Bob Dylan Wallpaper

My basement is covered in Bob Dylan sheet music.

I didn't do it.  I've always been more of a Paul Simon guy.  When it comes to songs about New York City streets, give me the one about 59th over the one about 4th any day.

(I have a theory that you're either a Simon or a Dylan person.  Prose or poetry.  Stories or sonnets.  Yes, you can be both, but you inevitably have a preference and what the preference is says a lot about you.  For example, if you are a Simon person you tend to wear glasses, eat way too much Breyer's Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream, and wear the same pair of blue jeans every day for a week.)

The old owners of the new blue house were obsessed with all things Robert Zimmerman.  There were posters and pictures everywhere.  Young Dylan.  Old Dylan.  Folk Dylan.  Rock Dylan.  Every album on vinyl, 8-track, cassette, and CD.  Concert tickets from the last three decades in shadow boxes.  Framed Rolling Stone covers.  And when they refinished the basement they made wallpaper out of Bob Dylan sheet music.  Famous songs and obscure songs.  Early songs and old.  A history of one of the great American writers in various key signatures and tempos — on my wall.  

Right above my desk is "Tangled Up In Blue" and "Going, Going, Gone."  

Next to the couch is "Open the Door Homer" and "Stuck Inside of Mobile With the Memphis Blues Again."  

Above my daughters' toy chest is "I Dreamed I Saw St. Augustine" and "Hurricane."    

Despite not being the world's biggest Dylan fan, I love being surrounded by his songs.  Some I know and some I don't.  Some are important to me and some are downright lousy, but I love them all.  I find them oddly comforting.  And inspirational.  So much so that the other day I got out my guitar for the first time in three months and decided to learn some songs.

That's when I discovered, to my horror, that they're not in order.  The pages are random; put up without any regard for song, album, era, year, decade, key signature, time signature, tempo, or theme.  Yes, "Tangled Up In Blue" is above my desk, but only the first page.  Next to it is the second page of "Yea! Heavy and a Bottle of Bread" and odd pages of two other songs without titles that I don't recognize.  

"Knockin' On Heaven's Door" is followed by the third page of "Wiggle Wiggle."  (Which is an absolute travesty.)

"Like a Rolling Stone" is followed by the second page of "Quinn the Eskimo."

It's driving me mad.  I want all of "I Shall Be Released," not just the second page.  I want all of "Masters of War," not just the first page.  Or better yet, I want to be ignorant again.  I want to go back to that moment before I had that spark of inspiration and got my guitar out of it's dusty case only to realize that the songs on my wall serve no purpose but as wallpaper.  The lyrical equivalent of flowers and neutral colors.  

It could be worse though.  They could be Paul Simon songs.  That would be a real travesty.

R

Zing!

Thursday.  6:14 pm

Rilla:  Dad, what's our balance?

Me:  What balance?

Rilla:  Our balance.

Me:  I don't know what you mean.

Rilla:  Yes you do.

Me:  No I don't.

Rilla:  I know what it is.

Me:  OK Rilla, what's our balance?

(pause followed by a big smile)

RIlla:  Your face.

The student has become the master.  You never forget your daughter's first "your face."  I'm so proud.

R

Augustino

My best friend is a 70 year old Greek man named Augustino.

Unfortunately, Augustino doesn't know that yet.  He thinks his casual waves to me as he walks up the steps to his house are just that — casual waves between two neighbors.  But it's slim pickings in South Bend and a best friend is hard to come by.  The runner-up was the crazy-eyed bagger guy at Krogers, but I can't tell if he wants to be friends or if he wants to eat me.  Plus, I'm pretty sure there's a bird living in his beard and I've always said that personal hygiene is very important when it comes to picking friends.  You know what else is?  Not being a cannibal.  Big no-no.

Rilla came home from her first day of pre-school and announced that she had a new best friend.  She still had her best friend in Kentucky, but now she also had a best friend in the state that keeps Kentucky from falling into Tennessee.  "My best friend is named Olivia and she has an elephant," Rilla emphatically declared and I immediately was jealous.  Yes of the elephant (which disappointingly turned out to be just a stuffed animal, ruining quite a few hopes and dreams) but also at how easily Rilla was able to make a new friend.  And not just a friend, but a best friend.  The next day when I walked Rilla into her classroom she looked around the room, scanning the faces for familiarity, when a little head popped up from behind a shelf.  "Rilla!"  "Olivia!"  The two girls ran towards eachother, hugged, and then — like little girls do — jumped up and down giggling.  Other than the last part, it was a pretty spot-on impression of the ending of every Kate Hudson movie ever made.  

