he Redhaired Girl Always Made The Rest of Us Look Bad Or Did She?

After all, Charlie Brown never manned up at least not in A Charlie Brown Valentine. He lost the redhaired girl to a flirtatious beagle who liked to live life instead of dwelling in doubt and fear. Then again, he was a dog.

Funny how I never noticed that it wasn't just Charlie Brown who failed miserably in love. Lucy and Sally did too. But the difference is: They actually tried but chose different ways to wallow in their defeat -- Lucy in anger, Sally in denial or eternal hope and Charlie in apathy because he never stepped up to the plate.

One's psychic abilities only go so far. Reminds me of a friend of mine I met in England years ago. I'd run into him at an open mic I would attend every week. He barely said more than two words to me per sighting and had a girlfriend. Still, I supported some of his gigs and saw him around with other friends. But not once did he ever say, "want to get coffee." Not once.

Little did I know that everyone else knew he had a crush on me. It took him three years and 9/11 to tell me this. When he came to visit New York City right after 9/11, I was glad to see him because I considered him a "mate" as the Brits would say. I ended up playing mandolin at a gig he had here. For some reason, he was staying/getting it on with (I suspected) the "most colorful" chick ever. The whole time I was thinking, "What the hell is he doing with her." Not that I was jealous -- completely curious.

I knew she definitely had something going on upstairs when she started talking about how she was going to perform phone sex to raise money to get her eyes done. Yeah, whatever. At this point, I was growing very bored of her self-absorption and domination of every conversation.

I was glad when she wasn't around to be totally honest because she was so tiresome. I felt like a third wheel as if i was interrupting something.

Another songwriter from England my friend knew was in town and flat-out refused to be around the colorful chick. Thank god. i enjoyed hanging around her and my mate. No strange self-absorption or in-depth conversations about phone sex and eye jobs.

Later that week, I had a gig in Hoboken. My "mate" was too busy to come or rather hungover or getting it on with the "interesting" chick. Better him than me. No worries. No skin off my nose. After all, he was just a mate. So what if I backed him up at his own gig and open mics?

So, he returns to London only to finally reveal via email to me that he had had a crush on me for years and was crushed when 9/11 hit, worried about my whereabouts. Sweet but a little too late. I had no idea.

I've got pretty well-refined intuitive abilities but shit I can't read minds that well. How could I not see it? What better way to impress me than miss my gig and sleep with some weird chick. It was clear as day, wasn't it? Clear as mud really. On top of that, he told me how surprised he was that I was still writing songs. Oh really? He obviously did not know me well at all. Whatever.

I'm a very independent person. I've had to be most of my life because if I waited around for people to call me up to do something or men to ask for my number to go out and do something, I'd be six feet under. No joke.

I refuse to let lack of social acceptance deter me from enjoying my life. But it would have been nice if he bothered to ask for one coffee or invited me to something being an American in London, making my way in a city where I had no support network. Fortunately for me, it never stopped me from totally experiencing the place. I did so, by myself at times.

Much like Charlie Brown, my friend didn't take the risk. He didn't give me the opportunity to accept or reject him. But he probably spent a lot of energy about it. Would have been easier for him to ask for the coffee and then it would have taken him about half hour to realize that I'm a freak from hell and he'd be a fool to waste another minute on me.

Anyhow, back to my original thesis here. There's a reason why I loathe Valentine's Day. Very good reason.

My very first love forgot Valentine's Day. Now, imagine how it may have felt, being an 18-year-old college freshman chick freshly in "love," seeing scores of floral deliveries populating the front desk. "Surely one of those has to be for me," I said to myself. Every day leading up to Valentine's Day, I would pass by my mailbox several times in hopes that there would be a red-colored envelope in there. I wanted proof that my first love -- who lived a few states away -- actually remembered me. I didn't need candy or flowers though I wouldn't have refused them. I would have been happy with a cut-out heart. I had given him something similar with a very sappy poem on it.

