When I lived in DC, I played keys for about a year in a band called The Jones. It marked a sort of musical re-awakening for me. (A musical re-awakening which has since gone back to sleep, I might add.) I had been into music all through college and had played in a band called "Fifth Beat." We mostly played jazz standards, mixed in with a few pop odds and ends, like Morphine's "Good." I also had a semi-regular gig back then where I played an antique upright at a bistro called Harb's. I loved the way that piano sounded, even though it was jarringly out of tune and some of the keys in the lower register didn't actually hammer notes at all. Harb's paid me with dinner. And the Harb's patrons sometimes put tips into my glass. I felt like the Billy Joel of the Blue Ridge.

I didn't really keep up with my playing post-graduation. Then, when C and I moved to DC in 2003, I met Mike at The Childe Harold and he invited me to play with them, and I did, and things kind of clicked. I bonded with him and the bassist Jeff over the fact that we all really loved The Black Keys. And so we'd jam in Mike's basement figuring out how to work a piano or Hammond into the songs. We got some gigs and played a few of the local DC clubs ... Staccato, DC9, Velvet Lounge. Oh, the drinking! Oh, the drugs! Oh, the women and all-night orgies. Yes, the band temporarily saved me from all these things. Then there was some band drama that went down. Drummer issues, conflicting schedules, lack of rehearsal space. A general malaise swept over the group. When VH1 calls Mike one day to do a "Behind the Music" special on The Jones, they will refer to this time as a "dark valley" in the group's history. And they will likely refer to my beard and curly mop of hair as "tragic."

I wound up sort of falling out of The Jones. I didn't really quit, nor did they ask me to leave. I just found life pressures were getting in the way (see note above: drinking, drugs, all-night orgies) and so I went on a permanent leave-of-absence. But I have fond memories of the time I spent in the band.

The Jones' sound has changed a lot in the last couple of years. Evolved. In a good way. I'm impressed. George is now the drummer. He had started right around the time I was phasing out and I could tell he would bring good things to the overall sound. There is also a new bass player, Rich. (Well, he's new to me ... I actually think he's been playing with Mike and George for a while now.) Based on the recent recordings I've heard on their MySpace page, it sounds like he's a great addition.

Anyway, let me get to the point: all of this is a very long-winded (and, yes, self-indulgent) way of me saying that if you're in DC or NYC you can (and should) catch The Jones at one of these two shows:

DC: Rock and Roll Hotel, Friday August 8th, 9:30 pm

New York: Kenny's Castaways, Saturday August 9th, 10:30pm

I'm planning on going to the New York show. Maybe I'll see you there.

Along with the several pics I've just posted of me and the band during the time I was in it, here's a demo recording we did. I kind of like this track, even though now I'm not so sure I like the droning piano riff I am playing in it. The solo with the organ sound around the 2:05 mark is kinda minimalist cool, though. In addition to Mike on vocals and Jeff on bass, Mat is playing drums in this one. The song is called "Gun Jump." It is written by Mike, as is most of The Jones' material. Enjoy!



link to this | comments (1) | File:  NY  Music  DC 

When I told Honey I had posted a video of her carrying that paper across the street, she was like, "Oh, Christ, Dad. What's next, then? Talking about how it seems only yesterday I was this big or carrying around my lost baby teeth to show the neighbors?"

I thumbed the premolar in my pocket. "Of course not!" I said.

The weird part wasn't that Honey, you know ... spoke. It was that she spoke with an English accent. It wasn't exactly a proper, "Received English" kind of English, but it wasn't quite an East End of London, Cockney type of thing, either. It reminded me of the Beatles. She had a sort of nasal thing going on. Like John.

"Is that Scouse?" I asked her.

"'Tis. What of it?"

"Where did you pick that up?"

"It's a long story ..."

Apparently, even though Honey's mom, a Pit Bull, was from North Jersey, her dad, a German Shepherd, Vizsla mix, came over from Liverpool on a cargo ship carrying boxes of Kongs. Honey had spent a few formative weeks with him before he left her and her mom alone under the wood deck of a rairoad house in Queens. Before he left, though, he had taught Honey her ABC's and implanted a bit of Merseyside in her speech.

