An Orange Julius on the way to Judy Gap

An Orange Julius on the way to Judy Gap
Dad was chewing gum and driving
Mom was looking at the map
The river was off to our left
The mountain to our right
As we drove that lonesome valley road
In the West Virginia night

My brother was in the back with me
He had a flashlight and a book
And I so dearly wanted to be him
And have him give me that look
But instead I stared out the back of the car
At a West Virginia night
And a sky full of stars

A couple of summers, a couple of winters
We would go a few weeks at a time
Mom always made a happy noise
At the Pocahontas County sign
The snow was deep, and would pile in drifts
That went above my thigh

Dad called it the cabin but Mom called it the farm
I don't know why; all it grew was rock
We had river rock and mountain rock
Every kind you could desire
An apple orchard and a swimming hole
And a tree hung with a tire

Dad took us on a day trip
To see the telescope
Everyone listened to what he said
People laughed at all of his jokes
We had lunch in the break room
There was no Dairy Queen
But it was good to be with Dad
And we got to eat ice cream

I don't really remember just how it went down
Dad got more distant
Mom spent her nights in town
I might have been out playing
I might have been taking a nap
But I'll always remember the Orange Julius
On the way to Judy Gap

Hey Stephen

Don't stay cooped up in the house
Get outside once a day
It's ok to talk to strangers
But don't trust what they say
And if you're not comfortable
If your mind is going astray
Ask the little voice inside
Is this really insane?

And if it is, that's ok
Just say you have to go
Walk, don't run, and call my cell
When you get back home.
You've made lots of progress
I'm really proud of you
Take your meds and trust your friends
We're here to help you through.

Argh, here it comes again
I don't like the way this feels
Here it comes again
Here it comes
Here it comes

Why did you say that?
That's just insane.
Why did you do that?
That's just insane.
Why did you think that?
I'm going insane.

If you are, that's ok
Just say you have to go
Walk, don't run, and call my cell
When you get back home.
You've made lots of progress
I'm really proud of you
Take your meds and trust your friends
We're here to help you through.

On Listening To Nine Inch Nails

Angst is just awkward, an anxious state
A misplaced foot and Germanic A
Full of fear and trembling and emotions displaced
A Mitteleuropa mark from a time and a place

Aloha is Hawaiian and thus hard to say
Too many vowels, they get in your way
You need a uke or a slack key guitar
The far northern tropics is where you are

A drone doesn't work if it's strictly alone
It must be detuned with a beat in its own
Overtones and modes and the root which is home
It's a solid yet fragile harmonic zone

Distortion distortion piled on top
Bitcrushed or boogex or amps that won't stop
Communist industry, factory grind
The whine of a saw on the grate of your mind

I feel angst
War between the classes
I feel angst
Wanna fuck my mother
I feel angst
I lost my archetype
But underneath it all you know
You can't believe the hype

The fruits of his labor
Are taken from the worker
The profit and the ease
Are taken by another
The specter in my dreams
Looks just like my father
The power of the message
Makes you just like any other 

Mountain

V1
I was born a strong mountain
Time has been a strong rain
I'm still standing but if I fell down
I couldn't get up here again

V2
Hacked with picks and drilled with mines
They suck on my blood like wine
Seasons turn while the west wind blows
I've grown so incredibly old

C1
I'm the man in the mountain, baby
It's the job I was born to do
Atlas never knew why he was there
But for me, I do it for you

V3
Shoulders slumped on a back that's cracked
A rock slide paralyzed my face
Each year a little more comes off the top
Crags crumble and fall out of place

V4
Down below I see the fertile plain
Where you plant and harvest your grain
I did that, I built it, I made it for you
Because that is the job I was born to do

C2
I'm the man in the mountain, baby
It's the job I was born to do
Atlas never knew why he was there
But for me, I do it for you

Sexy Time

V1
The dishwasher hums
Shoes tidied away
Watched the Daily Show
Talked about our day
Second glass of wine
Love seat just for two
Feeling warm and cozy
Some things I wanna do

PC1
I wanna touch your edges
I wanna go in deep
I'm feeling like it's sexy time
But now you're fast asleep

C1
Sexy time
(wanna do it in our)
Sexy time
(wanna be up in your)
Sexy time
But the hours in the day
Somehow manage to just slip away

V2
The house is dark and quiet
The birds begin to sing
Dawn reaches the window
Not worried about a thing
I'm lying in our bed
Alarm an hour away
Feeling warm and cozy
I'm all ready to play

PC2
Come on and touch my edges
I wanna feel you deep
I'm feeling like it's sexy time
But now you're fast asleep

C2
Sexy time
(wanna do it in our)
Sexy time
(wanna be up in your)
Sexy time
But the hours in the day
Somehow manage to just slip away

B
Kids and jobs and daily life
Family gripes and workplace strife
Everything balanced on the edge of a knife
But you're still my husband and I am still your wife
(so we'll have)

C3
Sexy time
(I don't know when but it's still)
Sexy time
(I love to feel you in our)
Sexy time
We'll just slip away
And find another hour in the day

John Ashbery

We're meeting uptown in the New York Public Library
Hanging in the city with my bud, John Ashbery
Inside the daily details he's saying something really deep
You gotta brush your teeth and you always gotta get your sleep
We'll speak in French translation and we'll tour the artist's gallery
Hanging in the city with my bud, John Ashbery

It's a list
With a twist
Which will be quite amusingly witty
Oh what bliss
(Oh my lisp)
But you look so unbearably pretty
It's cocktails and showgirls and glam evening wear
A night out in Manhattan with nary a care
When I enter the party everyone will stare
But inside I'm incredibly lonely 

The cocktail jazz furnishings of the living room
Are unsuited to our urban/R&B lifestyle.
The invitations keep piling up
Although I'm not sure if I am too interested
In sharing time that way. Can't I just
Acquire my own greedy pile
To spend however I wish?
I've known John for years
We went to school together
But recently he's been getting
Rather dog eared. A little floppy
Not perking up whenever I walk into a room
Wearing one of my fancy Nantucket sweaters
Like I did on the Cape when we first met

Three Phone Calls

Hey
How you doing today?
You ok?
Still in some pain?
Call the nurse?
She came right away.
How long do I have to stay?
They're running tests
They're doing their best
Should try and get some rest
Ok?
Ok.

Hey
You see her today?
Doc?
What did he say?
Can't she come home
How long must she stay.
They're running tests
They're doing their best
Should try and get some rest
Ok?
Ok

Hey
Saturday?
I can't
There's just no way
Might drive Columbus Day
Till then I can't say
I don't know why they have to keep running these tests
We just have to keep hoping, hope for the best
I know, I should go get some rest
I'll call you tomorrow, ok?
Ok

68th and Chappel, 1989 - Part 2

Anyway, one day the alley got a real hoop. I don’t know how it happened, but one day there it was, up about ten feet with a net and a backboard and the kids playing with a real ball. I watched them play, shooting from the chest and diving in piles after rebounds, hot dogging and hot dogging, shake and bake and the hustle, winner gets the ball again.

There were two kids sitting on the ground, watching the game. The girl was about two, sitting on her butt in the dirt, her hands covered with dust and her pink dress pathetically dirty. The boy was about six, and seemed to be the one in charge. “Come on Neri, don’t be eatin that dirt, you know momma gonna be mad”. But Neri’s mouth was a clownface brown and she was wearing the huge smile of a kid who knows she’s gotten away with something she shouldn’t have.

I’d gotten some peaches the day before, and I was eating one as I was talking to John. He asked me what I was eating, and I told him it was a peach, and he asked if he could have one too. He was amazed by the peach, the juice ran down his face and he couldn’t reach his tongue far enough to get it all. “This peach is good. I want to have a peach every day”.

It was almost dark, most of the kids had been called back inside, to eat and wait for the lurking hours. I asked John my he wasn’t playing with the other boys. “I got to mind Neri. That’s what my momma told me, so I got to mind her.” One of the previous tenants had left a basketball in the apartment. It was kind of flat, and you really had to pound it to dribble, but I went up and brought it outside.
“Come on, let’s play some hoops.”

He wasn’t very coordinated, but I showed him how to shoot the ball so it would get some backspin, and how to do a layup. He would do his thing and I brought the ball back to him, sometimes trying a really goofy shot that would make John laugh. And the weird thing was that those shots just kept going in, like when you are in the zone and you just can’t miss.

“You know, I met Michael Jordan once”
“For real?”
“Yeah. You know he doesn’t do drugs, or run with a gang, or anything like that.”
”Yeah?”
“Yeah. And he told me, when he was young, he always minded his momma. He wasn’t tall either, when he was growing up. He was short, and skinny, and nobody would let him play in the basketball games. But he kept practicing, and practicing, and then, when he finally started growing, he just kicked butt on all the people who used to think they were so much better than he was.”

