I want to tell you about this diner.
It's just a little place, kind of out of the way.
You can tell it was a real happening place,
At one time,
Back when the streetcar went by,
Before the old newspaper closed down.
It was a real nice place back then, I bet.
But that's not what I wanted to tell you about.
No, I want to tell you about this diner.
Well, there's this waitress there,
I think she said her name was Doris.
You're probably seen her.
Well, not her, exactly,
Not here, exactly,
But every place has one.
Life didn't turn out the way she thought it would,
When the quarterback or the class president,
Or her senior English teacher,
Dumped her when she got knocked up.
She's always on the phone,
In the back,
Puffing away on a cigarette, talking to,
Someone from the school.
Little Johnny got in a fight,
Or forgot his homework again,
Or has a fever.
Maybe all three.
But that's not what I wanted to tell you about.
I get so sidetracked.
But I want to tell you about this diner.
It's down next to where the old stockyards were.
Well, you probably don't remember those.
Before you lived around here.
If you know what to look for, though,
You can still tell, still see 'em.
Pretty sure they're luxury lofts, now.
I wonder if they ever got the smell out.
But, I'm sorry, I keep getting off track.
I get distracted so easily, you see.
But I wanted to tell you about this diner.
They have the best,
And I mean best,
Blueberry Pie.
You should really try it sometime,
At the old diner, by the old newspaper,
And the old stockyards.
Ask for Doris,
And tell her I sent you.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Tired
Yes, I'm alive, but do I deserve to be?
Why did he have to go instead of me?
We look for a system, for a reason to run,
But life's cold and capricious and callous and done.
Why do I put up with it?
Why do I try?
I'm sick of all this living,
But I'm too tired to die.
You can spend you whole life getting it right,
And lose all you hold dear on some quiet night.
You can cheat and steal and borrow and take,
And live like a king off those in your wake.
Why do I put up with it?
Why do I try?
I'm sick of all this living,
But I'm too tired to die.
So easily we lose what we believe,
Will be there forever, until they leave.
And yet we keep going, and still we try,
For just one smile before we die.
Why do I put up with it?
Why do I try?
I'm sick of all this living,
But I'm too tired to die.
Why did he have to go instead of me?
We look for a system, for a reason to run,
But life's cold and capricious and callous and done.
Why do I put up with it?
Why do I try?
I'm sick of all this living,
But I'm too tired to die.
You can spend you whole life getting it right,
And lose all you hold dear on some quiet night.
You can cheat and steal and borrow and take,
And live like a king off those in your wake.
Why do I put up with it?
Why do I try?
I'm sick of all this living,
But I'm too tired to die.
So easily we lose what we believe,
Will be there forever, until they leave.
And yet we keep going, and still we try,
For just one smile before we die.
Why do I put up with it?
Why do I try?
I'm sick of all this living,
But I'm too tired to die.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Scenes From a Coffee Shop - Episode I
It was nice to back in a coffee shop, sipping cappuccino and yawning, and what better day for it than one beginning well below zero and doing its damnedest to remain there. The windows picked up the steam from the espresso machine which immediately froze, making the cozy shop seem that much warmer and more inviting. The coffee jockey was pleasant enough, if not a bit detached: exactly what one would expect from the hippest of hole-in-the-wall indie beaneries.
I sat quietly, poring over notes I had hastilly scratched down in anticipation of my meeting. I want to impress, for sure, but I don't want to work too hard at it. If brevity is the soul of wit, my work flow is Oscar Wilde.
I positioned myself at a little table by the door, more as a matter of function that form; it was colder there, but I could easily be seen here, and it seemed to be the one place that the diffused January sun wasn't cascading directly into my eyes.
I sat quietly, poring over notes I had hastilly scratched down in anticipation of my meeting. I want to impress, for sure, but I don't want to work too hard at it. If brevity is the soul of wit, my work flow is Oscar Wilde.
I positioned myself at a little table by the door, more as a matter of function that form; it was colder there, but I could easily be seen here, and it seemed to be the one place that the diffused January sun wasn't cascading directly into my eyes.
