Thoughts on the Super Bowl

I believe I’m deserving of acclaim for having gone the past two weeks and not once mentioning the Super Bowl. In fact, other than a tweet announcing my phone number in Roman Numerals is DCCXXIV CMLXI MMDLVIII, I haven’t really thought about it.

But I fear if I don’t write something about the game, the NFL might revoke my blogging license and I’ll lose out on all these great blogging perks. So let’s ensure that doesn’t happen by filing some scattergun thoughts as the hype ascends to unbearable levels.

• I'm filled with dread knowing something I've avoided for 30 years is bound to happen in scant hours. Yes, I'll watch Madonna perform. Super Bowl halftime acts should be like host cities. We should just go back to the greats again and again. That means Petty, McCartney, Stones, Springsteen each get to play once very five or six years. And I get to pick who performs, which means every two or three years you get a Lucinda Williams, a Todd Snider or Robert Earl Keen.

• Tom Brady keeps making it easy to hate him. This week it was leaked that his supermodel wife Gisele Bundchen had written a sappy note to family and friends asking them all to pray that Tommy does well and leads the Patriots to victory. I'll pray that every Haitian refugee wins their first Super Bowl ring before I pray Tom Brady wins his fourth.

• The high in Indianapolis tomorrow will be about 44-degrees, or about 25-degrees cooler than it will be in New Orleans. Nothing against, Indy, but if I’m going to a Super Bowl, I want to see flowers, outdoor dining and be able to stroll around in short sleeves. The Super Bowl will be in New York City in two years. How long before it’s in Buffalo?

• Why not homeboy John Mellencamp in Indy instead of Madonna? My wife and I saw him with Dylan and Willie Nelson a few years ago. Didn’t know what the expect. The man rocks. He’d be perfect.

• The next step in halftime entertainment will be to project holograms of dead icons. And that will be magnificent. I’m thinking a 70-foot Elvis singing, “Hound Dog.”

• Something tells me this game will be remembered for a really bad call and it’ll involves a Giant defender hitting the Lady Brady just a tad too hard.

• How come Elton John’s never been asked to perform halftime duties? He’s only the most popular and beloved performer on the planet. I’m loving him as much for being so provocative and honest as for all his indelible music. When asked what he thought Madonna should do on Sunday, he advised, “Try not to lip-synch too badly.” A few years ago he described Keith Richards as resembling an “arthritic monkey.” The bitch is back? The bitch never left.

• The only reason I’m happy Pittsburgh got bounced from the playoffs was because it spars us from seeing our idiot mayor participating in those ridiculous inter-city bets the media for some reason feel obliged to cover.

• I’m surprised Bundchen’s note didn’t reveal she spells her husband’s name “Tawmmi” with a little smiley heart dotting the i.

• Other great future hologram performers: Sinatra, Tina Turner, Chuck Berry, James Brown and one day, yes, The Beatles. Mark my words, if there’s a rock ‘n’ roll heaven, one day they’ll reunite on stage at the Bridgestone Super Bowl Halftime Show. It’s bound to happen.

• I hope the Giants so relentlessly and fiercely pursue Tawmmi that he visibly wets his pants and the stain reveals he pees pink.

• My prediction: Giants 27, Patriots 17. Wake me when it’s over.

The forgiveness of forgetfulness

I’m not saying this in an attempt to be funny, but I’d made a mental note to read a Yahoo story last week about memory loss and it slipped my mind.

Completely forgot about it.

Human memory has been on my mind for two months since I danced through the memory minefield that is the 30th high school reunion. I am amazed by the variations of our recollections from those heirloom days.

For instance, one girl, a good friend of mine, said the thing she remembers most about me is that I was never without a big wad of snuff tucked into my lip.

Funny, I said, because I didn’t remember you being insane. I’ve never once in my life had a even a pinch of snuff in my mouth.

Yet, her enduring memory of me is I was the friendly kid with the tobacco spit dribbling out of his smile.

How odd is that?

Then there was the good buddy of mine who’s spent the past 35 years attributing one of my greatest pranks to someone else.

It was Miss Picci’s 8th grade chorus class. We were walking in line from the basement class to the first floor auditorium. She was on DefCon 4 to make sure we all behaved.

Now, there’s a woman who could have used a soothing dip of Copenhagen.