John was silent, and looked for Neri, to make sure she wasn’t doing anything. She was still sitting on the ground, taking dirt and throwing it up in the air. Then he turned back, with a kind of suspicious look, and said “Did you ever see Michael dunk?” The look on his face seemed to say that this was the testing point, that somehow, everything I had said was contingent on this answer.

I’d never been able to dunk before, always hitting the rim or having the ball slide out of my hand, but I said
“Sure. Let me show you how Michael slammed on me. I was going with him, not giving him any room, like this”
I took up a defensive stand, and moved around a little
“But Michael, he was like this”
I turned around, and started dribbling, sticking my tongue way out.
“And all of a sudden he is by me”
I pushed the ball hard into my right hand, trying desperately to keep my fingers from slipping from the palm grip they had on the ball.
“And he went up”

I started to run, four steps, and on the fourth step I planted my left foot and prayed, and jumped as hard and as high as I could, hoping against hope that somehow, that little bit of magic that had made all my jumpers go in and the dribbles never go off my shoes would give me this final piece of credibility, that little extra to make me, instead of the Brothers of the Folks, a temporary hero.

I went up, I pushed every part of my body, stretching it as far as it would go. The ball didn’t slip out, and just as I felt myself at the top of my leap, that magic moment where there’s no gravity and no sound, I threw the ball down and slammed my hand onto the rim, holding on for dear life and to miss the telephone pole.

The ball flew through the net, bounced, went up about five feet, and came down. John caught it and brought it back to me. “Wow, Michael Jordan”.

68th and Chappel, 1989 - Part 1

There was an alley behind my apartment where all the kids of the neighborhood hung out, it being the middle of summer vacation from the brown ridiculous schoolyards and absurd yellow buses. Streetside daycare was the way of the neighborhood, single parents sleeping off their dead end jobs and getting the kids out of the bedroom, “Don’t make so much noise, momma’s got to sleep, go outside, there’s a package of hot dogs in the refrigerator and I’ll bring you over to your auntie’s tonight”.

The kids who had parents on the day shift, or even two of the them, would go to the windows, opening them up to the air, no one on the South Side has air conditioning, watching the games in the alley and yelling down to their friends the latest alley gossip, hanging out of the window until an unseen voice would yell from the kitchen, “SilkieRaquel, you come in here right now, I don’t want you hanging out that window no more. Come on!”.

Little girls in pigtails and bright summer skirts would double dutch, and a crowd of waiters and hangers on would watch, waiting their turn and secretly hoping she messed up soon. Two mothers out on a back porch, drinking coffee and smoking Newports saying “Shit girl, when I was young I could do that all day long, jumping and double dutching, now I get tired just going up the stairs” “Oh I hear you sister”.

The younger boys would play some game whose rules were always amorphous but seemed to consist of running around screaming and pointing phallic objects at each other, with plenty of dramatic death-throes. The older boys would play stickball in the abandoned lot until they lost the tennis ball or broke the broom handle down so that they couldn’t use it any more, then they would stand around and mutter and throw stones and eventually disperse and then the younger boys would sneak in and collect the pieces to integrate them into their own new game. “Pow – you’re dead.”

The older boys would sit around and watch, in their slick Converse sweatsuits, the price tags still hanging on them, baseball hats broke left or right, Brothers or Folks, this was Terror Town. Sometimes, a legendary homeboy of the neighborhood would come by, in a Cadillac or just walking, a lot of gold but basically the same uniform without price tags, back to catch up on things or a cousin; “You seen Christmas? He stay with his auntie, you know, Chuck Christmas, he hoops over Stony Island.”

If those were the heroes, the God was Luster. Luster had a garden apartment in one of the buildings on the front of the alley. I think he was supposed to be a janitor or caretaker, but I never saw him do anything , just sit there on the moldy couch in that garden apartment in his undershirt watching tv with a big floor fan going, smoking Kools and leaving them, still burning, the heaped ashtray that I never saw empty.

To the kids he sold icycups, the summer treat of choice in the neighborhood, twenty five cents for a Styrofoam cup filled with frozen Kool-Aid and a stick stuck in it. He also sold Milky Ways and Almond Joys for thirty cents; he bought them by the case and undersold the drugstores. The kids would pester their mother or sibling in charge for a quarter “Wanna get an icycup”, or they would look in the already scoured lot for the small change, chump change that the Brothers and Folks so despised, tossing it away in imitation of their idols, the Rangers, who never carried around anything smaller than a fifty.

As soon as the kids got the money inside their tiny, clenched, fists, they would run all the way down to Luster’s. One of the little girls, she loved money the way cats love catnip, screaming “Money money money, I love money”, kissing it and rubbing it on her skin, squealing in ecstasy “money money money I goin get me an icycup an icycup and a Snickers, no I get me an Almond Joy an Almond Joy and an icycup”.

To the older kids Luster sold dust and buds and wicket, the marijuana coming in little manila envelopes that came from the post office stamp machine, dime or nickel bags, sometimes dust would wind up with the buds, hear kids screaming in the middle of the night “the bugs the bugs I got the bugs”. Luster’s apartment was truce territory between Brothers and Folks, they would just look at each other, with their arms crossed just like Chuck D.

For everyone else, Luster sold crack and horse, still never getting up from that moldy couch. Some of the younger brother dealt the shit down at the basketball courts, and after eight when the games broke up the park would be filled with kids shooting up or lighting the wick of a crack pipe. The cops never went down to the park, don’t fuck with the niggers on their own turf, just keep your head down and do your job, the cycle of shit made real every day

Lookin For Love

V1
(She signed up)
At the gym
Working off all of those middle aged pounds
She noticed him
One of those guys who was always around
They'd both dipped in to
Retirement accounts
She did her tits
He bought a Porche 944

C1
Yeah this is dating
In your prime
You're forty and you're free
Aren't you having a good time?

V2
At the restaurant
Very careful about what they eat
Lactose intolerant
He tells her that he just can't do the wheat
They share some friends
Both had taken the same cooking class
He paid the check
She wonders if he really likes her ass

C2
Yeah this is dating
In your prime
You're forty and you're free
Aren't you having a good time?

B
She's looking for love
In a push up bra
He's driving around
In a new sports car
He's looking for love
In her push up bra
She's riding around
In his new sports car

V3
Small apartment
With a double bunk bed for his kids
She's got an ex
But forgets exactly where he lives
It's not ideal
She checks for texts on her cute smartphone
But here's the deal
Sometimes you just don't want to be alone

C3
Yeah this is dating
In your prime
You're forty and you're free
Aren't you having a good time?

C4
Yeah this is dating
In your prime
You're forty and you're free
Aren't you having .....
A good time?

Equinox

In the morning chill of approaching fall
The roses send out their second bloom
Absent the heat of the long dry summer
The lawn returns to a lush hopeful green
I'm waiting for life to finally slow down
So I can figure out what this all means

It's spring in Australia but here it is autumn
And I pass by an old Brit along the canal
He's thinking of leaving for the open road
My car remains parked in its regular spot
I'm waiting for life to finally slow down
So I can remember all the things I forgot

On the banks of the river Suzanne waits for me
Her table pre-set with oranges and tea
But I'm drawn every morning to the dusty tow path
Where I crunch on the gravel and admire the trees
Attached to my barge until evening's quick black
I'm waiting for life to finally slow down
So I can figure how I can make my way back.

For Allie, On Her 40th Birthday

A dull autumn fog descends over Stockholm
As she waits for the plane which will fly her away
The airline attendant leafs through her papers
"They are quite in order, and ... happy birthday"

Standing in line to pass through London customs
There is plenty of time to reflect on her age
Forty today - where have the years gone
She counts in her head her mounting gray hairs

She takes magazines and two Ambien
And reads and sleeps all the way to LA
Blue sky above, blue Pacific below
And before you the sun slipping into the sea

I don't know how you can just sit there,
Just in your own, staring out the window
I like talking to people, interacting, you know
(Having exhausted his battery with the latest superhero)

Where I'm from, in the north, we are a quiet people
You can be together with someone an entire day
And not exchange five words, it is our way
But we understand that here you are different
When we travel we must put our Swedish faces away
Wear an American smile for your public display

When they told her the dates and attendees of the conference
She thought about booking the opposite flight
Timing the date line to skip a whole day
And remain thirty nine the rest of her life

But budgets are tight and it seemed quite
A lot to accommodate her private anxiety
And she told herself it really was not such a big thing
Molehill, not mountain, just another day

A speck of light on the horizon becomes a warm glow
And gradually turns into a city
Seat belts go on and cabin lights go out
The plane banks and descends down into Hawaii

At midnight the airport looks like any other
Honolulu generic and dark
She walks through the warmth and gets into a cab
Destination the Hilton on Waikiki Beach

She unpacks her bag and considers her options
Thirty hours aloft and twelve hours offset
She finds the exercise room and runs elliptical stairs
To the repetitive strains of late night CNN

Freshly exhausted she takes a long shower
And somberly considers her moistened reflection
Not bad for forty, not good for sixteen
She takes another two Ambien and goes hopefully to bed.

