Thursday

Ah, remember those Thirsty Thursday college nights? Yeah, I don't really either - forget about 'em.  This is just a little link post to get us into the weekend.  The Super Bowl is coming up on Sunday and a snow storm (somewhat?) is supposed to hit tomorrow night.  I'll hopefully be doing some more sketch filming this weekend if the weather permits.  I will also be enlisting the help of any local Italian deli to provide me with a submarine sandwich for the Super Bowl.  I know just the place, Graham Avenue Meat & Deli, although the Lorimer Street Meat Market is just as good.  Anyway, after the super-serious Gene Clark post from yesterday, we will be moving back to basketball with my play-by-play of the 1992 NBA All-Star Game.  I know how I'll be spending my next day off from work.

Two new links to point out.  The first is my old college roommates band, the Sanctuaries.  You can find a link to his music on the side - his name is David Stern.  However, now he has a band he is playing out with and you can find them listed as the Sanctuaries.  They played at Brouar Falls on Grand Street last Sunday and should be playing at Cake Shop on February 25.

The second is my friend Emily Schenkein and her excellently (read, perfectly) titled blog - Piles of Fruit and a Fully Stocked Bar.  There may be a reference there I am missing, but I love the name anyway.  Check her blog out because it is very good.  You like interesting people right? World's Coolest Dude 2007 wouldn't lead you wrong, right?

On a personal note, keep any eye out because I entered the manuscript of From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt into the Amazon CreateSpace Breakthrough Novel Contest.  This is for a shot at a book deal with Penguin.  The first round of judging begins next  week so I may be able to post some feedback up here.  We will see.

Anyway, stay tuned for the new material that I am always bringing to the table.

Now, the next installment of From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt.

Ben

Yes, I’m on the floor.  I feel the drool coming out of my mouth onto the floor.  It’s moist there already.

“You been kissin’ girls, Connor?  God knows Benny’s kissed a few.”

He was a strong and funny old man.  A little too hard on Connor, though.  He used to slap his back and you could hear that slap.  Thock. Hulpth.  A smack is supposed to be fleshy, but this was hollow. 
Here are the girls now.  My blondie on the left and Rose reincarnated on the right.  Is it too soon for reincarnation?  She couldn’t be reincarnated anyway, because she already was.  She is.  So then maybe I’ll look forward to a flower coming off of a tree, or an especially beautiful shepard dog, or perhaps a girl who is too young and sweet for me – like her - will pass me on the street one day from now.  That’ll be ten years or maybe even one hundred years from now and it’ll be her, hair riding behind her, a small wave and that slow creeping smile, like the fade-in of a piano on mono speakers.
“Dad, are you alright,” I hear Liza say.  She kneels down right above me.  I can feel her.  It’s funny how you can feel your own children, its like that organ inside of you is a radar, that glowing recognition of yourself out in the world – a full entity beyond you and inside of you forever. I smell a freshness, something like dirt.  It smells like a moist night by the harbor.  It’s Mags.

“Mags,” I hear myself mumble. “Dance Maquokeeta! Play piano man play!”

“What, dad?” I hear her. “Looks like the damage has been done old timer.”

“Shh, Maggie. I ain’t that old.”

“Not that old, did you say? Maybe not.  But I can think of maybe one of your organs that is.”

I hear the touch of fabric.  It was like a slap.

“Just grab his other arm-pit,” it’s Liza little sing-song.

When dad used to slap Connor on the back it was because he saw something womanish in him.  It was because he was so close to mom.  He must’ve had a few and walked in on Connor confessing his soul’s purpose to mom one of those nights they used to sit at the table after dinner picking at scraps of chicken, or dipping bread in the vinegar at the bottom of the salad bowl.  He was going to be a poet-doctor, like William Carlos Williams.  He was just sensitive and found himself around girls like mom, whether it was at school or at the altar with Erin.

“You looked like sunshine up there,” I said.

“That was weak for such a cunning wordsmith,” Erin said.

“And you,” I turned to him.  He looked handsome.  A little too thin for his tuxedo, but looking suave, pushed back and relaxed like he always did.

“Thank you, Ben.”

He put his hand on my shoulder.  The younger one got married first.  I feel pressure underneath my pits.  My wings are lifting. Praise be to⎯

“Just pull him up, Liza.”

“I am.  Maybe we’re not that strong?”

“What the hell is that clicking noise?”

“It’s the record player I think.”

“Oh yeah.”

I feel my arms hit the rug. 

“Oops.”

“I think I’ll get James.”

“Damnit.  We can do this without him.  The two of us.  Get his legs. I’ll get the armpits.”

I want to laugh but my mouth doesn’t want to.  I was always ticklish down at my ankle.  When Rose found out she was unmerciful! 

“Is that his tickly little ankle?” She talked to me like I was baby.

“No no no! What’s the ransom?”

“Tell me how much you love me.”

“I thought a girl like you didn’t need to be remindahahoo.”  I rolled back on the bed.  She leaned over me.  Her hair covered her face and she moved it.  Her breasts dangled.

“All girls need to.” She ran her fingers gentler.  Five feathers along my bones.

“OK OK.  But what if I have no words?”

She stopped and looked down at me. She kissed me.  She kissed me hard.  Then she pulled away.  Our lips and eyes only so far apart.  Silence, sheets, the smells of our bodies, her breath beginning to turn before bed but I loved it.  I loved it!

“I’ll invent something new.”

I feel myself lifted.

“We got it, Liza. We got it.”  Mags again.  Ah, its always about the girls.  Now its these two.  First my mother who feared God and I feared her and stuck to the shadows where you could curse and didn’t have to be controlled, didn’t have to keep your foot above the break.  Then it was the faces and tinkling music of girls at school, passing passing always passing skirts and jackets.  Then Rose.  She was nothing but – what?  She was everything.  I  saw her from all angles.  I saw her bleed, I saw these girls come out of her.  What was Rose but all colors and all girls and all lights and all clothings and every album and song that I ever loved?  She was that touch on a piano key that makes you think you could live forever.  Do I still have it?  Do I still have it in me to live forever?  Or is that gone with my stitching?  Is all my fabric bleeding out all over this house?  My blood, piss, and half-oxidized alcohol.