I want that.  Well...not that.  Not the hugging and the jumping up and down and the giggling.  I want the thirty year old male equivalent.  I want someone to share a beer with.  To watch a game with.  To talk politics with.  To throw a baseball with.  To make fun of and to cringe at when they make fun of me.  

I don't know what I expected when we moved.  Maybe some part of me actually thought there would be neighbors lined up outside our front door with fresh baked goods just itchin' to introduce themselves.  While we were unpacking our moving van a 30 year old man would knock on the front door and ask me:  "Do you want to play catch?"  I'd look at the pretty, brown-haired girl with dimples with puppy dog eyes until she finally caved — "Oh, alright.  But be back by dusk you hear?" — and then I'd run and grab my mitt and Reds hat and tear through the front yard.  "I'm Rob."  "I'm Gary."  Hours later I'd return and emphatically declare that I had a new best friend.  Maybe he'd even have an elephant.

I'm from a small town.  The kind of place where the kids you go to pre-school with are the same you graduate with 15 years later.  You don't have to make new friends when you grow up in a town like that, friends are just kind of made for you and you never have to introduce yourself because everyone already knows you.  I never moved.  I never had new neighbors.  It wasn't until I left for college that I first had to make new friends and, well, it was a lonely freshman year.  I spent the vast majority of my time in my dorm room on the seventh floor of Poland Hall counting down the days until I could go home.  (And also trying to ignore the ungodly loud Madonna songs being pumped out of the stereo of the room next to mine.)  I swore that this time would be different.  This time I would make new friends — but don't worry, I'd keep the old.  One could be silver and the other could be gold!  But here I am.  Two months in and I've got bupkiss.

That's where Augustino comes in.  Sure, he's not perfect.  He's twice my age and his English isn't that great. But we both like feta cheese and I have an impressive knowledge of the inhabitants of Mt. Olympus.  

Now to tell Augustino the good news.  Sigh.

R

robcarpenter11@gmail.com

Grace

I passed a sign today that said "Grace - 1 Mile" with a big arrow pointing to the right.  

It was a legitimate sign — not a piece of cardboard with the words written in Sharpie.  City approved.  Made of metal and bolted to a pole.  I'm sure there was another part to the sign that had been taken away or fallen off and "Grace" was simply the name of the school or church or township to my right, but the sign left behind — simply advertising grace as only being a mile down the road — posed an existential opportunity.

"Yes," I thought.  "I would like some of that," and when I reached the light I flipped on my turn signal.

"But Rob," you say.  "You can have grace anytime you want it.  All you have to do..."

No, no, no.  I don't want Jesus-Christ-died-on-the-cross-for-my-sins-and-rose-again-so-we-could-all-eat-chocolate-bunnies grace.  That's fine.  Great.  And you can have it.  I want tangible grace.  I want to feel it.  Taste it.  Smell it.  I want a grace soup line where I patiently queue up with my bowl and when I finally reach the front some guy with a week-old beard dumps a big spoonful of grace in it and I can barely make it to the old wooden bench before gobbling it up.  I want to get back up, calmly walk back to the big pot o' grace and charmingly ask for more.  I'd be incredibly polite:  "Please sir, I want some more?"  Then some guy with mutton chops wearing a funny looking hat would make a big deal about me wanting more — about how no one had ever done it before — and then there would be a song and dance number and, well, it's mostly visual after that.

The sharp honk of the Pontiac Vibe snapped me out of my Walter Mitty daydream.  I checked the rear-view-mirror, flipped off the turn signal, and went straight.  No time for grace Dr. Jones.  No time for musicals about orphans either.  I have to go buy some roses.  Some sweet, red roses.  2 blooms for a penny.  You can't beat that.

R

Corn

I learned how to eat corn from cartoons.

It was one of the ducks.  Daffy Duck.  Donald Duck.  Count Duckula.  Or maybe it was a chicken.  Or a goose.  I'm not quite sure, but it was definitely fowl.  There was a bill — an orange bill — and I can remember the corncob gliding across it like a platen methodically moving left to right on a typewriter.  Then — "DING!" — rotate the cylinder half an inch and start again.  Repeat until the cob is kernel free.

Made sense to me.  I attacked the cob like I was writing the great American novel.  Furiously eating row after row of sweet, delicious corn.  No one ever told me otherwise.  No one stopped and said, "Hey, Four-eyes, you're not a celluloid chordata!"  Maybe I should have figured it out when I stopped getting invited to barbecues and clambakes (there were lots of clambakes in West Kentucky), but I didn't.  I was too busy picking pieces of corn out of my teeth.

