May Some Good Fortune Come to You

Most of the world is holding the door open so that 2008 can leave the room as soon as possible, with all the financial misery plus the Madoff’s and Blagojevich’s of the world. Yet I find myself wanting 2008 to hang around for one more drink, or maybe to walk out the door with it to smoke one more cigarette.

Here is a list of goals I wrote for 2008, when I was focused on such things on January 1, 2008:

• See more live music—including attending the Americana Music Awards, and related activities. Well, put a great big old check by that one. Americana Awards at the Ryman, Grayson Capps at the Basement, Robert Earl Keen and Todd Snider at the Ryman, Elmo Buzz at the Three Crow, Tommy Womack at a freaking book festival!, Hayes Carll at the Belcourt, Ragweed at the Cannery, Bruce Robison at the Station Inn, and more.
• Write more and submit more. Another great big check. A poem of mine, titled “300 Feet Below Cardwell Mountain” appeared in Muscadine Lines, on-line journal. Also, one of my short stories, titled “And He Carried Away All Jerusalem” was a finalist in the April Family Matters issue for Glimmer Train. I submitted 16 other poems and 3 other short stories to literary magazines, about half of which were rejected and the other half just haven’t been rejected yet.
• Kick butt at work, not just get by. I’d say a B-plus on that one.
• Do London & Paris right. I’d probably say B-plus or A-minus on that one. Didn’t get to do Paris because there were fires in the Chunnel. I think we did a pretty good job on London. I know I can do better, though, so I can’t wait for another crack at it.
• Be a good Cub Scout leader/dad. Not so good on this one. The Boy’s pinewood derby and rain gutter regatta were both painted a basic silver, without a lot of effort. I even taught my son how to sneak out of a place during the raingutter regatta (you go to that door over there, walk to the car, DO NOT pass in front of that window over there; I’ll count to 20, and I’m right behind you) which is probably not a good example of Cub Scout leader or parent. But I can’t say that I’ve lost any sleep about that one.

Another milestone event is that my Mother-in-law moved to town, which is a really good thing because now Wife and I have more help with the Girl and the Boy, which really means that we can go see more live music together. It also means that I didn’t have to travel for Thanksgiving or Christmas, and I’m sure that lower level of stress has added a few weeks to my life.

So, all-in-all, 2008 was a good year (for me). Not sure yet what my goals will be for 2009, but I’m pretty sure “See even more live music” will be at the top of the list.

So whether 2008 was good for you or not, I share Todd Snider's wishes for you in 2009--May some good fortune come to you.

I Have Found Me a Home

“The days drift by,
They don’t have names.
None of the streets here look the same.
And there’re so many quiet places.
And smilin’ eyes match the smilin’ faces.

And I have found me a home.
I have found me a home.
You can have the rest of everything I own,
cause I have found me a home.”
--Jimmy Buffett

My transition from life in New Orleans to life in middle Tennessee is complete. I was already in love with the cows and the hills and the gentle side of life here; but there was something missing.

In New Orleans, I had my favorite dives and hangouts. Places where you could go and get lost for a while. There were places which aren’t around anymore, like the Marlin Bar or the Bun-n-Biscuit, where only a kindred soul would dare to follow and you could therefore escape for an hour or so whatever realities were pursuing you at the time. Then there were places that will survive forever like Port-of-Call on the “other edge” of the French Quarter, the one where the tourists don’t make it down to so much and where you’ll see a lot of rainbow flags; there you will stand outside in line even when it’s raining because there is no where to stand inside, and where once inside you experience something like the doctrine of eternal security in that no one is trying to rush you back out.

Until recently, the closest I had come to finding such peace in my new home was the Starbucks near my office, where they generally remember my name and my standard order. Lately though, I have been venturing out to two neighborhoods that could be in New Orleans. Hillsboro Village—with the Belcourt Theatre, Bosco’s, Sam’s, and innumerable other bars and nighttime places—feels like it was plucked from Magazine Street. Driving through East Nashville makes me feel that I’ve been transported back to any of the other checkerboard areas of New Orleans, like Uptown above St. Charles Avenue, where the coolness of it all outweighs the places that don’t seem so safe. There are others pockets of course, mainly that I learned about from friends who share the same love for food, and who, just like a good New Orleanian, will make conversation at one meal by talking about where they are going to eat the next and offering recommendations and giving directions to other restaurants that must not be missed.

