KIck aSS!!

So, about two weeks ago, this young lady I've fallen head over heels for puts on this benefit show to help a friend of hers with some medical expenses. Wanting to help out (and, ok, maybe score some brownie points), I attend. There's a table full of raffle items and I buy a ticket for each one because that's the right thing to do, then a few extra tickets for certain specific items because I really want to win them. I believe the raffle gods looked down on me and took pity on my unenviable lot that night (less said the better... at least at this juncture.), as I ended up winning four of the raffle items, two I hadn't much coveted (a band t-shirt and a small painting) and two that I desired greatly... a $50 Cherry Bomb gift certificate and an old B.C. Rich Warlock bass.



Which brings me to the whole reason for this post. Today, I received shipment of the final necessary elements in making the bass an invincible 80s metal machine! "Antique" chrome skull volume knobs!



Now nonstop rocking is possible!!!

The latest installment in getting what you need in disguise:

There's this woman. Beautiful, talented, intelligent, empathetic, humble. I've been very interested for a little while, but we work together. That doesn't break the deal, but I haven't done enough theatre work to be jaded to the point of not believing the show is sacred, so I have proceeded with utmost caution... so much caution that I was sure that I'd screwed myself out of any chance with her. Then, in an evening and a day I went from boundless optimism to overwhelming suspicion that I'd fucked up yet another potential good thing.

So I woke with a heavy heart this morning.

I rose early to walk in a 5k benefiting suicide prevention, so I was most aware of the hole in my heart where King used to live on this earth. He's been in my thoughts more than usual this week. A younger brother dying in the novel I'm reading brought his memory to the fore. For the first time in my grief, it became important for me to know the specific details of the method of his death, which Eric provided. Saturday morning I talked with my mother about how her grief's hitting her these days. I miss him like hell every day.

On my way out of the hotel, I checked my email and found that the town in Guatemala where my friends and I worked this summer was devastated by mudslides. The hospital at which we did our construction work is partially submerged in mud and one of the villages next to it is gone. We are told that all of the kids in the special needs class with whom we worked are alive, but I have to believe that some of the others we met that week are not. Knowing that the poor people of these villages now have been further burdened broke my heart and I spent much of the walk crying for them.

...but

it was a beautiful walk and I made it with My Morning Jacket's sublime new album "Z" in my ears. I ended recommitted to my beliefs that in the middle of all our stumbles, fuck-ups and heartbreaks (not in spite of them), life is beautiful and this world is an awe-inspiring place. I am happy that in a half hour last night, I taught someone more than they'd learned in a year of piano lessons. I will have written some great songs before I leave this city for home and I will return to Guatemala again to help those in need. I will rock six days a week for the next month and be paid well. I am lucky.

the day that was

August 8, 2005 was my father's 62nd birthday. It was also (entirely coincidentally, I believe) the first anniversary of the day my brother King killed himself.

I spent most of the day with my family and surprisingly... happily, the vast majority of the day seemed like any other day. We even managed to acknowledge my dad's birthday a few times (First thing I heard in the morning was Mom asking him if he felt any older today. He answered, "I feel older every day." Knowing Dad's sense of humor was intact helped me start the day more optimistically than I might have thought I could.).

Worked out. Ate dinner with the family. Spent some time talking to King in the backyard (his ashes are in the base of a birdbath there). Ate sushi, drank a bottle of wine (I drank the bottle. They drank cocktails.) and had honest, fearless, revealing late-night conversations with dear friends who live two blocks away. Called my middle brother, Eric, on the walk back home and shared our love and fear and loss for an hour, more openly than ever.

I know:

My father's birthday will be reclaimed... maybe not soon, but someday.

I do not have adjectives to describe how much I miss King every day... but I am not, nor have I ever been, mad at him for his decision. Those who speak of the selfishness of suicide can not truly know the depression, frustration and sadness that bring one to the moment of that decision.

I regret regret regret, but not that I might have done something to change his mind. I regret that outside influences kept us from being as close as we longed to be in the last year of his life. I regret that the path he took to shed his depression took him from me.

I will never fully comprehend the bond that brothers who are close in age have. Although Eric and I have long been the "friendliest" pair in my family, I have always envied the primal, "thick as thieves" relationship he shared with King. After talking to Eric tonight, I have a new appreciation for the identity crisis into which he has been thrust.

