Wordless Wednesday.

Exit Music.

Los Lobos Live.

It's easy to trace my history to Los Lobos. A kind guy I totally forget the name of (tall, red hair, lived in Denton ... you know him?) but who wrote for the same site as me once upon a time learned I liked alt-country (when people were still calling it that in the 90s). And, several weeks later, I received a box in the mail filled with albums he had copied from his own collection. Things I HAD to have. Stuff like Ryan Adams and Whiskeytown and Caitlin Cary and Slobberbone and Centro-Matic and Alejandro Escovado and on and on. There must have been 75-100 compact discs in there, no lie. The slipcases still find themselves in my collection, too. I am indebted. Among the many was the Los Lobos box set. It was love at first listen, too. They can do absolutely anything they want to in the music arena. Of that much, I am convinced. And, even though they can tackle rock and blues with panache, it's their Mexican-flavored stuff that I end up liking the most.

I wasn't able to see their show last week when they came through Salt Lake, but I did manage to sit at the feet of a couple of the guys when they played our station. They came, they talked, they played, they drank plenty of coffee. It was all business. Here's a song I managed to grab in the midst of it all, one of my favorites entitled "La Pistola y El Corazon" (which they dedicate to the owners of Red Iguana, incidentally). Watch it by clickety-clicking HERE. (And do so in HIGH QUALITY ... how many times I gotta say it?)

Thought I'd have learned.

1:21 AM
It really is too late to be typing any of this. For all the thousand creative impulses that surge through my veins and try to convince my drooped eyelids otherwise, that fact remains. And, were I to adhere to reason alone, I’d prolly not have trekked out through the falling snow tonight in the name of curiosity and local musicians promising new levels of intimacy. Maybe I’d have even worn a jacket versus the sweater of a cardigan I went with instead, gathering snowflakes on top of snowflakes all across my chest like temporary badges of honor.

Instead, I walked those few blocks. I parted with my five dollars. I made it to my destination just in time and a little bit wet. I sat for one perfect hour, listening to the likes of Brinton Jones (singer of the The Devil Whale) and Jay Henderson (owner of that golden voice belonging to Band of Annuals) with maybe 20 others. I mean, talk about your winter soundtracks. It wasn’t open mic night by any means. It was good, solid music by what sounded like some world-weary singsongsangers. Sat close enough to Jay that it felt like I could have sat on his lap … too close for photos even. It was almost uncomfortable how close I actually was, as he let loose some new originals (one he’d even written that very same day), a George Jones cover and a pitch-perfect rendition of “Something True” by that aforementioned band he usually fronts.

That’s nice. That’s real nice. They both ought to do this sort of thing more often. I may not live in a reality where I get to enjoy being tucked in at night, but this? These songs and walking through the pristine snow, cerunching all the way? This came pretty close to that.

The unmistakable sounds of the working snowplows are practically scraping in unison now. It’s enough to send one like me headfirst into my nightdreams. And so I listen. And so I go.

Fleet Foxes - Blue Ridge Mountains.

I've liked seeing Seattle's Fleet Foxes grow from what seemed fairly humble beginnings to a band that almost everybody has heard of or shares some sense of familiarity with. The boys (cause, really, they still are) peek out from magazines through their bangs and proudly display their unshaven faces and it seems like this should have happened all along. Saw them in Urban Lounge just last year and there were less than 30 people there to enjoy the moment along with me. Now they're opening for Wilco finding themselves on talk shows and Saturday Night Live and the like. I, for one, think they deserve all that comes their way. They bring more to the wide, weird world of music than most—no matter how many times I hear them blend their voices together sans instruments, I never fail to be amazed. And, now that the media and the rest are catching on, beautiful videos like this one are getting made. I can't help but shake my head and whisper, "Finally." I mean, it doesn't quite match how flat-out awe-inducing that the music is, but it comes dangerously close.

click on it in YouTube to watch it in glorious HD

Wordless Wednesday.

A toast to hope.

There's a quote I'm sure will be remembered from today's inaugural speech, care of our new President Obama. And, in the small case it isn't, I'll go ahead and throw it up here. It reads as follows:

On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord.

This statement alone practically sums up my reason for following the trail he's blazing. I enjoy the optimistic approach. It's the mode I am most comfortable in. I'm not a worrier and I'm rarely one who gives into depression; I mean, given the choice, why go either of those directions? It's of little worth. In contrast to that, I certainly can get behind the words that were spoken today. I am on board. It's plenty comforting that we have a new president who also sees things that way.

Last night, I crowded onto a small dance floor with some friends and many, many others and we celebrated for a few hours straight. It was an inaugural ball that felt like it was in some small town hall. There was a jazz band comprised entirely of retired band teachers playing to a crowd of grandparents, young parents and a good smattering of kids. It was ridiculously happy. We barely had enough room to spin our dance partners and boogie without running into one another and, you know what? It felt completely right to me. Brand new starts ought to be accompanied by gorgeous renditions of "At Last" after all.