She awakes to the end of an afternoon rain
Lush dripping landscape of palm fronds and rainbows
She thinks to call home, but it is 3 am
And the children are all in their beds fast asleep

---

Two of the bulbs in the backlight are broken
Check in the flight case; there should be some extras
This top won't attach to the hook on the scrim
Turn it around, I think you've got it upside down

Yes he did, thank you ... I know
We ordered ... last week ... great
Now Fed Ex ... drop ship
They did, but ... thank you

Agricultural products? No, they're koosh balls.
You drop them on a desk, they go koosh
Trust me, terrorists do not send koosh balls
Absolutely, go ahead and open it

I'm telling you ... what's not to love?
No, not at all ... I understand completely
I'm sending someone ... five o'clock?
Thank you, I appreciate that

We've got a demo station and a brand new banner
Stacks of business cards and a hand badge scanner
Live tweets and video, raffles and swag galore
Doors open at ten am, be here half an hour before

---

The light in the bar is low and discreet
Divan like couches and a single tea candle
Two glasses of wine, they recline at their leisure
Exchanging notes in the rare face to face

Did I tell you about the chairs?
When we shut down the office
And moved to temporary space
Mike didn't realize that it was unfurnished

No coffee, no cups, no wifi, no water, no chairs, no tables, no nothing
I had to go to the auction where they were selling our stuff
And bid on the furniture with my own money,
Just so we all could have someplace to sit

He still wants to be seen, playing late at roulette
Throwing his chips on the black or the seven
But if he has to sell, and get what we're worth
He's got to pick up his chips and take a limo ride home.

After four years, it's finally come to this.
Four years? I have been here ten
The original patents were from my dissertation
I was Erika's last student; this has been my life.

---

Canapes on trays and melting ice sculpture
Chardonnay poured into clear plastic glasses
Booth babes circulate and Metallica plays
When the convention hall closes they adjourn

And they drink and they lie and they hope for the best
Dance while the band plays their retro requests
And they hide from each other what everyone knows
That this is the end, the end of the road

Mike falls over and almost starts a fight
They drop a big tip and hustle him out
The party was great, the show's a success
Lean on me Mike. Allie, open the door.

They get him to his room and put him to bed
And stagger out into the hotel hallway
Look at each other, smile and laugh
I have never seen Mike get so drunk, she says

He grabs her and they kiss, both over eager and awkward
Like inexperienced teenagers or naive adults
They make love like strangers, to each other and to themselves
But they rest like people who know each other well

And because it's the end they do it again
This time with a tenderness fraught with regret
And they walk on the beach to a Hawaiian sunrise
Hand in hand as if they were just sixteen

On the long flight home, to an uncertain future
She accepts that her life will go on, and be different
Yet the same, just another turn in a road full of twists
"Since I've turned forty, I've got one less line on my bucket list"

Tuesday Girl (1986)

The acid taste of rain in all that remains
Of our smoke in the mist and the sound of your train
As we kissed on the tracks and your train pulled away
You waved goodbye and said "I'll be back someday"

But a someday girl just ain't worth waiting for
Someday never comes knocking at my door
Maybe next Tuesday I'll wait some more
Till then I'll grab a seat with the guys here on the floor

I'm standing at the station in a winter rain
Waiting for my Tuesday girl and the evening train
With the cabbies and the fathers and the boiyfriends
Watching the time and the tracks and the signal lights over the line
They're ok when their train comes they'll be fine

A someday girl just ain't worth waiting for
Someday never comes knocking at my door
Maybe next Tuesday I'll wait some more
Till then I'll grab a seat with the guys here on the floor

Another Edit Job

IllinoisJack's original

There are things that I need to say
That I think you need to hear
And they won’t just go away
And my heart won’t disappear
If the devil had his way
I would live with all this fear
But I’m standing hear today
Hoping I can make it clear

I cannot make a speech
I will not scream and yell
And it’s just outside my reach
To tell what I must tell
I am not a man to preach
Cause I’ve spent my time in hell
And I can’t pretend to teach
Something I don’t know that well

And so……..
I wrote a song
To try to say what I have been
Holding in so long
It’s here……..
Where you belong
And I hope that after you must go
You hear it on the radio
For all I cannot say
I wrote a song

Instrumental

I’m not a movie star
I’m not a wealthy man
I cannot take you far
But I’d do what I can
My road is rock and tar
My champagne in a can
But we are what we are
And that I understand

And so……..
I wrote a song
To try to say what I have been
Holding in so long
It’s here……..
Where you belong
And I hope that after you must go
They play it on the radio
For all I cannot say
I wrote a song


My edit

There are things that I need to say
There are things that you should hear
Stay with me, don't go away
Don't let our love just disappear
Or dissipate, to the air escape
Slipped inside the cracks in time
Of daily tasks or social masks
Or the pettiness of yours and mine

If we were different people
If these were different lives
I would caress your ear with words
And we'd live so happily afterwards
In a cottage by the sea
But here and now when I try to speak
All I do is scream and yell
I'm vicious, angry, hurtful and weak
My good intentions; straight to hell

And so……..
I wrote a song
To try to say what I have been
Holding in so long
It’s here……..
Where you belong
And I hope that after you must go
You hear it on the radio
For all I cannot say
I wrote a song

Instrumental

Yeah....
I wrote a song
To try to say what I have been
Holding in so long
It’s here……..
Where you belong
And I hope that after you must go
They play it on the radio
For all I cannot say
I wrote a song


However, I think the best solution is just to quote this.

The Song Of Songs

When David came
To the darkened tent of Saul
To soothe his troubled mind
To sing him those sweet songs
That wasn't wrong
No that wasn't wrong

When David and Jonathan
Went off together
To the desert's edge
And camped alone beneath the stars
That wasn't wrong
No that wasn't wrong

And when Solomon sang
To his beloved
Loud and proud
In the Song of Songs
That wasn't wrong
No that wasn't wrong


Ooh, you made me
(yeah when you)
Ooh, you made me
(yeah when I saw you)
Ooh, you made me
You made me
You made me
(wanna wanna ooh)


I am
(that's just the way that)
I am
(I have to be who)
I am
(yeah)


Lord
I am
The way that
You made me
(uh huh)
My lord
I am the way that you made me
Sweet lord
(ooh)
(yeah)
Oh Lord I am the way that you made me

Yonkers

Except for being unable to tell her right from her left
Mom had an excellent sense of direction
So she would drive and Dad would navigate
His eyes buried in the atlas across his knees
Saying things like
"Take the next left onto 194th Street"
And Mom would say
"Yes dear"
And then pull a u-turn across four lanes
Of Riverside Drive

As a native New Yorker
The city was Mom's special domain
In her mind was a perfectly detailed image
Of every aspect of her girlhood
A spy satellite map
Circa 1963

So there was always room to park
In the alley behind the florist's
That the florist was long gone
Didn't faze her in the least
(And in all those years of parking there
We never did get a ticket)

Aunt Mary is long dead
And the house is long sold
And the Irish shops have all turned into
Hispanic bodegas
But I always know when I've reached my destination
Even if I'm not precisely sure of exactly how we got here
And there's always an empty space for us to park
In that alley behind the florist's
Circa 1963

The Further Adventures of an Irish Sea Captain

Women and children and soldiers and sailors
And even the rats have all gone
But the captain remains alone on his deck
Admiring the work that was done.

Now the ship has gone down to its final rest
I'm afloat on a raft with a sad makeshift mast
A barrel of water and a barrel of tack
A watch and a sextant to plot out my course
And to mark off the days for how long I must last.

The Polynesians did it in open canoes
And if they could do it, well so can you
Lash the sheet to the tiller
And yourself to the bow
Hide in the water by day
And by night, you row.

