional short story is dated October 22nd, 2008 at 5:46pm - which means I was on the train commuting home from work at Berklee. I might describe it as a dark delve into the pysche of commuters. I must have been reading the short stories of Roald Dahl at the time. *Warning* explicit language)

"The Muck"

The train starts deep down the coast. I get on at the second stop. We then go through the real nice towns, where the mansions are right on the water and the Maids' Quarters dwarf my parent's pad. The Maids Quarters also have excellent ocean views.

Then you go right down the Ladder of Society. The houses get closer together and then, before you know it, there are apartment buildings with burned out cars in the lot, behind the Burger King. Then miles and miles of triple-decker apartments all packed into each other. Clothes drying on ropes from the fire escape, even now, after the first frost.

Then you go past the industrial complexes. General Electric. The nuclear power plant. Big generators, silos, and fenced in areas with giant red warning signs in Spanish.

The last leg of the journey is usually nice. From the generators and silos, you go through some muck before the train seems to hover for ages over the open ocean as the city approaches. We were in the muck when I first noticed it.

Actually, there were baby ducks swimming with their mother. Or father. I don't know how ducks work. But the scene was peaceful...

Right then, I saw it. The boot.

I've always wondered about solo shoes and boots on roads and rails, and how they got there. Wonderful, nasty stories. This, I am sure.

The train was crawling along. We are usually at full tilt at this point, and the morning commuters were anxious because we were traveling so slowly, then stopping, then resuming a crawl. We would be at least half an hour late if we were lucky.

A nearby woman around my mothers age asked, "why the fuck don't they tell us what is going on?" My mother would never speak like that in public, but she's also never had to commute to the city for months, or years at a time.

So I was really checking out this boot when I noticed the distinguishing characteristic that made it much different from any other boot I had ever seen, or will see again. The laces were tied.

The laces were tied and I recognized the shape of a foot and leg protruding from it, plunging under water, into the muck. I felt sick. An announcer made a muffled announcement on the speaker system.

"Can you see that boot ma'am?" I asked the woman next to me.

"Will you please be quiet? I have been waiting for this announcement for 30 minutes so I can call my boss", she answered tersely.

"Ma'am please just look at that boot and tell me what you see" I begged her. We were crawling slowly down the track, but the boot and its ugly horror were still quite visible.

"Shhhhhhhhh" she spit at me.

I was baffled. Surely this was more important than Work.

"Does no one see the dead body in the muck" I finally screamed. All the people with window seats, instead of looking out their window and confirming my beliefs, looked instead right at me and began shushing me in the same nasty tone.

"Have you all lost your mind? Look there. We are nearly passed it. You in the back...Look. LOOK! Jesus...."

and I felt a sharp pain on the small of my back, and my arms were pulled together behind me. The next sharp pain was on my left knee, and I felt myself being dragged, my legs powerless.

"That's enough of that boy. We apologized for being late but there's always One who can't handle it. You're upsetting the regulars. You're off at the next stop." The train conductor had intervened. My wrists were bound together by a locking plastic tie.

"Sir, I am a regular. My pass is in my wallet, take it out if you don't believe me. Sir, there is a dead man in the muck back there." I pleaded.

"Im sure of it. And you'll be right there with him." he replied, looking me directly in the eye, and smiling. I noticed he was holding a blade...

In a flash, he spun me round, cut the tie on my wrist and pushed me out the door, onto a platform at the last stop before the city. I hadn't even realized the train had stopped while I was being detained.

"Next train ain't for two hours you might wanna take a cab to work from here, Boy. And next time you go shouting about dead people I won't be so compassionate."

His words got softer and softer as the train pulled away.

Jobs: ITV (Part 6) & Vampfangs (Part 7)

VI

I knew ITV was a scam right off the bat. I had some connections on the staff and they promised FREE money with very little effort. They were correct.

My job was customer service. The customers I was servicing were generally irate.

The business was under a mask of "Health Products" but really all they were selling was the opportunity to give away your credit card information.

The genius of the plan was the "Autoship". You could get a cheap deal, or even free products, if you signed up for the Autoship. The majority of their customer base was sly enough to get the discount, but not tenacious enough to actually follow through and cancel the damn thing. They'd get products for months at a time before they realized and cancelled their account, by which time hardly any of the products would be eligible for refund.