Me, Doug and the other troublemakers were in the front of the line so she could keep an eye on us. It was like a miniature version of one of those perp walks you see on the news.

I waited until we got to the big heavy doors at the stairway. I gave the door a mighty yank straight into my kicking boot. It echoed like a thunderclap.

Miss Picci turned with a look of startled horror in time to see me grasping my head with both hands and moaning, “Why, Doug? Why?” right before I began faking concussion-like symptoms.

I’ll never forget what happened next. She lit into poor Doug like she wanted to kill him. Said she never did like him. Said he was no good. That I was always her favorite. That he couldn’t sing a lick and that she’d see he’d get suspended for a month if what he’d done had ruined my handsome young face.

See, my recollections are crystal clear.

Yet, when I overheard Doug telling the story of this Hall of Fame-worthy prank . . . he said it was Schwartz!

An outrage. The slight made me want to drag him to the stairway hall door and make like Joe Pesci on his head.

That wasn’t even the worst of it.

No, that was the girl I remember from her sexy jungle girl suit.

I was standing alone at the bar when she walked up. I have an indelible memory of her wearing the outfit to her 1980 Halloween party to which she’d invited me.

I glanced at her nametag and said hello.

She looked at my name tag and dismissively said, “I have no idea who you are!”

I’m sure it wasn’t her cruel intention to make me feel like a nobody, just as it wasn’t my intention to make her feel like a slut when I said, “Sure you do. You invited me to your Halloween party our senior year. You wore that skimpy little Tarzan outfit. I wore a diaper and dressed like a big baby. We made out at midnight beneath the pool table in your basement. Remember?”

She did not. In fact, I think the clarity of my recollection upset her because she began backing away without ordering a drink and avoided me the whole rest of the night.

The reason we forget chunks of our silly pasts is because our minds are forever being refreshed by new memories.

Our minds in high school are canvasses yet to be colored.

Back then, I didn’t have things like kids, anniversaries, the complete rosters of five new world championship Pittsburgh teams and the lyrics of 248 songs by Robert Earl Keen and Todd Snider important enough to commit to memory.

You know now that I think about it, maybe I did have a dip or two of snuff back in high school. Maybe it is my memory that’s off because, yeah, that Schwartz kid was damn funny.

And, if memory serves, maybe I was wrong about the girl in the Tarzan suit.

Maybe it wasn’t her after all.

Must have been her mom.

Now they've ruined jukeboxes

I feel sheepish criticizing something I loved longer and spent more quality time with than even my family, but neighborhood bars are starting to suck.

I know. That’s like worms criticizing dirt.

I’ve loved my family for the nearly 11 years I’ve had them, but I’ve loved being in bars for about as long as I was biologically capable of conceiving a family, or at least since I was able to obtain a convincing fake ID.

What’s wrong with neighborhood bars?

Jukeboxes.

They are one of the man’s few inventions that as they’ve gotten better and better have gotten worse and worse.

Guaranteed, any jukebox from any local tavern or pizza joint even from the 1970s is far superior to any dazzling new internet Tunetown.

An old jukebox would have maybe 100 songs -- 50 two-sided 45s -- from an eclectic mix of top popular artists of the day. Guaranteed, they’d all have something by the Rolling Stones, The Who, Linda Ronstadt, Elvis, The Eagles, Boz Scaggs, Elton John and some of the still-memorable one-hit wonders of the day.

The owner decided what deserved jukebox inclusion. And by doing so he or she was setting an artistic boundary as imposing as any bouncer.

The fortunes of a bar’s reputation rested on the quality of its jukebox every bit as much as the charm or shapeliness of the person pouring the drinks.

Today’s jukeboxes have maybe one million songs on them.

There’s something for everyone.

Please all and you please none.

A jukebox with one million songs puts tasteful people like me at the mercy of morons.

Understand, I love all my fellow man. My fellow babes, too. And I go out of my way to make them all feel welcome when they stranger on into a bar where my frequent over-consumption makes me feel like I have a proprietary stake.

Blacks, gays, Hispanics, Muslims, Orientals, liberals and even sadly misguided conservatives -- at one time or another I’ll bet I’ve bought them all at least a drink or two and sought common philosophical ground.

I welcome the whole rainbow of humanity to sit down and share a drink with me.

Just leave your crappy music in your car.