Well, I eventually called him up. I asked him why he had forgotten. He said because he never celebrated the holiday in the past. Why should he bother celebrating it now? That wasn't a good enough answer. I reacted somewhat the way Lucy does in the following video:



Gifts were sent back to northern Kentucky along with letter bombs. That was the beginning of the end of that relationship. I just couldn't believe he forgot. I was completely crestfallen. That was the last time I had high expectations for the "holiday" known as VD forever more. He now has a wife and young daughter so I'm fairly certain he's learned to celebrate the holiday or at least tolerate it.

In old age I've mellowed or become more tolerant -- probably too tolerant. In fact, about 10 years ago when the guy I had been seeing for a while threw a candy bracelet at me on Valentine's Day when I met up with him and his younger brother -- who was married with a child. The look of abject horror i will never forget. His brother had the, "Jesus H. Christ. No wonder you're the only one left in the family who is still single. For good reason" look on his face. It didn't faze me as I had learned to keep my expectations low. I knew that he would be off to grad school soon enough. Why care now? The relationship was going nowhere. Still, I made more of an effort as usual.

I wasn't devastated. I just accepted it. So, by the time the end of May rolled around -- my birthday, I wasn't really too surprised when he informed me that he didn't purchase a birthday present for me because he didn't know what to get me. I'm pretty easy to buy for. My most coveted Xmas present is probably a pair of piggie slippers. Plus, I play music. A new tuner or pedal will make me happy. How hard is that? A CD is enough for me. He made three times as much as I did and worked fewer hours but he couldn't be bothered to "waste" money on a gift for me. At this point, it didn't surprise me. Made me glad he was leaving.

The icing on the cake? As I was helping him move across the country, he felt compelled to order the most expensive item on the menu at dinner with my best friend's parents. Prime rib for lunch? To add insult to injury, he said, "Free steak!" to me later. I nearly ripped his cheapass head off. A few years later, he was in Europe in Italy. Of course, he felt compelled to contact me while I was in London, looking for a free place to crash. He informed me that he couldn't reciprocate with a free place to stay in Italy because it was too crowded. Needless to say, I didn't respond to his email. Then, lo and behold, on the day he was scheduled to arrive (he didn't bother to call ahead -- then again my phone had been cut off because I was leaving town soon), he decided to plant himself outside my house so I had to invite him in. He had no place to go. That night, I showed him around London, especially a club I had just played at. I showed him my cd. He snickered. So everything works out for a reason. No wonder I didn't miss him much in D.C. after he moved.

Still, friends don't like friends act the way he did. Pathetic in so many ways. A friend of mine reminds me of Lucy. When I told her about the VD incident, she advised me to spell things out because men are thick. "Tell him in no uncertain terms he must remember all Valentine's Days, major holidays and birthdays or he's 86ed," she said. Needless to say, she's married, living in the south of France with a new daughter. I suspect her "in your face" technique works wonders.

I think we all could learn a thing or two from Snoopy, who stole the last dance with the redhaired girl from Charlie Brown. The dog always stepped up to the plate with no expectations. Look where it got him. A lot further than his owner, Lucy and Sally.

That's how I think everyone should approach the "holiday" these days. I'll be staying home. I'd rather celebrate Friday the 13th. d

Surest Sign That You Have a Metal Plate in Your Head

You do insane things like attempt to run 100 mile marathons for fun. My friend Chase is one of these insane folks. He moved to Colorado to train for these masochistic events. He and his wife flew to Hawaii for him to run in the HURT 100. As luck would have it, he ended up projectile vomiting. Could be an interesting addition to my latest project: The Shitter Sessions: Classic Country's Ode to the Commode. In this case, the outhouse or rather side of a path somewhere in Hawaii. Watch where you step. You never know what you'll find.

The video is priceless:

Mom's Always Right For Better or Worse

Last April, I was crestfallen during a visit with my mom out West while playing some of my music for her. For years, I've wanted to prove to her that years of piano and voice lessons at the local conservatory weren't a complete and utter waste of time and money.