(Editor's Note: this is an older item I wrote almost a year ago, on January 25, 2009. I had toyed around with writing more in this series, so I thought I'd dust it off. Also, the coffee shop this was written in, the Speckled Bird Café in Norwood, is no longer in business. Funny how things change... but I digress. Cheers!)
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Don't Let a Kiss Fool You
What does a kiss mean?
It's a question I've spent a considerable amount of time pondering lately. It's easy to write a kiss off, to oversimplify it.
When I kissed my wife, it was usually a way of saying, "Hi, I love you," or, "It's good to see you." Sitting on the couch watching TV, I'd lean over and kiss her on her head, if only to remind her, and myself, that I was there, and I loved her.
There's a lot of different types of kiss, and they can all mean different things. A peck on the cheek among friends is a simple expression of platonic affection. A big, wet smooch is a dramatic way to say hello. A soft caress on the neck shows a deep, burning love. Making out is primal lust, pure and simple. A deep, passionate kiss means something else, but a meaning that is not predetermined. The depth of passion can be driven by love, lust, and everything in between. Judas betrayed Jesus with a kiss.
A kiss can say whatever you want it to say.
The trick, my friends, is to not let a kiss fool you. If you're looking for love, you'll find it in a kiss, even if it's not there.
Which brings up another good point: don't let a fool kiss you. We've all (probably) been the fool, thinking we're falling in love over a kiss, and we've all kissed the fool, who doesn't understand.
I have always been told to remember this: don't let a kiss fool you.
It's a question I've spent a considerable amount of time pondering lately. It's easy to write a kiss off, to oversimplify it.
When I kissed my wife, it was usually a way of saying, "Hi, I love you," or, "It's good to see you." Sitting on the couch watching TV, I'd lean over and kiss her on her head, if only to remind her, and myself, that I was there, and I loved her.
There's a lot of different types of kiss, and they can all mean different things. A peck on the cheek among friends is a simple expression of platonic affection. A big, wet smooch is a dramatic way to say hello. A soft caress on the neck shows a deep, burning love. Making out is primal lust, pure and simple. A deep, passionate kiss means something else, but a meaning that is not predetermined. The depth of passion can be driven by love, lust, and everything in between. Judas betrayed Jesus with a kiss.
A kiss can say whatever you want it to say.
The trick, my friends, is to not let a kiss fool you. If you're looking for love, you'll find it in a kiss, even if it's not there.
Which brings up another good point: don't let a fool kiss you. We've all (probably) been the fool, thinking we're falling in love over a kiss, and we've all kissed the fool, who doesn't understand.
I have always been told to remember this: don't let a kiss fool you.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Hello, Old Friend
I remembered tonight why I started playing music in the first place.
I was asked by a couple of old friends, with whom I used to play in a couple of bands, to help them host an open jam they had lined up, but had no front man. Play some tunes, make a few bucks, I'm game. The lead up to the gig was particularly stressful for me; it's been years since I've even thought about most of the material we would be playing. My amp didn't work, and most of my gear was sketchy at best. So I got the gear working, went over some songs, packed my car up, and made the trek out to Harrison for the gig.
The gig is somewhere between open jam and open mic, with the fare being somewhere between blues standards and radio favorites, played by patrons between the best and worst of musician and singer. We back them all. One guy played with us for about an hour, playing songs we had all sort of heard, and we made him sound good. I fed off the mutual energy on stage, and the little bit coming in from the audience. I felt a high I haven't felt in years.
But the problem with a high is the inevitable crash.
As I sit here, I feel worn, deeply, as if my soul itself is exhausted. For me, there's a certain emptiness that comes with the crash; I gave of myself, and what I got in return has been spent, and so have I. It's a deep, dark place to be.
But it's worth it.
The high is well-worth the low, by far. I remember why I started playing in the first place. It was nice to see my old friend The Stage tonight, and I hope to see her again soon.
I was asked by a couple of old friends, with whom I used to play in a couple of bands, to help them host an open jam they had lined up, but had no front man. Play some tunes, make a few bucks, I'm game. The lead up to the gig was particularly stressful for me; it's been years since I've even thought about most of the material we would be playing. My amp didn't work, and most of my gear was sketchy at best. So I got the gear working, went over some songs, packed my car up, and made the trek out to Harrison for the gig.