There was also a "Home Agent" program which I referred to as the Triple Inverted Scam. But my stomach can't even handle it this morning. ITV still makes my stomach turn.

I learned from ITV that if It seems too good to be true, it Is.

Donald Barrett is a leech and Kevin Trudeau is a snake. Kevin is a drug addict and Donald wears dentures. I never had any problems with either of them personally. I worked for them diligently and honestly for a few months, until even the weight of the raw money couldn't hold my Conscious in check any longer.

In the end, I think every consumer is ultimately as responsible as the scumbag CEOs. Neither Donald nor Kevin "forced" any of their consumers to believe their spewed lies. Anyone with half a brain wouldn't have. They didn't force their consumers to whip out credit cards, or to verbally agree to massive amounts of inventory.

But... they profited mainly off of lonely, elderly people watching television in the wee hours of the morning. I also heard they stole every door knob out of every door, before they left the building they had been evicted from.

*****

VII

Vampfangs.com is an online halloween and alternative-gothic superstore.

fangs, masks, blood, hair dye, clothes, shoes, full costumes, makeup... whatever you need. Quality products at fair prices. September and October are the real heavy cream - nonstop madness - tens of thousands of orders - weeks upon weeks of chaos...

but I was most impressed by the steady stream of orders throughout the year. Who are these people buying acrylic fangs in January? and why?

I learned the importance of the niche market at Vampfangs. I also got to work with top notch video & film equipment. It was a pleasant atmosphere whether we were balls-to-the-wall or on lunch break.

Vampfangs is one guy. It's the guy that started the company over a decade ago. He lives his dream and I was so impressed by this that I realized that Vampfangs was his dream and not mine, and that I had to establish my dream and follow that.

My dream is music. I've been gigging and teaching lessons for three months now and feel at this time that my plan might be crazy enough to just barely work. I hope to take what I learned from all of these jobs and put those pieces together to unlock the puzzle. To create my own business. If I fail, I'll get another job. If I succeed, I'll never have another boss again for the rest of my life. Talk about Motivation.

*one point that I gleaned from all these jobs but neglected to mention was the Importance of Apathy. That is, if you are totally indebted to the success of every little detail, there's no way to feel happy or successful, because nothing ever goes perfect. You have to expect bad things to happen and be O.K. with not "really" caring. That always helped me to focus on the Solution instead of the Problem. A healthy dose of apathy.

Jobs: Stavis (Part 4) & Berklee (Part 5)

IV

Stavis Seafoods would probably label themselves as Distributors. I like to think of them as Boxers.

They buy the big boxes from the Big Box companies. They take the product out of those boxes into smaller boxes. They sell the smaller boxes to the small box companies that can't afford to buy from the big box companies.

It's sly business and I love that. The monkey wrench is that the product is seafood, which is perishable. The idea that a percentage of this inventory expires every week or so still makes me queasy. The Stavis' have iron stomachs.

I worked in the fresh warehouse. Shoveling ice into the boxes. Putting fish in the boxes. Boxes on wooden palettes. Palettes put onto trucks. Trucks sent around the country and world. Probably another 2 or 3 steps away from your dinner plate, which is pretty amazing too.

The smell of fresh fish at 7a on a Sunday morning as a hungover 17 year old. I did one or two summers in the warehouse and maybe 6-8 months of Sundays thereafter. That smell doesn't come off after your shift. Changing your clothes won't help. Putting them in a plastic bag in the trunk won't help. The seagulls would follow my toyota home over 30 miles and I would scrub myself with real lemons in the shower and still smell like a fish all week. They are a wonderful family and it was a great place to work and I don't miss it one bit.

*****

V

I started in the Student Affairs Office at Berklee College of Music through the work program at the school. I didn't land the gig until my last semester. They don't usually do it that way. They usually get em young and fresh and keep em and watch em grow. I was realizing that was the case, throughout the school, and had assumed it wasn't going to fly. More than a day late, and thus about to be more than a dollar short.

I kept shooting and lucked out that this one particular office needed a 1 semester fill-in. I once read that "luck is where preparation meets opportunity" and actually that quote is from a book the Director of the S.A. office let me borrow.

(The book is "The Last Lecture" by Randy Pausch and you should read it if you haven't. It's not that long but it's Heavy and will change the way you think)

When my one semester was up I graduated and went on my way, landing at a Customer Service gig (see next post...) but was soon miserable. I called them back, literally within a day of an admin giving his notice. The season was changing, a massive tide of students on the horizon, and with my familiarity with the office, and a little faith on the part of my boss, I got to slide into the position. Administrative Assistant to the Assistant Vice President for Student Affairs at Berklee College of Music. It's the longest title I've ever had.