Honey went on to tell me that she didn't like this trend of mine, posting photos of her. And now videos. She was worried this would all end in some sort of doggy blog.

"I know. I know. You're right. But the strange thing is I don't really care. I just don't get it. I've lost my perspective on this shit. I guess I'm feeling old," I explained. "I mean, listen to this: did you know that the baby on the cover of Nirvana's Nevermind album is now 17 and is close to graduating high school?"

Honey just stared at me blankly.

"Sorry. I'll play it for you sometime. It's a terrible cliché to say this, but the album changed my life. Which probably isn't entirely accurate. It's more likely that my life was changing anyway, and that album just happened to serve as a soundtrack for it. And it's just weird. That baby ... is now a freakin' teenager. Which also makes me realize that Kurt Cobain died 14 years ago. And at some point after that we wound up with Techno. And I'm not sure which of those two things is more tragic."

"Jesus, Dad. Snap out of it, mate. Stop living in the past. Look, here's what I'm saying: You can write about me. Just tell people the real shit, man. You know ... what it's like for me out there on the streets. About my friend Riley who lives across the street and who's a lot of fun to play with and all, but you know—just between you and me—the bloke is a few short of a full bag of goodies, ain't he? Or those Daschunds, Oscar and Woody. Holy crap. Those two take the piss out of me every time we pass them on the street. Their constant name-calling. All I want to do is play and they're all making fun of my ears and asking when I'm going to grow into these feet and shit like that. I think I'll probably eat one of them one day when I'm bigger. Then there's that crazy Italian Greyhound, Lucus, who never says a thing, but looks like he's got all this pent-up sexual frustration, poor thing. You should talk about this shit, Dad. This is real bloody doggy drama, right here in the North Jersey burbs."

"I'll keep it in mind," I said. "You just concentrate on not pulling on your leash, and let me worry about the blog, okay?"

"Whatever," she said, and went back to a rawhide.

Adolescents.

link to this | comments (8) | File:  Music  Ho_Hum  Honey  Age 

This past week, our neighbors went on vacation and they asked me to pick up their mail and paper. At the same time, Honey has been learning how to "take," "bring," and "give" things. So, what better opportunity to put her new skills to the test? Here she is picking up our neighbor's paper and bringing it back to our house. Is she a bad-ass or what?

Song credit: Old 97's Theme Song, from Hitchhike to Rhome. I'm a little disappointed I wasn't able to sync up the end of the song with the movie file better. Oh well ... my movie-editing skills are a work-in-progress.


link to this | comments (3) | File:  Honey 

I have to do it. I'm sorry. I've put it off for months. I've told myself I should not write about it. That I should put it out of my mind for good. That the subject has been beaten to death by millions of us blogger types all over the overcrowded and puffed up blogo-verse-osphere. And yet there it is—a shadow of a thought. Lurking like a small furry chipmunk at the edge of its dark little chipmunk hole in my mulched and weeded beds, curious to poke its head out, but at the same time shy and self-conscious and worried I'll chop it's little fucking chipmunk head clean off. Or that Honey will eat him.

I'd like to think that God had the best of intentions when he created chipmunks. But even God has days when he feels a little ornery, and all he feels like doing is kicking back and letting off some steam. So he invites Old Scratch over to his place and they smoke a couple of bowls and play a little XBox. And, over a heated game of Madden 2010 (they get advance copies of software) they think up ways to piss people off, or ruin Jason Lee's career. And the next morning God wakes up refreshed, clear-headed, and alone, and he goes to his window and sees what he's done ... that now there are chipmunks. Or Daschunds. Or people who drive Hummers. Or ... Backstreet Boys. And he just shakes his head and curses Old Scratch and decides he will love these things anyway.

I am on the verge of this kind of mistake.

Do not do it, says my Rational Side.

This will shame you.

You will regret it.

You will feel cheap and dirty.

Oh, Rational Side. You are so clever when you betray me. You and Irrational Side are in cahoots, aren't you? You know that the very arguments you use against my behavior will eventually send me hurdling frantically toward it.

You are a Brutus.

Fucking backstabber.

Geez, man. Come on! What's all this build-up about? Have out with it already, Dave!

