Cocktails, Golf & Rocknroll

I am plumb worn out already today from 18-holes of the most challenging golf of my 32-years, and I still have a cocktail party yet to attend. Don’t think golf and cocktails are very rocknroll? Read on.

I had a terrific meal last night at Naples National Country Club. I was the youngest by some 30+ years, which left me feeling short on experience and storytelling. But it was a lot of fun to hear other’s terrific, amazing stories about presidential meetings, world travel and events that are — to me — abstract historical fact. These guys were there. I wish I had a DV cam, or at least a tape recorder to get all of the detail, all of the insight, and all of the lessons from this table of successful adults. Of course, it was all not-for-attribution.

See the Florida pics

I woke early from a night of deep, dreamless, wind-and-waved lapped rest, and tried to find something that approximated golf clothes. Alas, I do own one pair of khaki slacks, and ended up buying a golf shirt at the pro shop. That plus borrowed shoes and a cap, and I was as good as a member. ‘We’re going to turn you into someone you never thought you’d become,’ my uncle said. ‘That’s the funny thing about growing up,’ I replied.

I was pretty anxious about playing with these guys. They’re terrific. I get out twice a year, max, and rarely hit well. I just like to hang out with guys and shoot the shit. That’s what happens when you grow up 2000 miles away from your father. He did — and continues to do — a terrific job fathering me, but there’s still that craving to shoot the shit and drink some beers with the boys every now and again.

Anyway, I hit ok to start. I was driving pretty well on clubs I’d never used, and wasn’t going too far over. But it wasn’t always very pretty. ‘How well do you think I’d do with a guitar?’ my uncle asked. They all did a great job putting me at ease, guiding me through the game, and giving me a few tips. And I had terrific guidance from our Scotch caddy with the patience of Job named Graham. He had me driving as far as my uncle by the 18th hole.

Which is the funny — and somehow rocknroll — thing about golf. It’s a game full of rules: line up your shot, consider the elements, keep your head down, follow through, etc etc. But the only time one really gets it, the only chance you have of any success, is to completely forget what you know. Which is to say, you have to let go of the rules. At the moment of impact, you have to be completely Zen.

I probably don’t need to draw the parallel between golf and performing rocknroll for you, dear reader. You’re sufficiently bright. Put simply: it becomes clearer and clearer to me that to be good at anything is to know the process, and let go of the outcome.

I smiled all afternoon, reminding myself to let go, and have fun. And I did. When you drive a ball 250 yards square on, you just know it. It sounds right, feels right, and as the tiny little speck of white fades into the blue and green, it looks right.

So, now then… I’m on the patio, slightly sunburned. I’m tuckered, suffering from a bit of a headache, and wanting for a nap. Instead, I thought I’d run on the beach to wake myself up, before changing into some nice linen for my aunt and uncle’s Leap Year party (but I’ll probably just nap first). Should be interesting. Here I am this kid trying to work my way up and make my name in the world, and here they are relaxing after years of ruthless, sleepless toil. There’s a lot to be learned. We are, after all, always in progress.

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Shooting Star

I can’t be certain because I was alone on the beach, but I’m pretty sure I saw a shooting star just now.

One is rarely certain of such sightings. They’re fleeting, and often occur when you’re not looking for them. Then you try and see another, but rarely do. Things are like that some time. The harder you look, the less you see. The less you look, the more you see.

I’m in Naples, Florida, just a few feet off the Gulf Coast. The sound of waves is coming through the open windows. A cool breeze is blowing through the palms. I must say, I’m pretty relaxed, and was surprised to remember that I just got to The Sunshine State yesterday. Lemme’ ammend that: while I arrived in Florida yesterday, it took a while longer to arrive in The Sunshine State.

I’m here now: fresh from a beatuiful run around Tampa Bay, full of food and drink, flush from new friends and much laughter.

I’d tell you more if I weren’t so damned tired. I’d tell you about last night’s Livingroom Tour stop at Jessica’s in St. Petersburg. Or this morning’s run and brunch with Rachel and Wayne. Or this evening’s delicious and hilarious dinner with my aunt, uncle and friends.