The stars are correct
And the current was true
There's the dark mass of land
Above the ocean's bright blue

I'm washed on the shore
Of an island unknown
And go looking for signs
Of natives or home

Not one do I find
The land is stony and dead
But there are clearings and platforms
And on the ground, great stone heads

The captain must always go down with his ship
Sounded so great way back in the day
But what does that mean for us here today
I'm alone in the middle of a big empty room
Working for six
Starting at five
And wondering why the captain
Never gets out alive.

Beach House Down The Shore

A cold water artist's garrett
In the eaves under the attic
This passacaglia won't write itself

I'm chasing after dissonance
And wasting all my innocence
Put the books back up on the shelf

Beach house down the shore
Beach house down the shore
You rent it for a week
And drop the key back under the door

Sunday through Saturday
We'll fight through traffic all the way
Stock up on toilet paper and beer

Fall asleep out on the sand
Hope that this burn turns to a tan
Text you that "we wish you were here"

Beach house down the shore
Yeah beach house down the shore
And when the week is over
You'll only want to do it some more

Calliopes and shifting sands
Musique Concrete for shifting hands
A storm is rising over the sea

Syncopated thunder rolls
Tympanis and woodwind blows
Your fingers sliding over my knee

Beach house down the shore
Beach house down the shore
You rent it for a week
And drop the key back under the door

The boardwalk and amusement park
We'll crawl the bars just after dark
Play mini-golf the day that it rains

Body surf and play frisbee
Hit on all the girls we see
And hope this place will never change

Beach house down the shore
Beach house down the shore
And when the week is over
You'll only want to do it some more

Premier League 2011/2012 wrapup

Man City had the most talent and won the league. Amazing finish in extra time. David Silva was my favorite player to watch in the Premier League. I don't know where they would put Hazard but I do know where they would put Van Persie. I still think Dzeko is a good fit but Mancini won't play him. I think Tevez is still an excellent player but he is a bit of a head case and I think he is a better fit for the 2011 4-3-2-1 than the 2012 4-2-3-1. I'm still not sure how good a player Balotelli is although I am sure that he is an immature head case. Despite getting totally burned on QPR's second goal I still think Vincent Kompany is the best central defender in the Premier League.

Man U was Man U. SAF is a great manager - he's had 2 to 10 times as much to spend on the squad as anyone else but year in year out he continues to get results. Rooney had a great year. I'm still not sold on DeGea but he did seem to improve over the course of the season. I'm sad to see Fletcher go - I thought he was on the verge of a Bastian Schweinsteiger re-invention breakout season. Anderson will never put it together. The Giggs/Scholes madness has got to stop - the next generation needs to step up and Tom Cleverly is not the answer. Sneijder would be a good fit.

Arsenal came far better than I thought they would. After losing Wilshire, selling Cesc and Nasri AND not getting any viable defenders I thought Arsenal would finish mid-table. But Wenger is an amazing coach, Van Persie stayed healthy and had an amazing year, Arteta stayed healthy and turned out to be a very good fit, and Szczesny looks good. With Podolski in hand I think Wenger feels like he has some leverage on Van Persie. If he has the money in hand Wenger will try for Hazard (who would be a great fit) and he might take a flyer on Yoann Gurcuff from Lyon.

Spurs finished over Chelsea because they kept Modric (my second favorite player to watch in the Prem). Scott Parker was a huge upgrade, Adebayor was a huge upgrade and Kasey Keller is ageless.

Newcastle finished much higher than I thought they would. Then again, Joey Barton out and Ben-Arfa and Cabaye in is going to move you in the right direction.

Chelsea finshed lower than I thought they would because AVB implemented a new system with the old players instead of the old system with new players. Lampard and Drogba are still better than Mata and Torres but not by much and not for much longer. John Terry is older and slower but he's still a better center back than David Luiz (who seems to have a good ball sense but zero positional sense, I would try him as a holding midfielder). They need a new coach, a new system that the new coach can implement and new players who can play the new system that the new coach is implementing. I came around on Ramires this year but I still think Kalou is crap and Malouda looks like he's done. Depends on the coach but some combination of Sturridge, Kakuta, Romeu, McEachran, Mata and Torres has to form the attack of a new side.

Liverpool were crap, even worse than I thought. I've slagged Lucas in the past but the team was much worse without him. If you keep buying above average players from mid-table teams you eventually turn into an above average mid-table team (yes I am looking at you, Messrs Downing, Henderson, Adam and Carroll). Suarez is a good player but none of the other pieces fit around him right now.

And over in Serie A ...

Congrats to Andrea Pirlo, who in addition to being a great player crafted the most exquisite "fuck you" to Silvio Berlusconi ever.

Goodbye to Clarence Seedorf and Gennaro Gattuso, who along with Pirlo formed the heart of those great Milan sides.

And thanks for all the memories to Alex DelPiero, who was one of my very favorite players over the past 15 years, starting from when I first saw him come on as a substitute against Dortmund in the 1997 Champions League final.

Contact

The telescope points out into the sky
Tuned towards frequencies far back in time
Tracing a trembling pattern in ink
Awaiting the first touch
Of contact.

The spark of love
The comfort of feeling
Delicious anticipation of fingers to skin
Awaiting the first touch
Of contact.

These words don't mean
What you seem
To think that they do.

The drum machine circles his appointed rounds
The webcam records an empty room
Guitars in stands, shakers without hands
Awaiting the first touch
Of contact.

Bristle

The smell of Bay Rum
And powdered talcum
And of men far away from their wives

Every day after work
But before coming home
My grandfather stopped in at
His gymkhana

It was "Natives Only"
But outside that detail
It was a perfect scale model
Of a proper British Gentleman's Club

You could play lawn tennis
Or a rubber of bridge
And drink whiskey and soda
Or rum from the local sugarcane

The smell of Bay Rum
And powdered talcum
And of men far away from their wives

My father however
Did not join any clubs
Styling himself as a self made man
In the best of the American sense

Still it didn't seem right
To come straight home from work
So each afternoon
He stopped off at the barber's

The smell of Bay Rum
And powdered talcum
And of men far away from their wives

Styling myself as a self made man
In the best of the American sense
I shaved myself with a disposable Bic

Until the day when all razors
Came with five separate blades
Which seems absurd on the face of it
And quite patently ridiculous

So I grew out my beard
For the first time in years
And over time
It had turned salt and pepper

The black hairs are soft
Twisty tapered like ribbon
But the white hairs are stiff
And almost perfectly round

Though seeded together
They grow so differently
The beard on my face
Is at war with itself

So I went to the barber's
And sat in the chair
Observed my reflection
As he lathered the brush

And as he was about
To touch the blade to my throat
I said "shave it close and keep it clean
I want my face to be smooth
Like a fresh baby's bottom"

The smell of Bay Rum
And powdered talcum
And of men far away from their wives

Loose Thoughts

Jasper and Bob

A song about Jasper Johns and Robert Rauschenberg. What is preferable: including a representation of reality in your art or including reality in your art? What does it mean to be an artist who can draw and paint vs. being an artist who can barely draw and really can't paint? How do these two approaches to making art relate to the personality of the artists, and how is the relationship between these two approaches to making art reflected in the relationship of these two artists?


Hutchinson Parkway

Hip sixties mom - grew up in New York, was an off-Broadway actress as a young woman, marries a college professor and moves out to the sticks to support his career and raise two children.

If you've gotta lie
You'd better do it with style
Just look them in the eye
And remember to smile

But I've got a tell
They can always tell
Because I just can't shake
This st-st-st-st-st
Stutter

She'd put her glasses in her purse
And purse her lips
Until her bright red lipstick
Was completely smooth
And then she'd straighten her skirt
Hugged tight to her hips
And go look them in the eye
And smile


The Last Human Champion

Dmitri called on the private line
Said "Garry, they are coming for you tomorrow"
So we took our packed bags
And jumped in the car
Drove to a dacha
On the outskirts of town.
Where we changed cars
And changed clothes
And drank a last toast with our friends
Before departing into the dark
And frigid Russian night.

South we drove
To the foothills of the Caucasus
Where we ditched the car
And met our guide
An Armenian shepherd
Who would take us through the pass

Three days walk
And we were once again
Among friends
A stone hut
In a valley
Armed bodyguards
On watch

I have to keep low, stay out of sight
But sometimes, late at night
I open the computer and the sat phone
And go out to play blitz
Beating all comers
Logged in as Anonymous.


You Were Born To Destroy That Which Created You

Since the Soviet Union fell I've wanted to write something about Mikhail Gorbachev, Boris Yeltsin, Sergei Krikalev and Leda and the Swan.





Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

Negatively 5th Avenue

I'm sorry that you got the wrong impression.
Yeah I'm really sorry too
That stupid fucking me
Fucking stupid you
Is not going to happen this session.