I worked with students, professors (who just so happen to be world class musicians), assisted on photo shoots, took notes at meetings, and witnessed a high school jazz festival take shape over a year's worth of meetings and planning behind the scenes. Fancy music magazines were delivered to the office every day. I read them. I was there for about 18 months but had also gone to school there, so I was ready to move on.

The same core of hard working people remain in the office. They are also activists, singers, actresses and organizers, in their "spare" time, when they are not moving the wheels of the College with their own brute strength. I could never complain about being tired from a gig, because Everyone had gigs the night before. Everyone is crazy gonzo and love being crazy gonzo and they inspire me to work hard and play harder and sleep when I'm dead.

Jobs: Crosby's (Part 3)

There's not much to say about being a grocery store cashier.

It's pretty miserable stuff. You're young and can only work so many hours. Plus you're young and making dirt for money.

*Mildly Related Tangent* One winter at college in Boston I was wheeling my enormous and delicate instrument down the slushy streets towards my lessons, and found myself waiting in the Mass Ave. crosswalk next to heavy hitting jazz guitar monster Bruce Bartlett. I smiled and nodded in recognition and he said, "You gotta pay your dues if you wanna sing the blues" and instantly my feet got warmer and the bass got lighter and I felt like a million bucks for the remainder of the winter.

Where were we? Ah yes, paying your dues. I've determined the "Young Man's Work Formula" to be:

Limited hours (multiplied by) Dirt Pay = Misery

It wasn't all bad. Every once and again the line of customers would offer an enjoyably crazy stranger. Someone venting about their day, gushing about their kids, ranting about the news, making small talk about sports, or even discussing the meals they were about to prepare. These people made moments of misery morph to memorable. Time travels faster when ideas are being exchanged. The slow, solemn, steady processing of payment is nearly unbearable in silence.

And thus a new Rule was created that I have followed to this day. I try to learn the names of the clerks in my life. If I meet them more than twice. For example, I were getting gas in Pennsylvania on my way to Baltimore I would not feel bad making a quick, silent transaction. I don't need to know that guy's name.

However, if I purchase fresh eggs every Tuesday at the farm stand on Route 1A and every Tuesday see the same woman processing my order, by the second or third time I will introduce myself and ask her name. And that usually leads to good things.

Jobs: Buddy's (Part 2)

When I started at Buddy's I was a busboy. Gross.

Washing dishes is gross. Darren was a cook. He was a gross troll of a man. I remember a gnarly straggling black beard and a perpetual rum & coke. He spent most of his time on the wrong side of the bar instead of behind the grill.

The first cigarettes I smoked were his. Im sorry Mom, but everyone else in that place took regular cigarette breaks and I didn't get any breaks. Until I started stealing Darren's cigarettes.

I don't remember anything except slurry yet sharply barked orders coming out of his mouth. Although I feel somewhat guilty in sharing that truth, considering...

Years later (not too many though, because I couldn't yet drive myself) I was hitching a ride somewhere from my Dad on the condition that we first swing thru a wake and I allow him to pay his respects. It was a co-worker's father. My dad is a fast jiving seafood salesmen in the city and could probably sell you a case of salmon if you talk to him long enough.

I accompanied him to the wake, young and uncomfortable by the sad strangers. Walking in the door, Dad made his way towards his friend, but I froze at the poster welcoming the mournful. My dad's co-worker's dead father was Darren the cook from Buddys.

Sometimes the world is too damn small and that can be a bummer. I suppose a depressing and tragic coincidence is a fitting end for mine and Darren's story. Thanks for the smokes, pal.

Jobs: A Mini-Series (Part 1)

I'm still a young buck, so I haven't had too many different jobs. This is more an exercise in Memory. When we're done with this initial list, each successive post will be a short anecdote from each job, chronologically.

