The Lakota have a word, Inipi, that relates to a sweat lodge ceremony where one is reborn or has a spiritual awakening-like rebirth. I like the vibes this gives off. I don’t think I’m experiencing something purely spiritual, but I hate the English words and phrases that could convey. This is not an awakening, I have been awake this whole time. I don’t like the idea of rebirth as I was pretty cool before, so I am not looking to be recreated. And honestly, this year is not starting with a spiritual awakening as much as a a spiritual exploration and discovery mission. A discovery mission into my own soul.
Or hell, maybe it is just a repackaged midlife crisis. It is not easy to tell the difference from the cheap seats. But I plan on making it to at least 90, so maybe this is my Harley and Hang Gliding.
History is replete with new beginnings and turning points. Every major crisis is the worst we have faced when we’re in the thick of it. If our minds were better at taking stored information and assigning true values while removing emotion, we would be better judges of this. But I am far too emotional a biped to have any such skill. In reality, I am just like all the other specs of cosmic dust assigning too much relevance my to daily experiences as they sit in the cosmic whole. But even with all that, I still think my impact matters, too.
2025 was honestly one of the hardest years I have faced. I don’t think I noticed as much as I should have in real time as I was too worried about everyone else. Some others reciprocated the love and concern. And some debited more than they credited. The year started off relatively calm, or so I thought from my naive first person standpoint. To quote Steve Martin, “I was profoundly unhappy but I didn’t know it because I was so happy all the time.” The truth is I neglected myself and my own needs. I would like to say I have learned enough from this that it won’t happen again, but I’m not a new hire in my life. I know that prevention will be a combination of self-advocacy, removing those that don’t respect my boundaries, and only accepting things that fit my life.
The last 2 months of the year brought special challenges I couldn’t even imagine I would have to face. Someday I will detail these for a memoir, but not today. Let’s just say everyone is safe and healthy, the lights still turn on, and there is a hopeful future. I also learned the brilliance of that phrase, “when people show you who they are, believe them.” Maya Angelou was a treasure we didn’t deserve but were blessed to have. If I can actually adopt that, I will be doing a lot better this year.
This post isn’t about complaining how last year sucked nor is it saying this year will be perfect. But it is saying something about resilience. I suppose you might call it mindfulness since it is living in the moment. I think that is the key to maintaining my peace and moving forward. Trying to park the unknown and unhelpful in a mental rental locker and focus on what is necessary to take the step in front of me.
Some of the effect the 2025 tumult had was to make going to the gym feel arduous. I know it feels arduous for a lot of people but this was something different. I could get to the gym and park, but then I just sat in my car staring ahead as if in a trance. It became worse and worse. I think it started in late July but by November it was a setpiece. And the thing is, I LOVE THE GYM. Weightlifting has done magical things for my health. I lost 70lbs between mid 2022 and now. I am stronger than I have ever been, and the gym is now spiritual. But something was holding me back — something inside of me that acted like a spectre sitting on me and preventing movement. I drove home wearing still-fresh workout gear and battling negative self talk many times. Too many times. Then it hit me; I just need to take one step. That first one is the thickest barrier. So I made a playlist named “Wiggle Your Big Toe.”
Assuming you get the reference, it is about where you have to start when you are completely stuck. For me, it is a playlist. 4 songs I turn on when leaving the house. The final one is operant conditioning. I associate it with moving forward. And you know what? It worked. It did and continues to. I am by no means cured or so far out of the woods I’m in the meadow, but I am in motion. And damn it feels good. Once inside the gym I switch to one of my lifting playlists which now all end with “Dear Agony,” by Breaking Benjamin. I know the topic matter of the song is heavy, but for me it is a celebration of what I just did. It is a ballad to myself that champions the lactic acid coursing through me and lack of glycogen in the fibers I just punished.
2025 sucked. But every staircase has a bottom step and every happy ending comes from some sort of strife. If you have no basis for comparison the new day is just another day. I would love to think that perfect Pinterest world exists, but that is just not true. Everyone has some thing they are battling.
So if you are sitting in your car paralyzed from action, try wiggling your big toe. It seems simple, but good goddamn is it ever effective. You’re not stuck, you’re just taking pause.