I am ever so grateful that my family and most of my close friends find no shame in telling each other, "I love you."

trapped in the closet

For a fascinating train-wreck of artistic failure, check out R. Kelly's five episode "urban opera" trapped in the closet. (can't manage to link straight to the video page, just click that link when the main page loads.)

It's spectacularly terrible by pretty much any measure. Awful story, some laugh-out-loud bad lyrics ("I flipped back the cover. Oh my god... a rubber!"), low rent special effects (they keep using the same two second shot of him driving in front of a greenscreen over and over again, poorly compositing different background shots in), combined with bad acting and illogical directing choices (why does he keep waving that gun around? ...and he must be the world's greatest lover if he manages to fuck his wife that good with his pants zipped up.)... where do you start?

Why, if he's going to attempt something as ambitious as an "urban opera" would he obviously spend so little time on the music? 20 minutes of two chords? It's not like the man doesn't know how to write a harmonically interesting song.

I'm tempted to ask why R. Kelly would feel the need to write an "urban opera" when he's already better than almost anyone in the game at writing a club banger, bump-and-grind slow jam or uplifting disney ballad, but honestly he probably would stand a better chance of writing a musically satisfying urban opera-ish piece of music than an opera composer would of producing a club hit. The real question is, why is it so bad?

I guess I can't blame him for not realizing that the story he wrote doesn't even come close to the low bar of O'Henry's gotcha style of irony (I hit every "cliffhanger" and ask "that's it?" and at the end wonder "she wanted him to sit down for that?"), but I truly can't understand why someone with the skills to write interesting music would attempt to hold my attention for 20 minutes by laying down a four minute, two-chord track and repeating it five times.

... all of which should not take away from the fact, once again, that the lyrics, acting and directing are bad beyond measure.

... and he's a pedophile with a scat fetish.

need to do a real update here sometime soon, but I thought it'd be funny to let the friends know that I managed ten days in Guatemala without diarrhea, then fell victim a half hour after we touched down in Louisville.

On a positive note, I think I got the ATL gig I went in for today.

today, I consider myself the luckiest man...

I'd smelled a faint electric burning scent in my control/computer room yesterday. I tried my best to locate the source, but had no luck. I tried turning off various devices in turn to see if the aroma might dissipate, but the scent persisted. This morning, it was even stronger. I tried checking in my computer, thinking the fan may have burned out... no dice... got on my hands and knees one last time to give my nose one more chance and tracked the smell to the general vicinity of my UPS, which didn't seem to be hot, then my hand grazed the power supply of a cd-r drive that I haven't used in four years (it hasn't worked in that long, but had remained plugged in... welcome to my life) and I became suspicious. I flipped it over and found my culprit:



plastic melting, probably a few hours away from burning down my house.

another bullet dodged.

some buildings touch the sky, some never reach twenty-five

god, I miss King.



a lot more a little later...

oh, no

found some old pics and I have a strange feeling I might cut my hair.

a chance to make it good somehow

Too many good days in a row? The "sugar crash" after two nights in the company of the beloved, too distant Liz? For whatever reason, I guess I was due a day where I spent a good portion of the afternoon in bed hating my life, believing in nothing more than the futility of my existence. Still, after a well-played and well-received gig starts stitching me back together, "Born to Run" and "Thunder Road" make me believe, with all my heart, in hope, redemption and a promised land.

happy birthday to we

from the evening's festivities…

open air turns two...

I might write something about this later, but for now I just want to put up the link so's mr. rizzo can find the article.

jerry! jerry! jerry!

Oh, no... well, the realplayer server is choking, but I'm getting a sweet, uninterrupted stream from windows media player (does that sound like a bathroom update?)... damn, I hate it when bill gates' evil products are the only option that works. Guess I'll check out a lil' springer while I get my gym gear on.

no foolin'

I guess it's a positive sign that my greatest disappointment/frustration yet today is that air america's streaming audio server is choking and I can't hear Jerry Springer's debut show. Oh, well... guess I get to the gym earlier.

god hates?