But alas, I’m too tired, too satiated. So meanwhile, have a look at some pics. Just don’t look to closely; you may not see anything at all.

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Faithfully Yours

Yesterday I tackled belief. Today I tackle faith. What’s the difference?

Sheesh, I’m not exactly sure I know anything about anything right now. All I know of belief is what I believe in. And I’m not sure why I believe in what I believe in, I just do.

But faith? Well…

I went to see ‘The Passion of The Christ’ after work with some colleagues. The film prompted a long and, well, passionate discussion on these very topics.

Which is a good thing.

I’ll tell you this straight off: whether Jesus is the Son of God, a notable prophet, some cool dude in history, or solely a mythical character, his story is a powerful one. Forget the anti-Semitism debate a minute (if you can), I’m talking about the concept of letting go of all that you can know on this earth, relinquishing all that you can see, touch, and feel as real and factual, in favor of something higher, something greater, something invisible.

Well, that’s faith. And to me, that takes all kinds of courage.

Faith in God, faith in love, faith in the mechanical reliability of an airplane… whatever. Letting go, acknowledging that you’re powerless to something greater — man, it’s the most difficult, most courageous act there is.

So… see you in the sunshine… faithfully yours.

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I Believe

I believe in coyotes, and time as an abstract…

I believe in asking a woman if you can kiss her before you do so, then kissing her slowly, softly, confidently, and with intent.

I believe in making slow, sweaty love in bed, on the couch, the floor, in public rest rooms, national parks, on beaches, and mountain tops.

I believe the two-party system is outdated.

I believe in angels, extra-terrestrials, monsters under the bed, and things that go bump in the night.

I believe that Lee Harvey Oswald was framed.

I believe in the power of dreams, the value of psycho therapy, and the mandate to practice what you preach.

I believe in short, simple sentences.

I believe in three square meals, coffee, multivitamins, aspirin, beer, fruit, vegetables, fiber, running in the morning, working in the day, and sleeping at night.

I believe in 4/4 time, cowboy chords, harmonies, and simple but elegant guitar solos.

I believe in digital correspondence, emoticons, and blogging.

I believe in turkey for Thanksgiving, presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas Eve, and visits from the Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy.

I believe in the traditional narrative arc, the Hollywood ending, the minor fall, the major lift, and sitting all the way through credits.

I believe that music can save your life.

I believe in the monologue, dialog, soliloquy, and aria.

I believe in fate, destiny, serendipity, happenstance, and dumb luck.

I believe in love: hopeless, hopeful, romantic, can’t-live-without-you love.

And I believe in you.

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Mr. Big

Ladies love Mr. Big. They’re all lookin’ for him, whoever he is, whatever he represents. Seeking insight, and maybe some advices, I went to the source tonight…

Chris Noth’s Cutting Room on 24th Street.

Sadly, Big was nowhere to be found. I’ve seen him there before, though I never said hello or anything. He’s kinda’ big (der) and imposing. Plus he’s an HBO star and all.

It was Fat Tuesday. And not the best one for me, really. I went through the corporate motions, but wasn’t feelin’ it much at all. I was distracted. I was pretty distracted by the heartbreak (sorry, I pledged I’d not post about it). That’s what we sensitive types do. We ruminate. We analyze. We feel. So sue me. I listened to techno all day, but what I really wanted to hear was melancholy singer/songwriter pap.

But I decided after work that I wasn’t going to go home and be pathetic and wallow. So I met Kevin to see a woman we hope’ll play violin in our country band do her thing. She was really talented. And I think she’ll join our little country band.

So we drank a lot of beer, but we didn’t see Big. Which is kinda’ the way I like it. ‘Cuz I don’t think Carrie shoulda’ gone back to him. I mean, clearly I’m a romantic. I like a Hollywood ending. I just don’t have a ton of confidence in Big — all handsome and perfect on the outside. I’m not sure he’ll stick around, or work through the hard stuff. Which is what love’s all about (seems to me).