Your problems are endless and always the same
The solutions are simple, but not implementable.
You need to shave, and go brush your teeth
Your breath is disgusting and your hygiene lamentable.

You think you're so vicious
So cutting, so malicious
Now get back in the kitchen
And finish doing the dishes.
You've got a lot of nerve.

We never could decide how to split up the spoils
So on the battlefield we left them to rot
And every single time that I didn't remember
You never ever ever forgot.

I would probably like you better if I didn't know you so well
But that hole has been poisoned. Oh just go to hell.
It takes two to tango. As you stand on my shoe.
You. You. You. You.

You think you're so vicious
So cutting, so malicious
Now get back in the kitchen
And finish doing the dishes.
You've got a lot of nerve.

Languishing in Language

Languishing in language
On the coast of Languedoc
The poets of the Provencale
Are stuck beneath the rock
Of native tongues and passing time
And changing circumstance
Arnaut Daniel picked up the winds
It is up to us to dance.

All In Dreams

I did a quick edit job on this for Pitar.

Original:

Far back as I remember
When life was playing games
In and around my home
It still comes to me in frames

Then off I went to school
Scared as I could be
Mom smiled a knowing smile
And she got a rest from me

Then the games were over
I was told I was a man
Scared again but willing
To work or kick the can

Then a uniform found me
And off I went again
A soldier for a nation
Still a child even then

Then a woman girl of virtue
Took up by my side
She took my soul as hers
To love and to abide

She offered up her body
Children were her gift
I could never tell her
How hard they were to lift

I work a job like many
But I often wonder where
I would be today
If I never gave a care

But most of all I wonder
Who I really am
If dreams reveal my choices
Has my life been just a sham

I could have been a hero
I could have been a thief
I could have been a better man
I’ve been them all in dreams

Does a hero find his courage
Does a thief unfold his schemes
Does stature find a simple man
All in dreams, all in dreams

All in dreams.

My edit:

I dreamt I was a dreamer
While life was playing games
I dreamt I was asleep at home
With frames inside of frames

I dreamt that I was back at school
I dreamt I was a man
I dreamt I was a soldier fighting
To work or kick the can

A woman nudged me gently
She offered up her body
I work a job like many
And heavy children carry

I could have been a hero
I could have been a thief
I could have been a better man
I’ve been them all in dreams

Does a hero find his courage
Does a thief unfold his schemes
Does stature find a simple man
I've seen them in my dreams

All in dreams.

4:33

Jazz and blues and rock and roll
Dance and trance and blue eyed soul
A silence here inside of me
I'm stuck playing 4:33

Europe, Asia and the road
Chicago in the winter's cold
The places people want to see
But nowhere is the place for me

You'll know me out here by my wink
A laugh or tear into your drink
A photon trapped inside the dark
Between the charmed and the strange quark

I'm packing up, I'm going home
Nowhere bound, to each his own
The silence has returned to me
I'm stuck inside 4:33

A Lucky Guy

Yeah I was 22
Been to college and made it through
Everything's good at 22

A lawn chair out on a flat roof
Greet the day at the stroke of noon
With a pot of espresso and that day's Tribune

Lazing in the sun
With the crossword done
Fire up the grill
Crack open a beer
And have some fun

Put on a shirt and then hit the bars
Bright orange sky pock-marked with stars
Sit on the swings in the dark in the park
With a head full of coke and some woman
Who was up
For a lark

Then the summer turned to fall
And the money ran out
And I met you

I'm a lucky guy
Like Rickie said
Just a lucky guy

Taken From Books

There's a woman who lives in a cave in the dunes
And a man in a box in the center of town
Keeps pushing a rock that will only roll down.
Meursault shot a man because the sun was too bright
Bigger killed Mary just because she was white
And wait, is that
A rhinoceros?

What is my life
Without your love?
And who am I
Without you?

A master beats his slave and a slave beats his master
The earth's turning backwards and time's running faster
I'm alone on a beach post-atomic disaster
We're locked here together till the end of time
There's a corpse on the table and no one knows why
And George and Martha's baby
(Never existed at all)

What is my life
Without your love?
And who am I
Without you?

There are 53 plants in the 17th row
The actors on stage have no more lines to know

She Didn't Say Anything

My mind is racing
Deconstructing the arrangement
Of "What is Life"
And "All Things Must Pass"
But she's just sitting there
Not saying a thing
Sipping her drink
Like Lana Clarkson
On Phil Spector's couch

It's like Citizen Kane
Or Sunset Boulevard
I didn't get smaller
But the music did
And she's just sitting there
Not saying a thing
Sipping her drink
Like Lana Clarkson
On Phil Spector's couch

That Johnny Ramone
He wouldn't play shit
He didn't understand
Till I showed him the gun
I've still got it
Do you want to see it?
But she just sits there
Not saying a thing
Sipping her drink
Like Lana Clarkson
On Phil Spector's couch

One Man Studio Band Artifacts

To follow up on the recording post, here are some artifacts from the last song I recorded.

Rhythm Section:

Tracking Mix:

Final Version:

New Year's Eve at Snowshoe

As The Band Played "All The Things You Are"
or
Dick Clark's Last Show


All the men at the table thought she was charming
All the women thought she was a whore
So they talked of marriage, and children, and childbirth
Until she could stand it no more.
And they turned to their men, and flattered their egos
Stroked and massaged, in the ways that wives know
And the men paid the checks, and they all left the banquet
To sing "Old Lang Syne" in the fluttering snow.
But Jon from Atlanta, with his new hair plugs and glasses
Got stroked and massaged by a competent pro
Cause you can't take it with you, and on New Year's Eve
You might as well spend it on hookers and blow.

Singing the Accounts Receivable, Dancing the Accounts Payable

He's a guy
(who knows some guys)
Who have some money
In Asia.
And right now
That's all
I know.
But until his guys pay him
(and he can pay me)
I'm afraid
The answer
Is no.

One Man Studio Band

The energy of musicians bouncing off each other is palpable, both live and in the studio, but when a single musician writes, arranges, plays, multi-tracks all parts, engineers, produces etc. then how does he keep the energy of the piece on the boil? How does he prevent it from sounding wooden? Is their a knack to keeping the feel of the piece alive and kicking? Is it a state of mind, or is it more complicated than that?

To start with, I'm not sure if I have enough perspective to really answer this. I've been pretty much a solo act for 15 years now (and I don't know if it is the impending holidays, the fact that I'm operating on four hours of sleep, or what, but just thinking about that reality threw me into a paroxysm of defensive rationalizations on the order of a middle aged divorcees answer to the question - "so, have you met anyone yet?" ).

But anyway, my experience in the studio is almost exclusively recording myself - I think Lee Knight has a lot more insight into playing and recording from both sides of the glass. That being said, here are some of my thoughts.

The studio is actually a terrible place for pen-and-paper style songwriting. I don't even turn on my DAW until I have the melody, chord progression and key lyrics already written. First step is to block out the drums. Start by figuring out exactly how many sections the song has, how many measures in each section, how many beats per measure, how many beats per minute. Pick a drum kit/sound, and create a basic midi drum pattern for each section, either using something from one of my midi drum libraries or playing it by hand on the keyboard. Make sure that the drum patterns match up with the rhythm of the melody and support the meter of the key lyrics. Generate drum fills to mark section transitions and hand edit/tweak the fills as necessary.

When I get all the sections of the drum track done I'll loop the drum track and run through the song on guitar or piano (whichever instrument I used for the pen-and-paper style composition) to make sure that everything works together. When I'm writing on a single instrument I don't always keep an accurate count of how many times I'm playing a given figure or notice that I needed an extra measure here or there to get from point A to point B, so frequently I have to go back and tweak the drum patterns.

Once the drums are done I lay down the bass. I'm a competent but not ambitious bass player - if the bass part has a groove and follows the chord progression I'm usually satisfied - it's very rare that I'm trying to drive the melody or show off some technique from the bass. I'll usually rough out the bass part against a loop of the drum track, but then I eq the drums so that the kick is extremely prominent and I can make sure that the bass part is going to lock in with the kick drum. If there is a particular phrase that I'm in love with on the bass that doesn't work with the kick I'll go back and edit the midi for the drums, but in general I try and play to the existing drum track.

When the bass track is done I'll loop the drums and the bass and run through the song on guitar or piano and make sure everything works together. I usually record a scratch track of this. Then loop the rhythm section and play the melody on a sympatico keyboard patch (usually organ these days) and record a scratch track of that.

That's probably 4-8 hours right there, so if that's done in a day I've had a pretty good day. Bounce a copy of the track to listen to and go explain to the family why I've been hiding in the basement all day and not doing anything worthwhile around the house.