If you made it this far in my rambling, then here is the payoff. I decided it had been too long since I played out. My last blog post and last night on stage were nearly 2 years ago. I knew that had to stop. So on New Year’s Eve, I joined the amazing people at The Gem for a special open mic. You want to talk about therapeutic? It was soul-filling.
I hope your 2026 is filled with joy, love, and peace. For my part, I think this year will be a series of posts detailing growth and success in all things I do. If I am wrong, at least I can learn from it and write about it. In any case, I will be playing more open mics, writing new material, and putting up more posts. I hope to see you along the way. Happy New Year, friend.
This is probably my best outing so far. I felt pretty good in both of these. Audrey got screwed a bit so may be branching out to new venues in the near future. Although, I also may be getting to do some duet work. That’s exciting. Mad thanks to Kaeden at The Gem for the sweet board recording. This was a lot easier to master.
Enjoy, dear reader (listener). I’m starting to get my sea legs back.
A fun and relatively little-known John Mayer piece…
A classic by the Guess Who. Randy Bachman and Burton Cummings did not make this one easy.
It was delightful to attend open mic on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and find the joint completely packed. I’ve never seen the Gem that busy. It was, as always, a good and encouraging crowd providing a wholesome experience for all. It was flannel (Grunge) night and we showed up. As per usual I did 2 songs. I apologize in advance for the crowd noise and poorer quality than usual. The place was so busy we had to put the sharpshooter mic in the balcony!
The first song I performed was an original. Named “The Cascades,” it was originally written circa 2002 with assistance from Bill Newmann. The original topic was an immersion story of love at the 1904 World’s Fair. Since the original writing, I had occasion to read “The Last Days of Night,” by Graham Moore. A fantastic read from start to finish. It got me to thinking about the Industrial Revolution and our fascination with all things big. The 1904 Fair was massive occupying some 1200 acres. St Louis was ready to show itself on the world stage and at the time it was keeping growth pace with Chicago (although a competing bridge and rail tycoon would see to ending that by buying the only bridges that could transport rail across the Mississippi at St Louis, and then choking them off – Fuck you, Lucius Boomer). I think I may have to write a post about that guy. In the meantime here is some background in the bridge-building world.
While in the song I call it “The Palace of Electric Light,” its real name was “The Palace of Electricity.” It was fortunate that Union Light & Power had built a 36MW power plant north of downtown that could power this monster. While there were local dynamos, the amount of pollution onsite power generation would have required would have rendered the air essentially unbreathable at the fair (coal smoke is not great for the lungs). Anyway, back to the story. I was taken by the idea we could take something like the fair and use it as a giant advertisement for how kickass we were at making new things. The sheer amount of waste is baffling to consider. The Fair cost nearly a half-billion dollars by today’s currency and was basically in operation for 8 months. While it was already underway, events like this would ensure the accelerated proliferation of electricity into homes everywhere.
I’m not suggesting we should live without electricity. Far from it. Were I required to go through the summer months without air conditioning I would move to Nova Scotia rather than brave it. But the point I was getting at in the song was more about hubris. In our haste to make things like this more expansive we rubbed a lamp not knowing what genie would emerge. Now we’re scrambling to find a way to have the genie without all the bad stuff. Renewables are awesome but show concerning progress at meeting the demands. Batteries come with their own wealth of problems. I am a supporter of nuclear but I also acknowledge it is far from perfect. And all the while there are the same tired arguments about cost of implementation, the American way, and denial of ill effects made by dudes who might as well be wearing the tophats of the tycoons.
21 years ago I started this song with an adoration of the Fair. I still have it. The amount of things we can do rapidly when we put our minds to it is truly stunning. The city built a new water treatment system, 1200 acres of massive attractions that looked akin to Greek palaces (using 1x lumber and plaster), a subterranean river, a train system, and countless other things because we wanted to.
Here we are now and the Fair has come to represent both what we can do when we decide to, and what we will do for money. I suppose the duality of morality in it exists in most things. I teamed up with my brilliant daughter to do the rewrite. It seems to me her generation excels at calling out the bullshit in past generations’ arrogance. And I’m here for it.
It’s okay to admit we created some cool things and also admit we screwed up some things. That’s how humanity progresses. We take the good things, admit and try not to repeat the bad things (accountability), and we move forward. When we don’t, we are just arguing with reality. What a foolish endeavour.
