A Great Big Problem Stop Me In My Tracks

I Can't Stand Up and I Can't Sit Down

"You know the problem."

I know of the problem.

"That's not the same. But I know you know."

I don't know about that.

"You're talking in circles. Sometimes I think you like talking in circles."

No.

"No you're not talking in circles? Or no you don't like it?"

No.

"That doesn't answer my question."

No. No it doesn't.



"You circle around the point without getting there."

Maybe that's the only way to get there.

"Another riddle. I'm tired of riddles."

And I'm just tired. Because the whole point isn't the answer to the riddles or the answer to the questions, but the space between the riddles. The space between that defines what we can't define in the circles. Or the riddles. Or the words.

"I almost understand that."

Yeah. Me too.



Happy Independence Day.

Hit the City and I Lost My Band

For long lost late-night friends

The wind never picked up all summer.

But it cooled down.

Late at night, in a city that had gone downhill for decades. A city that would come back, but not until we were all long gone.

Down the hill to a deserted downtown area filled with bars we never went to and a couple of rock clubs we did.

Somersaulting on the lawn in front of the State House at 2 in the morning -- grass freshly mowed, security guards safely asleep inside the building.

Past buildings soon to be torched for insurance money -- allegedly, because nothing was ever proven.

Walking in packs, thinking we were safe from anything that could be thrown our way.

Ignoring each other's foibles, as if talking about what was wrong would make things worse.

Working during the day in jobs that would expire in a couple months. Saving a tiny bit of money so the ones who had cars could drive us to the Beach every other weekend.

When the news came years later, it seemed inevitable to everyone.

The sadness was not a relief. The sense of loss may have been more for ourselves than the ones who were finally, definitely gone.

The question about why we hadn't done more lingered in the air that day like the heat that still rises from the sidewalks in the summer. We appeared dressed in black suits and black dresses, older if not wiser. And we talked into the night, ties loosened, the good times seeping through holes in our memories while the ghosts of our younger selves passed by the outdoor cafes downtown searching for the dingy bars and rock clubs that closed up shop long ago.

Welcome to the Jungle

This'll make Axl Rose turn over in his grave.

Under Them Skies So Blue

With Added Dreams

Southern California is big.

Gigantic even.

I was out in the desert this weekend. In the middle of nowhere.

With a bunch of dreamers. All following their own paths. All brought together by a mutual love of something obscure and amazing.

And it was more than 100 degrees out -- sun beating down on us with no humidity.

From the top of a mountain, we barbecued. Talked. Drank. Laughed.

Shared stories.

Hundreds of miles from anywhere.



I remembered other summers. Other hot days. Other people.

And when I came back closer to the ocean yesterday, there was a street fair. Within a mile there were about a half-dozen great tribute bands.

There was a Steely Dan tribute band that rocked out next to the Ben & Jerry's.

There was a Tom Petty tribute band playing a few yards away from Davy Jones' Liquor Locker. Playing song after song everyone knew.

Not always playing the right chords. Not always hitting the right notes.

But the crowd sang along with everything.

Like every word they sang was meant to be.

All He Touches Turns To Dust

Before I Lose My Reason... and My Soul

I've got a great idea. Let's solve the problem of people not having jobs by cutting government programs, getting rid of pensions, destroying unions, and raising taxes and fees on people who can barely afford to live.

Oh, and let's let the insurance companies rack up record profits while we cut benefits to people who need them so that people who are unemployed literally cannot afford health care and decide that robbing a bank is a great way to get coverage since our society has ruled that depriving prison inmates of health care is cruel and unusual punishment (but depriving the poor is just the American way).

And then let's give tax breaks to people who don't need it and companies that already pay little or no tax.

Because, if you listen to anyone on the Sunday Morning Talk Shows, that's the only way to get ourselves out of this economic mess.

It Must Be Summer Cause I'm Falling Apart

For the longest day of the year

In a more just world, Fountains of Wayne would be bigger than U2 and not just a band known for an incredibly well-crafted and amazing novelty song.

But in the meantime, enjoy Summer Solstice with this white light of pure pop happiness:

Everybody's Free to Work on Their Act

Once he was the grinder, now he has to work for hire

"Your passive-aggressive mastery of the art of stealing office supplies does not make you James Bond," she said.

"Maybe not," he answered. "But I could kill you 16 different ways with a paper clip."

She nodded. "Fine talk from someone who doesn't even realize I've got your stapler."

He glanced down at her hands, distracted by the silver flash of the stapler, clearly marked "Property of Engineering Department - Do Not Remove." But here it was... in his apartment.

He began to sweat, wishing he'd worn something other than a white tuxedo.

"Do you expect me to talk?" he asked. "Do you want the launch codes? My secrets about the location of assets?"

She smiled and dropped the stapler. "No, Mr. Bond. I expect for you to go down to the casino, win thousands at baccarat, foil an evil scheme or two, and return to me."

He nodded. "I can do that."

But she was gone. Because he couldn't do that. Not in a hastily constructed cookie-cutter room above an Indian casino in the Midwest. Not when he was wearing a t-shirt and jeans instead of a tux and drinking vodka straight from the bottle.

And probably not even if he'd been in Monte Carlo and wasn't afraid to go into the casino.

Looking into the mirror, he realized that the dream he'd clung to since he was 8 in a darkened movie theater was slipping away.

Because he'd never be James Bond. No matter how many Uniball pens and sealed packets of Post-It notes he had hidden away in his closet at home.