every kiss

tonight, think of this:

every kiss

from anyone

who ever leaned themselves

into you

(so smile at your loved one,

but this is not that song)

tonight, rewind the track

and pause on every scene

every temporary pact

when you jumped into the stream

awkward, tingling,

there was nothing so sweet;

and/or sometimes drunken,

let’s face it, un-neat

a park bench

a parking lot

happy-hour bar

a crowded party

one or twice candlelight

yes, even that backseat car

many places you have been

many faces you have seen

almost all just nodded,

politely applauded, coolly regarded

and you to them, too

there’s only a few offered their lips to you

a fleeting moment

maybe longer, maybe big regret

sometimes stupid silly sad

maybe you’ve chosen to forget

but tonight, think of this:

every kiss

from every one

ever really breathed

into you

RIP Gil Scott-Heron

In the early 90s, a friend lent me some LPs. Imagine that. I listened to them again and again, this poet-singer who was now referenced, if at all, in the past tense, some artifact from those days of rage. But there he was, later that month, in the concert listings of a throwaway weekly, appearing at some club in Los Angeles. "Tonight: Gil Scott Heron." And that same evening, the news reported a comet might be seen if the skies weren't too hazy. Well, if there wasn't a poem in the making then, there never would be. So I wrote one.

gil scott-heron tonight

your black fro cracks us up

you see, as a child, I don’t

remember seeing that, and

your face, looking out intelligently, like a calm warning,

still scares the shit out of half the Valley, and LAPD

would protect and serve up something, baby, if you got caught

between coffehouses.

gil-scott heron, I do believe

the message and the turntable had a photo finish,

and the winner, they report, is obsolescence.

I got to get up and change

the fucking needle is skipping.

Now what kind of what revolution is that?

you see, as the childen’s children, we didn’t and...

...oh, gil scott-heron, you brilliant dandeLion.

that comet made it though los angeles sky decay tonight.

Listening to 2010

The first in a series...

The Delays: "Star Tiger Star Ariel"

It's been a long time since Coldplay's "Parachutes" (2000) and "A Rush of Blood to the Head" (2002). I've grown mean and cynical and I’m officially a Coldplay-hater, which places me in the indie snob club, I guess. But it’s not really a reaction to their arena popularity or the Gwyneth Paltrow-Chris Martin alliance of perfected privilege. OK, that might be part of the problem. But mostly it’s the spineless minivan music. And I've got a Honda Odyssey in the driveway. It's for transporting kids not named Apple to school and soccer games. We're all good.

Now I still like me some piano-based “sensitive” singer stuff where the soaring choruses can be spotted a mile away. There’s Travis, but they aren’t goofy and happy with the way things are. I also like the even more sugary Keane, and they managed to team with Somalian rapper Ka’an to create the addictive “Stop For A Minute” last year. Coldplay will do it soon, too, you watch, but they’ll go with Kanye … because he’s hot hot hot.

Which brings me to the Delays. They knocked me out with this album, and while it contains plenty of soaring choruses, I haven’t seen it mentioned on one year-end list. I couldn’t stop listening for weeks, from beginning to end, and that just doesn’t happen much these MP3 days. Maybe it didn’t catch on for the negative associations with this type of music, but underneath the polished sensibilities are wicked subversions, lyrically and musically.

OK, dude’s voice isn’t for everyone because, frankly, it doesn’t sound like a dude sometimes. But I dig it as a sort of reaction to all the dudes who don’t bother to sing these days. This guy can sing. And when he goes from falsetto to sort of angry Geddy Lee, the energy works. Is this revved up prog-rock, or maybe the ghost of operatic Queen, which was never my thing? No, not really, but it surprises me how the Delays and another favorite Bloc Party (see 2009’s “Weekend in the City”) have referenced some of that approach in a way I find more aggressive than fey, and very relevant.

These songs build and weave. That’s enough, but then there’s some rather cryptic lyrics dealing with things like an obscure nature mystic (Find A Home), or the widow of a WW II pilot (May 45), or, hell — I’m not sure what the title track is about (a spaceship?), but it revs its engines at the end and leaves the earth to conclude an album that starts with a whisper and then doesn’t ever stall.