Okay, okay. Sorry.

It's Facebook. The big "FB." The cherry-filled donut, moist with gluteny, glazed goodness. The turkish delight, lightly dusted with powdered sugar. The raging shot of Patron, warm and smooth, at 2am. And I hate you, Facebook. With all my heart I hate you. And yet I can't ignore you. I can't stop eyeing your pages. I can't stop myself from checking you once or twice or thrice a day to see if one of the 75 or so friends I sit amongst has posted some morsel about what they are up to so I can pop it back and swallow it without really tasting it. FB, you've turned my friendship with these people into some kind of non-stop tapas meal. Only it's one where most of the time is spent watching other people eat. Because real communication, real meals with substance, rarely occur.

I think Jeff said it best in one of my favorite posts by him when he refers to yoga as "the Facebook of physical activity, an anesthetic for life spent next to people without ever really communicating."

The people I'm friends with on FB are generally people I know—or have known at one point in my life—fairly well. They're people I've shared common interests with. I think with the exception of a few, they are people who I've known "in real life" before I knew them "online." And it's great when I get re-connected with them. But then, like some massive yoga class, there we are, inches from one another, all getting off on our own thing, finding our six chakras, discovering our power animals, and not really talking or even acknowledging each other.

Let me be clear: I'm not pointing any fingers here. I'm just as guilty of this as anybody. (All I usually do on FB is re-post the things I write here.) Nobody's at fault here. FB just works this way. It's kind of what the medium encourages: for us all to become voyeuristic spectators of each-others existence. And who am I to judge that kind of thing? I mean, I keep a very public blog in which I sometimes talk about my very private life. Why? I'm not sure. But here's an attempt to figure it out.

The thing is, I feel like I want something more from Facebook. To me, the value of FB, or any other online social-networking tool, should be to bring us back together in the real world. If a person is not somebody I'd realistically hang out with in a bar or a coffee shop, then I don't see much point to seeing them every day on Facebook. But what about playing games, Dave? You don't have to be best friends to play a game of Scrabulous with somebody. I could see where the games would be sorta fun for people. But I never liked Scrabble when it was something you played on a board, so I definitely do not want it on my computer screen. I do see some value in being able to share book and movie interests. But even with that, it's really not about communication is it? People rarely actually write anything about the movies or books they list. So the recommendations lack context. What they lack is a conversation.

Basically, here's the central irony I've found with FB: Sometimes I wind up feeling less close to people after we've gotten connected on FB then I felt before, even if I hadn't seen that person in years. I mean if the person is somebody you haven't spoken to in a while, then there's this very wide gulf of time between you where all of these things have happened in your lives and you can't just get caught up on that shit by writing a couple of sentences on a "wall-to-wall." So instead, you just say nothing. And so then, there they are: in front of you every day, virtually closer than they've been in years. And yet—because you haven't really communicated with them—they're further away than they ever were before. They become almost like a neighbor that you see from over a fence every day and with whom you don't ever really talk about anything meaningful. Instead, you yell one-liners at each other about how it's really freakin' hot today or man, the Yankees are sucking some ass this year, aren't they? And how are you supposed to respond to these things? You can't. So you shrug and you pull up another window with your work in it, the stuff you're supposed to be doing but don't want to, and you go back to your life.

And now your most recent memory of this friend you haven't seen in 15 years is that they just had Cheerios for breakfast. Or that they are power-washing their house today. And you might like to ask them, how did that power-washing thing go? But you don't. Not because you don't care, but because what you really want to ask them is, "how have the last 15 years been?" But that's too much to bite off in a status update. And, oops, an email just came in which you have to answer, so you reckon' you'll ask about that power-washing thing some other time.

But you never do.

Despite the negativity here, and contrary to the title of this post, I don't actually think Facebook is a mistake. It's a really great app, and I've always thought that. I love how it connects you with people. I also love it from a professional standpoint, for the way it encourages open development, and how it's clean and polished. But the thing is this: It's a good app, but it is just an app. It's an app that connects people. That's it. And the trick is to not let it turn your friendships into endless tapas ... or yoga.