The other day during dinner I paused halfway through my bowl of homemade turkey chili, eyed the corn-on-the-cob peacefully resting on my side plate — unaware of what fate had in store, stretched my mouth muscles, and then attacked like a Great White Shark.  After the first two rows were devoured in in a blur of saliva and kernels, I looked up to see my sister staring at me, aghast, with her mouth open in disbelief.

"What is wrong with you?" she asked.

"Whmmpphhtt?"  I said as pieces of corn flew across the table.

Now I know that there is a right way and a wrong way to eat corn.  My way is the latter, but it's a lot more fun.

R

What Would You Do-ooo-ooo For A Chicken Sandwich?

One of my favorite ad campaigns is for the Klondike Bar.  I'm sure you know it, but in the rare case that you've been living under a rock in Borneo for the last few decades (and if so, welcome back) the basic premise of the commercial is that the Klondike Bar is so unbelievably good that a perfectly rational person would do anything to have one.  All together now:  "What would you do-ooo-ooo for a Klondike Bar?"  One poor schmo, instead of leaving the dirty dishes on the countertop, would put them directly into the dishwasher.  Another would massage the crusty corns of his mother-in-law.  Why, there's even a man who would act like a (gasp!) dog in exchange for the frozen treat.  A dog!  Can you believe it?  A dog! 

Three thoughts:

1.  It's a brilliant campaign because the Klondike Bar is a pretty lousy product.  I can think of ten other frozen bar treats off the top of my head that I'd rather have than a Klondike Bar.  It's mediocre ice cream enclosed in a so-so chocolate shell.  That's it.  That's the whole shebang.  There's not even a stick so eating the darn thing without getting it all over yourself humanly impossible.  Don't believe me?  Well just ask Dr. Heinrich Wolfhauser and Dr. Raymond Stantz and their crack team at Princeton University who proved the theory!  All of that being said, when I see a commercial or the jingle inexplicably pops into my head, I want a Klondike Bar.  Nay, I need a Klondike Bar!  And I would do-ooo-ooo anything for it.

2.  As fun and kitschy as the commercials are, I'd like to see them taken up a notch or two.  Everyone would bark like a dog for a free ice cream.  I mean, who wouldn't do that?  But, what about something really extreme?  Would you climb the Himalayan Mountains and bring back the head of the Yeti?  Would you eat a used diaper filled with Indian food?  Would you watch "Untamed Heart?"  No, of course you wouldn't. 

3.  The Bar is not from the Klondike.  It's from Youngstown, Ohio.  Just south of Cleveland.  I just thought you should know.  I'll give you a few seconds to regain your composure.

OK?

The Klondike Bar jingle bounced around my head last night as I walked into the local Chick-Fil-A for a free chicken sandwich.  "What would you do-ooo-ooo for a chicken sandwich?"  Well, I would do just about anything for a free chicken sandwich — especially a free chicken sandwich from Chick-Fil-A.  Afterall, they invented the darn thing!  (Or so they say.  Now, does anyone actually think that S. Truett Cathy was the first person in the history of the world to put a piece of chicken in between two pieces of bread?  No, absolutely not.  Don't believe me, well just ask Dr. Heinrich Wolfhauser...)  And what do the find purveyors of the nation's second largest chicken-based fast food restaurant ask in return for the free sandwich?  That you simply wear a shirt with your favorite college football team's logo on it.  Wear the shirt.  Get the sandwich.  It was that simple.

Well, like most things in my world, it wasn't that simple.  My favorite college football team is the University of Michigan.  For the record, I didn't have a choice in the matter.  I was raised to be a Go Blue fan and a Go Blue fan I am, for better or for worse.  So the only college t-shirt I have is a faded blue shirt with "Michigan" in big, block, yellow letters.  Oh, forgive me, they're not yellow — they're maize.  How silly of me.  Anyway, here's the problem, my local Chick-Fil-A just happens to be down the road from the University of Notre Dame.  The same Notre Dame that is one of Michigan's hated rivals.  The same Notre Dame that Michigan plays this weekend in Ann Arbor.  I didn't have a choice though.  I would have gladly worn a different shirt but I don't have another college shirt.  Not a shirt from my alma mater.  (Which is a real shame.)  Not a Kentucky or a Louisville shirt.  And I sure as hell wasn't going to put on a Notre Dame shirt.  (When I was a kid, I was raised to believe that Lou Holtz was the antichrist.)  If I wanted the chicken sandwich I had to wear the Michigan shirt.  Period.  There was no other way.  And not just to the restaurant.  First I had to stop by campus.  There were errands to run.  I would have to walk around Notre Friggin' Dame with a Michigan shirt on five days before the big game.  People have been killed for less than that!  I would have to endure the taunts and the harassment.  The threats and the leers.  I would have to risk my life for a stupid chicken sandwich.  It would be like Daniel walking into the lion's den while sporting a snappy vest made out of veal shanks.

