******* All American Frank *******

Playing in a band is awesome, but “party hearty” spirit and professionalism can be a sour mix. I did gigs with a jazzy-ish bass player who drank lots, appeared like Van Morrisson channeling Charles Bukowski and, on gig-day, he would tour the bars to woo prospective fans. One night, as the gig began, he was stationed on a stool stage left, and after a couple of shaky runs, his head dipped and the bass stopped. He was out.. sleeping soundly. I inserted a walking bassline on piano, bottomed out the EQ, and kicked his stool.. One kick sent him against a side wall, and then he’d bounce back, until another kick would reverse it, back toward the wall. It was working, I thought, a virtual “swaying to the beat” motion. But the crowd cheered and jeered, loving the jerky stage moves! The cash register rang out, as barflies watched their hard-drinking superhero live out his rock star dreams. He got a second wind and we finished strong with bar favorites like “Brown Eyed Girl” and “Bad Bad Leroy Brown.” He ordered 2 pitchers at last call.. we awaited a certain weekly gig offer. But the bartender looked annoyed, and emerged from dim lights, with a couple hundred in twenties. She handed it over, saying, “I saw him sleeping.. and you’re fired, by the way…”

Sometimes the phrases “tickle the ivories” and “tinkling piano” get mixed up, and someone asks, “Are you going to tinkle the ivories?” I’ve tried several witty responses, but never got any results.. so now I just say, “Yes, yes I am.” (:

I rented this cool, small house on Smith Hill, but had to move when it got sold. A year later, while heading to a bar with a guitarist buddy, he asked, “Quick pit stop at my Bro’s house? For a drink and smoke?” I said, “Ok, I used to live around here.” Was totally weirded out when we pulled up to my old house, stopped, and went inside it. The place was a total mess, a nonstop party central, and the new dude was kinda rough. I made the call NOT to tell either guy I ever lived there, and we stayed about an hour. At one point, instinctively, though, I went upstairs to the bathroom. He asked, “Where you headin’ Bro?” I said, “Oh.. Is the bathroom up here?”

On the Antiques Roadshow, it often looks like the owner wants to sell the item “on the spot.” And if the appraisals are legit, the Roadshow should offer a cash-out option, rather than saying, “We know GranPappy’s ol’ bedpan is a family heirloom, but it’s worth $1200 if you ever want to sell..” They want to sell, now!

Reverbnation says I can “skip the audition line” for the Voice.. No worries, Reverb, I’m skipping the whole thing! (:

Billy Joel has lots of advice in his songs, like “Don’t go changin'” and “Tell her about it”.. Great songs, but not so sure about the advice..  For me, good dating advice would be “Shut up and act normal.”

At open mics, performers usually do short introductions for their song (or poems). The intros tend to either be “good but boring” or “terrible but interesting.” One night a poet began with a “heart to heart” announcement that he had just inherited a house in Italy, was moving there, and asked us all to join him. The emotional announcement exhausted his time limit, so he didn’t get to read any poetry, but afterwards, we all retired to our usual haunt, a karaoke bar, to discuss it. Someone said it was crap. He had inherited land only, no house, with taxes owed anyway, so it was a wash. Someone else suggested we could pitch tents on the land, and wondered if he’d pay part of travel. A women said she would never tent in Italy! At that point, our karaoke friend scolded us for lack of attention, bad singing and reminded us he needed support, as he pursued his professional karaoke dreams. That open mic soon disbanded, however, I sometimes imagine a poet, in a tent, on the Italian countryside, composing the next great verse, by lamplight.

When 3 days of amazing feels are followed by 3 days of mighty crap, then the rain washes it all away..

There was a “great age” of working class guys who ended up in politics, back before politics became a dirty word. Growing up I knew a few of these guys, and my first few jobs were as aides / glorified errand boys, in their offices. And, man, despite my low totem rank, these were great jobs, as the guys you worked for were the real deal and got real things done. They’d say, “Let’s go.” And off you’d go, hopping between Union Halls, diners, churches, and the State House with its nearby bars. One expression that always stuck withe me was, “Let’s take a walk.” It meant that there was some problem, which rather than getting solved, was in fact getting worse. And that we needed to wander around a bit, to talk to people, to look for clues, mull some ideas and essentially go see real people, in real places, and end up “wherever” the real problem was. And more times than not, after that walk, not only was the problem solved, but we found smiles, handshakes, new ideas and unexpected perks like coffee, pastry, a meal, or just great folks and conversations. And everything leading up to the problem, be it angry phone calls, threatening letters, tense meetings, standoffs or rancor, all evaporated. Because the moment had come to drop all that stuff, and go see people, stand across from them, see their faces, hear their voices, shake their hands, enjoy a laugh, and pay homage to live human contact, an ever-maligned tool we’re either trying to improve upon or discard, only to discover it ain’t so bad, having worked pretty well, for at least a few thousand years.

If the sign on the front of the bus says “Crazytown,” don’t take it! Because that’s probably where it’s going..