That’s why the new mega-song internet jukeboxes are such disasters.

Now someone who doesn’t know any better can come in and instantly demolish the atmosphere of a really rockin’ bar.

That’s what would happen if, say, my daughter, 10, came into the bar with her allowance and what would have to be an incredibly realistic fake ID. She wouldn’t play Hayes Carll, Joe Ely, Steve Earle, or any of the Texas troubadours whose music enlivens any really cool tavern.

No, she’d play Selena Gomez, Taylor Swift and other saccharine pap from groups like the cast of Glee.

It would be so embarrassing I’d almost be hesitant to bum $5 off her before ratting her out for being underage.

Now, I love that little girl, more than Tom Petty even -- and Petty’s always been there for me. Sure, Petty’s never called me stupid, told his friends I smell bad and screamed he’ll die if I make him listen to one more Bob Dylan song, but the daughter wins my affection because in between bouts of tweener hostility she’ll still crawl up on my lap for sweet cuddling.

I reserve the right to change my evaluation of the two if Petty ever calls and says he’d like to come over and cuddle.

My point is the tavern owner should never abdicate his or her social obligations to pander to musical misfits who think Van Morrison’s best song is “Brown Eyed Girl,” think Mark Knopfler retired after he folded up Dire Straits, and love Lady Gaga but have never heard of Joan Jett & the Blackhearts.

Because I love rock ‘n’ roll. So put another dime in the jukebox, baby.

Here are 10 songs guaranteed to set a great vibe in your local tavern:

• “Piano Man,” Billy Joel -- Look around as everyone starts to sing along and you’ll see each of the characters depicted in the 1973 song in every bar you’ve ever been in.

• “The Road Goes on Forever,” Joe Ely -- This is Ely’s 1992 superior version of the Robert Earl Keen original. It kicks more ass than an impatient mule farmer, as does much of everything both Keen and Ely have ever composed.

• “Highlands,” Bob Dylan -- at 16 minutes, 32 seconds, this is the only song likely to get you your money’s worth in a day when a single juke box song costs as much as a draft beer. It’s so slow and swampy people hate for the first five mintues, become curious during the second five and finally start to dig it during the homestretch. I always play it at least twice in a row.

• “Sultans of Swing,” Dire Straits -- Maybe the greatest guitar song ever written with sneering Knoplfer lyrics about the boys in the corner who “don’t give a damn ‘bout any trumpet-playing band” because “it ain’t what they call rock ‘n’ roll.” This sure is.

• “Change The Locks,” Tom Petty -- From “She’s The One,” the ’96 Petty album known only to the most devout, this was an outstanding rock soundtrack to the forgotten indy movie. Petty’s only twice recorded another’s songs for his studio albums, I think. It’s a pickiness that works well here with this outstanding Lucinda Williams rocker.

• “You Never Even Called Me By My Name,” David Allan Coe -- This list is light on country, which I revere, but I never skip this on the jukebox. It’s classic country and goes out of its way to ensure listeners realize it with its uproarious last verse.

• “Can’t You Hear Me Knockin,’” Rolling Stones -- The Stones have so many indelible hits this great jazzy number often gets overlooked. This opens the ears of innocents who think they know all about the Stones from “Start Me Up,” “Brown Sugar,” and “Satisfaction.”

• “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” The Who -- From the opening chord to Daltry’s final euphoric shriek, this mesmerizes throughout.

• “Funeral for a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding,” Elton John -- The first song on the first album, “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,” I ever bought. At 11 minutes, 11 seconds, it’s one of music’s most epic and eloquent rockers. The virtuosity dazzles still and the song is a surprise reminder that in 1973 when rock ‘n’ roll was at its best, Elton John was among the very best.

• “American Pie,”Don McLean -- This is it, the greatest jukebox song ever recorded. It’s tuneful, mournful, exuberant and tells the story of rock in such allegoric detail that it’ll ignite conversations clear through last call.

Rock on, my friends, rock on.

Undercover Boss -- me!

I remember seeing the first “Undercover Boss” promos and thinking, gee, what a novel idea. I’d love to watch a show where the CEO is revealed to be a moron and emerges with a new respect for working stiffs.

And, of course, I haven’t watched even a minute of it. I watch enough mind-deadening TV that I don’t need to pump more reality sewage into the swamp -- and that sounds like the premise for “Undercover Mob Boss.”