The gig is somewhere between open jam and open mic, with the fare being somewhere between blues standards and radio favorites, played by patrons between the best and worst of musician and singer. We back them all. One guy played with us for about an hour, playing songs we had all sort of heard, and we made him sound good. I fed off the mutual energy on stage, and the little bit coming in from the audience. I felt a high I haven't felt in years.
But the problem with a high is the inevitable crash.
As I sit here, I feel worn, deeply, as if my soul itself is exhausted. For me, there's a certain emptiness that comes with the crash; I gave of myself, and what I got in return has been spent, and so have I. It's a deep, dark place to be.
But it's worth it.
The high is well-worth the low, by far. I remember why I started playing in the first place. It was nice to see my old friend The Stage tonight, and I hope to see her again soon.
Friday, October 30, 2009
XXII - Echo
Okay, so it's been over two weeks since my last blog entry, and quite a lot has happened in that stretch of time. First, I eulogized my stepfather, and I was honored to do so. Second, I lost my job at Ohio Citizen Action. Not a huge deal, I'm not going to die without it, but I miss it; it was fun, it was good exercise, I liked my coworkers, and it was a cause I believe in. (Editor's Note: please write your Reps and Senators and ask them to cosponsor HR. 1310 and S. 696)
Basically, I just wasn't bringing home the bacon, and non-profs are all about the money. I knew that going in. But, the same day, I moved into my new office at Longworth Hall. A friend of mine has a large office suite, and gave me a room that had recently been vacated when the old occupant quit his business. Yep, that's right: I'm open for business. For the foreseeable future, I am pursuing my freelance design work for a living, with my other job as a supplement.
Wednesday was my first full day in my new office, or at least I though it was going to be. I showed up to find my office trashed, and a threatening note left by the old occupant of said office. Apparently, he decided he unquit, and wanted his old office back. And since he's a brother in the family that owns the building, he gets what he wants. All he has to do is act like a child, and he's really good at that, especially for a 40-some year old man.
So, I was forced to pack up and move into a large room down the hall with several of my friend's employees; so, no real privacy, no window, no hardwood floors.
Which brings me to my point: when am I allowed to snap? When do I get to go off? Everyone else gets to trash someone else's office because they can't stick to their decisions. Everyone else gets to behave irrationally, and is coddled and bailed out because of it. Everyone else gets to develop a chemical dependency, and we all have to ignore it.
When's my time? How much weight do I have to bear before I'm allowed to break? I've always been expected to be better than everyone else. "You're smarter than all your classmates," I was told, in the same breath as a scolding for "acting smart." I'm sick of this "higher standard" bullshit, and it is bullshit. There's no other word that quite gets it across.
I think it's time for me to do something stupid. I think it's time for me to go against my better judgement, and do something because it feels right at the moment, damn the torpedoes, to hell with the consequences.
I realized last week that, if a couple of things go right over the next couple of months, I will be able to cut ties with every responsibility I have that keeps me here. My thought for what to do with such a unique situation? Go to Europe. Pack a backpack, grab a guitar, fly standby, and wander around Europe for an indeterminate amount of time. I know a few people there, and they have hostels and other places to stay. And of course, during warmer months, I could always sleep outdoors, under bridges, etc.
This, of course, goes against everything I've ever been about, but maybe that's the point.
I also decided that, likely next week, I'm going backpacking overnight in Red River Gorge, by myself. I need to get my head straight.
My mother couldn't handle that, and all but forbade me from going. What'll she do when I leave the continent?
I don't know what my future holds, but for the first time in my life, I feel like I have options. I can do whatever I want, when I want.
So I guess I'm really starting my new life, cobbled together out of parts of the person I used to be and whatever parts anyone else can spare. I'm actually doing things I never would have done before. I don't know if I'm doing them because I want to, because I need to, because someone talked me into doing them, or if it's just to prove to myself that things have changed. Maybe a little bit of everything. I see echoes of my former self, but he's gone now. As soon as I get to know my new self, I'll introduce him around.
Put down your things and rest awhile,
You know we've both nowhere to go.
Yeah, daddy had to crash,
He was always halfway there, you know.