But you know what?  It was worth it.  In fact, it might very well have been the best chicken sandwich I've ever had.

 

R

 

 

Pancakes

I ate pancakes today.

I know what you're thinking.  "Wow.  Stop the presses.  If this is the direction the blog is going I'll have to find my daily dose of banal musings elsewhere.  Sure, he's handsome, has great teeth, a firm handshake, and his smile can light up a room, but pancakes?  Really Rob?  Tomorrow he'll write about tying his shoes.  Now, why do I have the sudden urge to listen to "Batdance?""

But wait a second.  Pancake noshing might be a common occurrence in your household but in mine it's Haley's Comet.  I haven't eaten a pancake in nine and a half years.  And not just pancakes -- any combination of flour, egg, and milk that is poured onto a hot stove hasn't crossed my lips in nearly a decade.  I haven't gorged on griddlecakes, binged on blintzes, chomped on crumpets, pounded any palatschinke, consumed crepes, pigged out on pannekoeken, killed a few kaiserschmarrns, nibbled on a naleśniki, or even feasted on flapjacks.

Whooo.

As I've mentioned before, I hate throwing up.  Loathe it.  Abhor it.  Anathematize it.  (Wait…let me check the thesaurus for more synonyms.)  I'd rather have my leg caught in a beaver trap than toss my cookies.  I'd rather spend an entire day strapped to a chair and forced to watch Sandra Bullock movies.  While You Were Sleeping.  Miss Congeniality 2:  Armed and Fabulous.  Hope Floats.  All in a continuous loop.  I'd rather have Rush Limbaugh read the Twilight books out loud to me.  I'd rather…well, you get the idea.  At the slightest stomach discomfort you will find me on my knees praying to a variety of deities, hoping one of them will answer my prayers and spare me from the barf demons.  Vishnu?  Buddha?  Jesus?  Anyone?  Please?  It doesn't matter to me.  Any one of them will do.  But, if those prayers are not answered, I will curse those same gods and swear off religion all together.  What kind of higher power would create life that regurgitates?  How is that divine?  People say that the beauty and magic of life is the proof that there is a god, well I say that regurgitation proves that there isn't.  Or that whoever created the universe has a sick sense of humor.

After I'm done cursing deities (which, depending on the violence of the episode, can take quite a long time) I try to move on with my life and step one in moving on is swearing off the offending food forever.  I take that back, step one is crying.  Step two is pulling myself together, looking in the mirror, and then crying some more.  Step three is swearing off the offending food.  It wasn't a stomach bug that slayed me.  No, of course not!  It was the Apple Cinnamon Cheerios.  It was the chicken curry.  It was the bacon cheeseburger at Applebee's.  It was the Au Jus that I dipped my roast beef sandwich in.  It was the margherita pizza at…well…I happen to be friends with the owner of the place that made the pizza so I'm not going to say.  All I have to do to ensure that I never throw up again is never eat the food that caused me to throw up in the first place.  It's a foolproof plan.

OK, I'll be the first to admit that it's a silly system.  Why do I ban the Apple Cinnamon Cheerios but not the milk in that disastrous bowl of cereal?  Why did I refuse to eat at Applebee's but continued to eat burgers until the day I gave up red meat?  Instead of blaming the au jus, maybe I should blame myself for riding my bike from sunrise to sunset on a hot summer day, pausing only to wolf down a roast beef sandwich and a milkshake.  It's purely selective and I'm the only selector.  The judge and the jury.  The little g god.  Something or someone has to pay for the insolence impacted on my innards.

And then sometimes the "incident" is so violent, so memorable, that I don't have a choice.  The mere sight or smell of the offending food makes me want to run for the hills.  (Or even worse, start watching "The Lake House.")  Such was The Great Pancake Disaster of 2000.  One month into a life of newlywed bliss, the poor pretty, brown-haired girl with dimples had to see me at my absolute worst.  Crying.  No, sobbing.  Flipping back and forth between incanting prayers and shouting curses to every god from Ah Puch to Zeus.  Curled up in the fetal position on the linoleum bathroom floor of our tiny one-bedroom apartment.  Purging every last teensy bit of pancakes from my swollen stomach.  Good times. 

