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