This is how I feel when hearing this album. But I know it doesn’t have a chance with some listeners. It’s a highly produced offering that may provoke immediate bristling. That’s fine. But don’t consign it to the Coldplay formula. It contains multitudes, and I’m still digging through them.

Check out: “Unsung”

Just breathe; we'll make a picture not a scene,
'Cos you don't have to preach to me,
There's not a note you cannot sing,

Unsung, you'll be a ghost before too long,
You'll get your moment in the sun,
Under the moon, under the gun

There's a hole carved in me you can see straight through,
Fill it in, fill it in, 'cos it's shaped like you,
There's a hole carved in me you can see straight through,
Fill it in, fill it in, 'cos it's shaped like you...

This Hat

You: Take this hat, wear it when you're feeling shaky

I found it in a neighborhood I used to roam,

a place I wasn't supposed to go.  

It was a time

I walked like a boxer

I'm throwing punches now in my sleep, missing wild

knocking myself out, sitting at a desk

It's a place I'm not supposed to leave.

I can't tell you more, only why I stay

You: Take this smile, wear it in bad weather

I saw it in the window of a bar I used to rage, 

passing by too fast to recognize.  

These days

I take a taxi

This is a place I’m not supposed to revisit

I can't tell you when I left, only why I did

You: Take my hat, wear it when you're feeling shaky

said wear it when you're feeling

wrote this a lifetime ago, working in NYC

How It Happens

The sky said I am watching

to see what you

can make out of nothing

I was looking up and I said

I thought you

were supposed to be doing that

the sky said Many

are clinging to that

I am giving you a chance

I was looking up and I said

I am the only chance I have

then the sky did not answer

and here we are

with our names for the days

the vast days that do not listen to us

— W.S. Merwin

Remember Me

Carry-on bags packed, house-key in wallet, security checkpoints cleared, this family boarded a plane to Philadelphia to celebrate Grandma’s 89^th birthday and Thanksgiving in America … in Riddle Village ... with family: nephews and nieces, fiancées and partners, babies, great grandma and great-grandpa, and Uncle Steve in memory … all of us, together, in a small reserved room for a few hours.

First, there was a toast to the matriarch, unprepared but easy as a hug … then some wine and small talk, many great pictures … and word that this family is about to get bigger, though not officially announced. Good times. This all might not happen again, but what does? We’re here for now.

Later, after some cake and then football in the parking lot, we’re all back in Grandma’s overheated apartment -- a running joke. Grandpa’s been wheeled to his room above -- we’ll go up and say goodnight later, after some weird variation of Chinese checkers. But for now, Grandma sits on her couch, surrounded by affection, opening her birthday cards and passing them around the room. That’s not something people do anymore, and there’s some winks and smiles. But we read them diligently and pass them around the room … sweet sentiments, including a few from some who probably haven’t done such a thing in years.

But then one card makes the rounds and it gets held a little longer by everyone, even the cool cats, I imagine. It’s from Grandpa, upstairs now. Probably chosen with help from Aunt Sue or my Mom, something about finding an angel and marrying her. But it’s signed at the end by Grandpa, the man of few words, getting fewer these days … two words: “Remember me.”

After the living room ceremony, Grandma puts all the cards in a basket and displays them on the organ-piano that Grandpa rarely plays anymore … but when he does, no mistakes, still.

We wrap up the evening with more laughter and small talk … some say goodbye that night, some the next day … eventually everyone checks out, leaving Riddle Village, back to our daily lives.

I’m back in L.A. now, hoping we all remember Thanksgiving 2010 … remember family, even when it’s not present … remember that true love is forever and a lifetime … remember that even when it’s whispered in a scrawl, it shouts. Nothing else matters.

Politics and Math

The American People. Who are they, and why are they constantly cited as backup to every politician's claim to righteousness, as in "the American people have spoken" or "the American people don't want this (healthcare reform) or that (environmental regulation), etc.?"

It's revolting. "Patriotism" as the last refuge of these scoundrels.

The American people are diverse and divided, angry and apathetic, confused and complicit in this mess. But they are most certainly not a singular voice. Of course, "American people" is often just the new code for "people like me." And that's a joke, too, because while these cynical hacks may be referencing white males and pit-bull moms, they are conveniently side-stepping the fact that each one of their bank accounts would be a lottery win for those they claim to speak for.