(I thought I'd test that whole "for better or for worse, in sickness or in health" bit right out of the gate.)

For nine and a half years the "incident" haunted me.  Every other brush with barfing was compared to it and nothing came close.  And the thing was, I loved pancakes.  No, love isn't a strong enough word.  Where's that thesaurus?  I cherished pancakes.  I treasured pancakes.  I, wait for it, fancied them.  My ideal day started out with a stack of flapjacks that reached to the moon and now, now that was gone.  Like a kid finding out there wasn't a Santa Claus.  Like a woman figuring out that Sandra Bullock makes bad movies.  My life would never be the same.  It took months for me to summon up the courage to walk into a Cracker Barrel -- and you can forget about IHOP.  There was Rob before January 2000 and Rob after.

I started getting the hankerin' for some hoecakes about a month ago.  Out of the blue.  Numerous times I started to make the batter only to get cold feet after cracking the eggs.  I'd break into a cold sweat, start crying, and three hours later I'd wake up in closet -- with no clue how I got there.  But I couldn't shake the desire.  The craving.  Pancakes were calling me.  It was time to move on.  To turn the proverbial page.  I couldn't live my life in fear, right?  Carpe Diem!  I wanted to live damnit!  Live!!!

So I made pancakes.  I fought off the gag reflux when I stirred in the baking powder.  I wiped away the tears when I poured the batter onto the griddle.  I ignored the cold chills crawling up and down my spine when I flipped the first flapjack.  And I ate the pancakes.  Not one.  Not two.  But three, three pancakes!

And now I have a stomachache.  Let's see…oh Baal, wise Baal, if you can hear me…

R

 

Foul Ball

I saw the ball come off the bat.  I always do.  Baseball allows me to focus.  Words blur when I read.  Screens get fuzzy when I watch TV.  But I can see a baseball.  It's like I live in a basic cable world and for a brief instant I can see in brilliant HD.  Everything is perfectly defined.  The crispness of the home white jerseys.  The vivid green of the outfield grass.  I can follow the ball from the pitcher's hand to the catcher's glove -- seeing the twists and turns of the optical illusion that is a curveball as it travels the sixty feet six inches to home plate -- and I can see, with amazing clarity, when the ball comes off the bat.  And now that ball was heading straight for me, my wife, and my two daughters.

We had just gotten to our seats — third base side, third row from the field — when the game started.  Great seats.  Dream seats.  Even better — they were free.  As we approached the stadium a guy walked up and asked me if I needed tickets.  I asked how much and he said, "Don't worry about it.  They're extras."  I reached for my wallet and he simply shook his head, started to walk off, waved, and said, "Enjoy the game."  I love minor league baseball.  Only at a minor league game could you walk up to the stadium five minutes before the first pitch and moments later find yourself three rows up from the field, parallel with the home team's third baseman, for free.  So close you can smell the grass.  The pine tar.  The tobacco.  So close you can convince yourself that maybe the manager will, in a moment of desperation, look into the stands, see you in your tattered Cincinnati Reds hat, and say, "Hey you, four eyes, can you pitch?"  You'll look around, making sure the old codger is actually talking to you and then nod your head.  "Well dammit, grab a glove and start warming up!"  The speakers will blast the opening guitar riff to John Fogerty's "Centerfield" and you'll step on to the field — Moonlight Graham style — and everything will change forever.

The pretty, brown-haired girl with dimples and I have the same reaction to seats that good:  "We might get a foul ball!"  However, there is one big difference in that exclamation.  My reaction is said with absolute glee, hers with absolute terror.  She doesn't smell the grass and think about getting the chance to put a uniform on.  No, she sees danger.  She sees pain.  She sees bloody noses and fractured skulls and a plethora of other ghastly injuries that all end with us in an ambulance.  We knew a girl who got hit by a foul ball once.  Sure, she had to be taken to the hospital and there were serious concerns about concussions and lifelong effects from the direct hit to the ol' noggin', BUT, she also got to go into the clubhouse, meet the team, and get a bat signed.  Totally worth it right?  My wife doesn't think so.  From the moment we reach our row I can tell she's ready to leave.  "It will be fine," I assure her — trying to hide my smile as I look out on the field and imagine myself in a Silver Hawks jersey.  "Keep your eye on the ball," she orders me, sounding like one of my little league coaches.  That's the secret wonderful part about great seats three rows from the field — it is my job as protector of the family to intensely watch every pitch.  It's not that I want to, you see, it's that I have to.  As a good father.  As a caring husband.  I would love to help take care of the kids and stop Rilla from eating somebody else's nachos and bounce Lucy so she doesn't cry — but I can't.  I have to watch the game.  For the safety of my family.  Because I love them.