Yet, I remain charmed by the concept and think how much fun it would be to have a role in the show.

Since I work alone, can’t afford to hire anyone and even coke-headed producers wouldn’t dream of putting a show like that on the air, I spent yesterday pretending I was the Undercover Boss of myself.

I auditioned the 23 or so distinct voices in my head and allowed one of them to step forward into the boss role to survey what I do, how difficult it is, and gain a new appreciation for the peon employee.

That’d be me.

Undercover Boss: “Morning! I’m here to work with you.”

Me: Welcome aboard. I’m prepared to share with you all my secrets. Ask me anything.

U.B.: “Let me start by saying how handsome you are.”


Me: "And let me start by saying what a fantastic start you're off to, my brown-nosing little friend!

Camera pans to a sign on the door that says, “All Guys Welcome! My Door is Always Open, My Toilet Seat is Always Up,” as I let him in to the shabby little office right above my favorite bar.

U.B.: “Quite an office you have here.”

Me: It’s like a little clubhouse. I told my wife a few years ago I wanted a ‘Bob Dylan Theme Time Radio’ poster for my birthday. She said, ‘What, are you still in the eighth grade?’ I told her no, but my office is.

Camera flash summarizes the first three hours of the morning with clips of me tossing wadded up pieces of scrap paper into a 5-foot high waste paper basket nailed to the wall 12-feet from my desk. The ones that miss, about 50-percent, I then thud chip into a lower waste basket with my pitching wedge (camera shows startled diners in the bar below spilling hot soup in their laps as the jarring noise sparks alarm).

U.B.: “Do you ever do any work here?”

Me: Not really. I try to avoid things that make me sweat or cause my brain to hurt.

The show segues to a shots of me expertly juggling three bean bags and swapping punch lines from movies like “SlapShot!” “Hot Fuzz,” and “Zombieland” with old friends on the speaker phone. The iPod blasts a lively playlist of Delbert McClinton, Todd Snider, Joe Ely and Kris Kristofferson.

U.B. “I packed a lunch. Do we eat here in the office?”

Me: Rarely. I spend so much time deep inside my own head, I really need to get out and see people. The isolation is the worst part of the job. So about once a day I pretend someone’s phoned in a bomb threat and I dash downstairs to the bar for safety and suds. Let’s pretend that right now so we can get good seats in time for the Showcase.

Cameras cut to me and the U.B. sitting on bar stools getting ready to ridicule goofy contestant bids on “The Price is Right.” After Drew Carey announces the winner to the Showcase Showdown and the comely supermodels wave the show to commercial, we watch the local news and return upstairs.

U.B.: “What’s the biggest misconception about how you work?”

Me: “That I’m drunk all the time. I joke about it a lot, but it’s surprising and a little disappointing how often I’m sober. But I perpetuate the myth so others can have vicarious fun.

The afternoon work session is a virtual rerun of the morning fun enlivened by a segment where I show the U.B. how I prank bar patrons in the parking lot by pushing my car’s remote panic horn button the instant they slam their car doors. Hiding behind the curtains, we both crack up at their muddle-headed confusion.

U.B.: “Well, after watching you work, I think you’ve earned a little bar time.”

Me: What a splendid idea! I think you’re going to work out fine here, kid!

The U.B.’s voice over concludes the show: “He doesn’t earn enough money to warrant a raise, but I can’t fire his lazy ass ‘cause he’s good for morale. He’s worked for me for nearly 20 years and still have no idea how the hell he does it.”

The picture fades to black after the camera pans across the stoic faces of the bar regulars looking on in disturbed silence as me and my imaginary U.B. yuk it up in the corner.

The phrase “Another day, another dollar,” would fit perfectly if you just subtract the part about the dollar.

Songs I like by bands I don't

First, the ground rules: These are not one-hit wonders. On the contrary, these are songs by many of the biggest bands from the past 25 years.

They are huge. They have multi-platinum albums, sell-out crowds and groupies! Groupies! Groupies!

They’ve just never done a thing for me.

I won’t attend their shows. I don’t own their music. If I was at a party that was playing their songs exclusively I’d split for a bar with a cheap jukebox.

I’ve sat there with persuasive friends who’ve tried to cheerlead me into enjoying these bands. It never works.