The girls at school:

    Connor and Benjamin O’Donnell,
    They were born with their heads in the bottle.

“Just down the hall.  We’ll take a break at the stairs.”

“I’m losing grip on his ankle.”

“Right here, c’mon.”

Now it’s these two.  My blondie and my – my Mags.  I can see Liza ahead of me a litle blurred holding two logs. My legs.  I lean my head back.  Mags’ blurred face, a little point in there on her chin.  Like Rose of course.  I lay my head on my chest and keep my eyes closed.  I’m riding out to sea.  I’ll let myself explode like a Cutty Sark.  I’ll try to live forever.

“Ok, here.”

Thud. Ow!  Right by the fucking ass!

“Oops.”

“What the hell was that?” I hear James.

“Well big – little brother.  Here’s your everloving father.  I think we may need your help hoisting him the rest of the way.”

All my children are here.  My wife is dead.  But where is Tom?  And what is tomorrow anyway?

Quick One...

I've been listening to Astral Weeks and Veedon Fleece, by the man who sits above, on repeat for the past few days.  I'm just trying to get into a zone so I can write about how each album plays out in the greater sphere of things with enough passion so that it will all make some sort of sense to you.  I'll be posting all of those thoughts either tomorrow evening or Wednesday evening, depending on how this whole week goes for me. I also want to post a slight editor's note to the "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Darts Club" post that I put up last night.  I forget to mention how that movie's blatant stupidity fits in with the transcendant "stupidity" of a movie like Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey, which obviously this world needs to have discussed.

No, tonight, I've just been listening to those Van Morrison albums and thinking about what I want to see.  I keep getting visions of tree lined streets in the sun and street-lit fire smelling streets in the dark.  It makes me want to write Wolfean eye-burning prose and then Joycean dewy-soul soft swooning prose afterwords.

In any event, I had to post another installment to share with you all - the void.

More to come this week.

Ben

    I’m on the floor.  I’m laying on my stomach on this soft carpet.  It’s green and tan and brown.  It has all sorts of patterns on it.  I think they’re Indian – Native American.  Or maybe they’re Spanish, or Indian – Far East – or African.  Who knows, but to me it says ancient, some old world where people worshipped the sun and the air and made patterns to try and fill in the space of the unknowable.
 
    I  like lying on the floor.  I feel like that’s where I always belong.  I’m most comfortable there, its my cradle and my womb.  And this carpet just makes me want to sleep.  She picked it out of course.  I think I’ll take it with me to the new house.  Maybe I’ll get a dog who’ll roll around on it.  A dog with white hair that will fall in tufts and collect on the edges.  We never had time for a dog did we?

    I prop myself up on my forearms and feel the strain, the lactic acid beginning to collect.  I reach over and pick Cutty Sark up.  I turn the top off and drink.  Galup – the liquor drops down and makes waves upon the Hart Crane Sea , the East River.  I put the bottle back down.  I see it it on its side with the orange at an equilibrium.  So I spin the wheel.  The friction of the carpet keeps it slow and it slows to stop, pointing capwards toward the desk.  I drop to the floor on my stomach and exhale.  I kiss a stairway looking Aztec pattern and feel soft fabric on my lips.  I close my eyes.

    “Ben, it’s Erin.”

    “Hello, Erin,” I said.

    “I just want to say how sorry I am.  How sorry we are for you.”

    “Thank you.  And tell my brother that too.” 

    “Of course,” she got quiet.  Like she was thinking about Connor and I. “Is there anything we can do?”

    The idea to sell the house came to me once I said outloud to myself, “My wife is dead.”  And I’m stubborn and I’ll stick to an idea.  So I said, “Yes.  Any listings for a small place good for a bachelor.”

    “Ben?”

    “Still.”

    “You…you want to buy a place?”

    “I want to get out.”

    “I don’t think that’s something to think about now.  I mean the kids and you.  Rose is…”

    “This would be best for all of us I think.”

    “What about the…”

    “You could sell it for me.”

    “That would take time.”

    “That’s all I’ve got now.”

    “I’ll see what I can do.”

    And she did.  God bless her.  Sark bless her, she found me a place and I put the money down.  My brother and I both married good women and if he comes tomorrow it will be because of her and not because of me or Rose.  That makes me sad in a way but much happier, much much happier for him because I knew what that felt like.

    I’ll go there on Monday.  I’ll step around and sit by the water.

    I open my eyes and can almost see myself on the floor.

Too Bad I Like It...

These year-end lists can be intoxicating. I read them and I just want to argue the merits of the way a list plays out with each of my friends. In my mind, we sit over a freshly French pressed organic brew, gesticulating in a dimly lit cafe with half burnt cigarettes between our ring and middle fingers.

"Zis Springsteen alboom ise shite."

We speak in some sort of accent that is vaguely French, German and Irish.

But seriously, I have been seeing all of the usual year end lists carted out in attempt to sum up the year. This year has been even worse because it is the end of a decade so now writers attempt to sum up the cultural importance of this year of music, film, theatre, TV and current events as a microcosm for the entire decade. Now, don't get me wrong, if I had a weekly column to write and I needed to meet a quota, then I would list it up without a doubt. In fact, I don't have any deadlines to meet, any column quotas to make and I have given you (the GOOD reader) three straight list posts (oops! I just spoiled the ending for this week). However, after seeing these lists placed in each newspaper I read, each website I visit and each egg roll I eat for dinner, the summaries have become a bit repetitive. Because I am a constuctive and optimistic person, I am going to halt my naysaying here and bow to the year-end list, because they are entertaining to read. I will also bow to the decade summary column, because I will be putting my own spin on that very same column, this very same week (I'm actually going to work on this one, cogent ideas, worthwhile theories, etc.).

So, without further ado, I submit to you my "Top Ten Albums of 2009." Now keep in mind that the criteria for this list was not that an album had to necessarily be made or released in 2009, but rather that I listened to it 2009 and thought it made my top ten. The criteria for that top ten being its relevance to me and also how good the music actually is. You may call this subjective (and oh it is) but if we are going to tango, we might as well go all the way and not regret the damn thing in the morning when we are wearing each other's clothes.