There was a bee one section to our right that had entire rows of adults and children up in arms.  There were already teenage kids in bright red t-shirts walking up and down the concrete stairs hawking cotton candy and raffle tickets.  A guy four feet to my left was seeing how fast he could guzzle his $2 Bud Light as his date looked on in a mix of astonishment and shame.  But I was focused on the game.  Three pitches in and CRACK, Josh Felhauer hit a routine groundball to third base.  I smiled.  There is nothing like the sound of the ball hitting the bat.  CRACK!  Like a superhero fighting crime on the dirty streets of some make-believe comic book city.  CRACK!  POW!  BANG!  Wow.  These really were great seats.  The next batter lined a clean single to left and made it to second on a well-timed hit-and-run grounder to the second baseman.  Two outs.  Runner in scoring position.  The big lefty third baseman, Carlos Mendez, number 5 in your program, stepped in to the box.  He planted his left foot in the back corner and then raked the dirt with his right -- like a bull ready to make a run at the swirling red cape.  He tapped his bat on the plate and then swung it.  Loosely.  Once.  Twice.  Three times.  Finishing each swing with the head pointing straight to dead center field.  Getting himself ready.  Sizing up the pitcher.  99% of the people in Coveleski Stadium weren't paying attention.  But I was.  I was riveted. 

And now the pitcher holds the ball and now he lets it go and now the air is shattered by the force of Mendez's blow.

Rodriguez took his time getting the ball to the plate.  He stood on the rubber for what felt like an eternity, staring down the runner at second — daring him to take one more step away from the base, before unfurling his body and sending the leather covered spheroid home.  It was a fastball on the outside corner that Mendez was just able to foul off.  A defensive swing more than anything else.  Where you were guessing breaking ball and by the time you register it was a fastball your only hope is to make it to the next pitch.  Mendez flailed at it and then, then everything slowed down.  This was the moment.  Time to shine.  Time to save the family.  Time to be the hero.  There would be front-page headlines.  "Father Saves Family."  There would be appearances on Oprah.  Or Letterman.  There would be clothing lines.  Book deals.  Lucrative speaking engagements.  Maybe I'd get my own TLC show.

The ball hurtled towards us — faster than a speeding bullet and I . . . I . . . I ducked behind my wife.

I didn't mean to.  It was instinct.  My mind said, "Save your family!"  My body said, "Aaauuuggghhhh!" 

The ball hit a kid in the stomach two rows in front of us.  Don't worry.  They grow their children large up here.  He was facing home plate but his head was turned 45 degrees, ignoring the action on the field, no doubt dreaming about cotton candy, when he was hit.  It sounded like a bowling ball being dropped into a vat of pudding and for a second, I wondered if the ball would come back out.  I grimaced, convinced that the kid had just booked a one-way trip to a lacerated spleen surgery.  He paused for a second, looked down, and then went back to eating his hot dog.  "Whooo, that was close," I said with a whistle — not sure if my wife knew my cowardly response to the foul ball.  I tried to play it off.  "I wish that ball had made it up here.  Man!  So close.  How awesome is that?  Yeah, I knew right away that it wasn't going to make it up here.  I traced the trajectory instantly.  It's a skill.  A blessing really.  Alright Mendez!  Straighten it out.  You can do it.  You see, that's why I leaned behind you to pick up that quarter.  Because I knew we were safe.  All of us.  I had assessed the situation and made a judgment call and…" 

"We're moving," she said. 

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright.  The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.  And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout. But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Rob has chickened out.

 

 

 

 

 

My Old Kentucky Home

A few months ago I taught my three year old daughter how to sing "My Old Kentucky Home."  

It was Derby season so it seemed only right that she learned our state song, but more importantly I wanted a new nighttime song.  Rilla and I sing a song together before I tuck her into bed every night and for god knows how long she has insisted on "Ain't No Road Too Long," the classic Waylon Jennings/Big Bird duet from the 1985 film "Follow That Bird."  As you might guess, I'm Waylon.  Rilla's Big Bird.  Other Sesame Street characters jump in for a line or two too and we provide the voices.  I'm Gordon and Cookie Monster.  Rilla's Susan and Grover.  We take turns being the Count.  I'm not going to lie — it's pretty impressive.  