I figured this would be a good way to start out a week that looks like it’ll be dominated with talk about the Super Bowl, the Steelers, and which cities should or should not be allowed to host a Super Bowl. Blog tease: New York City in 2013 is a historically bad idea.

So here you go. Feel free to call me a tasteless moron and suggest songs that’ll sway me.

With each band, I’m offering a suitable alternative.

• Moody Blues -- “Nights in White Satin” is maybe my least favorite song of all time. I used to really dislike it when I mistakenly thought it was “Knights in White Satin,” which I thought was worse than just a bad song: it was bad advice for war-bound knights. Maybe that’s why I like the song, “Your Wildest Dreams.” It’s catchy and unpretentious. Preferred alternative: Electric Light Orchestra

• One of my favorite rock stories, likely untrue, is that Mick Jagger was trying to steal a girlfriend of Steven Tyler’s and said, “Why would you want that fake Mick Jagger when you can have the real thing?” In rock terms, this enormous band is RC Cola, the Stones are Coke -- although it’s apparent from Keith Richards’s new autobiography that coke is one thing integral to both bands. I like their old stuff -- “Dream On,” “Walk This Way” -- but I liked the stuff they were doing in the late 1980s and early '90s. That would be “What It Takes,” “F.I.N.E.,” and “Janie’s Got a Gun.” And, way to go, Tyler, by accepting a judging position on “American Idol,” you’ve forever squashed whatever cool you and the band ever had. Soon they’ll be rocking the Caribbean cruise ships. Preferred alternative: Take a wild guess.

• David Bowie -- He represents a strain of androgynous British pseudo-rockers that’s never appealed to me. I like “Changes” and “Young Americans,” but my favorite Bowie song is “Modern Love,” from 1983. I like him better in half doses than all by himself. I love “Under Pressure,” the 1981 song he did with Queen and he’s oddly compelling with Bing Crosby in their compelling duet of “Little Drummer Boy.” Preferred alternative: Queen.

• Grateful Dead -- All my stoner friends were disappointed whenever I didn’t chuck my comfortable life and follow them on a smelly roadtrip that would derail what little ambition I ever had. I just don’t like jam bands. Plus, I’ve always found any band with more than one drummer to be visually jarring. Keith Moon wouldn’t have stood for it. But I do like the songs, “Hell in a Bucket” and “Touch of Grey.” Preferred alternative: The Brian Setzer Orchestra.

• The Doors -- Maybe the most overrated band in the history of music. Still, I like “Roadhouse Blues.” I can see why people like them. I just can’t see why people like them so much. Preferred Alternative: The Monkees

• Pink Floyd -- I can’t dance, but I like music that makes me wish I could. This makes me wish I were in a coma and with “Comfortably Numb,” my favorite of theirs, it seems like that’s what they were aiming for. I like “Wish You Were Here,” too, but this stuff’s not for me. Preferred alternative: “The Andy Griffith Show,” featuring White Floyd, i.e. Floyd the barber.

• Led Zeppelin -- Didn’t like it in high school when it was aimed right at guys like me. Don’t like it now. The music’s just too screechy. Plant’s shrill and I just don’t like the idea of Englishmen doing American blues. We have that covered. But I do like “Fool in the Rain” and, yes, “Stairway to Heaven.” Preferred alternative: Muddy Waters. 

• Nirvana -- XM radio has dedicated stations for each decade from the 40’s through the ‘90s. I have buttons for every decade except the ‘90s because I believe rock music peaked in 1971 (“Exile on Main Street,” “Who’s Next”) and ended in 1986. Kurt Cobain fits in this list dominated by people who took themselves far too seriously. And I can’t relate to the tortured genius aspect of his brief life. I’m not tortured and display no apparent genius. I do like the song “All Apologies.” Preferred alternative: Todd Snider & the Nervous Wrecks.

• Van Halen -- Like Rod Stewart, Eddie Van Halen has spent the past 10 years rendering his best years unlistenable. I like the rock of it, but the David Lee Roth years were just too campy for me. And Eddie’s playing was too bombastic. I now remember their videos for the tuneful “Jump” and “Hot for Teacher” more than the music. Preferred alternative: Van Halen, the Sammy Hagar Years. 

