This totally happened.

Today even, while I was polishing off some chicken wings for lunch, along with a handful of co-workers, the small talk went in this direction.

Me: "Hey, so are you married?"
Him: "No ... but I have a Playstation 3."

I'm still not sure if that is his actual reason for not being married or a worthy alternative to having a wife. Maybe I'll never know.

Folsom Prison Blues is for kids.

If you haven't seen this all over the place yet, you will. Soon. Your grandma will be forwarding this to you in weeks from now, mark my words. And, if this is the first place you've seen it, well then, congratulations. May you have the same sense of discovery that I did.

See? Johnny Cash music spans the generations! It gives me a good lot of hope for the future, too. I never thought hearing a kid singing about shooting a man in Reno just to watch him die would bring me such joy, but it does. It most certainly does.

Still not the piano man.

Remember when I wrote a song a few days ago? I did it again, last night, when I should have been fast asleeping. Instead, I had this crazy idea to write a tune for a band about a man being married to one of its songs, which would explain the reason why he's at all of their shows. Simple. I imagine it'll be some twangy piece of country magic someday, should the right people get hold of it. Creativity seems to hit pretty often when the lights are out ... and I couldn't get over how funny I thought I was for writing its verses. It was definitely more nonense than it was emotional but, you know? I can get behind those kinds of songs when done right. Just call me Roger Miller.

14 things I survived over the weekend.

14 things I survived over the weekend (a checklist of the remembered)

1. About 1,072 mosquitoes (approx.) taking turns tasting my sweet, sweet blood.*

2. One flat rear tire, noticed somewhere outside Jackson Hole, just after a night spent under the star-filled sky near one mama moose.

3. One mama moose, who masked her obvious camper hatred with huge mouthfuls of grass.

4. A wee “moderate to strenuous” 5-hr. hike that brought forth more blisters and scrapes on these hooves than all 30+ hours of the Wasatch Back Relay.

5. The initial shock of a cold mountain lake dip Sat. morning in the Grand Tetons.

6. The sharp pangs that accompany that old familiar disease, Writer’s Block.

7. A free hot fudge sundae care of one squeaky waiter in Blackfoot, ID.

8. Helpful friends who came after said sundae, wielding hungry, hungry spoons.

9. A surprise rainstorm, a subsequent wet sleeping bag and an even wetter pillow. All before sundown.

10. One confused soul who improperly pronounced my name “lard ass” and the other person in earshot, so obviously offended that she couldn’t stop laughing.

11. My own fits of laughter as a result of seeing a trail that ended in the words " ... Bend Overlook."

12. Many, many hours behind the wheel of my own hog, taking many, many bumpy surprise detours.

13. Actually passing up a fabled raspberry shake stand on the long, windy road back home. (And I’m sorry already, taste buds. Quit with the watering already.)

14. Countless stops due to bladders born too small.

And, you know? I can’t wait to survive all of this and more some other time, really, really soon. I can’t help but be thankful for good friends, the great outdoors, the month of July, the promise of sunshine and avocados. Especially avocados.

*It ought to be pointed out that many skeeters died by my heavy hand (brothers, sisters and grandparent skeeters in that mix), while four of them got good and yelled or cursed at. There wasn’t much survival on their end, either, not if I had anything to say about it (and I did ... I really, truly, sincerely did).

Ha Ha Tonka Tuesday.

I'm gonna finally throw in the towel on the free concerts downtown ... at least for a few weeks. Don't get me wrong, I like to bike downtown (sans handlebars), but being able to have some breathing space for a whole 10 dollars isn't such a bad way to go, either. It's why I'm hoping to go see this show this week, fingers crossed. They're from Springfield, MO (my old hood, believe it or not), they're chomping at the bit & seemingly eager to please and (and!) they're about as close as we'll get to a Kings of Leon for now. He's got one of those same blessedly garbled voices to call his own. What's not to like in all of that?

Plus, how can you not like a line like Only Dostoevsky would dream up a pair like us? Riddle me that. You can thank Heather for the heads up on this one ... and skedaddle over there to download the tune that belongs to that fancypants lyric, no less.

