Speechless

Moving from Boston when I was 15 was a pivotal moment in my life. The early 90's presented a challenge: how to follow the Red Sox in a city without NESN, TV-38, or satellite providers who could come through. We drifted apart for a bit. I found no solace in the (spotty at best) Charlotte Hornets, nor in the minor league franchise that played across the border in South Carolina. I would see Field of Dreams on TBS and watch it only to weep at the scene shot at Fenway Park, and reminisce about the time 3 friends (Steve Brown, Jason Scott, and Nick Governale) and I snuck from the free bleacher seats I scored from the Globe, to approximately the same section, completely by accident.

I started watching games again as soon as I could figure out when they were on, but not enough to keep up. I'd been back a couple of times to see old friends, but we were too busy catching up to rekindle our mutual affliction/affection for the Red Sox. For example, at 19, we were too busy talking about college to strike up a pick up game in the cul de sac ("the circle") or gawk at one another's card collections.

Sherm Fellers voice, forever engrained in my conscience, I have now come full circle. I called everyone (um, three of you!) whose number I hadn't lost (um, most of you!) to celebrate the unthinkable. 8 games of beautiful baseball: fantastic fielding, heroic pitching, and rock-solid batting. There is nothing that I could say that hasn't been said before. Sure, a Red Sox championship could never undo my departure from Boston, but at least it could bring me back closer to some of my roots. I'm just a kid in Section 31, trying to catch foul balls with my hat.

NATO: command me

Hey all,
Jim here, I’m feeling the midterm crunch but I do my best blogin’ when I am procrastinating. I’m digging The North Atlantic CD that Matt let me barrow. I’m going to see I heart Huckabees tonight, despite the mixed reviews of people who watch movies for a living. Mixed is better than bad. I’ll let you know how it goes.

I’m feeling the drumming itch… and the show itch for that matter. MFA will prolly play out before any of my other bands. Ironic, don’t you think? Well, only if you know us. And that would be the only reason you would be reading this so…

anyway, back to the grind.

All Grudges Final

I sit here in a room lighted by a lamp on a dimmer switch, about half-lighted, finishing the remains of spiced apples that didn't make it into the pie last night. Cinnamon good. Sugar good. Flour, not so much. Rode the red line up to Van Ness after work to give love to the local record shop- Revolution Records. There is something godless about Tower, however easy it might be.

Picked up "From A Basement on A Hill" by Elliott Smith, and I am struck here listening. It is lush, and will take several listens to fully digest. Every fade out and every pregnant cacophonic pause gives extra weight to the already fatalistic beauty that it is. My response, as soon as I finish typing this, I'm going to the Iota to see my friend Laura play. It's raining, I'm a little tired and phased.

Why?

Why not?

Memory Lane

The new Elliott Smith record is out today. Having had to go across town for a doctor's appointment, I haven't been able to pick it up yet. At it's best I am sure it will be phenomenal, being a big fan of Elliott's attention to detail; but at it's worst I am sure it will be flattening, and full of innuendo that will remind just how fragile a state Elliott was in. It's amazing that even in a death such as his (a friend commented "I think that is the saddest thing I have ever heard" upon me relaying the news), people have found solace of their own, as if to build Elliott's mythology even more, immortalized by his own oblivion.

As the blog phones light up, let me just say I performed in the tribute show in Richmond and I was amazed at the community that had popped up around his memory. It was easily the most attentive crowd I have played to.

Is this thing on?

I am in the process of going through self-imposed web-training bootcamp. Bear with me. I had carrots and pizza for lunch, and am ramping up to make the 7 plus hour drive to my parents' place tonight. I've got a personal bet with myself over whether or not my dad will be asleep in front of the TV when I arrive, late night. The consumate gentleman, he will snap to attention to greet any and all visitors that might show up in tow with his sons no matter what time of night. Well, usual suspects being (1) wife and (1) girlfriend, and sometimes the back door is locked, either way, it'll be nice to see if I am wrong or right, or both. I'm confused.