Far more worthy than my work, there was a fantastic ragtime named “The Cascades” written by Scott Joplin. It inspired the tone and initial drive of the piece. One of my favorite pieces of music, you can almost feel the water of the cascading waterfalls spilling from basin to basin. But, we also need to admit to the mistakes we’ve made. Scott Joplin would not have been able to attend the 1904 World’s Fair as it was strictly segregated. While it is uncomfortable to read, it goddamn should be. We should all be uncomfortable knowing the bad things our people have done without a thought. I recently read that, ‘if studying history always makes you feel proud and happy, you probably aren’t studying history, you’re reading propaganda.’ I had to paraphrase as I don’t have the original Tweet it came from, but that was the perfect way to phrase it.
Anyway, here is “The Cascades” as written by Dan Keller, Bill Newmann, and now also Josie Keller. At this point it should almost be uplifting in contrast to my post above…
For good measure, I performed T. E. Ford’s version of 16 Tons. One of my favorite staples of 20th century American folk, I took it a smidge uptempo and netted some clappers as a result! Who’d have thunk?
I love The Gem. The other artists I see there are amazing. Audrey (the host) is a badass. And I owe special thanks to Savvy the GM and bartender extraordinaire for always being the biggest fan of us all. -She doesn’t know this, but her “ohowww” during Stay gave me back my memory and confidence to finish that piece after a few blunders. Then she finished it for me. Love them all.
First, Uniontown. A song about how Unions have lost themselves compared to the days of yester and how a weird incestuous relationship with both political parties have made is so. Rewritten from the 2001 version with more violence and more accuracy.
And this one is a cover. I am being brave putting this in here as I did not play it near as well as I did in practicing. But, holy shit was it fun to play. Moreover, the whole damn place was singing with me. I was a little distracted. But what an experience. Good times.
Both songs recorded Wednesday, November 8th, 2023, at The Gem in Spring City, Pennsylvania.
I’m really quite fond of this. I’ve said for a long time that the best works happen fast. I wrote/pulled this piece together in about 17 minutes. It wasn’t all at the same time as I pulled over to write part of it. But it was cathartic and came like a rogue wave. This piece is about 5 distinct and different life events I’ve experienced over a 10 year period.
Recorded at the Gem several months ago at an open mic night. Parts of it were written over several years. Spoken word free verse poetry.
A few nights ago, at open mic at The Gem, I had occasion to wake up an older piece of music. So Very Sly, a song written about a biblical temptress enticing souls. Think “Damn Yankees” meets “Paradise Lost.”
As for the outfit, it was the final October costume night at The Gem, and I was rocking my HufflePuff robe. Josie is sure I’m an HP as I’m also, apparently, Lawful Neutral.
There’s just something soothing about some places. Pulling up to one of the adjacent paid parking spots, I see those early bird shoppers in their warm-ups and capri yoga pants trucking into the building with armfuls of reusable shopping bags. I hear the sound of a busker blowing some indistinguishable tune on a tenor sax.
His instrument box looks sad as it is barren of any dollars being so early. The guys who have the first booth are barking at each other as they unload the many rolls of converted carpet remnants and assorted rugs. I hear my first passing conversation (as I’m walking past them). “…So, I said to the guy I never said you were the biggest son of a bitch I’d ever met. I said you were the biggest son of a bitch in the state [laughing]. I don’t think he thought I was serious and he…”
There are two ways I like to shop. The first is wearing headphones and playing a soundtrack. When I’m using this method, I am on a mission. I have goals and milestones. The other way is more casual. It’s like I’m meandering. And I love in this second version to have my ears open – no headphones. I like walking past conversations and picking up snippets of each. Weaving them together can be quite hilarious. Sometimes you hear people’s pain. Many times, you hear their joy. You hear love, jokes, endearments, sports predictions, bickering, breakups, make-ups, and all other sort of topics.
Once it gets busy you hear all kinds of things. By 10AM it fills up…
There is no better place to practice either method than Soulard Market in St. Louis. Next conversation comes in range, “nah, I’m just saying a beignet is inflated French toast with no nutritional value.” “So, you don’t want any? Move along.” “Nah, I ain’t say that. I’ll take 2.”
There’s the T-shirt man who cannot possibly have licensing rights for his wares. But he’s there like clockwork every week. $15 shirts or 2 for $25. He rocks the “Drunk as Hull” shirts and the 314 apparel.