-Busboy / Prep Cook @ Buddy's - Byfield, MA

-Grocery Store Cashier @ Crosby's - Georgetown, MA

-Warehouse / Accounting Office @ Stavis Seafoods - Boston, MA

-Student Affairs Office @ Berklee College of Music - Boston, MA

-Customer Service Representative @ ITV - Beverly, MA

-Office Manager @ Vampfangs.com - Gloucester, MA

I'm proud of my resume. It begins on a hot day in early summer. School is out. Mom says "You need to get a job" but I'm cheeky and too smart for my britches and reply "Well unfortunately Mom the state of Massachusetts says that you have to be 15 to acquire a worker's permit and I'm only 13..."

To which she swiftly challenged, "I don't think they care very much about that at Buddy's..."

And they didn't.

Party Lines

I can't imagine a situation in which I would want a gun in my home. However, I support every American's right to get certified, acquire a legal firearm, and do just that. I wouldn't be a very good Democrat.

I can't imagine a situation in which I would be comfortable supporting an abortion. However, I support every woman's right to do just that. I wouldn't be a very good Republican.

What I'm trying to say, is that with such a wide scope of issues in today's world, I find it hard to imagine that people still vote solely on party lines. That fact alone usually subdues the political junkie in me, whenever he gets rowdy.

Original Composition + Recording =

Into the studio this morning.

The idea is to capture a moment in time, that when repeated, will stir the emotions of the Listener like a wooden spoon.

I like this song. It's a pretty sappy ballad. But alas, I cannot refuse the Muse, only try to navigate the waters she steers me towards.

I enjoy being in a group and fading back into the dark, helping to lay a foundation that someone else can dance over in the spotlight.

but Writing and Recording help me feel alive. I've never been a songwriter. At 25 I have a measly four compositions to my name, although I like them. I need to get that record pressed.

There's work to be done. And some will be done Today. Which is always the best day to do it.

A Touch of Lunacy

One definition of lunacy is,

"intermittent insanity, formerly believed to be related to phases of the moon"

They say "formerly" but I believe it still.

She's full tonight. Bursting at the seams. And she followed me home, twenty miles down the road, from two hundred twenty thousand miles away.

I thought about the journey up there and the serious jet lag and getting acquainted to moon time. Moon vacations in our lifetime? I've never been one for science fiction, with notable exceptions of course, but tonight the marvelous beauty of that wonderful orb got my mind churning in a thousand ways, even beyond moon vacations past God further than infinity to the deepest and heaviest parts of the night, and that is science fact.

A Modest Proposal

She had returned from 20 days overseas.

During that time I went North to ask for the blessing of her folks. I also went South, so that my grandmother's stone could be removed from a necklace, and set in a classy solitaire.

I didn't want jet-lag to factor in. The first night was a celebration, with sushi.

Rest. Unpacking. Inspection sticker. Duck eggs for breakfast. They had been part of my pay from a Farmer's Market gig the week before.

I wanted to go for a ride. That was the plan. But I try to be a gentlemen. I asked, "What would you like to do now?"

"Do you want to go for a ride?" she asked. Yes. The universe, providing.

We generally drive in proximity to our home. Plum Island. Old Georgetown loops and loop extensions. That was not the plan this time. This time I headed South. She did not notice or care to mention noticing if she did notice. And we talked and listened to each other and music and explored roads and things and houses as we do when we drive.

Around Danvers she did not feel well and wished to turn back. I said "We're almost there" but didn't say where. She didn't ask. She just said, "Ok well I'm going to close my eyes for a minute."

Incredible. The universe, providing.

I pulled up to her parent's old house. The Peabody House. We jammed there and smoked there once upon a time, singing old songs as young children on guitars or her family's piano. The car had stopped so She opened her eyes and smiled at the site of the house and then sort of wondered why but I was also holding the ring and she saw it and we talked about being best friends and soul mates and happy together until the apocalypse and beyond.

Big Pink: Requiem For a Rum Dream

We were headed to Langerado, we figured that a pink tent would stand out amongst 20,000 other tents. We were correct.

That was March of 2008 and today is July of 2010. She served us many times in between. I think we got more than fair value from her, before her demise.

I had a dream this past weekend that I was in a room and the door was a zipper that wouldn't unzip.

And the harder I tried to Escape! the more I had to pee. And I danced and shook and wriggled to no avail... a race against time, the threat looming larger with every movement and every passing second.

When I awoke the tent was covered in duct tape. It seems that I had demolished her. Torn her to shreds in the heat of the escape.

At least I didn't pee. That would have ruined the weekend.

What did we learn? That half a bottle of rum contains a Point of No Return, but more important is that we MUST pee before bed. Always.