So like I said, The Cutting Room is on 24th Street. I recorded ‘Crash Site’ on 26th Street. So there I was, hailing a cab in the middle of the night on an empty Sixth Avenue — just like old times. It felt full-circle in some way. Like, ‘Here I am again!’ Which, well, I was… I am. There, er, here… again.

‘Here I am again!’

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Cut The Shit

Ok, this is me cutting the shit. Enough melancholy for a while. Enough of the cryptic, heartbreaking posts. I’ll give you the skinny, then we’ll return to our regularly scheduled rocknroll programming…

Yes, yesterday I was in a relationship. No, today I’m not.

Letting go? Not easy. Not at all. That’s that. I remain hopeful. Primarily because I have no choice but to remain hopeful.

So.. now then… rock-n-roll. Want the update? Here it is:

Benjamin Wagner: My March 9 Mercury Lounge show is canceled, their gaffe. I’m working on an April 17th show at a place called The Open Center on Spring Street. It’s a holistic center. I’m going to rent the space (it holds 100+) from 7-10 on a Saturday night, get a bunch of wine, and ask Leslie (acoustic), Kevin (piano), Julia (cello), Tony (bass), and Rosa (drums) to perform with me. We’ll play an hour plus set, and it should be pretty neat. Like a livingroom tour show, but here in NYC. I’ll keep ya’ posted.

Speaking of living rooms, I’m performing solo acoustic in St. Petersburg, FL, this Friday night. Lemme’ know if you’ll be in the ‘hood. I’m going to play ‘Go Back To Sleep’ for her, and ‘Anna’s Lost Her Mind’ for me.

Cockfight: We rehearsed for the third time in ten days tonight, and my ears are still ringing. We may be onto something. There are actual glimmers of greatness. Primarily in my drumming, of course.

Kevin Anthony: I began engineering his record on Saturday. He’s got a bunch of singer/songwriter material that’s been collecting dust for years. We did basic and secondary guitars on three tunes. He lays down overdubs effortlessly.

The Country Project: We rehearsed a second time on Saturday. We’re lining up tunes by Patsy Cline, Hank Williams, and the like. Kev’s playin mandolin and fiddle, and I’m on acoustic. We’re going to add some female vocals, and maybe an upright bass. Pretty cool.

So as Kevin — Mr. Electronica — moves towards acoustic music, and Robert (my Cockfight bandmate) goes Sabbath, I’m all about the samples and beats and such. I’ve been listening to Massive Attack, Air, The Postal Service, Lamb, etc etc almost non-stop. I crave the groove.

That’s the update. As I mentioned, I’m off to Florida Friday morning. I’m looking forward to driving on interstates and listening to music really loudly. I’m looking forward to not wearing five layers every time I go outside. I’m looking forward to doing nothing in the sunshine. And I’m looking forward to meeting new people.

So… now you know everything. Almost everything, anyway.

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It’s Good (I Know)

I am now going to sell five copies of ‘The Three EPs’ by The Beta Band.

Do it.

Heads begin to bob to the sparse, laconic groove. Knowing glances are exchanged. A wink and a grin. A hipster asks, What is this?

‘The Three EPs’ by The Beta Band.

It’s good.

I know.

Then the lyrics: Take me in and dry the rain.

It’s a slow build, this one.

Like waking up in the morning weak from the day before. From a lifetime before. You see the sun, the sky, the world scurrying by — life going on around you — and you grow stronger and stronger, moment by moment, over the course of the morning.

It builds.

First the bass: a completely new counter-melody. It bounces and rolls along. You walk differently. You smile at a stranger.

If there’s something inside that you want me to say, you can say it allright: it’ll be ok. I will be allright. I will be allright. I will be allright. I will be allright. Yeah, I will be allright.

And then the horns: sustained, simple. A thickener, really. Icing.

Now, you’re rockin’.

If there’s something inside that you want me to say, you can say it allright: it’ll be ok. I will be allright. I will be allright. I will be allright. I will be allright. Yeah, I will be allright.

And you’re sold.

I’ll be all right.

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I Give Up

Every so often, maybe every couple of days, I think to myself, ‘I give up.’

I may give up on work, or writing, running, dreaming, believing, hoping — whatever.