As I was saying:


10. Little Feat - "Little Feat"

When I wanted a "go-t0" album for party music this year, I picked up Little Feat's self-titled first album. This sounds like Exile on Main Street-era Stones before the Stones even hit that stride. However close Lowell George and the boys come to sounding like Mick and the Stones, they don't have the same experience and cunning to make it as iconic as the Stones did, yet, there is a looseness here that can't be denied. On "Strawberry Flats" when the band hits those high notes with all of the backing vocals added in, you can see the bar laid out in front of you. The piano is especially terrific on the whole album and you can also hear the a little bit of the roots of Jay Farrar's delivery on some of the vocal tracks. The whole album is a must listen of course, but you can't skip "Druck Store Girl," "Snakes on Everything," "Strawberry Flats" and "Crazy Captain Gunboat Willie."

9. Julian Casablancas - "Phrazes for the Young"

This album was not widely regarded as a success and again Julian picks an odd title for an album (First Impressions of Earth?) that tries to hard to make a generational statement, however, I thought it was one of the best albums to come out this year. Julian overreaches in some parts, but you can't deny that overall, he is very much in control of his sound. The first song "Out of the Blue" is all driving guitars like a brand new Strokes song until we reach the chorus and the synthesizers come in and the song reaches a hook that rivals and perhaps betters any Strokes song and a lot of the top singles of the 80's as well. "Ludlow Street" has gotten the most press because of its wide mixture of genres (country shuffle, rock, electronica) but for me it isn't one of the must listens. "11th Dimension" is obviously the pop hit, but it is the lyrics of "Left and Right in the Dark" and the album closer "Tourist" that really show where Julian has reached a new level of maturity. "Tourist" especially leaves you feeling impressed at where he is standing at his career.

8. Fleetwood Mac - "Rumors"

Obviously a lot has been written about this album. Admittedly, I have been a late arrival to its praise. This year I did give myself the chance to listen to it, not out of any sort of heartbreak, but merely because the time had come. The familiarity of the songs can be jarring at first, however, as you follow the course of the entire album, each song feels right at home and you suddenly lose your identification of songs like "Go Your Own Way" as songs that were overplayed by your classic rock radio station and remember them as "yeah I love that song that comes after 'Don't Stop'. Oh yeah, I love 'Don't Stop'" The album never lets up from the first song "Secondhand News" (my favorite) on. And there aren't many songs that are more fun than "I Don't Want to Know."

7. Paul Simon - "Paul Simon"

At about this time last year, I began looking deeper into Paul Simon's solo catalogue. I had grown up, like most people, listening to Graceland on vinyl at my friend Erik's house when his mom was out and smoking pot on the roof while we tilted the speakers out the window outside towards his lawn. I knew some of the other singles like "Kodachrome" because it was used in every "looking back on growing up montage" in movies. As I was looking into Simon's catalogue, I realized that I had gotten his first solo album a few years ago, but had never really delved into it. Last winter, I took my time in knowing defining songs like "Mother and Child Reunion," which is one of the most lyrically true and moving songs written on Planet Earth, "Peace like a River" and "Run That Body Down." There are also the slighter songs like my favorite "Papa Hobo" (ok it has the line "its a natural reaction I learned in this basketball town" of course I love it) and the album ender "Congratulations," which could be one of Paul Simon's most underrated songs. It is Paul, acoustic guitar and organ, but manages to sound so big when he repeats "love is not a game". If there were an actual church, temple, or mosque that mattered, this would be the music that they played. Holy and simple.

6. Bon Iver - "For Emma, Forever Ago"

This was one of the darling albums of 2008 and I know that. But you saw how it snowed last week, right? This album is the sound of fresh snow. I listened to this extensively last winter (a lot when I was writing) and the breeze of songs like "Flume" were truly inspiring in their simplicity and in how natural they came off without any contrivance of being natural. This may have something to do with Bon Iver's insane voice, which actually sounds like wind. Balance this appeal with the anthemic sound of songs like "For Emma" with its mournful yet celebratory horns (see I like paradox) and the explosive rises in "Creature Fear" and you have an album that will truly hold up years from now. This album blows in, rises, passes and is over before you know it. And once its gone, its like the end of that first snowy night - you just want it back again.

5. Grizzly Bear - "Veckatimest"

I jumped on the Grizzly Bear bandwagon right after Yellow House with everyone else. While I enjoyed that album's ability to explode and change dynamics at a turn, I did feel that the songs went on too long and could be too languid. I hoped that they would reign in that explosiveness into finely crafted songs that didn't exceed the three to four minute mark. When "Two Weeks" first popped upin the summer of 2008 on the Letterman Show, I thought that Grizzly Bear had realized this potential. It turns out they hadn't, but they still made one hell of an album in Veckatimest. It is a much more psychedellic album than Yellow House and features more hooks and songs that stand alone than that album as well. "Southern Point" is one of their finest and most manic songs; we know about "Two Weeks" and the incessant stomp of "While You Wait for the Others"; "Ready, Able" was one of the pleasant surprises, but there are songs on this album that are real "glue songs," and it is obvious what their job is. A song like "About Face" is unremarkable, but in the realm of this album it becomes a welcome respite after "Ready Able" and after the album's pinnacle "While You Wait for the Others", "I Live With You" and "Foreground" help end the album on two very different provocative notes. Had those two songs closed out another album, I don't know that they work as well or are rendered as memorable as they do in their placement here. That is the great merit of this album: it worked much better as an album than Yellow House, which felt at times like "oh, look, there's 'Knife'."

4. Fleetwood Mac - "Tusk"

The discussion of this album deserves its own post entirely and I will get to that someday, but for now I need to keep it concise. The follow-up to Rumors, this album is as schizophrenic as them come. It feels like Buckingham and Everyone Else, which is what makes it work so well. Buckingham's songs come on like distorted Buddy Holly stomps and Brian Wilson Jr. compositions, while Stevie Nick's wicked witchery is kicked up in places ("Sisters of the Moon") and refined in others ("Sara"), and all the while Christine McVie is singing some of the sweetest and melodic songs put to music (besides McCartney). The range of emotions that the album covers from "Ledge" to "That's All For Everone" to "Honey Hi" to "Tusk" to "Never Forget" is almost unparalleled. There is a reason why this is the ultimate Sunday afternoon/evening album.