But it's not much of a lullaby.  After we're finished — with a big final "Oh they're ain't no road too looooooooong!" — Rilla's wired.  So, after failed attempts of "Sweet Baby James," "The Circle Game," and all the other bedtime songs I remembered from my childhood, I thought I would give "My Old Kentucky Home" a try. . . with some slight alterations.

Rilla sleeps with Super Bunny Bunny and Mr. Bear so every song we sing has to include mentions of her companions.  (Evidently her stuffed animals are very vain.  For example, in "Ain't No Road" The Count counts bunnies instead of telephone poles.)  So, "people" (yes, it used to be something else but Kentucky officially changed the words of the song in 1986 so that all "people" were now gay — not just ones of a specific hue) was changed to "bunny" and the chorus was changed to "Weep no more my bunny, oh weep no more my bear."  It might be sacrilegious to some, but it's debatable if Stephen Foster ever actually came to Kentucky — so I say it's OK.  

To my surprise, Rilla loved "My Old Kentucky Home."  She loved that it was about her home.  She loved that it symbolized the beauty and the pageantry of the city she was born in.  And she loved that it included lines about Bunny and Bear.  We took turns singing it.  Me.  Then her.  Then Bunny in her striking coloratura soprano followed by Bear in his rich, velvety baritone.  It's been our go-to nighttime song ever since.  

When I taught Rilla the song I explained that it was a special song because Kentucky was a special place for us.  Our friends were there.  Our family was there.  Mommy and Daddy grew up there.  Rilla and her baby sister were both born there.  "My Old Kentucky Home" was more than a song for us.  It was a way to remember the people and the places we loved.  Every time we sang it, we were singing for them.  For grandparents.  For best friends.  For Ms. Mary, the greeter at Krogers who always greeted us with a smile.  For the woman at the bank who always gave us an extra sucker when we stopped by.  For our fantastic neighbor Ms. Billy and her beloved dog Zoey.  For everyone.

We left Kentucky a little over two weeks ago.  A big yellow moving fan brought us north.  There will be new friends.  New people to meet.  New neighbors with new dogs.  New places to see.  But right now it's still a little hard.  The other day, as we were driving back to our new house in a quiet car, Rilla broke the silence:

"Daddy?"

Yes Sweetie.

There was a long pause and then a heavy sigh.

"I miss my old Kentucky home."

Another long pause as I fought back tears.

Me too sweetie.  Me too.

R

 

Le Finale

The $64,000 question over the last few weeks has been, "What was your all-time favorite show?"  Friends asked me.  Family asked me.   Radio DJs and newspaper writers asked me.  Checkout clerks at Krogers asked me.

Well, last night's show might very well have been my favorite.  Thanks to everyone who came and sang along and danced and clapped and made us, for one last night, feel on top of the world.  Thanks to the friends that joined us on stage:  Brigid Kaelin, Paul Moeller, Peter Searcy, Ellen Carpenter, Kyle Meredith, and Aaron Walther.  Each one brought something unique and special to the songs.  It was a magical night — a wonderful way to go out.  (And to top it all off, the Reds won their game against the Brewers 4-0!)

Here's the setlist for those of you playing the "The Last Show" board game at home:

Beautiful Goodbye

When the Morning Comes

Elizabeth

Wake Up

Slip Away

When I Fall

Seventh Sign

Warning Sign

Ellen's Song

Gravity

Paris to New York

Through My Door

Happy inn

Breathe In Breathe Out

Hundefuter

Fool

Sylvia

Kerouac

The Stripper Song

Lights of Louisville

Working My Way

Untitled (encore)

R

robdidntstartthefire.blogspot.com

I Say, Watson

* I won't miss rehearsing, but I will miss going to our rehearsal space.  On the blighted stretch of road past various fast food joints and overgrown lawns there is a pet grooming store.  Then, directly next to it, there is a taxidermist.  It cracks me up everytime.  I want to know the story behind the two establishments.  Who was there first?  Are the owners friendly?  Do they ever offer joint discounts?  Ten groomings gets you a free stuffing?  Has anyone ever gone to the taxidermist by mistake and come back an hour later to find Fluffy mounted on a wall?

* I'm trying not to get too sentimental about the "lasts."  As I passed that grooming/taxidermist 1-2 punch yesterday I giggled and then thought, "Egad (my inside voice sounds like Sherlock Holmes), that's the last time I'll ever pass that!"  I thought the same thing as I was driving home from rehearsal:  "I say, that's the last time we ever gather ourselves in a space and rehearse our songs!"  I've done my last radio interview.  My last print interview (and subsequently, I've also read the last article written about me, crumpled it up, and thrown it away in a huff -- a huff!).  It's all very strange.  48 hours from now I will no longer be in a band.