I've come to find that most of the people I know who I'd consider theologically misguided are generally good hearted and most honestly believe that their creed serves a loving, merciful god.

..but some people are scary, scary, scary.

leave a message and I'll call you back

So, what would you call that moment in a phone conversation when it's too close to saying goodbye to make someone wait for you to answer the call waiting but not close enough to wrap things up in time to catch the call before it hits voice mail?

crosstown traffic

ok... so, Bill's having a hard time figuring out how to reply to me over at the livejournal site, sooo... I guess it's easier to post anonymously over here, plus it seems a lil' more, well, adult, so I'll publish what I do over there in this space as well- minus the music and mood tags.

prog rockin'

Funny how, in general, "progressive rock" is, to me, nothing more than a soulless display of finely tuned instrumental technical proficiency that leaves me feeling nothing (and generally, only thinking, "gee those guys practiced a lot"), yet Roundabout or Karn Evil No. 9 come on the radio and I am all about it. Guess a few of 'em figured out the balancing act.

Still, I feel the genius of Van Halen was pairing an absolute freak, out-of-this world, revolutionary technical marvel of a guitar player (who never forgot the value of melody) with what was, in essence, ZZ Top's rhythm section.

...and I continue to be reminded of how much I underestimated David Lee Roth... in every way.

under... those rocks?

So the plan tuesday was that I would take my obligation-free day and use it to make progress toward finishing some recording that's been hanging over my head for, no shit, almost two years now (for the caribbean band with whom I play). My reward would be a visit to Cincinnati thursday (tonight/last night?) to visit a dear friend/sometimes girlfriend who's been terribly missed as of late. As of 8pm, I'd managed only to fill my life with enough meaningless distraction to keep my day recording-free. New plan. I'd take the energy that I pour into whatever neuroses that keep me inert- on the other side of the wall from a healthy, productive life actually spent doing the things I love- and devote it to alcoholism. Rather, or more specifically, I would cultivate an alcoholic life (Which, through some freak genetic accident, I've been spared the disposition) and use my neurotic energy managing said life, not distracting myself.

I put the mac in recording mode, grabbed a rocks glass and poured two fingers of bourbon. I had no ice: the first hint that my alcoholic skills were lacking. Got some ice cubes started (using hot water, of course to speed 'em along), and commenced with recording and bourbon neat. I eventually was able to add rocks, although my attempts at finding a buzz, much less taking my first steps toward my drunken life, were futile. I managed to get guitar tracks for two songs, along with a little editing in said songs' bass and percussion. Didn't manage to continue the habit (recording, not drinking) today, but I've come to find that one of my biggest impediments to starting a task is believing I'm capable of doing the job in the first place. Fingers crossed that I can get around to a lil' more work on the reggae while the memory of my capability (in music, not addiction) is still fresh.

I did allow myself the reward of visiting cinti. Although it's been a long time since I've felt lonely (any lack of companionship over the last month was more due to lack of energy than anything else), it's been a while since I've kissed anyone I've loved, and that likelihood was the real reward I'd allowed myself. If I'd been honest with myself, I'd have known better, and the slightly different beginning of my visit wouldn't have led to me spending too much of the night doing my second-best imitation of a bitch-ass emo high schooler. In any event, the memories that last are of the sheer joy of two clueless louisvillians' wild goose chase of a suitably decent vegetarian meal in downtown cinti.

Other details aside, 48 hours brought two more lessons in finding what I needed by looking for something else. Guess it's just important to keep looking.

oscar necrophilia

I just think it's a shame that Million Dollar Baby won all those Oscars just because Clint Eastwood and Morgan Freeman died. The vital Martin Scorcese has his one chance at recognition for his lean, independent, underdog film and gets shut out with the bereavement vote.

I also feel sorry for Leonardo DiCaprio. He finally makes a movie that's somewhat popular and has no chance to get up on stage and thank his stylist because the Academy are all In Living Color fans.

The worst thing is they didn't let Beyoncé sing two of the five nominated songs. I mean, couldn't they tell from the "é" at the end of her name that she'd have kicked that spanish song's ass? And who does Jay-Z have to put a hit on for her to play the Bach cello piece? Speaking of the "memorials" presentation, where was John Ritter? Does he have to die every year for us to remember him?