Ahh ... so there it is: My Inevitable Facebook Post. Until now, you could search my site and not find one reference to FB, which kind of surprised me when I realized that. But not anymore. I've entered the din of conversation, even though the Internets never asked for it, or cared.

And I guess I don't feel as dirty as I thought I would. Which is kind of disappointing.

In the end, this wasn't nearly as bad as, say, ... chipmunks. Or Daschunds. Oh well. Maybe next time.

First, I've got to find somebody with an XBox. And a couple of bowls in need of smoking.

link to this | comments (8) | File:  Facebook  Chewing  Blog 

I recently re-established contact with a friend from college (also named David.) We were fellow English majors and creative-writing workshop goers at W&L. Also, we were both swimmers (though I stopped swimming competitively before college, so we never actually swam on a team together.) I never knew he played guitar, but it turns out he's playing in a band that could open for Coldplay on one of their stops. So I want to take a moment and plug his band and ask people to vote for him. Just go here. He's in the band "Pam Autuori" which is at the very bottom of the page. They're actually in the lead as I write this, but just barely!

So go vote for him!! NOW!!

I'm a little late with this post and I think voting ends today, so there's no time to waste. Dave's a good guy, so you'll be supporting a good cause!

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Music  Friends 

The way I remember it is something like this, and it's really the beginning (and tragic end) of so many party stories: Everything was going fine until somebody brought out the bottle of tequila. Just for the record, I believe that somebody was my wife. And when I say "everything was going fine until ..." I mean "for me."

And here's the thing: it was only Thursday night. Friday was July 4th. Friday was supposed to be the night. Not Thursday.

Demon blue agave. You and me are not on speaking terms, brother.

I only partially blame C. The real culprit is K, whose promises of new postings on her blog lead me to set aside my own misgivings of watering a bellyful of recently-planted IPA Hops with Patron shots. I think there were only three. But three was enough. The hickory flavor of E's slow-smoked ribs was so good that night, but the next morning I would have given anything to shake that scent from my nose. It seemed to be everywhere. And it probably was.

I'm not an idiot ... I mean, I know the "beer before liquor, never sicker" mantra. But honestly I've never had that much of a problem mixing alcohols in the past. When I was twenty-three and tending bar, it was not uncommon to chase beers with shots of tequila as a matter of good form and proper etiquette. (I'm nothing if not polite.) In the morning I would feel a little like the inside of a small clanging church bell, but the sensation would go away with water and breakfast. Somewhere in the last eleven years, though, the church bells have gotten bigger, and they've begun to ring louder and deeper. And they can put a frightful shakiness in my belly. And so I have new respect for the axioms I learned in college.

It took all of us a while to get going on July 4th. Particularly me. I felt bad not emerging from my room until 2pm. But that's the nice thing about close friends and an understanding wife: they'll cover for you when you're down. I owe them. For icing down the keg. For setting things up. For taking Honey out at 6:30 am. When I finally made it downstairs, shaking and about ten pounds lighter than I was the night before, the first of my neighbors began showing up with their July 4th game faces on, all full of energy and wondering what the hell kind of party this was where everybody was chewing Rolaids and talking about hairs on dogs and squinting at each other from behind sunglasses under drizzly skies.

And let me go ahead and apologize right now. To all of you. Because the details of this post sound like they came straight out of some college student's MySpace page. Let's see ... there was a keg. Check. Somebody got sick from tequila. Check. A trip to the Urgent Care was made. Check. The cops came. Check. Okay, nobody engaged in any sloppy make-out sessions in the basement (at least I don't think they did). And okay, there was no beer bonging. Oh, and nobody streaked down our street naked. But still, all and all, this had all the crucial ingredients of a college house party. And that's sort of embarrassing ... since, with the exception of a few twenty-somethings, we were mostly of the thirty-something-not-quite-willing-to-admit-we're-really-that-old demographic.

It weren't pretty.

And yet, it really was quite a beautiful thing. Because beneath all of these details which, on the surface, seem so horrific and clichéd, there was, at root, the undercurrent of a really good time. The kind of time you don't want to end: Catching up with friends. Sitting around a fire (in July!) listening to music and telling stories. Laughing. And bringing a little Texas Backyard BBQ to the New Jersey burbs.