The Wife, the Boy and I went to the Pancake Pantry in Hillsboro Village yesterday morning. This place is something like a morning version of the Port-of-Call. Its one of those “If You’re In Nashville, You Have to…” places, so it may seem like a tourist haven; however, it completely holds its own as local favorite. There is always a line on the weekend, and probably a line on any given day if you don’t get there before 8am. And what is their response to this high demand? What sort of through-put acceleration techniques do they employ? None; they do, however, offer a coffee station and reading material for those waiting in line. How refreshing to find someone who takes the approach that “We won’t solve your problems for you, but we will give you the tools to cope with them. Don’t like the line? Get here earlier.”

Once inside, were it not for seeing the line build outside, we could have assumed our table was reserved for us for the day. The food wasn’t rushed out, so there was plenty of time for drinking coffee and observing the crowd within. There were tables put together to fit three-generation family groups, where the middle-generation bounced the younger generation to placate them from the wait, and the older generation appeared to quietly revel in the fact that everyone has made it this far and to wonder how it had all held together. In the corner, there sat a couple: he stroked each of her fingers, dainty porcelain figures set on the table for just such a purpose; she bit her lip in restrained pleasure at his attentions, and placed her foot under his pants leg; they ate heartily as though storing nourishment for a day of strenuous activity.

And seated next to me was a boy whose napkin was clean, but whose mouth and shirt sleeve gave evidence of the chocolate milk and chocolate chip pancakes recently consumed.

When the three of us walked out, I tried to read the minds of those in the line who had no doubt stared at us through the window and silently urged us along to see. I sought some indication that they transmitted such thoughts as “About time”, or worse. I didn’t pick up any extra-sensory messages, but smiled and said “Excuse me” and “Good morning” as the three of us broke through the line to return to our car.

To paraphrase Charlie Robison, “I’ve packed my bags heavy and I ain’t never more to roam.”

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What I’m Listening To Now: John Prine, Great Days: The John Prine Anthology on Rhapsody.
What I’m Reading Now: Billy Collins, Ballistics.

Somewhere Between Passion and Losing Friends

Here are the lyrics to the Jason Boland song I’m in the mood for tonight, in memory of William Butler Yeats' love for Maud Gonne. The bottle of bourbon didn’t have much in it when I started, so I doubt I’ll be able to do much damage.

"I got drunk by myself last night.
They say it’s no way to make things right;
I just didn’t have anything better to do.
The dog was asleep on the living room rug and
I watched a show about crime and drugs.
Punched a bottle of bourbon until it was through.

I don’t care that I can’t sleep;
I’d just as soon stay up all week.
I might get some things done while others dream.
The heater broke and the room got cold;
My knees and ankles say I’m gettin’ older.
The phone finally rang but it wasn’t for me.

Chorus:
If everyone was together
I guess no one would be alone.
Life’s a lot of trade offs in the end.
Somewhere in the fields of heather
The proud souls laugh and they love together.
Somewhere between passion and losing friends."

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I read that a couple of days ago marked the birthday of the William Butler Yeats’ life long muse, Maud Gonne. The article said that Gonne and Yeats met when they were both 25 years old, that he fell in love with her and remained in love for the rest of his life. Maud Gonne rejected marriage proposals from Yeats many times, thought they remained close to each other throughout their lives. It is said that they shared a "spiritual union." In response to one of Yeats' many marriage proposals, Maud Gonne told him, "You would not be happy with me. … You make beautiful poetry out of what you call your unhappiness and you are happy in that. Marriage would be such a dull affair. Poets should never marry."

I guess it’s a good thing Yeats and Gonne were able to remain such life long friends. Otherwise, he might have needed to change all of his computer and internet passwords that had her name in them, or that were based on the day they met and her birthday. He wouldn't have been able to enjoy all those CD's he owned of that band they went to see. She would have had to remove his mii from her wii. Those kinds of things are tough.

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What I’m Listening To Now: Every sad song I can find on Rhapsody.
What I’m Reading Now: Janet Fitch, Paint It Black.

Dang Me, It's Snowing

We had a snow day here in Williamson County last week. The whole snow-thing is still a novelty to my family, so the kids played in it and we took pictures with great enthusiasm. Funny thing is that it also snowed in New Orleans around the same time, so all of our friends were sending us pictures of their snow angels and newly whitened lawns.

On days with weather such as we had last week I recall an event from my youth. I believe it was January 1982, which meant I was in the ninth grade. My mother and I lived on a corner lot in a quiet neighborhood; we had a large beautiful live oak tree with sprawling limbs and roots and an ivy covered trunk four to five feet in diameter. We loved that tree; Mr. Carter from down the street did not, living as he did with the foreknowledge that one day something would happen to that tree and it would take down the power and telephone lines that passed through the limbs, as such lines are want to do through such live oak limbs in Louisiana.