Just now, walking out of Starbucks after running along the river in the midwinter morning haze, I gave up on love.

Bono says “Love is blindness.” Elton John says “Love is cruel.” Pat Benatar says “Love is a battlefield.” I say love is the most agonizing, torturous, complicated and optimistic human endeavor of all.

Over and over I keep trying and trying and trying to love well, to love right, to love fully and completely and without judgment. But I fail. Or rather, we fail. It fails. Walking out of Starbucks this morning, I worried ‘Will She call? Will She come? Will She love?’ Too many questions…

So I gave up.

And then — honest to God — a golden light broke through the clouds. And flock of pigeons flew in formation before the bright sun. And a little kid went sprinting by me, just out of his frazzled mother’s grasp. And back home, I read a few great lines from books on my shelf (my favorite, a chapter entitled “Mistakes We Knew We Were Making”). And I smiled — a little at first, then it grew — and shook off the giving up.

It never lasts long. It isn’t much of a solution. It’s a momentary escape. And then I’m back: persistent, courageous, fully and completely ready, willing, and able.

So… I’m in.

Are you?

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The Birth of Words

At 8:20 this morning, I thought I had all the time in the world. By 8:21, everything had changed.

It was at 8:21 that I remembered that I had a dentist appointment 40 blocks away in nine minutes. Miraculously, I made it.

I sat in that f’ing chair for over two hours. $750 and one excruciating cleaning later, I sprinted to Starbucks for a long overdue cup of coffee. I decided to spend a minute on the pedestrian island in the middle of Broadway watching the city pass by. It was time well spent listening to The Samples ‘Birth of Words’ and taking it all in.

For a second there at The MTV, I thought the day was going to be a breeze. But before I knew it, I was in one production/ecommerce/movie-related meeting after another, planning for what will undoubtedly be one of our most ambitious launches ever. Under my direction. By June 1.

Then I had Cockfight rehearsal. What can I tell you of it? Well, there was a minute there where I was like, ‘Mutherfucker, I’m the drummer!’ It defies logic. I shouldn’t be able to play drums at all. But there it is: I play ‘em pretty well. I’m no Neil Pert. But I hold my own. And man oh man is it a good way to get my aggressions out. Now, will Cockfight be ready for a show any time soon? Doubtful.

Then I met my brother and a bunch of TV-type guys uptown at Hi-Life for dinner. It was pretty hilarious: potty mouth, porn talk, work dish — you name it. I was still the little brother (at 32-years-old), but I was laughing so hard, I was snarfing food out of my nose. My stomach hurt. Which is the kind of joy that’s hard to come by.

We repaired to Brother Jimmy’s for more beers sometime around 11. The first thing I saw was a circle of guys shotgunning cans of Natural Light. Um, hello? On the Upper West Side? It was like a time warp. Suddenly I was 21-years-old in Syracuse, NY, in some ratty, beer-soaked bar with one girl for every twelve guys. So one pint later, I walked home from 83d to 56th, my iPod soundtracking the blocks.

What to make of it all? What to say? Well, I can tell you that two Excedrin and a beer seems to do that trick. Other than that, the lesson of the day seems to be, um, brush your teeth, and get your rest.

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A New Soundtrack

About a third of my way into a 60+ block walk home tonight, it occurred to me that the iPod playlist is the mood ring of our time. Tonight? Well, you tell me:

Either Way – Guster
Bad Reputation – Freedy Johnston
Across The Universe – Rufus Wainwright
Summer – Buffalo Tom
Clocks – Coldplay
Supervixen – Garbage
You And I Both – Jason Mraz
Millennium Blues – Matthew Sweet
Fucking In The Bushes – Oasis
Go Let It Out – Oasis

I am flying to Ft. Myers next Friday for a four-day weekend. I’m playing a living room show for Jessica In Progress (I love her blog name — aren’t we all in progress?) and her friends, then spending Saturday and Sunday with my Uncle Bill and Aunt Eileen. I can’t wait for the family QT, the sunshine, the sea, and to the freeway — all with a new soundtrack.

Wonder what my playlist will look like there?

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