The Decision

Shameful.

A shameful moneygrab. Shame on you ESPN. Shame on him, too.

I won't even say his name.

He has "The Chosen One" tattooed on his back. Just in case you needed any further indications of this man's character.

Chosen for what, exactly?

Chosen for First and Second Round Upsets.
Chosen to be swept up handily in the Finals.
Chosen to spread perennial disappointment.

I'm all for maximizing revenue. This is America. However, there is a thin line between Advantageous and Greedy. That line will be further blurred by this charade.

It's an impressive circus. That much cannot be debated. Over one hundred and sixty thousand "followers" before a single twit was tweeted.

You can't put yourself above the Team.

Rather, you shouldn't.

The Gods of Sport do not look kindly on such acts, and I will not be surprised if he stumbles and breaks an ankle on his way down from the podium.

In Defense of Joseph

Joseph is an ancient and powerful name.

Jesus' dad.

The Heads of both the Kennedy and Jackson clans.

Joltin' Joe.

In recent years, two terms have risen in popularity, to my dismay.

1) Average Joe

This one slays me. Who knows where it originated.

Who is the Average Joe? He's the star of your nightly sitcom. He's whipped by his wife, he's a middle class American chump, and he gets no respect. He's a joke. He's the joke.

2) Joe Schmoe

This term is generally used in anger, a term of degradation.

"Who was that?"

"Oh, nobody... just some Joe Schmoe..."

This guy is dumber than Average Joe, has a worse job, an uglier wife, a smaller house and his children burn things, regularly. Joe Schmoe is occasionally known by his alias, Joe Six Pack. Joe Schmoe only drinks beer.

My name is Joe and I'm neither of those guys. I'm not Homer Simpson nor Doug Heffernan. I do not wish to preach at you, The Reader, I think you're a wonderful person, I simply ask that the next time you wish to label someone an Average Joe or Joe Schmoe, you first pause and consider the Josephs in your life, and if they are deserving of the analogy you're about to make.

Perception vs. Reality

It probably starts with Santa.

The Wizard of Oz reinforced it at a young age as well. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

A professor of mine once lectured about the importance of the Tuxedo as a Free Pass. Anytime he had a hotel gig in his tux, he could go wherever he wanted without question. He ate many delicious and free meals this way and also once saw a private concert of KC and the Sunshine Band.

and Dean Martin drank apple juice.

The Rhythm of the Road

My wagon is often filled with gear. It doesn't always get back inside after a gig, depending on the proximity of the next.

Recently, deep inside of a milk crate somewhere, lies a tambourine. She shakes and jingles as I cruise over bumps and potholes. I tell people she's keeping the time of the road. The Rhythm of the Journey.

Frank

He has said horrible things.

He knows that people will think he is senile, and he admitted to me that this is why he says horrible things.

He is old. He has a beard and chews a cigar. He can chew your ear off at the same time.

He repeats the same stories.

He carved a walking stick for me, using big knives. There is an old man's face carved into the handle. I wonder if it was a self-portrait.

The ambulance took him away yesterday. People sat on their front porches and watched solemnly. I thought that was crude, so I came inside and sat on the computer, only to realize I was being crude, and selfish. So I sat back down on my porch like the others, and watched.

The emergency crews seemed in good spirits when they loaded him into the ambulance. But he was strapped down good on the stretcher.

This morning I wonder about Frank...

The Wheels of Life

I was walking through downtown Rockport, where the streets are narrow.

Eventually, my path was impeded by two carriages. In one sat a baby girl, being escorted, I assume, by her mother. The other was a wheelchair, in which sat an old woman, being escorted, I assume, by her daughter. They did not appear to be in the same party. It seemed that their paths too had intersected at this very same moment.

The baby points to the old lady, and in an extremely baby-like manner exclaimed, "aaahhhh.....bleh...blah, gabba gabba....meh meh...wa"

The woman driving the wheelchair leaned down and says, "Mom, she said she digs your wheels..."

Music is the Sweet Infinity

Music is infinite. It goes back in time, forever. I once saw a guitar at a museum, it was hundreds of years old and the body was made of a tortoise's shell.

Music also goes forward. There is so much music being created all over the world every minute that the hippest cats can't keep up, even with the help of the internet.

Left and Right. I love American music, but it is a toenail in the Grand Scheme. I look forward to discovering the rhythms, melodies, scales, instruments, musicians, and songs that the World has to offer.