• R.E.M. -- For years I heard stories about this great underground band. Then they surfaced and I was eager to see them submerge again. Happily, that’s exactly what they’ve done. They’ve never lived up to the hype and seemed eager to avoid it altogether. They’re now becoming more famous for lead singer Michael Stipe showing up on the party circuit wearing weird hats. The song, “What’s the Frequency, Kenneth?” is a dandy, though, about what Dan Rather said an attacker kept asking him during a 1986 mugging. Preferred alternative: Silence.

My 25 most played songs

It was about a year ago when my computer blew up. I didn’t lose anything, but it wiped out the play count from my iTunes library. This is not insignificant.

I try to play every one of my 7,857 songs at least once a year. The play count function helps me realize if I’m overlooking something worthy.

Before last year’s computer malfunction, I had five years worth of tallied play counts and had played every single song at least three times with three cracking 100 plays.

Now with just one year of regular play, the list seems unsettled. There are more of the newer ones than the old standbys.

So this is not a “best of” list, rather it is a list compiled by iTunes of the 25 songs I’ve played the most in the past 12 months.

It’ll be interesting to see just how much the list changes in two or five years, supposing the dang computer makes it that long.

Check it out:

25. Star Star, Rolling Stones, Goat’s Head Soup, 1973 -- I think this is one of the three greatest rock ‘n’ roll songs ever recorded. The other two are “Sunspot Baby” by Bob Seger, and “I Saw Her Standing There” by The Beatles, but that’s a whole other argument. This one's just total filth and raunch and I find that very appealing.

24. Sometimes We Cry, Van Morrison, The Healing Game, 1997 -- This elegiac masterpiece is one reason why "The Healing Game" is one of Van's best.

23. Rocks Off, The Rolling Stones, Exile On Main Street, 1972 -- I played this album a lot this year during the hoopla over its re-release. The feeling I get every time I hear it is exactly the same as when I first lowered the needle into the groove of this, the first cut, from rock’s best album

22. The Devil You Know, Todd Snider, 2006 -- Download this, print out the lyrics (they’re rapid fire enough to warrant it) and turn it up to 11. The initial guitar blast jolt will knock you on your ass. Recover and sit back and laugh at raucous storytelling at its profane best. The East Nashville setting is one I know well from my Music City days.

21. Cheer Down, George Harrison, Best of Dark Horse, 1989 -- As you’ll see from this list, I’m drawn to many of the parts of great machines, the solo work of people who made their marks in much bigger bands. This is a playful Harrison song from when he was becoming involved with his second truly super group, The Traveling Wilburys. This was written and produced with Jeff Lynne and Tom Petty.

20. This Hard Land, Bruce Springsteen, Greatest Hits, 1995 -- Last October I wrote about how I spent four days doing nothing but listening to Springsteen, the good and awful, in chronological order over four days straight. It was really fun and he’s compelling enough to warrant the exercise. This song is the joyful essence of the Boss, thus it is the essence of America.

19. Bigger Wheel, Stephen Bruton, From The Five, 2005 -- My wife and I have been enormous fans of the obscure solo stuff from this Texas session player for years. Kris Kristofferson called Bruton his soulmate. Besides, K.K., he’s written and recorded with Elvis Costello, Bonnie Raitt, Carly Simon and a host of others. But his solo stuff is outstanding. He’s finally getting his due as co-producer with T Bone Burnett on the “Crazy Heart” soundtrack. Alas, this under-heralded great succumbed last year to cancer. His music however will live on in our hearts forever. His “Right On Time” from 1995 was in the mix at our wedding party (and that ought to tell you plenty about what kind of party it was). This one kicks more ass than a team of angry mule drivers.

18. Thunder On the Mountain, Bob Dylan, Modern Times, 2006 -- Should be on everyone’s most played list if for no other reason than Dylan somehow manages to rhyme “orphanages” with “sons of bitches.” My wife, no Dylan fan she, still nods in mirthful appreciation every time she hears that one.

17. Monday Morning Church, Alan Jackson, What I Do, 2004 -- As I mentioned yesterday, an hour spent listening to really good country music is like an hour spent reading the Bible while the Rev. Billy Graham plays the fiddle nearby. This song about the death of a man’s beloved wife and his subsequent loss of faith will rip your heart out. I stopped listening to it when the kids are in the car. I don’t want them to see Daddy cry.