The latest election was supposedly a referendum. I beg to differ. Here's some very simple math, provided in a New Yorker article by Hendrik Hertzberg (an American person).  He notes that in 2008, about 53 percent of the electorate opted for Democratic candidates. In 2010, about 53 percent opted for Republicans.

But in 2008, 120 million people voted in the Congressional elections (130 million in the Presidential election). In this year's supposed landslide reversal, 75 million people voted. That's 45-55 million people who, energized two short years ago, didn't bother this time around. I'm guessing it made a difference.

Hertzberg goes on to say: "The members of this year's truncated election were whiter, markedly older and more habitually Republican." In other words, the angry, scared, crazy folk showed up.

But that ain't my America. And it won't be the pseudo movement known as the Tea Party's for long. Math is not on their side. But they don't have much need for math or any other science. In the meantime, time may not be on our side.

Making A Mix

"Music is a higher revelation than all wisdom and philosophy. Music is the electrical soil in which the spirit lives, thinks and invents." — Beethoven


I listen to music. A lot. I like to discuss it and I like to zone out on it. I like to share it, too.

So I make mixes. Mixes for road trips and running. Mixes for the deck. For workmates. Mixes for my sister and Mom. Mixes for friends who have come and gone. Mixes.

The current one (that has me on headphones approaching midnight) is for my sister turning 37 this month. It's got Charlie Mars, MIA, Joe Pug, Tina Dico, Tokyo Police Club, The Tallest Man on Earth, The Tragically Hip, DOM, The Standard and the song of the year: "We Used to Wait" by Arcade Fire.

It's also got a track iTunes and the bloggers don't have yet: a song by my daughter Remy. She overdubbed it on an iPhone. Yes, she "two-tracked" herself strumming and singing a song that is way too Galaxy 500 for a 10 years old. (I know, I've lost you all. All three of you.) It's haunting and sweet. Maureen can be heard clanking dishes in the kitchen in the background. But you'll have to wait for the mix to go viral.

Until that time, click here to see Arcade Fire perform We Used to Wait live. It's why I listen to music. A lot.

Women & Spirit

The Jesuits have some very cool dudes. One, Father George, married Maureen and me, then took my mom on a motorcycle ride up the coast of Santa Cruz after the reception. And there's Tom Powers, who has since moved on from the Jesuits, who kept the party going during a lull at some big event. We got to talking over gin and tonics and tunes about those decrepit priests in the news, historical hypocrisy, modern paralysis, and all forms of fairly tales used to explain away the reality on the ground.

But writing as a freelancer for Mount Saint Mary's College's magazine has been an unexpected opportunity to interview people whose faith is pointed in all the right places, namely helping the poor, healing the sick and taking on social injustices. It's easy to smirk at the headlines and shake our heads. It's quite another to dedicate one's life to changing the reality on the ground like Sister Peg, rest in peace.

I wrote a story this week about "Women & Spirit," an historical traveling exhibit about the unsung sisters who have worked to change this nation's cultural and social landscape through their faith, yes, but also through action. The exhibit is coming to Mount Saint Mary's next year, and I look forward to taking the family to see it and meeting the people I interviewed.

I'll post a link to the story when it's published.

Ike

We said goodbye to Ike yesterday.

Fourteen years ago, he came out of nowhere, crying at our window, losing hair and emaciated. A lost cause. We fed him on the porch, and then each day he waited languidly in the afternoon sun until we returned from work. One day, he ventured inside, we didn't say no, and that was that.

He blessed us with his prehistoric soul. Half-lidded, electric eel black, with a brownish goatee somehow always wet. Most everyone thought he looked mean. No doubt, he liked to lounge on the counter and take the occasional swipe at the unsuspecting. But he also snuggled under the covers at night.

Ike faced the very real possibility of death early. And when his latest ailments (thyroid, kidney, old age) made him increasingly weak, it was clear: he'd face it again. His thing was survival. Down to seven pounds, he stalked water faucets instead of birds and mice.

I'm grateful we shared these 14 years with him. The smallest panther deserved some peace. His hard-scrabble beginnings did not require a troubled ending.

So we held him yesterday morning as he drifted off into that timeless savanna from where he came.

IKE

a day in 1995 — Nov. 8, 2010