A Better Son/Daughter
I feel a little like Greg hiding out from Mike and Carol.
I’ve spent the balance of Thanksgiving Weekend in the basement of my father’s Indianapolis home. I was bumped from the premiere rooms at the inn by my brother, his wife and son, Ethan, who took top priority. Which is fair. And fine with me. The basement is roughly twice the square footage of my New York City apartment. There’s a television with cable and a DVD player, two computers, a stationary bike, eliptical machine, and pull-out couch. Ok, so there are ducks on the wall. Whatever.
When I have ventured out — and it’s been rare and brief — I’ve been the classic fish out of water. We went to Circuit City to pick up an XM Satellite Radio this afternoon. It was so huge, so bright, and so full of stuff — digital pedometers, GPS, cameras, printers, flat panel tvs — my mouth literally fell agape. But what’s with these greeter dudes, saying hello as soon as we cross the threshhold? Leave us alone to consume already.
On the way home, we passed this ridiculous and absurd housing development. In the middle of this field, some 146 blocks north of Indianapolis (imagine a city with no lake, no river, no mountains — nothing), hundreds of “traditionally styled” homes have sprung up like wildly-colored weeds. But here’s the thing. The whole thing’s supposed to feel like some oldie-timey town. So there’s a town hall out of “Back To The Future,” apartments out of “Barry Lyndon,” and mis-matched homes ripped straight from “Spartacus,” “Deadwood,” and “Gangs Of New York” — just a few feet from one another! And not a tree in sight. Totally weird.
Chris, Jen and Ethan flew home this morning. Ethan’s toys are still scattered around the house. It’s quieter, and a little less fun. I’ve been hiding away down here all day. I’ve been watching movies (nothing good), reading (“Jarhead”), goofing around online (My Space — I asked Jenny Lewis and Ryan Adams to be my friends), rehearsing for next week, and even cranking out a new song (“What Was I Thinking?”).
It’s after midnight. I’ve been tip-toeing around upstairs stealing beer and ice cream from the fridge. I’m watching “Clear & Present Danger” on AMC. It’s like high school. But not.
I’m ready for the rock.
Fever To Tell
My grandmother can die now. I mean, not that I’d want her to, but… well, you know.
I just did an interview with Kelsey Holm of The Waterloo Courier. I talked her ear off for damn near an hour. Despite the countless interviews I’ve conducted, or the few I’ve been the subject of, I still rambled. God only knows what I said.
Regardless, the result — photo and all — will appear in print some time between now and Saturday’s Waterloo show.
For years, my grandmother has sent me clippings from The Courier, and The Des Moines Register. Typically it’s been articles about my uncle (who recently retired as GM of a major cable news outlet), but recently it’s been articles about The Nadas that somehow mention me.
I think it’s sweet, and quaint, that she actually cuts articles out of the newspaper, slips them into an envelope, puts a stamp on them, and sends it clear to New York City (where, incidently, she hasn’t visted since 1971, though she never fails to ask me when I’m coming back to Iowa). As if the Internet didn’t exist. As if my inbox isn’t littered with URLs the moment they’re published.
But I appreciate it, and I understand it. Since music isn’t my sole occupation, there’s a terrific validation in receiving press. It’s a terrific remedy for my frequent feeling that I am a tree falling in an empty forest. It’s some sort of evidence that I exist beyond my own little digital realm.
Truth is, The Courier got one heck of a story. In the journalism racket, we’d call it a softball: slow, steady, and right over the plate. Saturday’s show at Smitty’s in Downtown Waterloo is Some Sort of a Homecoming (which, by the way, is what I’d have headline the story back when I wrote for The Saratogian, though I’m sure my editor would have found the U2 reference too obtuse).
In addition to the fact that I was born in Iowa, and that my parents are from Waterloo, there’s the whole patronage angle. Brian and Justin at Smitty’s pitched in a significant chunk of dough in support of “Heartland.” This show is their thank you.
In fact, this whole tour, this entire experience of coming home to Iowa as special guest if its Favorite Sons, feels like some sort of karmic payback. It’s a little like when The Lakota sent their sons away from the village and say, “Don’t come back until you have a story to tell.”
I have a few.
