Christmas time = no time

Time doesn’t fly. It drives a Maserati 190 mph down the Autobahn blithely oblivious to the brick some prankster strapped to the accelerator.

Where did Christmas go?

People who think Christmas time refers to a season are wrong.

Christmas time is a spacial acceleration that turns weeks into days, days into hours, etc.

It’s like the whole season disappears down a black hole, only the black is replaced with tinsel, glitter, and flashing colored Christmas lights and the whole giddy trip is soundtracked like one of those sped-up Alvin & The Chipmunks monstrosities.

I feel like I didn’t do anything.

My wife did all the shopping, all the wrapping, all the organizing, all the cheer spreading and somehow found time to patiently listen to all my bitching about never having any time to do anything.

I feel like I didn’t spend enough special time with my daughters, my wife or all my needy bar buddies.

Christmas cards? Not a chance.

I haven’t sent a batch of cards in 10 years. I always say I’ll compensate by spending an afternoon calling dozens of far-flung friends just to wish them Merry Christmas.

So far, I’ve phoned just one dude and part of my motivation was to remind him he still owes me $20 so that taints the whole gesture.

I wanted to write a piece about my book review The Cleveland Plain Dealer published this week about Greg Olear’s book, “fathermucker.”

It’s the first book review I’ve written in 20 years because it’s the first fictional book in 20 years I’ve read that made me want to shake strangers on the street until they’d agree to buy it. It’s wonderful.

Plus, we’ve had some brief correspondence and he seems like a really decent guy, rare in anyone audacious enough to practice the self-absorbed craft of writing.

Or so I’m told.

I cracked up an old friend earlier this year when I told him my greatest quality was self-forgiveness. I was telling him about my perceived shortcomings in dealing with my aging Mom.

“No matter how often I lose my temper,” I said, “I just say, ‘Hey, I’m doing the best I can. I’m only human.'”

It’s like I’ve extended myself a personal get-my-conscience-out-of-jail-free card.

How come I can so easily overlook cruel failings in dealing with my dear mother, yet feel forlorn I let Christmas slip by?

Is it because Christmas is only once a year?

I wondered this morning if this self-imposed funk would lift if, geez, I found a big bag of money.

I don’t think that’s it. I don’t need more Christmas money.

I need more Christmas.

I need time to take my wife out to dinner and show her how much she means to me.

I need two full days to take each of our daughters somewhere Christmas special so they’ll have memories of Daddy lavishing them with the attention every little girl deserves.

I need a night to spend with my fading mother so she’ll maybe realize her son’s there for more than just pills and bills.

And what would Christmas be without more time getting gooned up with all my buddies? The more time I spend all alone writing, the more I appreciate the time I get to spend with the friends who help keep me essentially silly.

I wish I had time to sit home alone for an evening in front of the fire to read, watch an old Western, and marvel at the shabby little Christmas tree the girls decorated while I was out doing something I don’t remember.

Maybe that quiet little reverie is what I need to deploy the self-forgiveness card and realize I’m doing the best I can.

I’m sure you are, too. I can guess I’m not alone in wondering where the time went.

I’m sure you wish you had more time to do what matters most at Christmas -- and it’s not getting gooned up with friends, although that is high-up on the to-do list.

If some Christmases, all we have time to do is wish one another a sincere Merry Christmas then let it be done.

Merry Christmas, my friends! Let there be peace on Earth!

That’s straight from the heart.

I hope you’ll forgive me if it sounded a little rushed.

Re-run Sunday: Turn the page, a Seger salute

Dang. Missed Bob Seger last night. Never seen him. We spent the night in Washington researching a jiffy travel story about the new “Christmas on the Potomac” celebration at the Gaylord National Resort.

But I’ll have Seger on my mind today and so will a lot of western Pennsylvania. You can read the Post-Gazette review here and I thought I’d add to the conversation with this re-run of a story I wrote in January about why Seger’s as great as Springsteen and Petty.