Happy birfday, Lovely Linda.

Today is my good friend's birthday. And, on some level, while I am friends with Dolly Parton (63!) and Martin Luther King, Jr., who both strangely share this day ... it's also my friend Linda's birthday. And, though, she's nowhere near here, I wanted to shout my own form of celebration for her. Maybe she'll hear me if I shout loud enough.

I've known her a long while, I think, though neither of us knows exactly how long it's been. In that time, we've scaled mountains and hiked trails, camped plenty of faraway places (me in a sleeping bag, her on her blow-up mattress), ran some crazy long races together, chowed on raw cuisine both good and not-as-good (no thanks on that seaweed, honey), had long, rambling conversations that had no real destinations in mind, complained to one another about our failed relationships and had some pretty fiery arguments (but we always made up, eventually). I've made her laugh until tears came out and she's seen me laugh until the same thing happened (it wasn't pretty and rarely is). In short, it's been nice. I'm glad I've had the time to get to know her.

Life sometimes has its way of providing you friends you didn't realize you'd make until they were. Does that even make sense? We went from good to better to, well, we're plenty comfortable with one another at this point. I'm not certain when I'll see her again and that's okay. She's moved to Costa Rica and found her own form of tropical paradise, living in a tree house and getting waaaay back to nature, and, for that, I applaud her. It's taken some real bravery for her to get to this point and now? There's been nothing but happy reports coming back of her new life in the sun. I'm glad she's found what she was after.

If I knew her address and could fit this in a card, she'd get it that way. Since I don't, well, this'll have to do. Happy birthday, missy. You are both loved and cherished.

Sundancin'.

Text messages on a Sunday afternoon, sponsored by the Sundance Film Festival.

Braggy volunteer: "I just met Nick Hornby ..."

Me: "I hate you."

Braggypants volunteer: "You always meet the good ones. Give me this and (Matt) Damon."

Me: "Well, I have Sunday afternoon brownies baking and you don't."

And then there was silence. Sweet, sweet silence.

Asked, received.

I performed some kinda hat trick in getting Rachael Yamagata to agree to come down to the KRCL station tomorrow. I usually just beg the musicians and bands I love to drop in and, now and again, I get incredibly lucky. She'll be in town for a couple performances at the Sundance Film Festival this weekend but, to precede all of that, she'll be spending some time with us. And you, Salt Lake City! Rah rah. You can hear whatever she chooses to sing or say by tuning into 90.9 FM on Friday, right around 3 in the afternoon. Talk about your special treats. Better than warm brownies, I'd say.

She's got a new one she'll likely sing something off of but, for my money, she could just sing this old favorite, over and over again, for a few hours straight.

Wordless Wednesday.

Apples and oranges.

I'm regularly told that I have one of the best jobs in the world. I'm not trying to brag. I'm just sharing what comes back my direction. And, while I don't disagree or agree necessarily when folks say that, it is a pretty good one. There are plenty of reasons to stick around. I've seen a lot of the world in the past few years and I've met some pretty amazing individuals. I've been able to write for a living and be pretty creative with how my words come out and get presented. Add that all up and it makes for a pretty nice stew of tasty goodness. I'm not even sure how I'd make it better if I could (though three work-from-home days a week sounds right nice).

But, truth be told, it's not the best job in the world. It's just not. That job was recently created, though. Go click on that link thing and get really, really jealous. Go on. I'd be lying if I said I didn't want the job, cause I do. I honestly do.

Not surprisingly, the link to apply has been down all morning. I'm just spitballin' here, but there may be a little competition for this one.

Are you gonna find another boy to spoon?

So, Emily beat me in that last song-off. She edged me out with 11 votes to 10, fair and square. C'est la vie. I still like my song plenty and I'm just glad I made a few fans out of it in the process. I even found their CD on sale for $1.50 while the music war was raging. Brand new, no less! It's on its way.

However, if I'd have had a second choice of bands to do battle with, I would have gone with Herman Dune, this Swedish band I've taken a liking to over the past year. Their songs are ridiculous but impossibly catchy, all the same. Maybe I like bands that refuse to take themselves too seriously? There's got to be something to that. Hmm. I was even going to put up the live version of the cute and poppy "I Wish I Could See You Soon," lest voters get swayed by the theatrics of the music video. I mean, with the angels and kids and finger painting going on, this looks like it could have easily existed on Sesame Street. Now that I don't have to worry about all of that, I'll go ahead and share. Because sharing's my favorite.

Deciphering the code.