So, I played her a recording I did for an arts radio station across the pond a few years ago. It was my tribute to dead songwriters (because they're the least likely to kill you for ruining their songs) by six degrees of separation. It was all country and bluegrass covers by dead songwriters with some by live songwriters who had some connection to the dead songwriters with banter mixed. Banter was a requirement for airplay. Apparently, for my musical talent to be palatable, there must be banter and vice versa.

Of course, this meant that I had to have beer whenever I recorded. And just about anything -- the irritating birds, someone's evil little dog just begging to be thrown in a wood chipper -- qualified as a topic of banter.

I was particularly proud of this recording. As my m omlistened to it, I noticed her look a little bored. "Honey, it sounds contrived like you're trying to sound like someone else," she said. To which I wanted to reply, "Listen, tone-deaf old woman, if you keep it up, I'm sending you to a home. You might want to get an ear drum replacement before you listen to my music again. Stick to art, your specialty. Not music. That's mine."

Of course, I bit my tongue as my heart sank. My own mother thought I was a fraud. Alas. Then, I pulled out my weird stuff. "Oh, that's cool. Your voice has an interesting warmth to it," she said. What? My strange wah-wahed stuff has more warmth than any effort of mine to sound "normal."

Well, after I got over my bruised ego, I realized she was completely right. The weirder the better. Still doesn't prevent me from singing country or roots crap for fun.

The other day, I discovered a new recording location -- the pot, the shithouse, shitter, commode, toilet, loo -- whatever you want to call it, thanks to my friends over at Bobtown, who've been getting some seriously cool evil sounds out of their recording setup.

Then I realized part of their secret. I don't know why it's taken me so long to take the leap. So, I recorded a Don Gibson song I really love called Legend in My Time. I still sound contrived but I still love the song. It'll be the first song on a recording product known as "The Shitter Sessions."

But then I thought "why stop there?" A bunch of country tunes recorded in the shitter? How boring. That's not too terribly original. And then I had an epiphany. Why not recast famous country songs to honor the commode? Hence, The Shitter Sessions: Famous Country Music Odes to the Commode.

What a great marketing idea. Who could resist an album with the Willie Nelson doing "On The Throne Again"? Or Charley Rich's "Baited Bowels." Or the Carter Family's "Kneeling Drunkard's Pee" or the Louvin Brothers doing "My Chunks Have Blown" or the ole bluegrass classic "Shitting on the Top of the Swirl." Who in their right mind could resist such a musical product? I'm certain K-Tel records would love to release such a masterpiece.

I had to draw the line at Tammy Wynette's "B-U-L-I-M-I-A" for fear it would tempt young impressionable women to stick their fingers down their throats. I mean it, girls. Don't try that at home. Teeth are a terrible thing to waste. Besides, I couldn't seem to fit in E-X-L-A-X or G-A-G anywhere. It's not easy writing songs where words are spelled out.

So, I've begun this writing project already. Tell me what you think of my progress. I just have a feeling my mom's finally going to be proud of me once and for all. She'll learn not to find my music boring. She'll learn. :)


Shitting on the Top of the Swirl
It was the Spring. One dark day
Intestine blockage, it left me lame
Now it’s dissolved so I don’t worry
I shitting on the top of the swirl

My Chunks Have Blown
Hold back the rushing vomit
Let the room stand still
Don’t let the sunlight fall, usurp my failing will
Soak up the vodka
Unleash a groan
The night is over
My chunks have blown

On the Throne Again
On the throne again
Just can’t wait to get on the throne again
The life I love is getting shit-faced with my friends
Now I just need to get on the throne again

Kneeling Drunkard’s Pee
Oh lord, I’ve got to take a pee
Was the kneeling drunkard’s plea
And as he stumbled through the door
Alas, he whizzed all over the floor

Behind Commode Doors
And when I get behind commode doors then I whip my magazine out
And that’s when I know for sure I’m a man
Cause everyone knows what goes on behind commode doors

Baited Bowels

I miss you darling more and more each day
As a heart would miss its blood supply
With every movement, I rejoice to the heavens
And remember my baited bowels

Dear My Space: You're a Macist

i cannot live without paragraph breaks so I've left you for blogger. it has been lovely but you're driving me crazy. d