The urgent-care visit actually had nothing to do with alcohol consumption and everything to do with a spider bite on my foot which I had let fester for over a week and which had become gruesomely infected.

And yes, the cops did come. Because my neighbor Ax brought over some fireworks. And let me just pause for a moment to say this: when your new neighbor tells you he'll bring fireworks over to your 4th of July party and you say something like, "Aren't those illegal in New Jersey?" And he responds with something like, "Aw fuck 'em," and you both share a hearty laugh at your mutual contempt for authority, you should trust that little stream of a conscience flowing through all those overgrown weeds of hutzpah. Here's what I found out about Ax that weekend: he's really good at being a rebel, as long as the rebelliousness takes place at somebody else's house. When the cops showed up at my driveway Friday night, it was just me and my friend E from Texas out there to greet them. Every yellow-bellied Yankee neighbor — these people who had kids and respectable day-jobs and upstanding lives — had disappeared inside. E was standing there holding a lighter in one hand and a bottle rocket in the other. And I was holding a black plastic garbage bag full of spent fireworks. The cop was actually quite nice about the whole thing. He said he didn't want to ruin the fun, but some neighbors had complained about the noise. We apologized, and he went on his way, but not before asking me what my address was. So here we are: only four months living in New Jersey, and I'm in the police database. Which means next year we're doing the fireworks at Ax's house. Or I'm leaving Jersey altogether.

So here are my lessons from this July 4th:
And most importantly:

link to this | comments (6) | File:  NJ  Neighbors  Friends 

There are a number of ways to bring on a divorce. One sure-fire method is to have an affair. As I've said before, I've never tried this approach, but if I did, ya'll would be the first to know. Another good technique is to spend entire days together doing something inherently frustrating ... like assembling IKEA furniture. C and I gave this one a go on Sunday. And, you know, there may have been a time, several years ago, when engaging in this sort of activity would have been peppered with snarky comments about our respective IQs, and endless repetition of the phrases, "Here, let me do that" and "No, no, no ... it's supposed to go THIS way." And the whole thing might have ultimately led to a day of silence and bruised egos. We are, after all, a couple whose dinner plans got thwarted once over an argument about my driving. (To her credit, C was right: it actually IS impossible to share food with somebody after they've been driving like a granny. And I admit it. I was ... driving like a granny. But in my defense, it was only because I was trying to tell a story. Geez.)

After eight years of marriage, though, you begin to figure out certain things about being with one-another. Like how to tolerate granny driving. And how to put together furniture. Over the last several months, C and I have tackled jobs from the Futon Sleep Shop, to Staples, to IKEA, and I'm happy to report that furniture assembly is no longer the divisive activity it once was. Much the opposite: I think this time it actually brought us closer together. I might even go so far as to say that it was borderline romantic. And yes, I realize that this fact is probably ... no, definitely ... a sad commentary on what we find "romantic" these days. The thing is, we each know our roles in the furniture-assembly equation. C likes puzzles, and she knows that I hate reading instructions of any shape or color. So she handles that part. I like using power tools, and I know C is delicate and girly and averse to calluses, so I do all the grunt work and turning of screws.

As she put it to me before we got started: "You screw and I'll do everything else." (God, I love it when she talks dirty.)

So we have another room mostly done. This time it's C's office which, thanks to a futon, will double as a second guest room for when we have lots of guests ... like this weekend. It's fun having a futon again. I like the way they smell. It reminds me of college. And I guess it probably says something about us that we have both of our offices very near completion and haven't yet a spec of furniture in the living room, aside from my piano.

But back to this weekend ... A bit of Texas is coming to New Jersey this week. Three bits, to be exact. A keg of Miller Lite has been ordered to make it more home-like for them. And there's plenty of Johnny Cash and Hank Williams Jr. on the iPod. Oh, and there will be grilling. Lots of grilling. I'm hoping I don't scare the neighbors, which is why I've invited them all over for the 4th as a sort of North-South peace offering. Hopefully, just like with our furniture-building, just like Barack and Hillary, it will lead to unity. We'll see.

link to this | comments (8) | File:  House  Cath