Today's horoscope.

I sure like the sounds of this. More money AND my favorite number on my birthday? Just perfect. I don't even need to make a wish or blow out any candles. I'll just go ahead and hope it comes true, however vague it is (and it sure is).

Leo >> July 23-Aug 22 >

There's a chance to increase your income again. This appears to involve somebody else's money mingled with your own. Today is a 7.

Time in a bottle.

I know I talk about music a lot, but I shant apologize for it. And, sure, perhaps my doing so causes deaf ears on some, for me to talk a lot about a musician that they don't know or too much about a band they don't like or too lightly about a band they love. I'd hope that's not the case. I never mean to ostracize anybody. I'm not one of those music snobs, as I love the whole of it much too much. I'll sing along to Barry Manilow at the top of my lungs and be pretty unabashed about it. That gets me a clear out, right? I figure the expression of music period begets a strong emotional response in me. Experiencing it makes me see clearer and feel more and believe and hope and love and, well, that's just the tip of it all. I suppose it goes beyond that, too. I've had entire relationships with women that have started simply because we were passionate about the medium. More than once, yes. I mean, I'm not a huge fan of sports, but gimme sad songs in the nighttime in place of a Jazz game. I can pass on dessert, but I'll take some ragged Yo La Tengo bootleg covers, sure. Songs are my bread and butter. They place ease my mind.

That said, last night was one of those perfect nights for music, and not just because it was one of those rare times when I was able to double up on concerts and not have to pay a dime. Talk about your early birthday presents, eh? Ladysmith Black Mambazo was my opening act, where I understood fewer words than I did how important their music was to their culture and tradition living on. I saw them move in ways I've never seen people move ... legs were kicked as high as heads and nine singers/dancers moved with some of the greatest synchronized moves these eyes have ever seen. There were wide smiles and good humor and a real purity to what they had to put across to an appreciative crowd. Two hours were gone in a blink.

I scurried over to Urban after that and took in Josh Ritter, who may be the smilingest frontman I've ever happened to come across. I know his music fairly well and I appreciate to no end his turns of phrase (every "young Dylan" comparison is deserved), but my seeing him do what it is he loves for a sold out crowd was that missing piece of the puzzle for me. He'd talked earlier on the radio about how fun the song creating process was for him and that it'd never failed to get old for him, but seeing him smile for an energetic, blistering hot couple of hours sealed that deal. It made his words real. He called it a rare night, one that won't happen again for a long time for him, one that he would definitely remember and, you know? He was absolutely right. I'll go ahead and label him a truth-teller. He even passed out hugs and posed for photos afterward and helped it get even better.

I may have burst right around then, I'm not entirely sure.

So, you know? Mixing good, good friends (some of the absolute best) with some of my favorite music (the kind that demands some very necessary singing along, even if it is to the mixed in pieces of Modest Mouse and Beatles offhands) on a hot, sticky summer's night, well ... I'd cram last night up in a bottle if I could. I'd name it and squeeze it and kiss it good night. If I'd have ended up on a trampoline and looking out at the stars until my eyes closed, crickets offering my lullaby, it might have been a better storybook ending. It would have even taken me back in time some. As it stands, though, it was ageless. I was ageless. And I attribute pretty much all of that to the gift that is music.

This serves as my thank you ... for all of it.

You know it's been a long day when ...

... you get home from work, unlock the small, square box that holds your mail, remove your mail, lock the box up again, as you always do, then attempt to set its security alarm. As in the security alarm it doesn't exactly have. As in the one that is in your vehicle, the very one that honks back at you when you hit the appropriate button on your keychain. Which you do ... which it does.

Hoo, boy. Stick a fork in me already ... I am done.

Remember when this happened?

M. Ward is my new best friend.

So there’s this possibility that I could be M. Ward’s personal chauffeur a few days from now and I can’t pretend not to be excited. Granted, he just needs a ride to the radio station from the Gallivan Center and back and, sure, these kinds of things fall through a whole lot more than they actually pan out, but I’m still plenty jazzed about the possibility. These are those kinds of possibilities that keep me up at night. If it doesn’t happen, I’ll let it roll off. If it does, however, I’m going to see about taking the scenic route there and back. There’s even this part of my crazy brain that’s already planning ahead for our car conversation. And it’s gotta sound unplanned, so that’s preparation on top of preparation in order for that to properly take place. Some of them are questions, others are merely points of interest.