This is the infamous “Drunk as Hull” t-shirt.For reference: this is what it means to be “Drunk as Hull.”
The sunglasses vendors, the soap makers (whom I stock up from), the incense people, the lady who sells her knitted items plus resells cheap jewelry and cool hats, all predictably in place. I think if I went there and one of them was missing it would feel like the world was a Jenga game and the last supporting piece was just pulled.
The mini donut man is making his odd creations and the flavored nut guy is patiently filling his cone-shaped baggies across the way. Soulard is shaped like a giant letter H. The vertical parts represent the 4 wings which have both walled and simply roofed sections. The horizontal of the H represents the center core, if you will.
This is the only part that is fully enclosed and conditioned (heat only). The minute you enter the center core, the smell of sandwiches, breads, and spices hits your nostrils like a wall. There is no other place I have encountered this combination of things to create that smell. When I cook breakfast at home and use the “Soulard Grill” seasoning salt from Schmitz’s Spice Shop in the Soulard Market core, I can almost hear the bustle of the market
Entering the central core…
Tradition dictates that at this point I stop and get an egg sandwich and a Hurricane. It is 8:13 AM. But that is how Soulard rolls – I don’t make the rules. “You want the 16 or the 32oz?” I ponder the question. “The 16 is probably fine.” She does the math in her head. “Okay, that will be $8.” EIGHT dollars for a made-to-order breakfast sandwich and a 16oz Hurricane. Glorious. I make sure to pay following their posted rules which include cash only, no boob money, and no sock money. While I sip my rocket fuel and wait on my sandwich to be done and older guy walks up to the counter to order a tiny coffee and hit on the window server. “I do love them boots. Just when I think you can’t get any prettier.” She couldn’t show less interest if she tried. I get the impression she is around 35 to 40 and has probably worked at this stand for her family since she was 15 or younger. I would also wager she has been over old dudes hitting on her at work since then too. But this is Soulard. She’s not putting on a fake grin to garner more tips, she is who she is. Your available service options are: good price, great quality, and service with a smile (sorry, sold out of the third one). “Here’s your coffee, Hank. Have a day.” There is a distinct possibility that Hank was Drunk as Hull, but I was unable to verify.
Then there’s the guys that look like the road crew for an Everlast tour. They have the central meat shop open and are cutting andouille for someone making gumbo out of season. I now have my sandwich and turn to enter the second wing of my tour (SE). First, I encounter the record stand. I always tell myself I’m not going to look. I smile at that habit as I walk away with a copy of Amy Winehouse’s “Back to Black” and Steve Miller Band’s “Fly Like an Eagle.” This stand is one of the more bougie additions in recent years. They sell vinyl records but have a prominent tipping option with suggested amounts on their checkout screen. Tipping for you to check me out? Weird. I tip but with a pensive look on my face.
Behind me I hear the tender voice of an adult man asking every passerby, “would you like to taste my sauce I made?” He is a BBQ sauce maker. Many prominently displayed bottles surround the sterno’d cauldron from where he is distributing samples. I respect his ambition and I am sure his sauce is a good St Louis sweet and smoky style worthy of purchase. However, my heart (and palate) belong to another. That would be the man in Wing 4 who sells his “Sauce So Good” brand and he’s on my day’s itinerary. I’ve bought from him for 4 years now. I even order it shipped to Philly if I run short. His mild is flavorful and his spicy has a solid kick. While he makes a pretty significant quantity, he still makes it in his home in North St Louis. And yes, he has a Health Department approval.
Next, I am passing the Vietnamese family stand where the kabobs and Café Sua Da are made. Have to stop here. While I am waiting on the assembly of my order, I note that the other significant apparel seller at the market, who happens to be across from the kabob stand, is continuing their descent in to full-curmudgeon boomer. New signs have been added for sale that say things like “We don’t call 911,” “Asshole’s Garage,” and “Stand for the Flag / Kneel for the Cross.” He has many versions of American Flag cowboy hats for sale. He represents the 4% of market vendors who voted for Trump and were excited to do so since they couldn’t vote for Pat Buchanon or Strom Thurmond.
“And then he told me we should just try it. But I am not into it. Next thing he storms out and grabs the wrong coat….”
