You think you're doing something. You insist you're doing only that thing.
But you're not.
You're doing something else. The opposite of what you thought. What you insisted.
And if someone points it out to you, you object.
You rant and rave. You rail against it.
You don't want to hear it. Don't want to consider it.
You wear down anyone who points it out to you.
Until they give up.
Until they go away.
Until they think four times before bringing it up again.
You live your life with blinders on.
And insist you're the only one who sees the whole picture.
Needless to say, this doesn't help anyone. Especially you.
When this was recorded, George Harrison was too weak to play guitar. He was probably too weak to sing properly, but he sang it anyway. Eight weeks later, he was dead.
And Sam Brown just knocks this out of the park in the Concert for George. But you already knew that.
It always seemed half-finished to me -- incredibly catchy, but not quite coherent. Not quite all there.
Like the difference between a great song and a classic song.
And whenever I find myself thinking things like this, I wonder if I'm asking too much.
If this song came from anyone else, I'd be thrilled. I'd remember it fondly and tell you a story about a girl who loved the song.
But the bar is higher for some musicians.
And that's not fair -- I know that.
We shouldn't judge someone harshly because they caught lightning in a bottle more than once and created true classics that will last for generations.
Maybe we should just concentrate on the feeling and try to capture the zen essence of things, letting the rest of it just blow away.
And yes, if you've been watching, there has been a new post up on this blog every single day in May -- plus a bonus of 2 posts on the 21st. There's no particular reason for this -- I just wanted to post more frequently this month and gave myself a challenge of putting up a new post every day.
"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.
She walked into the woods in Autumn. Said she was going for a hike. Took a vegan protein bar with her.
But she didn't come back.
The town organized search parties. There were helicopters and stories on the news.
But no one found anything.
Except a bandana. With a speck of mascara and a drop of blood.
Just a drop -- not enough to seriously warrant concern.
And then she vanished.
Five months later, she emerged.
Walked out from the snow. Thinner. And much lighter.
She talked about the birds she'd seen. Said she'd had long conversations with them.
She said she'd built a snow cave. And eaten berries she found.
But after a few months, she needed sustenance. Needed company. Needed food.
So she lured wild animals to her, told them stories about far-away places, listened to their stories of the woods, then thanked them, killed them, and ate them.
This, she said, was sacred.
This was important.
And then, in the Spring, she lured a bear to her camp with stories of cheerleading practice.
But the bear said she couldn't eat him.
The bear said perhaps he should eat her.
She agreed. This seemed the normal way for things to end.
Then the bear wandered off. Distracted. Drooling over a deer fattened by eating out of a dumpster of a trendy restaurant.
When the bear was gone, a fox came by and told her it was time to go.
Besides, there wasn't enough meat left on her to satisfy the bear. She'd die for nothing.
And, said the fox, there might still be things for her to do.
Outside the woods.
So she walked out. Back into town.
And the fox nodded, knowing more than he would say.
Interrupting the summer doldrums for two versions of a song I've always loved (which seems appropriate since today is Ringo Starr's birthday).
Come for the great horn arrangements (and instrumental tracks played by most of Badfinger), stay for the goofy scenes of pianos in the snow, Ringo skiing poorly, and several snowmachine accidents waiting to happen.
There were rumors from the beginning that Ringo could not have possibly written this song (a huge step up from his previous ditties like "Octopus's Garden"). Decades later, a demo version surfaced with a George Harrison guide vocal (as well as a few extraneous "Hari Krishnas" that were buried in the final mix), raising questions about exactly how much of the song Harrison had written himself.
But as cool as the Harrison version is, there's something I've always loved about Ringo's vocal that Harrison didn't quite match.
The phone rang and I grabbed it. No hello, no introductory small talk. Just "So I accidentally lit my underwear on fire."
Because she never said hello. And she never bothered introducing anything. Everything was now, everything was tumbled up together, everything was a continuation at 100 miles per hour.
And you had your choice: jump on and keep up or jump off and escape.
There was always a reason to whatever crazy thing she said. If you stuck around. If you unpacked it.
She was lighting a candle. In the bathroom. Where her underwear was drying. And the dog knocked the candle over. Knocked it to the floor. But it didn't go out. It lit things on fire.
Things like underwear. And magazines. And maybe her roommate's hash supply.
This was normal. This was how she lived. This was what you had to expect.
The other choice was exile. And you didn't want the exile.