On the bright side, them girls love showin' off they boobies, eh?

the red, the orange

I wish I knew of some natural remedy that could kick a cold's ass like NyQuil/DayQuil. I can't fuck around and let a bunch of drainage mess up my voice if I hope to make a living. Plus, if you triple the recommended dosage, everyone's much prettier.

into the mind of iTunes

One of my small procrastination fascinations these days is checking in on my iTunes "25 Most played songs" list. In addition to having iTunes running in Shuffle most of the time I'm in front of the mac, I've been turning the speakers off and leaving it running when I'm away. I've been told that it's supposed to use some not quite random algorithm that favors your more highly rated songs (yeah, I've given most of 'em 1-5 star ratings... and downloaded album artwork). This seems to be true. For the most part, the top 25 is filled w/4 or 5 star tunes (This isn't a purely scientific experiment, however. Wilco's "Jesus, etc." and Gwen's "Hollaback Girl" have benefitted from a few bouts of obsessive replays.). The anomalies are interesting. Joe Hanna's "Cincinnati Highway" is on my hard drive as a relic from Ray's Mother Lodge playlist experiments. I gave it three stars 'cause I didn't want to seem all big-headed, being that I co-wrote, arranged, produced, recorded and played half the instruments on it (I guess listing all that might seem a lil' big-headed...). Still, with no help from me, it never leaves the top 5... and I'm sad to watch the slow descent of R.E.M.'s 5-star "At My Most Beautiful", hanging on at 25 while the 3-star "World Leader Pretend" leapfrogs in at 24. How can iTunes not get around to playing "At My Most Beautiful" on valentine's day? Like it has no brain... or heart.

grammy necrophilia

I swear I love Ray Charles, but I've half a mind to start seeking out somewhat faded stars in really poor health and convincing them to work with me.

What a downer it has to be for Los Lonely Boys, Green Day and the like... to have your one moment in the sun and lose any chance at that singular moment of recognition. Sure, I know that winning a grammy shouldn't be one's reason for making music, but, damnit, if you write a song and, in spite of everything that's against you, a couple million people like it, you should have a fair chance at standing up on national tv and thanking your piano teacher.

I feel just as sorry for Franz Ferdinand and The Killers lack of a shot because a bunch of 50- and 60-something voters looked at the ballot and only knew U2.

The worst thing is that I only saw the last hour or so, meaning I mainly saw the fucked up top awards (did get to see Loretta and Jack accept, though, which was sweet) and that worthless car crash that attempted to pass as "Across the Universe" (Think they'd have screwed with the lyrics if Paul had written it? No, 'cause he's still alive to sue 'em!). Oh, guess I did see a few others, but I'm guessing the monitoring was messed up, 'cause nobody could sing in tune. Even the usually electrifying Usher was strangely so-so.

On the bright side, Motörhead, Wilco, Britney Spears, Loretta Lynn, Bill Clinton, and Jon Stewart did win. Los Lonely Boys (I'm not really nuts about the song, but I'm a big fan of the underdog) and Green Day at least got some lesser awards, and Brian Wilson finally got a statue. Oh, yeah, the Garden State soundtrack got one as well.

Hopefully everybody else is just in it to get laid.

iNterest

I've come to theorize that you need at least 2000 songs on your iPod to keep from getting bored with it. I'll test the hypothesis about 900 songs from now.

St. Satan

So, I'm playing a mass yesterday and the priest keeps talking about Satan, which means I'm tuning out. I'm not much of a Catholic, which we'll get around to in a bit, and I generally don't pay all that much attention to this man's sermons (a bit more of a rightward slant than speaks to me theologically and, for that matter, politically), but when the mythology provides the foundation for the homily's main theme and I have had two straight four-hour sleep nights and I haven't taken any strattera for a month, the bookies move the line far away from any chance of me focusing on the middle of mass. (off topic: this morning, different church, different priest... spends most of the homily talking about the Salvadoran Archbishop Romero, who was assassinated 25 years ago next month. He surprised the government and church hierarchy by using his position to advocate strongly for the welfare of the poor in his country and work to end the unjust U.S.-funded genocidal war there. Made it easier to keep my pingpong ball of a brain engaged, especially with Liz in Cinti. There are babies just begging me to make faces, though, so don't expect that I can relate any of the finer points of the preaching.)