As my mother recalls, there was nothing as dramatic as a snow or ice storm. Rather, we were in midst of a January rainy spell when the temperatures dropped quickly one night and froze all those things that had soaked up the past few days drenching. Our dear oak tree, limbs heavy from the now frozen water and perhaps shocked from the cold, split open, causing one of its larger limbs to swing to the ground, thus taking down the power lines that passed through the limbs, as such lines are want to do through live oak limbs in Louisiana.

We woke to realize the damage and the fact our lights didn’t respond as usual when we flipped up the switches. I don’t recall how we noticed it, or that there was any special reaction from the heavens when we did notice, but at some point we observed that the refrigerator was still working. Further investigation revealed that the electrical outlet next to the fridge was also functional. The rest of the house was without juice, as was, we presumed at the time, the rest of the street.

The house was equipped with an electric heating system; however, we had a room at the rear of the house (“the sewing room”) that had a gas heater built-in to the wall. We recovered one of those fifty foot orange extension cords from the garage and strung it from the kitchen to the sewing room. We lived in the sewing room for three days. I remember that the first two days were nifty, but the bloom had fallen from the rose by day three.

We had sleeping bags back there, and I think we may have moved some of the living room furniture into our little home-within-a-home. I don’t remember moving the television in there—with its three channels and black-and-white picture, I doubt we considered it worth the trouble. We did, however, move the record player into our little room, and I remember listening to this one Roger Miller greatest hits record a lot. We probably gave a workout to a Glen Campbell record and two Elvis records (all on vinyl, of course).

Mr. Carter came by once, on the first day. When we saw it was him standing at the backdoor, I unplugged the orange cord and carried it with me back into the sewing room where I stayed while mom stood with him in the doorway. Although he reported to us that power was out in every house on our street of the block, he wasn’t too mad, warmed as he was by the satisfaction that he had cautioned that this would happen.

The irony of the whole thing certainly wasn’t lost on us--our neighbors without power and us with a working fridge and a place to plug in the record player. But we didn’t feel guilty in the least, figuring that similar situations had broken against us before, and would certainly do so again.



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What I’m Listening To Now: The Black Keys, Attack and Release, on Rhapsody.
What I’m Reading Now: Glimmer Train, Issue 69 Winter 2009.

Drunken Poet's Dream

Hayes Carll is playing at the Belcourt Theatre tonight. The last time I went to the Belcourt was to see REK and it was a bit weird, in part because REK didn’t do “Road”. I recall that being a pretty rowdy crowd, and I’m hoping it’s a bit quieter for Hayes Carll. Some hope for things like “world peace” and “governors to stop selling open senate seats for personal gain”. Me, I just hope for it to not be raining tonight and to be able to hear Hayes sing the words.

As I’ve said before, “I like the songs with the words.” Along that line, this weekend, Wife and watched “Be Here to Love Me” the documentary about Townes Van Zandt.



TVZ was a poet above all. Most of his songs are poems set to the most delicate music. Listening to and picking on the guitar songs like “If I Needed You”, “To Live’s to Fly”, and “Waitin’ ‘Round to Die”, I’m struck how notes and chords are there as subtle support, meant to help the words but not overpower them—like a rose bloom propped up by toothpicks. I want to be able to write poetry as TVZ and Dylan did, but have a lot to learn, and a lot of accountant to overcome. Guy Clark said of Townes, “He knew how to tell a story and he knew where to leave holes.” That’s the part I need to work on most in my poetry writing—leaving the holes.

I like the words in Hayes Carll’s songs, too. “I saw you leaning on a memory, with your back turned to the crowd…”, and “I spend my life on this broken crutch, and you believe I can fly.” Of course, there’s “If I ever find Jesus, I’m kicking his ass.” Well okay, that last one is more edgy than poetic, but it gets points for ballsy and it was the Americana Music Association song of the year. Looking over the list of song writing credits for “Trouble in Mind”, I see that Ray Wylie Hubbard and Hayes co-wrote “Drunken Poet’s Dream”, which has one of my favorite lines: “I’ve got a woman, she’s wild as Rome. She likes to lay naked and be gazed upon.” Should have known Hubbard was close to that one.

I hope he does that one tonight at the Belcourt. Add that hope to my list.




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What I’m Listening To Now: Jason Boland, Comal County Blue, on Rhapsody.
What I’m Reading Now: Glimmer Train, Issue 69 Winter 2009.