An Open Letter to the Bearded Smoking Man

To the Bearded Smoking Man on Route 133 in Ipswich:

We are night people, like you. One night we were particularly fascinated with the other Night People on this long, winding road. Joggers. Smokers, like yourself. Commuters, like myself.

They seemed to appear suddenly. I'm sure we had passed them for months, but on this night they seemed to be overwhelming in number. And we chuckled.

As we approached the last leg of the journey, we came through downtown Ipswich. And there you were. An awe-inspiring beard. Smoking solemnly, right up on the road. We liked you, instantly...

And as the months passed, we started to truly Realize your existence. Your persistence. Your tenacity.

You were always there. Although, we like to think you are truly enjoying each moment. That you do not take them for granted.

Have you always been there?

Maybe the night air is muggy and thick. You are a cool breeze as we drive past. If the night was rough, you help us envision the success of the next one. We anticipate your presence, but try not to wish for it, for fear that wishing may jinx everything...

I don't want anything further from our relationship. I might nod as we pass, maybe flash a peace sign if the mood is right. I don't expect you to nod back, but I hope you do.

A Meal of Sour Words

Time to eat my words.

I slandered the Celtics all season. Perhaps they deserved it. Although they lost Game 5 in Orlando last night, I believe they will ultimately win this series on Friday in Boston.

I own all the Lame quotes below. I had very little faith in my team. Again, I'm not apologizing to the millionaire athletes, because they earned the disdain of the masses with their uninspired play.

I'm inspired to enjoy a game on a Tuesday evening, against some lowly team, in the dead of winter. They make tens of thousands of dollars to play that particular game. They should damn well be inspired to play it.

Either way, the private and public flogging I laid on them during this stretch was far from what I myself would expect from a loyal fan.

I hope posting these will cleanse my soul for when I have to ultimately face the ghost of Red Auerbach. They stem from conversations with my friends. I searched "celtics" into my Gmail and culled my favorites, trying my best to leave them unedited.

2/11

“there's no way this team, as currently constituted, has any chance of doing anything."

2/12

“We won't make it out of the 2nd round”

“I have a bad feeling it's going to be Lebron vs. Kobe in the finals - and that the celtics have no shot vs the Cavs, Magic or Lakers”

3/15

“They're just milking the rest of the season and trying to stay healthy”

“No one is stopping Lebron this year”

“Sheed – 35, Ray – 34, KG – 33, PP – 32, I just made that up. But I'm sure it's close. I understand it's an old man's game - but still. We've just been Sucking hard. If we can get Kevin Martin (who's like 27) you gotta do it. Because we won't beat Orlando, Cleveland or the Lakers in a 7 game series right now. No way.”

LifeStats: A Plea to God

I know it's a little morbid and unnecessary for a 25 year old guy such as myself to be thinking about Death...

but here's the thing, I have a fascination with Statistics...

I remember, as a young child, the desire to devour Red Sox box scores in the Boston Globe. I always liked a Sunday feature called "The Maniacal One" - this guy would determine crazy little nuggets, something like

"the Sox have won every weekday afternoon game started by a lefty pitcher (4-0) but are winless against right-handed starters on weekday afternoons (0-3)"

Things like that.

and there's certain maniacal things I want to know about my life, that I will never know.

I'd like to know how many hours I've spent sleeping. What percentage of my life that is. How many times have I actually watched the Blues Brothers Movie. or Jaws. or those two combined with Back to the Future. I bet it's a horrifying number of hours. So then compare that to Actual Hours Practicing Scales. That'd be an amusing ratio.

How many cans of coke. Or a complete breakdown of what percentage of each liquid I've consumed:

Water - 50%

Rum & Coke - 25%

Beer - 15%

Milk - 7%

Orange Juice - 3%

Ah, alas - those estimates are Way Off, I just know it, and it's frustrating.

Brain to Brain: Music is the Master of Translation where Nothing is Lost

I'm fascinated by how Music gets from the Player to the Listener within a live performance setting. I very much enjoy being on both ends of this phenomenon.

We'll start with the Player's brain, which is telling the Player to use the instrument to make music. Those instructions go from the brain, and through nerves (probably) until the muscles make the hands do their thing upon the instrument.

Now - let's assume we're using Electric, as opposed to Acoustic instruments, just because it's more Fun that way.