16. Vacancy Sign, Quinn Fallon & Los Gravediggers, If Heartbreaks Were Highways, 2009 -- I’d be a big fan even if Quinn weren’t a good buddy from 20 years ago. His most-played list would make for a great party, too.

15. Loose, Ray Wylie Hubbard, A: Enlightenment B: Endarkenment (Hint: There is no C), 2010

Even her mama said she was always trouble
Promise a man everything, give him half then charge him double


14. Choctaw Bingo, James McMurtry, Saint Mary Of The Woods, 2002 -- If it’s true every father wants their child to do better and be better than themselves, then this Texan’s Daddy got his wish. No small feat considering the old man is Larry McMurtry, Pulitizer Prize winning author of “Lonesome Dove.” His stories, cadence and deadpan delivery make every song riveting.

13. There Ya Go, Alan Jackson, What I Do, 2004 -- This has an artificially high ranking because it’s one I do play lots in the car hoping the message will sink into the girls’ noggins. It’s about overcoming life’s disappointments with grace and the understanding we can all help each other through this stumbling dance called life.

12. Saint James Infirmary, Van Morrison, What's Wrong With This Picture? 2003 -- A traditional folk song given the full robust blues blowout by a master. The dizzy horn crescendo makes musical madness sound like something worth succumbing to.

11. 5.15 A.M., Mark Knopfler, Shangri-La, 2004 -- I guess if there’s one song on this list I’d urge you to download, this is it. It’s mesmerizing and tells a story I’m still unable to puzzle out, which makes it even more compelling. The world is the poorer when even many tasteful people are asked about Mark Knopfler they reply, “You mean the guy from Dire Straits?” With every new textured album, he makes Dire Straits -- as great as they were -- a bit of an afterthought. 


10. Celtic New Year, Van Morrison, Magic Time, 2005 -- A joyful dance through the clover. I’ve never traveled to Ireland, but thanks to this song and many bottles of wine I’ve been there many, many times. Play this album for anyone who mistakenly believes “Brown Eyed Girl” is still Van’s best.

9. Where are you Tonight, Bob Dylan, Street Legal, 1978 -- So many Dylan songs get overlooked amidst the prolific clutter and magnificence. This is one of my favorites. It’s great rollicking fun.

8. Thanksgiving Day, Ray Davies, Other People's Lives, 2006 -- Not just the best Thanksgiving song ever, it’s one of the best holiday songs ever. It has soul, poignancy, and ragged horns and background vocals sentimental enough to coax tears. For four years now, I wake the family with this for Thanksgiving Day. What’s surprising is how much I enjoy it year round.

7. Just Us Kids, James McMurtry, Just Us Kids, 2006 -- In 5 minutes, 12 seconds, McMurtry chronicles the 40 years we spend going from getting high in high school parking lots to coming to terms with the dashed dreams that come from living hard, sad lives not meant for sissies.


6. She's Gone, Daryl Hall & John Oates, Abandoned Luncheonette, 1987 -- Took me 20 years to realize it, but this is one of the most perfectly crafted pieces of soulful pop ever recorded. Play it loud again and again and again.

5. Slit Skirts, Pete Townshend, All The Best Cowboys Have Chinese Eyes, 1982 -- This might be my all time most played song. It still gets me every time the same way I heard it in Paul Romig’s Penn State dorm in 1982. Heck, it may have become my most played song that afternoon.

4. Workingman's Blues #2, Bob Dylan, Modern Times, 2006 -- So weary, so majestic. The song cascades and tumbles along for six exquisite minutes. The downtrodden lyrics pair perfectly with Dylan’s ragged rumble to somehow result in something oddly euphoric.

3. After the Fall, Ray Davies, Other People's Lives, 2006 -- In a land littered with great rock stars, Ray Davies and the Kinks have never gotten their due. I love the palpable rage, the despair and the forlorn struggle he details in this one. And I love the defiant assertion that it can all be overcome.

2. Get Lucky, Mark Knopfler, Get Lucky, 2009 -- It surprises even me that this gentle little lullaby of life ranks so high. I just play it all the time. It’s sort of a penny whistle children’s song about a simple man who never grew up. I find it inspirational.

