Go to the Place that's the Best

Try not to be cynical.

Grace comes in unlikely places.

There, outside a cheap falafel place, a modestly dressed young couple paused. On the table in front of them were two pitas wrapped in white paper. And two cups of water.

And as the lunchtime crowd raced around them, they were oblivious.

Not because they were in love (although they might have been).

Not because they were a rock-solid partnership taking their stance against an indifferent world (although, again, they might have been).

But because they bowed their heads.

And they both whispered long-memorized phrases of prayer.

Phrases that visibly brought them comfort and peace.

And a moment later, it was done. And they looked up and they smiled. And bit into the pitas.

I'm sure many of my atheist friends would mock them mercilessly, would tease them for believing in fairy tales, things that are clearly untrue.

But maybe that's not the point. Maybe it's not the truth that's so wondrous and magical.

Maybe it's the act of concentration, the bringing of Grace into a world that so desperately needs more.

They looked up and caught me staring. And they both nodded at me. Not wanting to convert me or preach to me, but just wanting to let that moment of Grace radiate out from them.



Norman Greenbaum sold two million copies of this record 42 years ago.

His previous band had broken up after scoring one minor novelty hit ("The Eggplant that Ate Chicago") a few years earlier.

And then one night Greenbaum (who was raised as a fairly conservative Jew) was watching TV and saw Porter Wagoner singing a gospel song.

And Greenbaum thought it would be fun to write a gospel song with psychedelic rock leanings. It took him 15 minutes.

You could claim this was an act of pure cynicism on his part. Or you could claim it was pure divine inspiration.

Whatever the case, the song (with its unmistakable fuzz-guitar) struck a nerve.

A small spot of Grace in a cynical world.

Puffy White Clouds with the Face of Mitchell Froom

It would be too cynical for words just to post Glenn Tilbrook's song "Hot Shaved Asian Teens" in an attempt to drive more traffic to my blog, right?

Good thing I like the song then...

Lyrics and link to Glenn Tilbrook's "Hot Shaved Asian Teens".

I guess the cynicism goes with mentioning the title ("Hot Shaved Asian Teens") three times.

Holding Hands While the Walls Come Tumbling Down

So Sad They Had To Fade It

The road into the desert seems to stretch out forever.

And you're stopped at a stop sign.

To the left is a storm cloud. Gathering winds and thunder rolling across the empty spaces.

To the right is a small shack, selling fireworks.

Amazingly, the shack is open. Even though it's got to be 100 degrees.

So you park for a moment, peruse the fireworks.

The clerk tries to chat you up.

"These are the most popular," he says.

And you nod. You're not there to talk. You're there to wait out the storm.

But then the clerk looks up at the sky, apologizes, closes everything down, hops into his car, and speeds off.

And you get back behind the wheel. And slowly drive forward.

Into the rain.

Living Proof of All Life's Contradictions

You can only find them in the deepest silence...

"I'll be at the Bodhi Tree," she said. "In the astrology section."

So I asked what sign she was.

"Pisces. I'm a fish."

And I nodded. She looked nothing like a fish. And I don't believe in astrology.

"We're compassionate. And sensitive."

I like to think the same of myself. We all do.

"We have a strong strain of mysticism and spirituality."

Me too.

I wanted to know more about the Pisces. I can't tell you why.

That's not strictly true. I know why, but I'm reluctant to say.

It was because of her. I still didn't care about astrology. I still didn't need to learn about Pisces. Except as it related to her.

"We fish live in two worlds. The spiritual world where our true selves flow and flourish. And the everyday world, which is often too much for us to take."

Yes. That sounded about right.

And the spiritual was constantly at war with the material. This sometimes made for great art -- and often for horrible conflicts.

"We're the fish who survive on land only because we carry with us a memory of the water. And a certainty that we'll get back there someday."

And I nodded. Because I could see flashes of it. And wanted to see more.


These things were long ago. In this world, anyway.

Perhaps it's just a blink of a third eye in the spiritual realm, where there's an unbounded ocean of bliss.

I know that time flows differently there.

And back here, the Bodhi Tree is closed.

I'd hoped to find the answer there. Maybe in the astrology section. Maybe even find that elusive fish.

The one that got away.

Compare and Contrast

It's Hard to Keep Them Straight. I Know.

This is John Paul Young:



And this is Paul Young (with the Fabulous Wealthy Tarts):


This is Paul Young with leather pants, a band, a propeller plane, and horseback riders with masks and capes:


Any questions?

A New England

Possibly the best version ever of this song.

The late, great Kirsty MacColl duets with Billy Bragg from 1991.

Happy May Day

Money speaks for Money...

I'm once again reminded that the title Talking to the Taxman About Poetry has to be one of the greatest album titles of all time.