3. Neil Young - "After the Goldrush"

I have always been a great Neil Young fan. The Ditch Trilogy touches a part of me that not a lot of other music has been able to. When I was in bad places, I held my copy of Zuma over my chest and recited the lyrics to "My Country Tis of Thee." However, I never gave this album enough attention as I did to his other work. This album kicked around my car when I was a little kid and when I first heard the song "After the Goldrush" when I was seven years old, it was the first time I have a memory of a palpable feeling of melancholy - what that melancholy was, I don't know and still don't, which is probably why Neil Young can sing in the voice he sings on in that song: it's just a mystery. You can't escape the walls on this album "Oh, Lonesome Me," "Only Love Can Break Your Heart," "I Believe in You" and the title track. Nor can you escape Neil's taste for levity and groove on "Until the Morning Comes" and "Cripple Creek Ferry". And there is the inevitable ragged glory of "Southern Man" and "When You Dance You Can Really Love." You want one song to steal the show, because it seems like that's the way it should play out, but it never does - they're all phenomenal.

2. Wilco - "Wilco(The Album)

I've already written a full post about this album this year. You all know how I feel about the self-referential aspects of the album title and the opening song. This band is perhaps my favorite band of all time so I am biased and openly biased. Their latest album hit me in just the right way. As I see people assessing the past decade - the ups and downs, the illusions and the promise that the next ten years will hope to build on until it too becomes a commodity - this album showing a working band assessing its career and its ability to always come back with a new approach on each successive album seemed to make sense and seemed timely in a strange way. The album is filled with excercises and poses from Wilco's entire career, but they never feel posed or contrived - Wilco are just telling you that this is what they do and what they can do and we should all appreciate it, because with each chance they have taken on each successive album they have become this band. So let's have them continue on and let's allow our young bands to do the same. I hope they don't become Springsteen.

1. Animal Collective "Merriweather Post Pavilion"

Oh, come on! This one was going to be obvious. The album of the year, the album of the moment, of the movement. You can't deny it. Its all been said: endlessly experimental, accessible, a communal album. However, my friend recently brought up a good point when thinking back on Merriweather Post Pavilion. He said to me, "I hope that Animal Collective don't start making world music." And its true, what is experimental and accessible about this album about "Brothersport" and about "Taste" can on a turn become some sort of bland ambient world music that all races can listen to, which is a strange thing to say about rock music. However, the great thing about Animal Collective is that we never have to worry about that actually happening, because they write lyrics like "I want to walk around with you," and "I want four walls with adobe slabs for my girls." They say these things and actually mean them - which is what is important, because phrases like those and the sentiments behind them, are what the greatest art is made of. Now, if only they can reincorporate some of that alienation and regret from "Cuckoo Cuckoo". Maybe next year...

Next, the decade summary as seen from 2009.

Now, the next installment of "From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt"

Ben

They put the drape over her body. I could see the last glimpse of the red along her ribcage. Then it was all blue.

“We’ll take it from here, Dr. O’Donnell.”

I nodded and watched as they wheeled her corpse down the hall. I looked over at the nurse’s desk. They looked down at their paperwork.

My shoes clacked against the floor. It was freshly waxed. I was wearing dress shoes. I got to my office and realized I still had my gloves on. The blood was turning dark and dry on them. It already looked old.

I opened the door peeling my left glove off. Connor was sitting in one of the chairs that faced my desk. He was still wearing his scrubs too. He didn’t turn around.

I pulled off my left glove and the band smacked rubber.

“What is it, Connor?”

Silence.

“What the fuck do you want to say to me?”

He turned around. That one strand stretching across his forehead.

“It’s over, Ben.”

I take another drink of the Cutty and place the bottle down next to my record player. I kneel down and open up the cabinet below. I run my hand along the musty smelling carboard of the vinyl covers. I know just where I want to go. Let it Bleed. I slide it out and pull the sleeve off, holding the record gently on the edges. I place it on the turntable. I pick up the needle and line it up on the track line. The black wax is spinning and now the old crackles come from the speakers – strumming guitars.

Well we all need someone we can lean on
And if you want it, you can lean on me.
Well we all need somone we can lean on
And if you want it, you can lean on me.

Jagger is singing like he always wanted to be a cowboy. When I hear a Stones song like this I remember all of the smokey bars and clubs I’ve been in. The times when people crowded around and the talk itself was pure energy and no matter how bad I felt the next day if I could get some of that feeling in me again I knew I would be alright – the invisible vision of a good time and of tinkling glasses. How much of that is just the elusiveness of youth? Because I can remember how important everything felt just because I was young and could talk to people and people knew me and knew about my legendary nights and bouts with the bottle. Now who knows me? I’m sitting alone in a study that is made up of years, pictures, books and dust like anything else. What is that thing that is always on the tip of your tongue when you’re young? Is it a word? The answer would mean a whole lot.

Yeah, we all need someone we can dream on
And if you want it, well you can dream on me.
Yeah, we all need someone we can cream on
And if you want to, well you can cream on me.

When you think about it, though, life can be very simple. Like our engagement party. Rose’s father – old Gerald with his stately moustache drinking Tokaj in a teacup – had it in the VFW Hall basement. He’d done well as a lawyer but he liked the basic things. He was just an average guy. All of our friends were behind the little concession counter they had giving out cups and cups of beer while above them the the menu was missing letters. Ham urger. F ench Fri. Pe s – Cola. My dad dancing with Rose and her mother. I watched them twisting their legs and feet when Gerald clasped his hand on my shoulder.

“You’re a smart kid, Ben.”

“You saw that article too?”

He had a hearty laugh that sounded as though everything funny surprised him, or as if it were the first joke that had ever been invented.

“No, but I mean it. I’ve never met a quicker young man than you.”

“Thanks, Gerald.”

“I’m very happy for the two of you.”

“That means a lot.”

“You’re going to do right by her? Aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

He pulled up the waist of his pants, they were already a little high.