Right now, guaranteed, some kid in a coffee shop is trying to update the classic 1973 Bob Seger song, “Turn the Page,” for the Kindle crowd.

Perhaps he’ll call it “Swipe the Screen.”

And for that he should be summarily executed.

I was listening to the great live version of “Turn the Page” the other day and it dawned on me that some day young rockers of taste may wonder just what that phrase meant.

On a long and lonesome highway, east of Omaha,

You can listen the engine moaning out as one long song

You can think about the woman, or the girl you knew the night before

But your thoughts will soon be wandering the way they always do

When you’re ridin’ 16 hours and there’s nothing much to do

And you don’t feel much like ridin’, you just wish the trip was through

The thought that page-turning books are doomed to become anachronisms must mortify Seger, 65, who, now that the Beatles have gone digital, remains one of the last major artists refusing to bow to iTunes. If you want a Seger CD, you have to buy a Seger CD, a notion so quaint it practically wears doilies.

I can’t speak for Seger -- heck, I can’t even speak to Seger -- but I’ll bet he thinks the process of downloading things you’re intended to love is similar to phone sex.

The end result is the same, but the essential emotion is missing.

After the quickie transaction, the only thing left behind to hold is a cheap receipt for your wife to find and use to forever ridicule and humiliate you until you feel eternal shame for your tawdry actions.

Or so I’m told.

Here I am, on the road again

There I am, up on the stage

Here I go, playing the star again

There I go

Turn the page

I’m betting Seger doesn’t own a Kindle.

It’s another hefty weight on the scale lurching toward the side I’ll likely never own one either.

I love my iPod, its portability and the way I can play any of the thousands of songs that for that moment mirror my mood.

But I feel a tiny jolt of euphoria whenever I buy a book. It’s the same feeling I got when I bought “Night Moves” in 1976. I loved holding it, smelling it, reading the liner notes and imagining myself with hippie hair like Seger and the all boys from the Silver Bullet Band had.

But books, actual books, mean even more to me. I love being in an airport and having a promiscuous stranger comment about a shared interest in a Tony Horwitz or Greg Olear's "fathermucker."

And I love my library. I have more than 300 books I’ve purchased and read over the past 25 years. I love going back and referring to something I learned or something that meant so much to me.

I love lending them out to friends, even the ones who never give them back.

Well, you walk into a restaurant, strung out from the road

And you feel the eyes upon you as you’re shaking off the cold

You pretend it doesn’t bother you, but you just want to explode

Most times you can hear ‘em talk, other times you can’t

All those same old cliches, is that a woman or a man?

And you always seem outnumbered, you don’t dare make a stand

(repeat chorus)

Like many music lovers, I usually fail to list Seger as one of my all-time favorites. It’s a criminal oversight.

His is a towering musical legacy. His peak pop years (roughly 1975-1988) match up as well as Tom Petty and Bruce Springsteen for musical muscle and enduring catchiness.

I so admired his 1995 decision to walk away from music to just loaf and raise a family that I did the exact same thing -- even though, at the time, it was five years before I even had a family.

Seger’s return album, his most recent, was “Face the Promise” from 2006. It’s a credible effort, but I hunger for more depth and nuance.

I’d like to see producer extraordinaire Rick Rubin come in and do a stripped-down Seger the way he did with another legend, Johnny Cash. Seger was writing outstanding weary songs about aging (“Against The Wind,” “Like a Rock”) when he was in his late 30s and early 40s. I’d love to hear his musings on aging as he becomes vintage.

Out there in the spotlight you’re a million miles away

Every ounce of energy, you try to give away

As the sweat pours out your body like the music that you play

Later in the evening as you lie awake in bed

With the echoes from the amplifiers ringing in your head

You smoke the day’s last cigarette, remembering what you said

(repeat chorus two more times with increasing menace)

And I think I know why he does not.

It’s pride. He doesn’t want to dilute one of the most outstanding catalogues of authentic American music.