Welcome to my rough draft.

Okay, so Zooey? Seriously? Could you not have made it happen with her before Ben Gibbard lost all that weight and made his move? Did you even try? You do know that everybody thinks you are practically Mr. Deschanel anyway? Or am I the only one having to correct them? And my pop culture knowledge is only fair to middling, but even I know that.

On a related note, do you know how serious the two of those jokers are, anyway? If not, do you have her number on your cell phone? And, if that’s the case, can I borrow it for a while? Promise to give it back. I just want to ask why she never responded to my MySpace messages is all. And maybe ask to be invited to the wedding so’s I can break it up or whatever.

Relate how his song “Rollercoaster” became the song of my weekend, what, two years ago? When I seemed to hear it with new ears and pretty much have ever since? When I was sorta dating that Kiwi and we were in Vegas and sorta falling for one another, her writing songs about me and my getting lost in that accent and smile. Well, until our paths forked, she got hitched to someone else and promptly made a couple-a cute kids. Hmm, maybe I’ll leave that one out.

That David Bowie cover? The one that got all slowed down and made sexy? The one that sounds like a late night whisper? Still one of the best all-time covers out there, no contest.

I once converted my friend Brooks to your music after he heard “Chinese Translation” for the first time. And we’re talking about a guy who, up until that point, listened to nothing but Mariah Carey albums on repeat. From Top 40 to falling for your entire catalog, hook, line, sinker. Even called it the greatest song of its kind ever written. Went on and on about how you’d flat-out reinvented the way an acoustic song should be written. So, um, how do you respond to that?

Why the M. and not the Matt? What do you have against your first name anyway?

Your set at Sasquatch this year was one of the best flowing of all the acts there. When I say that, I mean that your songs were timed so well and your band was so on point, it practically sounded like one all-too-brief medley of M. Ward songs. You were more of a pro and doing it better than others who’ve been in the game years and years longer than you have. Consider this your pat on the back.

Hey, can we take a photo where it looks more like we’re best friends and less like I’m just the one volunteering to be your Utah taxi? Wait … are we best friends? For real?

Okay, so it’s a work in progress. And, should I run out of appropriate questions, I’ll revert to talking s’more about Zooey because, come on, can anyone get tired of finding out more about her? That’s rhetorical. Naturally.

Truths of Bachelorhood #67

When it comes to finally picking up after yourself, sometimes there are just more dirty dishes in the bedroom than in the kitchen.

I'm just gonna follow the sound.

It's Thursday again and I find myself touting the opening band instead of the main one. Again. Yes, the Black Keys are going to dominate the stage tonight, they just are. It's been a long spell since I saw them do their thing in concert (Seattle being the last time I can recall), but Dan Auerbach has one of the greatest voices in bluesy rock and Patrick Carney has to be one of the tallest drummers I've ever seen behind a set, well, ever. It's just all arms ... like watching Animal from The Muppets. You'll love it more than your mom or something. Still. I feel like I'm one of the few that owns a copy of Human Highway's Moody Motorcycle, but I just had to pick it up after hearing their song "The Sound." It's one of the catchiest songs I've heard in a good long spell. It'll have you by the opening few seconds. And, if you think you don't know them but you know that old weird band the Islands, well then, you do. You so do. I'm going to try as hard as I can to get there early for this show. I actually want to see it instead of hearing it. Come with, yes?

Human Highway - "The Sound" from Secret City Records on Vimeo.

Wordless Wednesday.

Not the Piano Man.

I wrote a song the other day. If I'm real lucky, someone I admire will bend it, shape it, add some notes to it and be able to make it sound nice when sung. Sorta the ultimate compliment in a way, am I right?

Inspiration, awakened.