Two young ladies sell me some Gooey Butter cake and banana bread (it travels well). I pass a few plant stands (do not travel well) and then a few vacant booths since summer busy season has passed. Now to swing from Wing 2 to Wing 3. I walk past the henna vendor, another street sax player (predictably playing “When the Saints Go Marching In”), and the ranch-dusted pork rind stand.
We are now entering the northwest corner of the market. More flower vendors but these sell the cash n carry bouquets (don’t really need those these days). I am also passing a crystal vendor (there’s always a few) working hard to sell their weird white-hippie cures. On the right we come up on the meat stand that has landjager. Normally that one is a go-to but I have to consider travel refrigeration and suitcase space. Pass this time. On my left is the fish stand. The guy who looks like Jet-Li never puts his lit cigarette down. I watch him bagging frozen prawns for someone while cycle-breathing the smoke in his mouth and out his nose. He also minds the cage full of live chickens just past the fish stand.
“I mean look. He gonna get beat. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But that shit went to his head. Can’t be strutting around like you some kind of…”
Coming up on the first of many large produce stands in this wing. The north wings have lots of produce. This one isn’t one of the family farms. This is one where they buy seconds at produce row to resell here. The stuff is fine but you have about 12-16 hours to eat it before it goes overripe. Candy stands ahead on the right. I bought from there once and made myself sick. I look at it every time but no longer pull the trigger. We now enter a more enclosed section of the wing. The guy who sells Fazio’s bread is in this one. I love Fazio’s bread. Fazio’s bread would not survive my suitcase. But to be fair, I’d probably just eat an entire loaf like a muffin if I got one.
“Oooooooooh I don’t think I’ve tasted anything like that.” “Then you eat da strawberry, and it tastes like a smoothie.” “Oh my God it does. That is so weird.”
The freshly made pasta lady is here on the left. The homemade pork cracklins are in this space. Marmalades and jams, more fruit, a fresh-squeezed lemonade vendor, and one of those vendors who is convinced her make of soap makes you live longer because she uses flacamacahaca root. Seems suspect to me but I’m not starting trouble. I see the area where in the summer are sold watermelons larger than a toddler. Sadly, none today. I don’t care for the heat of St Louis summers, but the watermelons are pretty fantastic.
And here’s the door that leads us back into the center cross of the “H,” one more wing to go. Crossing this section is starting to get tricky as the crowds are showing up. On my right a couple older gentlemen are sitting awkwardly on a news stand. “I don’t have to say it! She knows I can’t be standing on this gotdamned foot! But she has to be playing and saying I be back real quick. She’s never shopped real quick in her gotdamned life. So, here I am bout to lose my foot! She don’t get it cause she got good feet.”
Coming into the NW wing, I find myself a bit melancholy. I know my visit is coming to its natural conclusion. The booth to my left sells what they call “Mexican Street Corn.” It’s not for my taste, but some people may like it. I couldn’t finish it. Next come the rows of produce and nuts. 5lbs strawberries for $2. Red apples 10lbs for $8. Walnuts (in shell) 10lbs for $6. The corn on the cob is so cheap it feels free. I see my sauce man. 2 bottles mild and 1 bottle spicy. He remembers me. “You’re the man bringing flavor to Philly.” “Trying. I’m trying.” The sauce isn’t cheap but most things worth the work aren’t.
Then passing the other beignet stand, the Mennonite cheese stand, about 5 more produce stands, and finally the Amish jam stand. The guy who runs it isn’t Amish, he’s a reseller. I would buy some, but I’ve had so much Amish apple butter the last few years, I’m sure I’m good. Exiting this wing, I encounter another busker. This fellow is dressed to the 9’s and shredding some Delta-style on a dobro. God, I love this place. Take my money, sir.
A left turn and I’m headed back to the car. I swear I could do another lap. My old neighborhood doesn’t feel like home. Not like it used to. It has become so damned gentrified it is almost hard to visit. But Soulard Market, that felt like I was home. It is little changed over my lifetime. The vendors change but the vibe remains the same. There have been many plans to modernize the market. I hope they never succeed. It feels so St. Louis.
As I finish out my exit walk, I see the carpet guys still grousing about something. Further up I encounter the sax busker I had seen an hour ago. He has some green in his box now but not enough. I pitch in my part. It is about 9:15 now and the market is starting to crowd. As I get to my car someone has already tracked my movement and has positioned their car to take my spot immediately upon vacancy. Some things never change.