“I mean a smart young man like you – things come easy. I know you’ve got a lot of ambition. I just hope it doesn’t tempt you too far. So far that my daughter might suffer because of it. You know I can always put in a word at the firm for you. I know you haven’t studied for that but you should consider…”

We all need someone we can feed on
And if you want it, well you can feed on me.
Take my arm, take my leg
Oh, baby, dont you take my head.

“No,” I said firmly. Maybe I was too firm. “You don’t need to help me out with your firm. We’re going to be alright. I love Rose. I know that.”

“That’s what I thought and I’m happy. That’s also what I’m afraid of.”

He turned, grabbing my shoulders, and hugged me.

“I have some Tokaj behind the counter.”

And I always hated him for that. I hated him for being afraid of how devoted I was to his daughter and always doubting my dreams and disguising it as some sort of respect or awe for my intelligence. Maybe even that night wasn’t as simple as I thought.

We all need someone we can bleed on
And if you want it, baby, well you can bleed on me
We all need someone we can bleed on
And if you want it, why dont you bleed on me

But as time passes with songs like this one and the other musics of life, I still see everyone linking arms over shoulders - Connor and I there with all of the neighborhood guys. It was simple because it was a night all about me and Rose. That’s all it was ever really about for me. Even when I slept past noon or woke up in the bathtub wet after one of those city nights.

I wasn’t close to being famous. I don’t think anyone knew me just like no one knows me now and I’m alone in my study.

“Come on, Benny, open your eyes.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You’ve finally made it and now you don’t want to look in the lights?”

“Maybe I don’t want to know.”

“Come on, open. You promised me in our vows.”

“Did I?”

“Yeah, in sickness and death.”

I open my eyes. It looks and smells like the VFW hall.

“What is this?”

“Something simple. Dad would’ve liked it.”

“Yeah.”

“I wish the kids could’ve seen it.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Your 2009-2010 NBA Season

(Listening to "Isis" by Bob Dylan on repeat. Which logo doesn't belong?)

Now, since I've taken a little while to step back into the room, there have been quite a few things that I missed speaking out about. I missed a chance to analyze an agonizing World Series between the two best teams in baseball this year. A series that could have swung in a number of different ways, but really ended up finishing the way we could have predicted it: the team with the better pitching one. I could go on for paragraphs and sentences about sitting on the edge of my couch, cursing at the Phillies' inept middle relief and shouting "Fuck the Yankees!" at a Yankee team that I actually kind of liked all year. In any event, it was an entertaining series and a week of baseball (maybe the whole month?) that may very well be repeated next year when we come to the fall.

But, in the end, October is memorable for really only one thing: (no, not the Alien marathon on AMC; no, not the Mad Men season finale - that was November) the beginning of the NBA season. Each year, in the week leading up to Halloween, the NBA kicks off its season on TNT with the best in-studio analysts in any sport: Charles Barkley, Kenny Smith and the immortal Ernie Johnson. Plus, now we have Chris Webber to add to the mix as well. And if anyone has read any Bill Simmons, they will know that his take on Chris Webber as an in-studio personality is quite true - there is something about Webber as a personality that strikes similar to him as a player, he is polished, well rounded, gifted and full of potential, will this end like his NBA career (i.e. mildly fulfilling but not the satisfaction you were hoping for)? We'll see. In the last year, he has been a welcome addition to the studio.

This NBA season had some intriguing storylines going in:

- Lebron free agency (read "to New York") hype. As well as the rest of the 2010 Class (Bosh, Boozer, Wade, Amar'e Stoudemire, Tracey McGrady, Dirk Nowitzki, Josh Howard, etc.)

- Dwyane Wade pushing himself even harder to become MVP.

- The Lakers vying for a repeat.

- Ron Artest living in L.A., playing with Kobe, with even greater odds to out-crazy himself, starting with picking his number 37 after the amount of weeks Thriller was the #1 record. (Artest is my all-time crazy person and I have a proclivity for enjoying crazy people.)

- The Celtics looking for a bounce-back (read "winning the NBA Title") year, especially Kevin Garnett.

- Shaq & Lebron (terrible combination?)

- The Orlando Magic quietly improving after a run to the Finals.

- The Spurs having perhaps the best offseason of any NBA team

- Blake Griffin hype and the fact that if you look at the Clippers, they actually have a good team.

- Can the Thunder become everyone's new favorite team because of their young talent?

Anyway, with that last one, we are becoming a little bit more minute, but needless to say there were a lot of storylines heading in. I, for one, was particularly excited about this season. Although, this summer's draft was not the deepest in years, the league is slowing regaining control of itself and building a core of talent that is entertaining and enjoyable to watch. Good teams like the Spurs are getting deeper so that can obtain that "look-back" factor, when you think back about a good team and remember, "Damn, they even had (insert player you can't believe played for the team)." After one month of the season, here are my top storylines:

- The Atlanta Hawks. Who knew? After years of bumbling draft picks and ineptly constructed teams, the Hawks are legitimate at least in the early going. They had a breakthrough year last year (maybe even in the 7-gamer against the Celtics in 2008?) and have gotten even better. Their roster is freakishly athletic and long with Al Horford, Josh Smith, Marvin Williams and quick with Jamal Crawford and Jeff Teague, experienced with Mike Bibby, and all-around talented with Joe Johnson. The question becomes, in crunch time, who is the star? Joe Johnson is a fine player, but we won't be looking back at the "Joe Johnson Atlanta Hawks." He lacks a star power, and although he is a terrific shooter, I don't know how clutch he is. The Hawks have a lot of likeable players and they do play tough, but they are missing a killer. They strike me as a slightly more experienced and gelled 2006-2007 Chicago "Baby" Bulls. Lots of nice pieces, some of which should be moved to get a killer in the summer of 2010. Or another veteran?

- An Improved Heat? Miami started off the year (much to my pleasure) playing as if they wanted to keep Dwyane Wade in South Beach. They have cooled off some (they were never as good as 7-2, but it was nice to see at least), but you still have to be pleased at the progress of Chalmers and Beasley in their second years as well as Jermaine O'Neal's knees holding up. If they can hold up all year, the Heat may have a chance to make a run in the playoffs, if only because they have Dwyane Wade (see his game-winner against the Nets). The most interesting aspect of the Heat this year does have to be the legitimate theories that Wade and Lebron want to play together next year. This strikes me as a terrible idea. I think they could both co-exist on a team, but you want the two best players in the league (yes, the two best) to be playing against each other in their primes, not with each other. Bird and Magic on the same team? Jordan in the backcourt with Isiah? Doesn't work.