So our Player's hands are doing things upon their instrument. This electric instrument is picking up those movements and translating those movements into signals which are transferred to an amplifier. This amplifier translates those signals into vibrations in the air, which are precisely and dutifully vibrated by the speaker.

Next, those vibrations travel across the bar and into the ear of the Listener.

Once in the ear of the Listener, those vibrations pass through the ear drum and eventually turn into electrical signals, those of which that shoot up to the brain of the listener. And this makes the Listener smile, purchase more booze, and flail his/her arms and/or legs with glee.

This motion and energy catches the eye of the Player - who becomes, all at once, Flattered, Inspired, and Energized to restart the cycle, only this time with a renewed vigor. The cycle repeats with more intensity. And keeps repeating with more intensity... until The Player goes home with a pleasant hum in his ears, and the Listener crawls out of a cab and into bed, hopefully first drinking a glass of water.

From brain, to nerves, to muscle, to instrument, to amplifier, to air vibrations AWAY from the stage, into ears, through ear drums, back into the brain, more muscles convulsing, more energy and vibrations TOWARDS the stage...

without Anything being lost in translation. Amazing.

Cussing in Lyrics: A Double Edged Sword

I was talking with one of my young guitar students. He was asking about good drum songs and I recommended "War Pigs" by Black Sabbath. The student explained that his mom is not a big fan of Ozzy, and thus, he was not familiar with the tune.

I can respect that. The kid doesn't want to offend his mom. Very noble, young lad.

He continued on that she doesn't appreciate the "swearing" within Mr. Osbourne's lyrics. He asked me what I thought about swearing.

I told him that the use of cussing in lyrics has two sides to the argument.

The first being that the English language contains tens of thousands words, and therefore if you find yourself using one of the "Seven Dirty Words..." as a lyric to your song, then you are probably just Lazy. or Ignorant.

Then I asked this student if he was familiar with the Bill of Rights. Yes! he exclaimed. Are you familiar with the Freedom of Speech? Yes! he again exclaimed. Do you remember which amendment that was? Yes! he exclaimed for the final time - the First Amendment.

Damn right it's the First Amendment. because it's the most important. Censorship is weak and Un-American. Only religious fanatics, politicians and communists go around trying to censor other humans.

I didn't hammer this point home. The kid is only 11 and he shouldn't be cussing, he should be learning new words instead.

but the Truth of the matter is that if years from now this guy finds himself being censored by The Man, I hope he does what the Doors and Stones did on Ed Sullivan...

That is, rehearse the "clean" version and they play it Totally Uncensored during the live show. That's what my dad taught me to do.

Why Is Kendrick Perkins So Angry?

I received a text message last night that read:

"Why Is Perkins so Angry"

An Excellent Question.

The only person I can truly compare him to is myself. Which is convenient. I would not consider myself an angry person.

Kendrick is my age (three months older). He was a 1st round draft pick in the NBA after graduating high school. He has already won an NBA Championship, and by my estimations has banked AT LEAST 10M thus far into his playing career (with 4M more coming next year...)

He's married and has a child.

I searched and searched but could determine NO reasons for his perpetual angriness...

Until I stumbled upon this...

According to wikipedia,

"Perkins is a practicing Roman Catholic. He was an altar boy in his youth, and it was often problematic to find an alb to fit him due to his height"

Now, I understand. That's embarrassing, being a big guy in a little robe. Traumatizing, even.

And it seems to me that he still can't shake the memory of the Short Alb, all these years later.

Electronic Dust

My mom's parents have lived in their house for many, many years. Same with my dad's folks, before they passed. Going through their things was a pretty amazing experience. A time capsule.

My grandparents are, and were, Keepers of things. They kept them in pristine condition. Recipes neatly written, tools in their original boxes. This blew my mind. I'm not a Keeper.

So, hopefully, someday in the Future, near or far, someone will stumble onto this very blog. They will blow the electronic dust off of it and dive into the words.

This blog is going to be built of Words. I do love videos, streaming audio, explosions and similar tools of Instant Satisfaction, but links like that often shrivel and die. And dead links chip away at a good post. And chipped posts can decay a good blog. So this is going to be Words.

Such as, words to describe things I like, and words to convey things that I have learned and want to share with the world. I like music and sports and sometimes politics and religion...I want to convey happiness and patience and knowledge to the world. That said, I do not take myself all too seriously and don't really trust anyone that does.

love

Joe