Taking the time to realize and enjoy the quirkiness and variety of this life is deliciously cathartic. While there are times I know I need to put my head down, elbows up, and plow forward, that is not always an effective recipe for mental success. I struggle with stopping and smelling the flowers as it seems I always have something I need to do or somewhere I need to be. But I’ll never wear headphones at Soulard.
Note: I don’t remove credit from photos. Some of these are mine and some are publicly sourced. If I posted one of yours from public domain and it wasn’t marked, please let me know. If you’d like it taken down, I can do that also.
There was something inexplicable about the feeling at 38,000 feet this morning. I knew there was something going on in my head from the moment I left the house at 5AM. I knew it last night when I was packing. I knew it when I was considering all the things that had to happen in the next 76 hours. Being the sole controller of destiny, I was able to shed some of the things I consider frivolous or unnecessary for such a trip. Yes, I ran the dishwasher but I didn’t need it emptied. Having all clean dishes was good enough. The washer and dryer were empty. Sure, there are a few baskets yet to put away but I will do that when we are unpacking in a few days. The cat box was clean. The doors were locked. The security system set. The cat has at least enough water for the trip duration, but my crony will come by just to make sure and offer some pettings. Most of the lights are automatic already so that’s an easy one. I’m ready to adventure!
Braving the wild in a skiff shaped like a Southwest Airlines 737
Wait, is my house ready for a formal dinner party? God knows one cannot travel away without leaving the house in Williams-Sonoma levels of readiness. What does all this matter? Because in my adult life I have traveled so little without someone there to tell me how they wanted it done/argue/judge me. This was often accompanied by speaking to me like a child and talking about how silly I packed. At some point they have a conniption fit about the state of the kitchen. They would inevitably get exasperated when they see I can leave town with a basket of clean laundry undistributed. I even had an internet date note that I’d said I was a relatively tidy person which apparently, she did not see and implied I was putting up a sales front. Like, what sort of fake Facebook reality do people really expect? It makes little sense to me what barometer people use to determine the gradient of tidiness or messiness of others. Obviously, it is based solely on their own perceptions and thoughts and not on any real social curve. For an ADHD person I am pretty good. I’m getting better as I get older. But you just can never be enough for some people.
We made the airport in 38 minutes. That is a record on the Blue Route. At the parking lot we already had a reservation. We were in the terminal with 2 hours to spare. We checked our bags and headed upstairs to sacrifice our dignity to the blue-shirted theatrics and metal detectors. The last two times I’ve gone through, they’ve opted not to search me. I am beginning to feel a bit passed off. Am I no longer threatening enough in my cargo shorts and hoodie? Am I losing my sex appeal? You see, the searching of Dan at airport security has been a long and clockwork staple of my airport experience since the mid aughts. And I’m not talking a cursory pat-down. I am talking the GSR swab, the multiple trips through the glass soul camera, and the whole thing punctuated by a dude with latex gloves grabbing me in places only some have dared to venture. I got used to it over time. For guys like me that don’t see a lot of action these days, I guess it’s good to know you still have nerve endings there. Although, I cannot help myself. I eventually have to ask the groper: “you doing anything later?,” “when’s the last time you saw a crisp $100 bill?,” or “ooooooh, do you moisturize?” Other times I go for the affirmative. “You’ve done this before.” “How about you, me, ten minutes, and no excuses behind the scannascreen.” Or my most recent favorite, “you’re moving me into that spectral grey area, handsome.”
I don’t do it to be mean. However, I really do find the whole exercise pointless. Scanning the little girl’s Disney princess bag? Having the octogenarian remove his loafers? Patting down the clearly haggard mother of 4 trying to get the inevitable flightmare out of the way? This does nothing. It’s a jobs program. Go with the air marshal thing and move on. It would save OCEANS of time. But I digress.
Traveling with kids of any age when you are eating on a regimen can be challenging. Kristen the RD has me covered. Based on the macros and guideposts she gave me I can eat decently just about anywhere. I got to the terminal and quickly scored a Muscle Milk and red grapes. Mission accomplished. My target is to be competition-ready by mid-summer. Then the flight boards. On the jetway my kids inevitably point out the warning signs hanging from the ceiling, one of which I repurposed to my house back in 2002. Yes kids, I have a past and I wasn’t always the wisest.