I do notice that he keeps pronouncing "Satan" in a strange way that seems to put in an extra "n" between the first "a" and "t"... so, to my ears, it sounds like "Saintan", like some subversive way to get us to subconsciously beatify the devil incarnate (ok, I guess "Satan" might not always refer to evil with a body, but two of the readings were Eve vs. the Snake and Jesus' temptations, so I'll stick w/the incarnate biz.). There's no way in hell he meant that (hey... play on words), but I wasn't paying attention anyway, so...

I was thinking, if the successful temptation of Eve and Adam is responsible for... ok, I know, I implied earlier that mythology shouldn't be the foundation for one's main theme, but you can give a long-haired pagan boy a lil' more rope than a priest, no? So... if the successful temptation of Eve and Adam is responsible for us having to struggle in this life, responsible for taking us out of the boredom the of complete ease and ignorant complacency of Eden and throwing us into the glorious mishmash of stumbling, triumphing, heartache, all-consuming love, death, rebirth, fear and faith that is the beauty of this mortal existence, than thank God for Satan!

Although I'm sure it seems as if I'm trying to be blasphemous here, I imagine most honest-to-God (hey... play on words) worthwhile Christian theologians would tell us that we're called to love all of God's creation. Actually being grateful for Satan is a moot point for me, not really believing in any Supreme Embodiment of Evil in the Universe, but it does pose an interesting quandary to those who do (one that may keep them busy long enough to make them forget to go down to the state legislature with that anti-gay marriage amendment they were meaning to propose... so pose away, everyone!). I find that the tension between the great forces of the universe (good:evil, light:dark, yin:yang, blue:red, coke:pepsi...) provides the energy that propels us forward in our discovery of and our attempts to realize the purpose of this existence. Stepping back into the mythology,while we may have been fat and happy in Eden, the possibility of the full spectrum of human experience didn't exist until the snake showed up.

If one finds the purpose of our time here in being as comfortable as possible and devotes one's life to getting "back to the garden", then it makes sense to see the moral of the story of our Original Sin as how we had it all and fucked it all away. I tend to think that we're here to learn some thing that might be of some use farther down the line, and I'm starting to think that the moral of the story is that we couldn't do that if evil weren't part of the equation.

...

So... I'm finding a lot in these thoughts that point to some of my more deeply held elements of faith, and I promised a lil' explanation as to why a guy who's playing two masses a week doesn't consider himself much of a Catholic, so... I was raised, baptized and confirmed Catholic. I attended 12 and 1/2 years of Catholic schools and mass every Sunday of my life until I got to college. Then I started taking Sundays off, started reading the Dhammapada, Bhagavad Gita, Herman Hesse, etc. It seemed like when I took any major religion back to the source and boiled it down to its essence, I got the same two things: Love everyone, lose yourself. I started to care a lot less where I got that message, just that I got it. When I graduated, I came back and, through several quirks of fate, ended up directing the ensemble, playing the piano and singing at a fairly left-wing catholic church as one of my day gigs (As far as the wide world is concerned, they're left-wing. As far as the catholic church is concerned, they're wild-eyed radicals... more on that some day.). At 30, I left the church gig and my other part-time day gig to make my way entirely making music in the "secular" world. I spent most Sunday mornings getting close to God in the yoga studio. After a few years, I found myself playing more and more masses for money and decided that if I were going to be in a church on Sunday morning, I should at least be somewhere that would feed some small bit of my soul. I asked my old church if they had enough money to pay me my going rate as a hired-gun pianist-singer. They did, and I've been back for the last year or so. Even though I have serious doubts about Jesus' divinity, I am in love with his message of loving everybody and taking care of the least among us... and I'm glad to serve that message among people who actually bring it to life in this world.