- Blake Griffin's injury: Of course.

- The Lakers may be the best team in the NBA. They are deep at all positions. They are talented. Bynum is coming to play this year and Gasol has been on the bench with injuries for most of the early games. Kobe is playing to regain the league MVP and the Lakers do look dangerous. I don't know who stops them in the West. The Suns will run out of steam and they don't have the toughness to outlast the Lakers. Once again, it comes down to Duncan and that deep Spurs team. If they can all gel (too many nice guys to not gel) then they are the only ones to stop the Lakers from getting to the Finals out of the West.

- The Dysfunctional Cavaliers and Celitcs. The Cavaliers started out abyssmally while the Celtics started out on fire. The Cavs have turned it around and are developing chemistry with Shaq. I still think Shaq handicaps them when the playoffs come. I think Mike Brown mishandles their lineup and doesn't play J.J. Hickson enough in crunch time (playing real well so far). The Celtics are missing Big Baby (don't even get started on that) even though Sheldon Williams has been a nice surprise for them off the bench. Rondo has been playing remarkably besides setting historic lows for free-throw shooting and this team's season is going to come down to Garnett's health and whether or not Rasheed can last for the whole season. A player I have enjoyed for many years (UNC ties, but he did underachieve) could very well be past his prime and mix that with an aging Paul Pierce and Ray Allen and this could be a disaster come May. However, I think Rondo has fireworks coming this year and he may carry this team to a Finals run and we could remember this Celtics team as Rondo's.

- The Orlando Magic: Best in the East? The certainly look like it again at this point. However, it is still early in the year and we are getting middling performances from many of the Eastern conference teams. The Atlantic Division is atrocious, while the Central (the Bucks?) and Southeast Divisons remain competitive. Meanwhile, the West is just as competitive as always, and the Mavs are definitely a team to watch this year - they are playing well together, even if they are extremely bland. Dirk seems rested and is putting up great early season numbers.

Other quick points:

- Brandon Jennings: is he really this good?

- 2009 Rookies: underrated?

- The Bulls: some nights so entertaining, other nights, perplexing

- Stephen Jackson: will Captain Jack get moved again? I think so.

- Carmelo: Where does he finish in MVP voting this year? Third? He's going to have a huge year.

- The Thunder are going to get attention for a lot of televised games next year. They are definitely fun to watch if you get the chance.

Alright, that is all I have for NBA rambling for the moment. My writing on this doesn't feel inspired, even though I love it so much. Just watch the games. You can't go wrong with the NBA on TNT on a Thursday with a few beers. And read Bill Simmons' Book of Basketball, it really says it all. Remarkable, remarkable basketball book.

Next: review of Beach House's upcoming third album Teen Dream and some musings on Jerry Seinfeld's improv genius this past season on Curb Your Enthusiasm

Now: an excerpt from From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt. I am currently revising my first draft and hopefully during this winter I can make something happen with an agent or a publisher. If you read this blog, tell someone how good I am.


Ben

They’re all gone now. I feel bloated sitting in this damn comfortable chair. I’m passing my hand over my round food belly. I’m sticking it out a little, I never really grew a gut. That has to be one of my greatest achievements, staving off the onset of middle age old age fat. It’s bound to happen to so many people. You lose metabolism, you work longer hours, harder hours for the wife the kids, you don’t eat meals when you’re supposed to – I even did it sometimes too. Sometimes when I’d be stuck in our office looking over patient files or doing the god damn books when we had some fuck-up of a bookkeeper the greatest thing was to think about coming home and devouring whatever roast or dinner that Rose would’ve had still waiting for me. So it’d be cold but you just warm it and it didn’t matter because she’dve been waiting for me there anyway. I can feel the acid in my stomach eating away at all that steak in there. That girl can cook cant’t she, Jimmy? I toast his little league lacrosse picture that sits on the shelf. I bet that steak pizzaola would taste great late at night.

I listen to the drum sound of my stomach. I try to play it like bongos. There is no resonance. Only a good fleshy smack. Thock. Connor and I both never grew bellies. Our father never had one either. We weren’t a lanky family, all just sort of lean, gaunt maybe. My father’s hands and arms sinewy strong. His palm disproportionately large looking and feeling to the rest of his body. It wasn’t fleshy or soft and you wouldn’t call it a bear paw either with an encompassing vice-grip. No, it was slightly rough, it was weathered, it had lived and touched. I think Connor and I both aspired to something like that in our whole appearance, genetic or otherwise. I don’t know what he eats or how Erin feeds him, but when we worked together we both tried to keep a diet, stick to the words and promises that came out of our mouths during the day to those people sitting on blue paper waiting for us.

I didn’t want to go to the Checkmate with them all. It’s not my place anymore and it hasn’t been in such a long time. Checkmate, oh checkmate, my home away from home! Just the sound of my own singing voice coming back to me in this room. It’s funny to think of all the songs and all the times wasted in that ramshackle house of a bar. Were they really wasted times? Well in the one hand they look wasted and they absolutely were. Aye stood meself quite a few droonks standing aside the barnacle. However, on the other hand they weren’t wasted at all, there was a remarkable clarity that usually comes with the passing of time, or the strange once in a blue moon occurance of recognizing the significance of a moment as it occurs. But our president hires the poets, writers and playwrights to do that and they still haven’t taught me so I guess that government laureate spending is going to waste. Who started that? Clinton?

I can’t help but laugh out loud, though. The nights Connor and I would have there when we were young. He was so much more reluctant to take a drink than I ever was, but when he did it was a different side you’d see to him nothing like the quiet and thoughtful appearance he’d always give though I suppose the reason he took that on was probably due to me and the way I acted when I was younger, in middle age and I guess even now with me entering old age or already well into it.