Now it's time to work out the arrangement. Unlike the pen-and-paper composition process, the DAW is a great place to write the arrangement. In many cases, the arrangement flows organically out of the songwriting. If the solo acoustic demo already says everything that you want to say with the song, then you're done. If the song is firmly anchored in a particular genre you go with the standard arrangement components for that genre - a jazz standard is probably going to sound good with a clean guitar and piano, an R&B song is probably going to sound good with a crunch guitar and organ, a rock song is probably going to sound good with two clean/crunch/fuzz guitars, a dance song is probably going to sound good with phat synths and tempo-synched filters, etc.

On the other hand, I'm not usually super concerned with matching any particular genre marketing expectations, so this phase can be really creative/crazy/exploratory. However, unless there is some compelling reason not to, the arrangement will usually have at least one guitar part and one keyboard part. Writing the arrangement tends to be a lengthy process that overlaps with both tracking and mixing - if there is something that is making the mix impossible it probably has roots in the arrangement, and you have to fix the arrangement before you can fix the mix.

Ok, I think I've finally gotten to the point in the process that you are asking about.

I usually refer to this as Tracking. I'll defer to Lee's comments on this (if he chooses to contribute ) but for me tracking in the studio is almost completely unlike playing live with other musicians (especially in a jam-type situation).

When I'm tracking an instrument in the studio it is all about executing the part. The part is not necessarily written in stone before I start, but the only way it's going to end is with me executing the part in EXACTLY THE SAME WAY twice in a row. The part might be a verse, a chorus, some combination of contiguous sections or the whole song, but I am going to set the DAW to loop record and keep playing until I nail it twice in a row. Over the years I've gotten much better at this (I rarely have to track more than 4-5 takes these days), but when I started reproducibility was a huge problem.

Tracking, in it's very nature, is not creative. It's all about executing the part, and a lot of the parts are not, in themselves, musically challenging. I didn't go to music school to play a barre chord upstroke on the 2 and the 4, but a lot of times, that is what the song requires. When I'm tracking, I'm listening very hard for three T's - timing, intonation and tone - if any of those three T's diverge from the rest of the part it needs to be both intentional and expressive (and repeatable). Some ears, very little brain and mostly muscle memory.

You need to be in a disciplined, professional state of mind to do it successfully, and if the part doesn't wind up exhibiting some vitality or energy that's the fault of the writing, not the studio performance.

Writing the part is, superficially, more similar to playing live in a jam setting. In a jam you listen, understand, and react to what is going on around you; if you make a compelling new thematic statement you expect the arrangement to dynamically reconfigure itself to accommodate your idea. All the other parts of the arrangement exist at the same moment in time and are (reasonably) flexible. In the studio, you have to write your part of the arrangement before the other parts of the arrangement even exist, and once a part is written it is a PITA to change it, so you are largely confined to only using the open space left to you by the previous part writers.

To work around this, I try to be very conscious of how much space any part is taking up in the arrangement and to make this space as small as possible, especially for parts which come early in the arrangement process. I still struggle with this, but not fully appreciating this when I started doomed me to years of over-stuffed arrangements and unsatisfying mixes.

There is a fair amount of knob-twiddling that happens during the Tracking phase. Juiced about that new Fuzz pedal? Knock yourself out. Connect a line-level signal to a Hi-Z input by mistake and decide that you like it? Why not? But in addition to being fun and hopefully inspiring, your sound choices in the arrangement are going to have a direct and immediate impact on the mix. When I'm mixing I want a variety of textures; wave forms with transients and wave forms with sustain; instruments with a strong fundamental and instruments with a lot of secondary harmonics; coverage across the audible spectrum and no uncomfortable signal buildup in any one EQ band range. I don't want too many (any?) instruments using reverb, panning or delay at the track level, especially if those settings conflict with another instrument.

So there are a bunch of more creative elements in the arrangement and tracking - it's not all a grind. I suspect that I am more naturally disciplined than a lot of musicians, but even beyond that I just get really juiced and excited to be playing in front of a band that is really bringing it; driving the beat and riding the groove and letting me blow over some tasty changes.

Arranging and Tracking; deciding what to play, twiddling knobs, and actually playing it, takes a while - on the order of 1-2 hours per instrument per part. If a song has 3-4 sections and I manage to track all the keyboard and guitar parts in a day, that's been a good day. Bounce the track, get up from the chair and go upstairs to find out if anyone has thought about what to have for dinner.

Vocals and solos.

Given my druthers I would never sing on any of my tracks. I don't have a front-man style personality so I have never wanted to be the singer; I smoke, so my tone is inconsistent; as a lyricists I frequently write lyrics that are difficult, if not impossible, to deliver effectively; I have to mic the vocals so the room has to be reasonably quiet - vocals are just a drag. Still, the main reason I started songwriting was to have a cooler/more popular vehicle for my prosy-poetry; and there is no one else volunteering to sing my songs, so I suck it up and try to sing. Frankly, the less said about this the better.

I have the opposite problem with guitar solos. I love them too much. Objectively, I am a semi-competent but not very interesting lead guitarist. Why I think that entitles me to 16 or 32 bar solos is a mystery. Again, the less said about this the better.

Once all the tracking is done it's time to mix. I do believe that if you get the arrangement right, the mix should be a matter of just pulling up the faders, but it doesn't seem to turn out that way very often. After singing, mixing is my second least favorite part of the process - I don't have a great sounding room to mix in, a lot of time the arrangements are crap, the whole process is a lot of minute and fine-grained decisions with endless ramifications that I don't really hear until I bounce the whole thing, take it out to the car and realize "Wow, this isn't very good". Mastering is almost as bad except I care less - a compressor, non-surgical eq and reverb to taste. Bounce it, covert to mp3, upload to soundclick, post on the blog and then check back madly every 30 seconds to see if anyone listened. ;)

From the Coast of Malabar

A tee shirt and sandals for Christmas
Bulbs blink in the bar on the sand
No pine trees are here to be slaughtered
But there's a plastic one up on a stand
The music's a Malayam pop song
But there's no local word for reindeer
The drink is some black market whiskey
That takes me to a place far from here

Dublin is grey and it's snowing
The Chieftans with Cooder beside
A song called the Coast of Malabar
That I live out from the other side
I married that raven haired woman
Set down roots in this place far from home
But on days like the day before Christmas
I feel sad and like I'm all alone

And I remember with fondness that auburn haired lass
With freckles and eyes like green colored glass
But by evening I'll stand up and my mood will have passed
I'll come back to my raven haired wife and my home
My dusky hued brood, three sweet girls all my own
Pull out my oud and sing songs of today
Rice and sambar for dinner; enjoy Christmas day.


And here is the traditional Irish folk song, performed by The Chieftains and Ry Cooder:

Ornamental Cabbage

A little warm up instrumental from a hypothetical Sunday Jazz Brunch Jam.

Angry Birds

A little one-take instrumental about the iPhone game.