I won't bore us with the entirety of my spiritual belief here, but a few things popped into my head while writing about satan... as to loving all of god's creation, a good portion of any belief I have in a god can be traced straight back to my fascination with creation. It's also a good deal of the reason I've made the creative acts of playing, writing and recording music my life's work and also much of the reason I haven't been eatin' animal stuff for 14 years or so. There's always been something in the simplicity of Aquinas' "prima causa" that spoke to me. Something had to start it all in motion, right? That, combined with the perfect logic that can be found underlying the forces set in motion at that (big bang?) moment, even in our most convoluted struggles and especially in the laws of nature, have kept me from any period of atheism (although my fervent belief in the existence of a god and some form of an afterlife are matched by an almost as fervent belief that I might just be wrong about both).

One thing I wonder, why does recognizing the beauty of the laws of nature that govern evolution insult the faith of those who believe in a god who would be responsible for the whole glorious process, while belief in a jumbled mish mash of two (count 'em, two!) ancient fables does honor and glory to that same god? If you believe that "one day" creation story that God put a big glass bowl up on top of this flat earth to keep all that water in outer space out or the week-long story where the first human is made whole-cloth out of dirt, you're dishonoring your great creator God by not using that beautiful brain She put in yr head!

One more Adventure In Faith: A few years ago, I heard an interview with the founder of a fairly ecumenical website named beliefnet.org. He mentioned a quiz on the site called the belief-o-matic, in which one answers 20 questions about one's beliefs and how strongly those beliefs are held. Once the answers are submitted, they are fed through a program that scores and ranks how your expressed beliefs line up with those of 27 major faith traditions. I took the quiz, expecting that I would end up totally Unitarian and pretty close to some of the Buddhist and Hindu traditions. I was surprised twice... my No. 1 faith tradition, with 100% score: Neo-Pagan. My No.27 faith tradition at the end of the line, behind Orthodox Judaism and Scientology, even, was Roman Catholicism, the faith of my upbringing and one of my greatest single sources of income.

I fought the Neo-Pagan result for a few days, then read a lil' and realized that someone who is that into God as Creator and God as Mother Nature fits pretty well in that box. Not that I'm gonna seek out any Wiccan worship any time soon. The Roman Catholic result was less of a surprise. I'm sure that most mainstream American catholics wouldn't have a high Roman Catholic score on this test, and I'm far from mainstream.

It's an enlightening exercise in self discovery, at least. Everyone should try: Belief-O-Matic

the sublime, the ridiculous

Such a ride these days. Drinking, dancing, talking, playing, discovering new music with old friends, meeting new friends, I am so filled with light and joy and confidence verging on arrogance. Left to myself, all attempts at being productive, doing the things I love, imposing some structure on my life and avoiding distraction are entirely futile and I lay myself open to crushing self-doubt and loss of hope. I have allowed some business relationships to be strained past what would be the breaking point if roles were reversed. Somedays I feel like an alcoholic stoking the engine as he hurtles down the tracks toward rock bottom. Perversely, I sometimes envy addicts and others whose "crazy" is more easily defined. Would that I could simply be labeled "alcoholic" or "bipolar" and follow the well-worn paths of their treatments.

I know that my brain is, to some extent, effected by ADD as well as what I imagine are three or four separate emotional/psychological issues. The ADD makes it difficult for me to provide a focus for my own treatment and those who are helping me don't seem to care to focus and follow through on any one issue at a time. I seem to be at a few points of crisis regarding shit that just needs to be done and I need an outside influence to kick my ass through those doors. I have a real problem with the AA concept of having to reach rock bottom before you can make a change. I also have a hard time letting go of my deeply held fallacious belief that I can solve any problem through sheer force of intellect. I'm not ready to let go and let god until I'm convinced it's my last resort.

I thought that setting myself down this path of thought might lead me to some small bit of enlightenment tonight, but I've just managed to be a whiny bitch. I'll keep at it. I assure you if you meet me out on the town, you'd be thoroughly charmed. (:

...and, for my next trick, I'll sleep four hours, brush the smoke from my hair, shave, shower and be in church by 9:30 primed to play a funeral.

on, on U of K...

love me, love my bar

Having a terrible string of bad luck finding new partners in crime for nightcaps at Seidenfaden's. Since Ray has moved to NYC, this has become a priority of the greatest necessity. First, Michael was turned off by the loudness, crowding and, I guess, the general karaoke-ness of Wednesdays at my neighborhood haunt. I must admit, as much as I love being able to have a relatively calm, conversational conclusion to the evening, I do love the chaos of karaoke nights at Seidenfaden's. Maybe I can get Siobh interested in making it a regular appointment after Open Air Transmissions (I rarely seem ready to head straight home from the Rud.).