That one night when he and I were playing darts – cricket – and we met those girls. The sassy ones who’d just moved here from Minnesota. It must’ve been some time before my accident. Yes, it was because I had been hanging out with Billy and his whole gang or I guess entourage is what it was really. The practice was doing alright but I still felt I could get somewhere going to the City all the time or out east, doing my best to rub my elbows and make people laugh – to know me as a character because its always been my belief that the secret to life lies in how you can read someone’s character. And the trick to success was to know that about other people and then to do your best to emit a sense of character a sense of wholeness within yourself that another person could make out amid all the other bullshit and clutter of life and truly grab onto and lose themselves in whether over a few drinks or if you were really good at it, over two hours on a movie screen.

That night, though, we’d been going at pints of Budweiser. I can’t remember who was winning the game – I never really cared for darts.

“It’s not like how we’d imagined it, is it?”

“No, it’s not.”

One of them was blonde with long hair. She was tall but I couldn’t tell how tall she was when I saw her in the corner of my eye as she sat.

“People make such a big deal about the glamour. All this Hamptons bull and the Great Gatsby.”
“I know.” The other laughed. “The Great Gatsby.”

I couldn’t help myself. I was drunk and feeling funny. So I staggered over to their table by the long front window that looks out to the street. I placed the darts between their glasses. At first they were startled, but I smiled. They seemed amused then.

“And what is wrong with The Great Gatsby?”

“Excuse me,” the blonde said.

“Gatsby. What’s wrong with him?”

She paused and the other sized me up. They weren’t sure what to make of me? Was I oppressive or playful. The blonde touched the tip of the dart.

“Well I just think he’s not all that he’s cracked up to be.”

“Sure he is. I think he’s a great guy and a great character too. That is one beautiful book.”

The other laughed, short and halting.

The blonde held her finger to her lips, then she looked up at me blinking.

“I don’t know. I’ve been living here for almost a year and I haven’t seen anything like him or the world he was supposed to live in. Seems kind of seedy around here. Things have fallen off haven’t they?”

“Scathing reviews!”

“I just don’t see what the big deal in romantizing him is. He’s just a guy from Long Island. Billy Joel is too and I hate that “Piano Man” song.”

I turned around to check on Connor, but he’d left the dart area. I saw him hovering by the jukebox and the bar. I went back to the blonde.

“Well, Billy happens to be a friend of mine but I think you are getting a bit off the topic and missing the point of the book.”

“This guy sure thinks a lot of himself,” the other said.

“Where are you girls from?”

“Minnesota.”

“Ah, give it some time. You’ve both got cold charms and you need to have them warmed by a few glorious Long Island summers.”

“Cold charms?” The blonde pushed the darts toward my waist. “What does that mean?”

I shrugged. I was about to speak, but from the speakers I heard the beginning of “Piano Man.” I pointed up in the air as if it were some divine coincidence. Then I felt Connor’s hand on my back. He stood beside me cradling his pint glass.

“ ‘Piano Man’,” he said. “Great song.” He winked at me and I broke up. The girls groaned but they warmed up to us. He could’ve made the blonde one when the night was all said and done but he didn’t. He and Erin were off and on and not so serious at that point, but I think he saw a future in her and didn’t want to mess that up. She ended up picking us up that night anyway. A sweet brunette who was originally from New Hampshire but ended up at the university and she stuck around.

“What are you doing going out like this, Ben? You’ve got a baby daughter at home. You should be helping out your wife. Why she stays with you I have no idea.”

“She’s got a good sense of humor.”

“You’ve got to control your big brother, Connor.”

“He’s not such a bad sense of humor.”

I started giggling in the back of the car.

“What? I don’t get you two.”

No one did and we were terrific together.

There’s that picture of the two of us at my bachelor party. It’s on the shelf above James’ lacrosse picture. We’ve both got our ties loosened and dishevelled around our necks, our hair still thick and brown, arms hooked. You can’t put a price on a good sibling. I hope all of the kids know that. I think they do otherwise they wouldn’t all be going out together tonight. I’m surprised it was Tom that had the idea. He is my strange son and I don’t think I’ll ever know everything about him and I’m not supposed to. But it was good to have a drink with him watching the rain today. What’s he going to do with himself? I don’t know the what but I know that he is going to because he will. He’ll solve his mysteries without my help. Without James’ help and certainly now without Rose’s help.

He reminds me of Connor a lot. They both were reserved and Connor was quirky though not as introspective or strange. I reach next to me and take a drink from the bottle. It’s almost done, so I ride the burn and the bloat and take another glug to finish it off. It’s time to start on the next one. I stand myself up and drag myself over to the desk. I slide my hands along the top listening to the squeak of my palm on wood. That’s all I’ll have for now on – it’s what I’ve been used to for many years now. But what is wrong with me to be thinking like that. I’m drunk and I slouch in the rolling chair. It’s leather too. My eyes are closed. My arm drops to the bottom drawer and my fingers pull at the handle which is cooler – metal.

She’s there against the blackness. It’s all auburn now – auburnette more accurately. It’s her white sundress that makes her shine more than the hair. But where is this? No its not heaven. This isn’t the afterlife – it couldn’t be because even though I’m Catholic I never thought about it: she thought about it. But she must be thinking about me because of that dress, she knew I loved that dress more than anything more than her naked.

It has to mean more than that. She walks along the black. It gives way to the rocks down at the jetties. I took her there on our second date - an afternoon walk. The sun is shining just the same. Is this it? Is this eternity? An endless day remembered in my eyelids? She’s pointing out to the sound. I see a sailboat, someone is actually sailing the way they used to by the beach.
And its gone its all gone and I can see Connor. It’s nothing but Connor his hair like mine blowing in the breeze. We’re down by the docks. He stands behind me sitting on the planks looking into the water. I’m holding an O’Doul’s between my thighs. It’s his reflection I see. That’s what brothers are for.

“You let her die,” he says.

“Which one.”

“Maybe it’s both. You’d have to decide about Rose.”

“You’re right, Connor. Are you tired?”

Then it’s my desk. It’s the wood everywhere – the brown shades, the shines. Me and the bottle in between my thighs at the desk. I look to the shelves.

They’re all gone or going.