* On the plus side, I've been so caught up with selling a house, buying a house in another city, studying for a midterm, and taking care of two little girls that I haven't had much time to really think about it.  (Or see the new Harry Potter movie.)  I'm not sure when it will hit me.  When my legs will get wobbly and I'll have to sit down.  Maybe that won't happen.  Maybe I really am OK with it.  

* A few programming notes:

1.  Brian, Brigid, and I will be playing WFPK's Live Lunch tomorrow (Friday) at noon.  There is limited seating available at WFPK's studios but you can also listen to the show on the air (91.9 FM in Louisville) or online (WFPK.org).  If you like the music of The Jets you won't want to miss it.  All together now:  "You must have heard it from my best friend.  He's always talking when he should be listening..."

2.  Yes, I will write about the other statements I made a few days ago -- about being a college dropout and a stay-at-home dad.  And yes, those are real.  I wanted to start out with something light before getting into the heavier stuff.  

3.  I'll continue posting on the band's myspace page and website for a few more days and then I'll move the whole operation over to my new blog site:  robdidntstartthefire.blogspot.com.  What?  There was a song about not starting the fire?  Really?  Oh yeah, well was it always burning since the world's been turning?  It was?  Dammit.  I knew I should have gone with my other idea:  singusasongyouretherobman.blogspot.com.

4.  I caught — from start to finish — Poison's "Give Me Something to Believe In" on the radio the other day.  When it first started I couldn't quite place it, then the first line came in ("Well I see them on the TV preaching about the promised land") and I kind of chuckled.  By the time CC's epic way over-the-top guitar solo came in I had the volume all the way up and was singing along at the top of my lungs.  That's not really a programming note.  But it is awesome.

R

robcarpenter11@gmail.com

Part One of Three

There are benefits to having six fingers on your left hand.  

1.  Three words:  Capitan Seis Dedos.  How's that for a nickname?  

2.  You can give awesome back scratches.  The extra finger -- the uber pinky as I like to call it -- reaches some spots that usually don't feel the warm touch of a human hand.

3.  When I use the expression: "I can count the number of times x has happened on one hand," I can count up to six instead of just five.  For example, you could not say, "I can count the number of Pope Pauls on one hand."  I, however, can.

4.  When I'm unloading the dishwasher and I'm trying to hold all the clean coffee cups on one hand so I don't have to make multiple trips to the coffee cup shelf, I have an extra finger to hang coffee cups from.  That, my friends, is worth its weight in gold.

5.  I throw a pretty mean curveball.  

Sure, there are downsides.  If, say, some spanish guy is looking for revenge because you killed his dad years ago — all he has to do is look for the guy with six fingers on his left hand.  Now, I admit, I shouldn't have killed his dad.  It was a mistake.  I went to pick up a sword he had made for me and we got to talking.  And then we drank a little sangria — maybe too much sangria.  Before I knew it I had run him through with this beautiful sword.  I'm only human right?  He who is without sin can throw the first stone, that's what I say.  And yes, I shouldn't have given the guy's kid scars on his cheeks to "remember me" by when he came out from behind a dresser to avenge his old man.  That was kind of a dick move on my part.  Like he needed the scars to remember me!  I think seeing his dad die would pretty much guarantee that my ugly mug (and my six fingers) would be permanently etched in his memory.  But, like I said, I made a mistake.  It was a different time then.  I was in a bad place — hanging out with bad people, weird albino guys, and there was the sangria (which always goes straight to my head) and, well, I screwed up.  But it's been a long time right?  Forgive and forget already.  Sheesh.

R

ps:  I don't really have six fingers on my left hand.  I did, however, recently watch "The Princess Bride" for the 4,172nd time.  

Three

16th of June.  9:05.  Door bell rings.  Man at the door says if I want to stay alive a bit longer, there`s three things I need you to know.  Three:

1.  I have six fingers on my left hand and I once killed a Spanish swordmaker.

2.  I'm a college dropout.

3.  I'm a stay-at-home dad

I could leave it at that but my motto has always been "why use a few words when you can use a lot?"  It's not a great motto.  It's no "speak softly and carry a big stick," but I'm working on it.  (I'm also working on wearing a monocle just to stick with the whole Teddy Roosevelt theme.)  Over the next three days I'll explain a bit more.  And by "a bit," I mean "a lot."  And by "a lot," I mean "sweet god that's an impressive amount of words."

R