So, tonight, Kelly wasn't so hip on Erin's suggestion to finish the night at the Dirty Soul Party. Actually, by that time, Erin wasn't that hip on her own suggestion and although I'm always happy to be dancing in a hot, sweaty crowd, when I'm at the Red Lounge I can never quite relieve myself of the feeling that I'm just not one of the cool kids. Still happens to me in most of those "see and be seen" places. So they ask me where we should go and, of course, I take the opportunity to have my last beer two blocks away from home. Seidenfaden's... Erin says, "I've never been there. Let's go!" Better reaction than I could've hoped for, surely. So, we get our drinks and a minute later, a guy Kelly didn't know except as a bartender somewhere else comes up and says hello, has a dizzying carousel conversation consisting of around five "How have you been? Fine. And yourself?" exchanges. He then leaves the bar, Kelly assures us he's very cute and principled when not hopelessly inebriated. Thirty seconds later, he walks back in, bends down to Kelly's ear and tells her, "You are the sole reason... for fighting the death penalty in this state. You are the entire impetus behind it."... and leaves the bar again. I tell Kelly that if that were true about me, I'd want to know it and that she should consider it a great compliment, which would be true if what he'd said had any relevance in this universe. Although Kelly is fervently opposed to the death penalty, I believe that it would be a stretch to say that she's the sole impetus behind any one person fighting said injustice, much less an entire state's movement against capital punishment.

After a few minutes of settling into our conversation, we received another unexpected visitor- this time, a mid-20s I-was-a-nerd-in-school-but-now-my-skin-cleared-up-and-I-bought-a-leather-jacket-and-some-cool-frames-so-now-I-can-talk-to-any-chick-even-though-I-never-managed-to-learn-any-social-skills guy asking the ladies if they wanted to join a band called Three Aces based on the early '90s Chicago erotica movement. I'm sure he thought he was pretty smooth to figure out an opening line that would compliment the ladies ("You think I look cool enough to be in a band?") and slyly introduce sex into the conversation in the first half minute. Of course, both of those tactics always worked well for Prince, but he was cool and brilliant, with balls like cantaloupes. If you're not talented, or at least cool, nobody wants to be in your band, and if you don't have the balls to tell a woman how much you want to fuck her right off the bat, you're better off waiting a few minutes before you start sliding the double-entendres in.

I figured being shot down twice in short order would be enough to send our new acquaintance on his way, and I tend to shy away from actions which might inflame tensions or incite violence, so I didn't automatically puff out my chest and demand we be left alone. He didn't budge, though, so I laughingly remarked that he "just didn't know when to stop." No dice. Made a comment about it being nice that I had two women who actually enjoyed talking to me. Realized that our uninvited tablemate had a finely developed conversational Ali rope-a-dope frequently employed by those with minimal or unpleasant personalities to extend any personal interaction they may be granted. The strategy is to keep feinting, keeping your prey talking by changing subjects or forcing them to defend themselves against subtle, often unvoiced allegations of being uptight, materialistic, etc. until you finally alight on a subject of shared interest or, like Foreman, they punch themselves out, lowering their defenses, giving you an opening.

However, he was no more Ali than he was Prince. After being asked directly by all of us to leave the table, he made one last effort at delaying his exit, asking to just finish his beer. After we denied that request, he began mocking Erin, at which point I puffed out my chest and demanded that he leave us alone, which he did, but only after making a great show of finishing his beer in two almost-manly gulps.

Needless to say, the ladies said that they didn't think they'd be joining me at Seidenfaden's in the future.

What's the moral of the story? Maybe I'll figure that out in the harsh light of day. Right now, I just know that Ray introduced me to a hip, cheap, little hole in the wall within stumbling distance of home, then he moved to the city and left me without a drinking buddy (on Breckinridge, at least). So maybe it's "Rizzo giveth, and Rizzo taketh away." Or maybe it has something to do with a thing my therapist said today... that I've been cursed with or constructed a life in which I can't win *or* lose.

...