1. One More Time, Ray Davies, Working Man's Café, 2008 -- So distinctly English, yet so universal, this one always feels like freedom. It’s a great singalong, too. For such a caustic and cynical person, he sings a with a lot of heart and with such a sweet voice. I can’t imagine a day when my top 25 most played doesn’t have at least something from Ray Davies and the Kinks.


So, there you go. Thanks for checking in and having a peek at some of the music that means the most to me.

I was sober while I listened to the songs and wrote this all up -- but that doesn’t mean you have to be.

Have a drink, put on some of your favorite tunes and enjoy the weekend.

Movin' next to the Palins

It took me 10 seconds to come up with 10 reasons to tell my agent to tell my publisher why I wouldn’t be moving in next door to Sarah Palin for purposes of writing a six-figure best seller on her.

The top three are: I don’t have an agent; I don’t have a publisher; and no one’s foolish enough to offer me a six-figure advance on something I’d never finish. I couldn’t read a book about Sarah Palin, much less write one.

Reasons four through 10 are all some variation of the theme: I don’t want any neighbors. In my experience, the bad and the creepy have far outnumbered the kindly and good.

We right now have a vacancy next door and I tremble at what might move in. Meth techs? Doomsday rapture cultists? Pit bull breeders?

The widow Josephine was probably the best neighbor ever. We lived next to her from 1992-2007 before we moved up into the more secluded woods.

She was generous. We had free reign to raid her bountiful garden whenever we needed fixings. I’m convinced the whole Third World could have shown up unannounced for dinner, she’d have fed them up full and then stuck her head out the kitchen door and said, “Anyone have room for pie?”

She was interesting. She surprised me one time when she said she used to watch hours and hours of televised golf. Then she about shocked all the hairs off my head when she told me why.

She used to spend hours and hours with her hands in Arnold Palmer’s pants.

“They called me recently to see if I was still available for hire, but I told them I didn’t do that kind of thing anymore,” she said.

She was his seamstress.

She made a lovely heirloom quilt for our daughter when she was born. She was just so sweet and loving that I’m sure there’ll never be another neighbor so perfect.

It would be a pleasure to be assigned to live next to her for the purposes of writing a book.

Not so with the Palin brood. Already, the Mama Grizzly’s flair for the dramatic has gotten in the way of being neighborly. Instead of welcoming McGinness with cookies and smiles -- and, guaranteed, we’ll do that for whatever meth chef/pit bull owning madman who moves in next to us -- she immediately played the victim.

She unleashed a venomous Facebook attack on McGinniss. If she’s ever president, I’m convinced she’ll eliminate the State Department and run U.S. foreign policy entirely through social networking.

Then she sent surly Todd over to bully and bitch.

Then she built an enormous fence obscuring his view of them and -- who knows? -- maybe her view of Russia.

I don’t know what McGinniss is thinking. Uptight people like that make for awful neighbors.

I’ll bet if sufficiently motivated, I could come up as compelling a story as he eventually will with just two weeks at the Wasilla Best Western.

Of course, that’s not fair to McGuinniss. He’s Holy Cross elite and didn’t cut his reporting teeth, as I did, at National Enquirer.

But it got me to thinking who, in all America, I’d like to live next door to for the purposes of writing a tell-all book.

This week I found the answer.

It’s Todd Snider.

He’s a hilarious singer-songwriter in Nashville, a now flood beleaguered town I love.

He’s the kind of guy who’d probably be furious that America is resorting to generic game shows to determine musical popularity if he wasn’t always so pleasantly stoned.

One recent song, “America’s Favorite Pastime,” is a deadpan homage to the day Pittsburgh Pirate Doc Ellis pitched a no-hitter on LSD.

He just released a flood benefit single “Come Up and See Me Sometime.” The accompanying video shows him and a rag tag band whooping it up amidst snippets all these great East Nashville bars, many of which I used to frequent when I lived there from 1985-1989.

There are beguiling flashes of backyard parties that show the gang sitting around sipping wine, playing fiddles, mandolins and banjos. I could practically smell the marijuana clouds wafting through my computer screen.

For reasons that have nothing to do with contact highs, it would be impossible to live next door to such a happy scene and remain burdened by life’s petty cares or the gnaw of self-inflated ambitions.

Hell, forget about me or McGuinness moving in next to Palin.

Let’s move the Palins next door to Snider.

I’m sure, at the very least, Levi Johnson would enjoy visiting more.