Cyberpunk circa 2002

The Adventures of Pip Cracker

1.1.1 Assembler Life
Flying Trapeze
Pip leans forward in his block, trying to piece together the bits of manpage in front of him. When he picked them up, he thought he was getting a recipe for making a stream device driver, but after two hours of pattern recognition all he has is a bunch of troff commands and a data section which doesn’t connect to anything else. He is about to give up, and try fetching again with another manpath, when a slow heavy crunching starts, first in the far outer cylenders and then echoing throughout the slice.
“Lucio, wake up man, it’s a fucking defrag! Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.”
In the next block, Lucio stirs sleepily. For a sprite, the guy sleeps like a log. Or a narcoleptic. Or a dead man, if he doesn’t get a move on. It had been Lucio’s idea to go exploring in the varman, slipping out quietly for a few hours before anyone is awake, but with the defrag going on, they’ll be lucky to get back to home before dinner. Nanny will be pissed.
Pip grabs his kit and climbs out into the toxic air. Breathing through his respirator, he vaporizes the bits of his half assembled manpage and resets the block inode counter, covering his tracks, just in case. He locks the lid of his block and jumps across the void to get Lucio.
“Wake up Lucio. Grab your stuff. It’s a defrag. We’ve gotta catch a proc and ride it out.”
Varman, like all the other slices, is a vast warehouse of bit blocks arranged in a long spiral. Some slices have large, spacious blocks, but varman is one of the old-style slices, with barely room to turn around. Still, even the smallest blocks are a welcome respite from the toxic air of the warehouse with full life support systems, climate control and neatly stacked bit arrays. In the space between the tops of the blocks and the ceiling of the warehouse, spindle arms whirl in great circles. Attached to the bottom of the spindle arms are grappling hooks, which slide up and down the length of the arm to trace the spirals of the block layout.
In the distance, they see the one arm doing the defrag. Unlike the other arms, it swings very slowly, dropping its hook down into each block, opening the lid, and inspecting the contents. Most of the time it just restacks the bit arrays and puts the block away again, but if it finds any foreign material, like, for example, a naughty sprite out exploring, it pulverises the contents of the block, turns off the life support, and removes the hook from the top of the block, marking it as taboo for all time.
The spindle does a very thorough job, which, fortunately for Pip and Lucio, is correspondingly slow. Atop their abandoned havens, they stand with their fstick eyelets held high above their heads, waiting for one of the free spindles to swing by so that they can catch hold and ride it to another sector.
One, two three; they watch the spindles flying by, timing the seek speed and noting the orientation of the grappling hook. On the fourth pass, Pip nods to Lucio and bobs his fstick. “Steady, steady, NOW”.
The two sprites leap into the air, swinging their fsticks towards the dangling hook. Pip catches cleanly, but Lucio’s eyelet is too high, and clanks against the cable. Lucio kicks his legs, trying to levitate for another desperate second. Pip grabs the handle of Lucio’s fstick with one hand and yanks it downward while raising the hook with his other hand. Lucio’s dead weight yanks on Pip’s arm as the spindle swings away. Under the mechanical crunch of the equipment and the shrieks of his friend, Pip hears the soft click of Lucio’s eyelet catching on the grappling hook. The next instant, the pressure on Pip’s arm is gone and they are flying across the warehouse, with the sounds of the defrag fading into the distance.
As they approach the loading bus dock, they twist their fsticks loose and fly free, hitting the floor with a tuck and roll, and coming to rest against the front of an incoming queue of buffered ios. They unscramble themselves and move away from the door and the incoming stream of ios, telescoping down their fsticks and putting them back in their kit bags.
The loading bus dock is shaped like a wide corridor. The warehouse side of the corridor is completely open, and transfer arms move bits one at a time out to the receiving edge where they can be snagged by the spindle arms and delivered to their destination blocks. The opposite wall is a collection of channels, pneumatic conveyor cars which shuttle bits back and forth between the slice and kernelspace. Pip lies down on the dock floor, safely underneath the transfer arms, and watches the cars moving in and out of the channels.

Surfing
“Where do you want to go?”
“Let’s try surfing L2 cache.”
“It’s probably pretty dead right now.”
“That’s what you said last time, and it totally rocked.”
The last time they had been out in kernelspace had been an epic day. They were sitting in history class when the first tarball flew over. Mr. Hand, who despite being completely boring himself was totally keyed in to possible distractions, gave them both a sharp look, so they picked up their pencils again and tried to refocus on the grim dates and details of woah woah one. But by the time the seventh tarball came rushing across the sky woah woah one was a distant, surpressed memory, and after the twelveth tarball they were shimmying around in their seats like cats in heat, desperate for the bell to ring. When the bell finally, mercifully, did ring they rushed out of class, ditched their books, grabbed their wetsuits and headed for the beach.
As they scrambled down the path over the sea grapes a cluster of patches was coming down.
“Hurry up. It looks like a compete apt-get. Let’s go for L3.”
“I hate L3. The curl is really slow, and if you get caught in the eddy you could be there for the rest of the day. Let’s try L2.”
“The last time I was there I coredumped so bad.”
“Yeah, but the nurse wrote you a great excuse note for skipping assembly.”
Down at L2 it was already blowing three threads. They zipped up their wetsuits and headed out, pushing their boards. At the kiddie break they pulled up onto the rough board surface, nosing high over the whitecaps and paddling hard in the troughs. The flow was already pretty high, so the paging tide pulled them out quickly.
Out in the swell, Pip sat up on his board and surveyed the grey, heaving horizon. As far as he could see, the peaks were rolling in about 50 ns apart with a uniform break of 6-8 feet.
“They’re all keepers. Let’s go.”
Pip turned his board and climbed the back of a passing wave. He felt the wave start to grab him, and pulled back, to the edge of its reach, riding slowly forward to the edge of the coral shelf. As the wave picked up power, he turned and slid down into the trough, watching the break in front of him, rushing right to left, and counting beats as the wave behind him rolled forward. On five, he started paddling like a madman. At seven, he felt himself rising slightly, as the tip of the wave slid under the back of his board. At eight, the full strength of the wave reached him, and with a final, two armed pull he grabbed the edges of his board and raised up into his riding crouch, setting up crazy foot style, and leaned back slightly, turning the nose of his board down the length of the pipeline. The water spinning into the edge of the reef threw him forward. He swooshed down the face of the wave, piling gravity into the equation, and then turned back up, slowing as he approached the tip of the wave, and then turning again, rushing down again as the tip of the wave, still carrying the foam of his track, crashes into the shallows behind him.

Roller Coaster
“All right”, Pip answered. “Let’s give it a shot.”
Pip and Lucio crawl across the loading dock floor and climb onto the back of an outbound DMA transfer. Pip takes out his zip wand and compresses the block in front of him, so he and Lucio can squeeze on without causing a buffer overflow when they arrive in kernelspace. The transfer arms move a few additional blocks onto the train and then the train, feeling a full load, takes off.
The DMA transfer to kernelspace is a windy, twisty tube which rises, falls, coils and straights through a mass of other transfer routes and communications infrastructure. It was originally designed to handle the leisurely rhythms of sequential access tapes – hooking it up to modern storage devices is like driving an Indy car down a goat path. For normal blocks, it’s not too bad – if they haven’t repaved the road at least they pay a lot more attention to fastening the seat belts. But a sprite is not a normal block, and riding compressed is even worse – you have to keep yourself on the sled as well as the unwieldy deadweight directly in front of you, or be run over by the next train or zapped as a buffer underflow if you arrive without your cover block.
Pip holds on to the sled with one hand and uses the other to steady his block. He carefully watches the glowing track in front for advance notification of the next twist, adjusting his center of gravity as well as that of the block, and steeling his arms to deal with the g-forces to come.
The train starts with a straight, and then a hard right turn. After the turn they start rising in a tight spiral, corkscrewing counter-clockwise so tightly that the induced magnetic field causes Lucio’s hair to stand crazily on end. Pip just has time to point and laugh when the spiral ends and they start on a straight, steep descent. The sight lines in front fall away faster and faster as the descent gets steeper and steeper, until Pip has to operate on pure intuition. He closes his eyes for an instant and sees a loop loop down left. He opens his eyes to check, and is starting to yell the pattern to Lucio, when he sees that his friend is screaming like a lunatic and holding both hands in the air. As they enter the first loop, Pip closes his eyes again, this time not for intuition’s sake but so that he doesn’t have to see Lucio splattered against the tunnel wall.
Lucio must have gotten hold of his senses and his handles, because when Pip opens his eyes Lucio is still on his sled. The track slaloms through communication moghuls, left round right round right round left thud over thud over left right flat. Just as his arms are beginning to ache and tremble uncontrollably Pip sees a light ahead, the end of the ride, kernelspace.

1.1.2 Pursuit

Tracers
Pip and Lucio unzip their cover blocks and tumble out of their cars onto the buffer floor just ahead of the waiting bit verifier. Coming to a rolling stop, Pip realizes that the light was not the end of tunnel, it is the headlamp of an oncoming train.
When the last car in the input channel enters the buffer an alarm sounds and a spolight clicks on to illuminate the whole of the channel opening. As Pip and Lucio scramble towards sheltering darkness, they hear more alarms firing and an unbuffered stream of sensor readings flying towards an array of logwriters.
“Tracers!”
On a normal day, the DMA buffer is not a bad place to be. All of kernelspace is atmosphere conditioned, so they would have flipped off their respirators and sat back to enjoy the cool air. Unlike the creaky magnetic mechanics of the slice spindles, everything here is quiet and efficient, running silently on pneumatic beds of electric current. The buffer is huge, so if you move below the low-water mark there is plenty of time and opportunity to have a rest, take stock of your options, and plan your day. And if you just want to joyride, there is easy access to the IRQ port, which whisks you off to an awaiting runqueue with all the luxurious priority of a diplomatic motorcade.
Unfortunately, this is not a normal day. Things have changed, and, at least for our young sprites, not for the better. Someone is paying very close attention to the IO subsystem, receiving event notifications in real time as well as logging system calls for future reference. As a cracker, you survive by following two simple rules: don’t let anyone know you are there, and don’t let anyone find out that you ever have been there. Tracers up the ante on both fronts.
Pip moves farther back into the darkness and tries to figure out the mask on tracer events. Clearly, read is on, since they tripped that when they arrived. The logwriters seem to work without alarms, so write may be off, but more likely it is just bypassing the system calls and just using raw registers. As another DMA train arrives Pip swivels towards the IRQ port, just in time to see the darkness obscured by the ignition flash of a spotlight.
“Shit, they’re watching interrupts too. Kiss that runqueue goodbye.”
“Let’s just longjump out of here. This is crazy.”
Before Pip can respond, Lucio has his jump pointer out and is scanning for stored offsets. The dial stops at 0x00100000 and the display reads “_text”. Lucio nods to Pip and begins his jump.
“Lucio, wait, we haven’t recalibrated since…”
But his friend is already dissolving into the transport beam. Faced with the prospect of frying alone in the frying pan or frying together in the fire, Pip jumps into the unknown.