We score pretty decent seats all in a row. Been a minute since I boarded a plane. I slide right into my seat and grab the belt to strap in. Will this thing fight me? The gym and the meal planning are showing results. This seat fits just fine and the belt went on with ease with several inches to spare. Watching all these other folks board made me feel I am doing something right. Parents with bored teens. Cranky adults. Parents with smaller kids who you could tell were clearing their throats to really scream with gusto once the wheels left the runway. My traveler buddies were settled in immediately and doing their thing nary a word for 900 miles.
We pushed off the gate and taxied to the end of the runway. I love that feeling. A pair of GE turbofan heavy jet engines putting out so much thrust you could be blasting off for the moon. The takeoff direction was West today. Wind coming out of the plains. Taking off over a neighborhood. All that thrust is translated into an early and pronounced ascent. The miracles of human innovation. I enjoyed the sensation with my eyes closed.
The act of closing my eyes and just feeling the sensation brought about an effect I hadn’t considered. In my head I was replaying Civil Wars songs as I am zeroing in on my next new original piece and they inspire me. In heading toward my homeland am hurtling towards so much unfinished business. I suppose St Louis will always carry a feeling of being unfinished business for me. But in this case, it’s more about the last trip I took there. The last trip was supposed to be a positive. It was supposed to be a homecoming and an introduction to some new people. Of course, it didn’t go that way. No amount of money spent; no amount of tap dancing could overshadow my vast and plentiful flaws. I have spent a lot of time in my life worrying about being accepted by people who have and enforce unreasonable standards. In the most recent iteration, I even felt myself changing to meet them. Three and a half years ago I walked away from my beloved birthplace in order to stake out a new life that would take my career where I wanted it. Then this time I had to contend with knowing the ink on my newest set of life plans was conspicuously beginning to run. It’s always back to blueprints.
I had been so sure I had it all figured out [Cue confetti and disappointing clowns]. On that trip I spent a lot of time entertaining out of towners rather than seeing all my friends. My reward was a D grade and a path to expulsion. But I don’t get fired. I left before they had a chance to finish typing up the Dear Dan letter. I may not walk out with an intact psyche or heart, but I am scraping up every scrap of remaining dignity and taking that with me.
And today I am flying back towards the last battlefield. I doubt the Visitor’s Center is finished so I’ll have to make do with a self-guided tour. I cannot wait to squeeze my family. I cannot wait to play the six string in the sun. I cannot wait to see Soulard. I cannot wait to taste anything St Louis. I cannot wait to see my niece take her vows on that stage. God knows those two have put the time in. And the fact her cool dad was able to produce the event is even cooler (this is not a family with unlimited funds). Aiden and I have our suits. Josie is going for a more jacket and bolo look. She makes any event a gay affair.
When I know I’m home…
I already have a new feeling. I am a lucky man. Those that don’t realize it or want to do the conga with me are missing out. We will see the sparkle of the Mississippi. The next sign will be the hit of that STL air in my nose. Then it is on to highways that lack REAL traffic. From there, who knows what will happen when. I just know there will be love. Unconditional love. I’m excited to see you, confluence. Let’s catch up.
On a partially related note, the music writing continues. It’s good to feel the flow again. Sometimes the break builds a better bone.
This song is Thick. I wrote this in the early 2000’s while in the band Third Shift. While it comes from a few different sources of life event, I leave the real motivating event(s) out as I want the listener to apply their own life to it. Sometimes serendipity happens where you least expect it. Note: this was a 1-take solo acoustic performance with no autotune. And there are a few bent chords in there that are meant to sound a bit off. It fits the feel I wanted out there. This piece has evolved a bit over the years but the main emotions driving it were: anger, desperate ambivalence, and a healthy dash of dejected indifference. The anti-passion of youth or the dark matter of human interaction, I suppose. I was going through some things, apparently. As BB King said in Rattle & Hum, “mighty heavy lyrics for such a young man.”
This is a cover that will remain unnamed from the same night. I generally don’t post covers but I dug on the way (most of) this came out. Note- I’m not monetizing this.
In any case, thank you for listening and please go out to support open mic nights and local artists! Props to The Gem (A Spring City Speakeasy) in Spring City, PA, for being such a platform for expression and welcoming of all kinds. You guys are the best!
Beta Testing Adulthood 