Because it felt good to be part of the circle. One of the ones who'd get the phone calls. Rush to catch up to the insane stories that started in the middle and worked their way in all directions.
The outside was crowded. With exiles who'd never light their underwear on fire, either by accident or on purpose.
Long periods of silence would follow the calls. And then the next call, again starting in the middle as if no time had past.
"So the state trooper wanted me to crush grapes with my feet with him, but I said I'd rather take the ticket," she said. No warm-up, no windup, just the pitch.
And God help you if you weren't ready.
Why would the state trooper want you to join him in crushing grapes with his feet?
That question could never be asked. Or, more accurately, it could only be asked once. Then, immediate exile.
"I shot a bullet hole through my igloo and I need it fixed in the next 20 minutes before the temperature gets down past 40 below."
But how do you know you've been exiled?
"I dreamt you were haunting me after death. So I need you to do a pre-emptive exorcism of yourself."
What's the difference between exile and the long months of silences?
"I know I told you if I were an animal, I'd be a gazelle, but I just realized I'm really a limur."
And how long is her list anyway? How many people does she cycle through before she calls you back again?
"I was just at Starbucks in line behind Ben Vereen and I realized I'd always gotten him confused with Bette Midler."
And where does reality end and fantasy start with her? Certainly not at the same place as with normal people.
So, one day I got a voicemail. "I'm heading into the mountains and the mist is clinging to the peaks like a lovesick teenager. And it's so beautiful I want to cry. But I can't because the mountain goats are looking intently for any sign of weakness."
And I thought long and hard about what really counts as normal.
Then I called her back. But the number had been disconnected.
By all accounts, George Harrison was done by the mid-80s.
It must be hell to be a great songwriter in a band with two of the best songwriters in history. No matter what, you have to fight to get your one or two songs per record. And after years and years, you finally get the A-side of a single, but most people dismiss you and your spirituality and obsession with Indian music.
After nearly ten years of this, George Harrison had accumulated a huge backlog of songs that never made it onto Beatle albums. So when the Beatles broke up, Harrison decided to put them all out, releasing the triple-record masterpiece All Things Must Pass. And for the next few years, Harrison's albums were enjoyable and each had one or two great songs. But by the early 80s (and the horrible Gone Troppo), Harrison was considered done, washed-up, and ready for the golden-oldies tours of State Fairs. (And he seemed to have moved on as well, establishing Handmade Films to fund Monty Python's Life of Brian, then parlaying that movies success into a string of profitable small movies including The Missionary, Mona Lisa, Withnail and I, and a handful of Python-related movies.
No one expected Cloud Nine, a strong Jeff Lynne-produced album with songs about right-wing religious radio, John Lennon, and a cheery remake of the old gospel song "Got My Mind Set on You."
And no one expected George, the "quiet one," to be so cheerful and funny. He even smiled. Plus, because MTV still played videos back then, Harrison made not one, but two videos for "Got My Mind Set on You." The first one, a pedestrian video featuring teenagers flirting in an arcade (with Harrison playing with a band in what looked like the cog-filled inside of a watch), wasn't bad (but was very safe and traditional).
But the second one was the amazing one. The one where the clock, swords, book, and every other inaminate object and small animals dance along. The one with the stunt double doing the back flip and dancing like the hell-spawn of Mick Jagger and Michael Jackson.
Best of all, Harrison is in great vocal form here. The single went to number one in January 1988 (when it still meant something to have a number one single). And if it didn't usher in a new era of musical world domination, it freed Harrison to have more fun, led directly to the Traveling Wilbury's, and provided Weird Al Yankovic with what may be his most insightful relyric ever.
It also was one of the first four albums I ever owned on CD.
If Neil Innes had done nothing in his life besides the Rutles, he'd deserve shrines on half the world's continents.
But, as it happened, he did a lot more -- from almost all the Monty Python music to the music-oriented Innes Book of Records and Rutland Weekend Television on the BBC. (I'll leave it to you to decide if that warrants shrines on the other half of the world's continents.)
Rutland Weekend Television is sadly unavailable on video or DVD thanks to clearance issues, but is a great outlet for Innes songs (and the comedy of Eric Idle, who was then at his peak).
(And he seemed to have moved on as well, establishing Handmade Films to fund Monty Python's Life of Brian, then parlaying that movies success into a string of profitable small movies including The Missionary, Mona Lisa, Withnail and I, and a handful of Python-related movies. 
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