Ever written one of those almost poems? They're the ones that exist without much prose or turns of phrase to speak of, but plenty of that good, old-fashioned intent? When I was back on that horse and poem writing for a good spell not long ago, this came out of me while on a trip to Louisiana. It captures something in it, so I hesitate to force any kind of structure or rewrite upon it; I've left it largely as it was written ... for now. No poems are ever really finished, right? So it's been said and so it'll be said again.

Wanderlusting

The humidity is like a blanket
even in this shadow, in this sunshine
so cool and sticky at once
always comforting enough
to stay beneath it

it feels like Panama, the place
I can recall mostly for the smiles
even more for the rain
and just once for the beach
the one with the hammock, surfing,
waves so faithfully on its shore

it all leads back to that first desire to sail
but not on crests, but to an elsewhere
a reality just beyond the present
the one so clouded by the more lucrative —
New Zealand, Thailand, Brazil,
even the Bahamas for one long second —
this place with the bananas
and Spanish so much past my own

it’s the land that wants me
if only to pen more thoughts like these.

There is that push inside again.
Who knew it would exist amongst
boiled red crawdads
and smashed road armadillos
in Louisiana?

— 5/10/09

Bon Iver stops by.

bon iver sound check

Last night, I didn't see much of the show. Sorry to disappoint. It sounded really pretty great and I liked running into a whole mess of friends and family for hours on end, but I can't offer much of a review. I can say I didn't ride my bike away disappointed, but I didn't see enough of either concert to offer more of an opinion than that. Too many other people were there to see the same thing I wanted to. That aside, can I just send you to my friend Emily's blog for you to understand a lot of the same feelings I was feeling? I'm gonna do it, right meow. Because today, well, she took the words right outta my mouth ... and also because I'm just that lazy. It's Friday, what can you expect? Clickety click here, won't you? Spanks.

What about Fernando?

You know, everybody is pretty amped to see Bon Iver tonight at the Gallivan and, having seen him just a few months ago at Sasquatch (pretty much right in front of the stage, no less), I can get behind that. And, sure, there are going to be 6,000 others all battling for a spot on the little green spot of putting green they have there; I'll even be one of them. All of that aside, though, why isn't anybody talking about Jenny Lewis, the band's opener? She can throw down a pretty good show as well. She's our era's indietastic Dolly Parton. I can still remember when she debuted the power of "See Fernando" over yonder at Kilby. Everybody clambered to get a recording of it before it ever got properly released, too. So, sure, Bon Iver will makes hearts ache and a whole lot of people pretty happy (for free, no less), but ... BUT ... he's no Jenny Lewis in a short skirt. And I sure want to hear "Carpetbaggers" tonight, in a bad, bad way. That's all I'm saying. See the rest of you there, eh?

Wordless Wednesday (belated).

Take 2 and call me in the morning.

I enter my land of pretend tomorrow morning, the one where I don't believe I am sick, where I possess the very drug to do away with those bronchial evils that ail me and where my throat is not tired from the relentless coff coff coffing. It's a bad thing to be seized with sickness in the summertime. I used to always think those that got colds in 90-degree heat had done something very, very bad at some point to deserve such a fate. When they weren't looking, I made fun of them. And now? I'm among the punished. I don't want a day in bed of sleeping and coughing. I want to run and bike and walk in the outdoors, where I am supposed to be. I even want to go to work, I do. So, once 6 AM hits tomorrow, the mind is going to conquer this worn down, confused bag of bones and it's going to up and forget it ever had to take a sick day in the first place. It'll be one of those new beginnings.

"Do what you fear, and the death of fear is certain." - Mark Twain

Last week in local muzak.

Before I ran out of things to say a couple of days back, I had a bunch of stuff to blather about regarding a couple of concerts that took place in these woods (namely, AA Bondy and White Rabbits). It was a blur of a week getting it written and watching the shows and on and on, but I'm fairly pleased with how the piece turned out. I don't quite have my mojo back as far as my doing concert reviews is concerned, but I'm glad City Weekly is allowing me to gain my footing again, so to speak. I'll get there, I think. Baby steps.

If you want to read the piece, please do. It went live today (and will also be in the free paper version, if you'd like to get newsprint all over your wandering fingers instead). Go over HERE and do so.