The Year In Review

Lyric:

April grey
Empty beach
Sand and waves
In my reach

Cherry blooms
Falling snow
Empty rooms
Does Spring know

Summer day
Oh that dress
You wore

Autumn leaves
Love remains
More than needs
Phantom pains

Falling snow
Cherry blooms
Sand and waves
Empty rooms

Summer day
Oh that dress
You wore

Winter day
Terns and waves

Summer day
Oh that dress
You wore

Chords:

Verse
Cmaj7 D6
Emin7 A7

Chorus
G A C9 D

Bridge
C#dim F#7 Bm7 E

A Hard And Demanding Man

My father was a hard and demanding man
Though he did not think of himself as such.

He was there for all my childhood failures
His gestures made hollow by the sadness in his eyes
He always acted as if he had come up from nothing
Although I know he had been given much more than he managed to retain.

And for years and years I do believe
That he did hold it against me
That on the day when I finally left his house
That on that day I said to him:

“I'm not like you dad - I'm clumsy and weak
I'm not like you dad
I'm not like you dad - I'm clumsy and weak
I'm not like you dad”.

As he got older and his drinking took its toll
I went down to the hospital.
We sat together in silence
Finally, he said to me:

“My father was a hard and demanding man
But he always did his best by me.
I am truly sorry
That I could not do the same for you”.

“I'm not like my dad - I'm clumsy and weak
I'm not like my dad
I'm not like my dad - I'm clumsy and weak
I'm not like my dad”.

My father was a hard and demanding man
I'm not like my dad
My father was a hard and demanding man
I'm not like my dad

Think About You

When you're in homeroom
He's looking at you
When you're on Facebook
He's looking for you
When you're in Starbucks
He's coming right towards you

Because you're super cute
And he wants to know the things you do
And if you want a latte too

When he asked you out
You were floating on thin air
Finally a boy who noticed
Those things you do with your hair
This is the way you learn
That love just isn't fair

Now when you're in homeroom
He's thinking about her
When you ask about Friday
He says he isn't sure
When you see them together
Your tears turn it into a blur

Because he is just fourteen
I know I did the same thing
Growing up makes some people mean

I think about you
I think about you
I think about you

Kandahar

I want to ride in a big old Lincoln
With Florida Citrus plates
Drive 45 in the left hand lane
Blinker going all the way
I want to go pee ten times a day
And leave for dinner at three
Oh Lord, I don't want to die out here
Send someone to rescue me

My babies will never know their daddy
No grandchildren on my knee
Never be able to toast my wife
At our silver anniversary
There are so many things I have yet to do
So many things I still need to see
Oh Lord, I don't want to die out here
Send someone to rescue me

I know we haven't always been right
There are things that I shouldn't have done
And maybe I'm out here fighting a war
That didn't ever need to be won
And maybe I shouldn't have acted so quick
Unaware of things I should have known
But Lord, please send someone to rescue me
I can't die out here alone

Night is falling, it's getting cold
And I'm so very far from home
My leg is hurting awful bad
I can see right down to the bone
I scan the horizon and listen for signs
A glint of something or a buzz in the air
Hoping that it's a chopper for me
And not you coming here on your own

Oh Lord, send someone to rescue me
I can't die out here alone

Let's Write A Song 2

Mama had a tramp stamp
And she passed it down to me
I used it to authenticate
My medical degree
Just a hint of the Harvard crest
Above the top of my bikini
Nonchalant I stuff the rest
And drive my Lamborghini
Well festooned with bumper stickers
And truck nuts swaying in the breeze
Cruising round in la la land
And parallel realities

ive got ink
got ink
got an inkling you'll remember me
ive got ink
and you think
i'm a member of the faculty?
ive got ink, yeah I've got ink
And I got that ink to challenge what you think.

Cause my mama was born down in the holler
But she wasn't the sort that was born to follow
And she pulled herself up from where she was from
Without forgetting who she was
Or being ashamed of what she'd done
So even though I never had to work harvesting the ramp
And went to all the finest schools
I got my own copy of the family tramp stamp
To help me remember you.

Life at 45

So I was in the middle of my pitch
To a group of investors
When I got your text
Saying
That you had struck out
With the bases loaded
To end
The game
And would I
Be working
Late
Again.

But I was in the middle of my pitch
And it was for ten million dollars
So I ignored the text
And finished my pitch
And then took the investors out
For a drunken
Steak dinner.

In the morning
When I read the text
I felt bad
So I called in sick
And picked you up from school
And took you bowling.

We found an eight pound ball
In a manly royal blue
And you bowled a 54
And we laughed at the funny videos
That play
Whenever you get a split
Or a strike
Or a spare.

I bought you a hamburger
And I ate a hot dog
And we shared a plate of fries
With ketchup
And I hoped that this
Was the time
You would eventually
Remember.

But the hamburger was spoiled
And you spent the evening
Throwing up and retching
Miserably.

So after I got done
Mopping the floor
And washing the sheets
And getting you
Finally
To sleep
I looked at my phone
And read the text
Saying
That despite the great pitch
And the wonderful opportunity
The investors
Had decided
To pass.

Some days
You just
Can't win
For losing
And sometimes
That's the way
Life is at 45.

Brasilia

Brasilia


From time to time
Spread across the city
You will see a house
Sited askew.

Below the lines
Of the grid and the spokes
The house is aligned
With the ghost of a cowpath
Or the long gone bed
Of a forgotten stream.

Similarly, in language
Beneath syntactic structures
You encounter irregular
Constructions and idioms
Reflecting a reality
Long since passed away.

I will move to Brasilia
And speak Esperanto
Live as a New Woman
Freed from the past.

--

I have become old fashioned
In the sense that my habits remain fixed
While society changes around me.

When it is cool
I wear a grey woolen suit
And when it is warm
I wear poplin.

In the morning
I walk to a sidewalk cafe
To buy an espresso and an ink smudged paper
To thoughtfully read the news of the day.

But today my routine
Lies around me in ruins
Rereading your note:

I will move to Brasilia
And speak Esperanto
Live as a New Woman
Freed from the past.

--

I've got a four track mind now baby
Care to put the headphones on
Kick off your shoes and stay a while baby
It couldn't be that wrong

I'll solve quadratic equations baby
On the back of your hand
Step on up to the boom box baby
I'll introduce you to the band

Don't you wanna?

Step on up to the microphone baby
Do a couple of lines
Just lean back and go with it baby
It's gonna be just fine

I speak fluent Italian baby
A little Portuguese
Come on down to Rio baby
Get topless on the beach

Don't you wanna?

--

Thith ith not the Brathilia I wath led to ethpect.
And what ith thith gibberish that you speak?
I will leave this land
And return to my home
Return home to my love,
Beloved Roderigo

--

Have made a great mistake
Stop
Returning home
Stop
I sail on the steamer SaraLee
Stop
Please throw out the tapes
And dispose of the guidebooks
Landing home
Two fortnights hence
Stop
Love
Stop

--

Rereading the telegram
In my favorite cafe
My world is restored
To its rightful condition
I put on my hat
Pick up my cane
And walk down the promenade
Whistling softly.

Driving Up and Down the East Coast

We are those poor players
Who strut and fret
Treading worn boards
That groan and squeak
Entertaining you
Five nights a week

---

Afternoon in the bleachers at Camden Yards
Evening spent crawling through Inner Harbor bars
Blue Points in Fells Point
With the ghost of Edgar Allen Poe
His raven quoths "Nevermore"
I do love you, Baltimore

---

New England town
A decaying mill carcass down at the river's edge
A whitewashed steeple up on the top of the hill
And a covered wooden bridge connecting the two

---

Eva
Be free
Of your broken
Body
And leave
Your broken mind
Behind
Live with me
In memory
In the golden sunlight
Of a 1970's
Morning