So instead of berating readers with any more thoughts about Kindle and the inevitable trudge of technological intrusions, I’m going to finish the week by saluteing Seger and some my favorite songs of this great American rocker who now seems content to spend most of his time in what I guess is a different kind of great American rocker.

If you’re not interested, then feel free to just go about your web browsing.

Go ahead, turn the page . . .

Damn those nasty anachronisms!

• “Rock ‘n’ Roll Never Forgets,” 1978 -- So I’m a little bit older and a lot less bolder than I used to be. So? This one will get my heart hammering when I’m a toothless relic at the Sunny Rest Retirement Home. It’s his homage to his hero, Chuck Berry: “All Chuck’s children are out there playin’ his licks! So come back, baby! Rock ‘n’ roll never forgets!”

• “Sunspot Baby,” 1976 -- I often start pointless bar arguments saying this is one of the three greatest rock ‘n’ roll songs ever written (the arbitrary others are “I Saw Her Standing There” and the deliciously filthy “Star Star” by the Rolling Stones). It’s just nonsense because it might not even be one of Seger’s three best. But every time I hear this song -- and I hear it all the time -- I think, man, I’m right on the money about that one.

• “Roll Me Away,” 1982 -- This song about a romantic tramp who runs away with a drunken motorcyclist is my wife’s favorite. It’s also the reason I never let Val out of my sight whenever we go into a biker bar.

• “Still the Same,” 1977 -- The lyrics are enigmatic. I can’t tell if it’s about a gambler, a lover or a destitute brother. Doesn’t matter. The dude’s no damn good. Yet the singer feels resigned to steadfastness. Feels to me like the kind of human hangover we all have in our lives.

• “The Fire Inside,” 1988 -- A percussive beat, pounding piano and Seger’s urgent growl make this the best Seger song most people have never heard. I’d advise you to download it, but Seger won’t let me.

• Against the Wind,” 1980 -- I don’t know whether I was wise when I was 17 and first heard this masterpiece or if being exposed to songs like this at 17 made me wise, but I knew even then exactly what he was talking about: This living ain’t for sissies. “Wish I didn’t know now, what I didn’t know then.” What magnificent poignancy.

• “Feel Like a Number,” 1978 -- Still makes me yearn to form a federated brother/sisterhood of underemployed bloggers and freelance writers just so we could sing this one at all the rowdy union meetings.

• “The Ring,” 1986 -- I think for any songwriter to be truly great, they must have an empathetic feel for how a woman thinks. I doubt any woman -- or man -- in an unfulfilling and empty marriage could write a better song about matrimonial desolation than this. Unhappy people listen at your own risk.

• “American Storm,” 1986 -- Bruce Springsteen is justifiably known for his songs about America. I think his best is “This Hard Land.” I think Seger’s “American Storm” is better.

• Old Time Rock ‘n’ Roll,” 1977 -- This was the second most played song in the history of jukeboxes, behind only Patsy Cline’s “Crazy.” Its iconic status was cemented in 1983 when Tom Cruise danced to it in “Risky Business,” thus Tom Cruises’s finest moment was one of Seger’s.

What they're saying 'bout me

This has been a frustrating summer for those of us who enjoy going to the movies. I see interesting trailers and get gassed by the blurbs assuring greatness -- “Adrenaline-Fueled Thrill Ride!” -- and am inevitably letdown when I parse the source.

The blurb authors are more often than not anonymous little bloggers frustrated by their inability to score a larger readership.

Of course, who am I to cast aspersions? And who’s to say their opinion is unworthy?

Social media rules. We live in truly democratic times. All voices are equal and have an opportunity to resonate.

People are always talking about each of us and posting comments in various places where we voluntarily leave our intellectual footprints.

I thought I’d post some of the things people are saying about me so you, the reader, can decide if I am a movie you’d want to see.