I've discovered that, more times than most, when I offer up that I "don't care" about something, the exact opposite of that is usually closer to the truth. The fact is that, sometimes, I care more about any given thing than I really should. It's true. Still, given that curious insight, I'll prolly go ahead and stick with saying it, for a couple of reasons ... "I don't care" rolls off the tongue with incredible ease and, two, "I care too much" would likely invite some serious sidelong glances. For what it's worth.

I don't mean to brag, but ...

Okay, yes I do. I totally do. I love these lil girls.

In other news ...

It wasn't very long ago that I spoke of my bathroom fan predicament. I had called and called our property management folks, both speaking to them and leaving messages on a near-daily basis. When I called yesterday, I asked them to tell me how old the people were below me, so's I could share that information with the police when I told them to break in and find the old dead body down there. Yes, I was that sure they had passed on to the other side. I'd never smell anything, either, because that bathroom fan had been doing its job to beautify their air for the past three weeks or so. See how that works?

If the police didn't listen, I was going to hang from my balcony from a rope and swing onto theirs, drawing on a combination of the MacGyver and Tarzan skills within me, hoping they hadn't left their sliding glass door locked. And, if it was locked, I'd just go right through it, anyway. Oh, yes. I was going to have to take the law into my own hands. Hey, sleep's a precious thing in my world. You don't even know.

Luckily, though, I didn't have to do any of that. As it turns out, nobody actually lives beneath me. It's owned by some out-of-towners who use the place whenever they're here, only they hadn't been back in quite some time. My barrage of complaints caused the property management guys to lean on them, thereby causing them to find someone they knew who lived in the city to check things out and, well, last night it was quiet. It'd been turned off. I actually fell asleep listening to the silence of snow falling. I could practically hear my heart beating.

Oh, my my my ... it was a beautiful, beautiful thing.

Sound off / Song off.

Once again, I need your help with a Song Off, so I hope you'll lend me your votes.

You see, Emily the Cliff and I are each posting a song at the same time (at midnight or pretty much pertinear that time) and we want you to tell us which one you dig the best. Listen to the song below, head over to her blog and check hers out ... then come back and throw your vote into the comments section, as well as why you picked what you did. Easy enough, right?

My song's called God Monkey Robot and it's by The Apparitions. I can only reveal that this song ended up on a mix I made once upon a time and, each time I hear it, it makes me boogie kind of a lot. It also makes me sing along to that crazy, catchy chorus. I hope you've never heard it before now. Here she is ...



Results on the last Song Off can be viewed by heading over to replikate's blog, so skedaddle over that way for a look see, m'kay? The post is called Tally Ho.

Let it snow.

It just won't stop out there, will it? And, for now, I'm not complaining. This shot was taken on the sidewalk just outside my complex the other night. If it were just a tad bit warmer, I would walk around all night long. The snowflakes would fall and I would marvel at the silence that comes along with them, just like a kid caught in constant awe and wonder. I like this kinda stuff.

There may very possibly be blood.

Since before Christmas, my neighbor has had his or her bathroom fan turned to the ON position. I'm not one to tell people what they can or cannot do in their own homes, however, I can hear the loud rattle it has made—and continues to make—for the past, oh, 12 or 13 days and nights. I'm pretty sure that violates some kinda noise code we have in place in my building. For the duration of the time I've had off, then, I have heard what sounds like a small helicopter continually preparing to land on top of my bed. It's unnerving. I go to sleep at night trying to block out the sound and I wake up desperately trying to ignore it.

This isn't because I am a passive person, not in the least. When I thought it was my upstairs neighbor, they got a perfectly pissy little note on their door; we have since determined it's the guy below me making such ample use of his fan and not the kind folks above. Our property management sorts have received no less than four (sometimes) threatening phone calls from me, though they maintain they can't get into the place and shut it off without a locksmith handy as they do not have a master key. Sometimes I even stomp on the floor, even when I know nobody's listening. Meanwhile, it continues.

Last night at dinner, it was mentioned that an old woman died at their house ... only it was a month before she was discovered there. If the smell wasn't bad enough, she had actually started to become one with the floor, if you catch my drift. Unfortunate situation, yes, but an all too common one among those old people who live alone.

Conclusion? The guy below me is totally dead. That's got to be it. And, if he's not, and I happen to run into him in the hallway, I might just have to help him out with that part.

Pearls before breakfast.

Maybe you won't take the time to read through all of this, as it is a fairly lengthy piece. And, if that happened, it'd be all too sad, considering the message it attempts to put across. I, for one, am glad my stepdad alerted me of this, right out of the Washington Post. It is writing of this caliber that makes me want to be a newspaper reporter all over again (and that only happens about once every few years, honestly) ... if only more newspaper reporters were allowed to write this way. But, more than that, it speaks of slowing down, drinking in and enjoying the beauty that surrounds us. Open your eyes, fill up your ears and chew carefully. I am all for that. And I'm glad I received this reminder to do it more.

Here it is ... READ IT when you have the time to do so.