And no, I don't pretend there's any more of that,
They say one day, you'll look up and laugh and hear the same sad echo.
Basically, I just wasn't bringing home the bacon, and non-profs are all about the money. I knew that going in. But, the same day, I moved into my new office at Longworth Hall. A friend of mine has a large office suite, and gave me a room that had recently been vacated when the old occupant quit his business. Yep, that's right: I'm open for business. For the foreseeable future, I am pursuing my freelance design work for a living, with my other job as a supplement.
Wednesday was my first full day in my new office, or at least I though it was going to be. I showed up to find my office trashed, and a threatening note left by the old occupant of said office. Apparently, he decided he unquit, and wanted his old office back. And since he's a brother in the family that owns the building, he gets what he wants. All he has to do is act like a child, and he's really good at that, especially for a 40-some year old man.
So, I was forced to pack up and move into a large room down the hall with several of my friend's employees; so, no real privacy, no window, no hardwood floors.
Which brings me to my point: when am I allowed to snap? When do I get to go off? Everyone else gets to trash someone else's office because they can't stick to their decisions. Everyone else gets to behave irrationally, and is coddled and bailed out because of it. Everyone else gets to develop a chemical dependency, and we all have to ignore it.
When's my time? How much weight do I have to bear before I'm allowed to break? I've always been expected to be better than everyone else. "You're smarter than all your classmates," I was told, in the same breath as a scolding for "acting smart." I'm sick of this "higher standard" bullshit, and it is bullshit. There's no other word that quite gets it across.
I think it's time for me to do something stupid. I think it's time for me to go against my better judgement, and do something because it feels right at the moment, damn the torpedoes, to hell with the consequences.
I realized last week that, if a couple of things go right over the next couple of months, I will be able to cut ties with every responsibility I have that keeps me here. My thought for what to do with such a unique situation? Go to Europe. Pack a backpack, grab a guitar, fly standby, and wander around Europe for an indeterminate amount of time. I know a few people there, and they have hostels and other places to stay. And of course, during warmer months, I could always sleep outdoors, under bridges, etc.
This, of course, goes against everything I've ever been about, but maybe that's the point.
I also decided that, likely next week, I'm going backpacking overnight in Red River Gorge, by myself. I need to get my head straight.
My mother couldn't handle that, and all but forbade me from going. What'll she do when I leave the continent?
I don't know what my future holds, but for the first time in my life, I feel like I have options. I can do whatever I want, when I want.
So I guess I'm really starting my new life, cobbled together out of parts of the person I used to be and whatever parts anyone else can spare. I'm actually doing things I never would have done before. I don't know if I'm doing them because I want to, because I need to, because someone talked me into doing them, or if it's just to prove to myself that things have changed. Maybe a little bit of everything. I see echoes of my former self, but he's gone now. As soon as I get to know my new self, I'll introduce him around.
Put down your things and rest awhile,
You know we've both nowhere to go.
Yeah, daddy had to crash,
He was always halfway there, you know.
And no, I don't pretend there's any more of that,
They say one day, you'll look up and laugh and hear the same sad echo.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
XXI - Losing Time
Sorry I haven't been writing. My stepfather died Saturday morning. The time spent at the hospital last week didn't lend itself to writing, and as I'm speaking at his funeral tomorrow, I have other things to write.
That being said, I had to mention something very odd I saw yesterday. I was canvassing in Springboro, Ohio, in an upper-middle class neighborhood. As I was walking down the street, I heard a ton of loud, banging noises and music coming from a garage. I got closer, and saw what was going on. About six or seven teenage boys were in their garage with the door open, practicing skateboarding tricks while listening to "You Were Meant For Me" by Jewel.
The moral of the story? Never assume anything.
That being said, I had to mention something very odd I saw yesterday. I was canvassing in Springboro, Ohio, in an upper-middle class neighborhood. As I was walking down the street, I heard a ton of loud, banging noises and music coming from a garage. I got closer, and saw what was going on. About six or seven teenage boys were in their garage with the door open, practicing skateboarding tricks while listening to "You Were Meant For Me" by Jewel.
The moral of the story? Never assume anything.
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