• “Chris, you’ll always be COOL to us and a work of ART!” -- How sweet is that? This was from an e-mail exchange I was having with one of the wonderful folks who helped set up my recent Philadelphia visit. They’d read some of my blog posts about Philadelphia including this one where I talk about the coolest I’ve ever been. Of course, they were exaggerating, but they’ve always been nice to me so I choose to believe there was some truth to the gushy sentiment.

• “Oh, yeah, you’re really, really cool.” -- This was from my 10-year-old daughter. It’s essentially the same thing as the Philly folks said but it was dripping with sarcasm. She doesn’t think I’m cool at all (She’s wrong. I’m really, really cool).

• “Reading your collection of tweets is the perfect way to start a day!” -- This is flattering, but I think I’d have to go with sex. That’s the perfect way to start the day. But check out my twitticisms @8days2amish, have some sex, and compare for yourself. Maybe I’m wrong!

• “You’re stressing me out!” -- This was Josie. She said it as she ran screaming into her room after I’d detailed some of the tasks at which she was failing. Later when she emerged composed from her room, I knelt down and put my arms on her shoulders and told she was confused. Stress, I said, isn’t doing household tasks. Stress is not having a real job, having a wife who’s legitimately concerned about money, and two daughters who want things I can’t afford and do not help out around the house. “You see,” I said, “10-year-old girls don’t have stress. They cause it.”

• “I absolutely loved this post!” -- Author Greg Olear has written a book called “fathermucker” about the joys and tribulations of being a Dad. As part of the strong roll-out for the book’s October 4 release, he’s asked for contributions to the dandy blog of the same name and he took one of mine. That's a reader comment. You can check it out here. I’m happy to contribute and hope Spielberg gets so fed up over the bickering between Di Caprio and Pitt over who gets the to play the “fathermucker” lead he asks Greg to do it himself.

• “He’s not weird. He’s good.” -- This was from Lucy who was 4 last year when one of Josie’s friends observed, “Your Dad’s really weird.” It was so endearing my heart still flutters when I think about it and it is a soulful balm all these days when she indicates she’s completely reversed her opinion. In fact, it would be overwhelming to try and detail the number of times she and her sister daily declare, “You’re so weird!”

• “Profound AND funny!” -- This comment was in reaction to my tweet: “Honesty without tact is like brain surgery without anesthesia. The operation could cure, but the complications can kill.” I agree and again wonder if it’s about time I seek a job writing the notes they put inside the fortune cookies.

• “Man, are you drunk!” -- Note the punctuation: it’s not a concerned, “Man, are you drunk?” Nope, it was an emphatic declaration. This was from the golf weekend up with my cousin’s husband when I severely overestimated my competency to consume massive quantities of Jack Daniel’s. I had a hell of a good time.

• “I can’t believe you’re not hungover!” -- Any regard I lost the previous evening by my drunken antics was overcome the next morning when my new friends observed me up and at ‘em right at reveille. They were impressed I could golf, eat, joke and resume drinking with what should have been a horse-killing hangover.

• “You think you’re so funny.” -- Again, Josie, and, yeah, I suppose I do. I know I’m not ambitious, wise, mechanical, handsome, punctual, fit, sober, well-rested, solvent or serious. I guess that just leaves funny.

• “He cried the whole time!” -- This was Josie’s observation of me after the outstanding “Freedom Rising” show at the National Constitution Center in Philadelphia. It rings all the bells of why I love this big, flawed and exuberant country. I told her I wasn’t crying. I was merely eye-oozing patriotic poignancy.

• “It would be fun to see you surprise the girls with a really close-cropped look!” -- That was Val’s way of saying, “You’ve looked really stupid for the past year trying to grow hippie hair when you have so little of it left.” She was right and I was grateful for her tact.

• “You look like a #@&% idiot.” -- My bar friends who make up in directness for all they lack in tact.

• “This is the worst idea for a blog post ever!” -- This is from one of the many voices I hear in my head.

• “People are gonna really love this one!” -- This is from a different one.

I’d better stop now. I’m beginning to sense the girls are right.

Maybe I am really weird.