Wednesday Night Post

I don't have time to post any new reviews or musings tonight. This weekend I will be going home to camp on the beach with my friend and some dogs. Then it will be Easter Sunday. Next week I will give you some good album reviews and then a preview of the NBA playoffs, which are starting soon and will be some of the best playoffs in years: Kobe, LeBron, Wade, Howard showcase. Tonight, though, another entry in "From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt." Enjoy.


Ben

Who first invented the shape of a bottle? It’s really an ingenious design. It must have been the Egyptians when they were fooling around with the mason jars. I’dve liked to have that as a gift: a collection of mason jars with Egyptian godheads on them. It would’ve been fun to scare the kids by putting fake organs in them. I could’ve made up plenty of lies about them. Haunted hearts, livers that were still living. Tom would’ve been the most scared. My jokes and pranks always worked him up.

But I think there is just something terrific about the shape of it. It’s romantic in a way whether full or empty, though I suppose the empty bottle has been romanticized more in movies and in books as a symbol. Everybody loves a hapless drunk, a haunted loner who lives in the shadows. We want our heroes to fall almost as much as we want them to succeed. I’m not sure I’d know what a hero looked like on the street if I met him. Or her.

I should turn the lights on in here to read but the windows in here and the skylights always give enough real light to see. it doesn’t matter to me whether I carve up a Christian or the first fowl that comes my way. That was always one of my favorite quotes. You could use it as armor when dealing with patients. I’m not that cruel, but it’s nice to pretend it’s possible. I never bothered to read Bovary before. She was the one that told me to read it. It had to be a little bit after James was born. We’d sit here after we put him and Mags to sleep and both read underneath those overhead track lights, which were too bright then so I had the dimmer put in right over there by the back door. We’d sit like two kids back in the college library, except instead of being awkward or passionately fighting off the urge to have sex in public we were married and reading together, tired and I can always remember wanting a drink. I didn’t want to drink; I just wanted a drink to relax with the pages in front of me and nothing but sleep then and patients the next day. She wouldn’t let me. She kept me to that promise and made sure I stuck it out. We are both stubborn people. Well, she was and I still am stubborn.

The island. So many times she’d lean against the marble when I’d get home. I’d see James’ cleats by the back door, dirt on them, maybe a little round mold of mud clay lying on that back door rug. Someone’s notebooks on the table. My mind draws up the era when Mags was out of the house. What imprints that on my memory? Marble countertops and Rose standing there, gray on the edges of her auburn. Her and Mags with the shining auburn. Rose was auburn always. Always auburn. I’m pushing the bottle along the wood table. My bottle of Cutty Sark. Sark the sequel revenge of the sark.

The left leg of my khakis is missing. The most comfortable pair of pants I ever had. My skin all bashed up and black and blue. My ribs wrapped up and my arm draped around Connor. His long hair over the collar of his brown leather jacket. I’d always thought I was more handsome, but that night he seemed the older and more confident brother. Maybe because he saved my life. And Rose rushed over to me; her hair long and auburn and she just leaned into me a bit. Just that little lean made the ends of her hair touch my leg. Something that soft should’ve never touched that injury. Although I was proud of it afterwards - gave my thigh and knee a nice definition even if I had a strange crick and limp when it was too humid. She looked at me. Her face young. I was young too.

“You’re drunk.” She smelled.

“Yes I am.”

“I’ll step in the other room,” Connor said.

“Thank you.”

“A scholar and a gentlehand.”

Connor smiled at me and flicked my ear, his leather arms squeaking. The leather later cracked but worn and comfortable. I wore it.

“This is a long time coming.”

I nodded.

“The motorcycle?”

“Destroyed.”

“Who was it? Billy?”

“No, not that piano playing drunk.”

“Who then?”

“It was this guy. His name was Nicky Schwartz. He was going to introduce me to this comic who’s supposed to be on Saturday Night Live next month.”

“Ben.”

Her hands were always so cold.

“This is going to stop.”

“C’mon, mom.”

She narrowed her eyes. Oh, when her eyes were narrow and gray. What could I have possibly done but to listen? But then she grabbed my right hand, which was wrapped up too and put it on her stomach. The white wrap of my bandagehand on the purple the soft purple of her dress. There were darker purple flowers on it too.

“You almost died.”

“Yes.”

“It has to stop.”

“But I don’t want it too.”

She gripped my hand. I could feel the pressure and I saw her nails digging into the bandage. Her eyes grey and round storms. The old house with the round wood table that had marks from hot plates I put on it without trivets because I didn’t know any better. I could feel her stomach round and my hand looked round.

“Will you?”

Round the cycle spun and round I fell onto the pavement and I’d put a lot of money into that bike and I loved taking care of it but it turned into mangled metal. All of your dreams turn into mangled metal I’d thought then. It’s not true now. I thought of the first time Connor and I got drunk in the field by the barn. I’d stolen the gin and we didn’t know what was what. We drank it without thinking and of course we threw up side by side in the weeds next to the red painted wood.

“Will you?” She asked again.

“Yes,” I said. And that was the beginning of the end. I slept that night in pain and spent the next thirty and more years in pain without a drink. I could’ve made people laugh and I did resent her for that for so long even when I saw the fluid and the blood and James in the artificial light of this world for the first time. I resented her in the off-white porcelain of the jacuzzi and her auburn hair and I resented the fruit smell of so many of her clothes because I couldn’t and I could’ve…

In comes Tom from the back door and he’s wet and his coat is wilted. He pulls off his boots and they thump on that back door carpet. He’s got a beer in his hand. There’s a scrap of brown paper bag clinging to it. His hair is soaked and black.

“Hey, dad.”

“What’s the weather like?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do I need a coat?”

“No, it’s warm.”

I think you might find a lot of answers from the drooping and full flowers and bushes of September in the rain. The square divisions of the window make leaves and branches look like pictures. I hold my hands up and pretend to take a picture of Tom, my second son. He looks at me and sips his beer. He wipes rainwater off his chin. Or maybe its beer.

“A little early to be drinking,” I say.

“What about you?”

“I’ve earned it.”

“Me too.”

I laugh because I like when my kids are quick. It makes me see myself in all of them. It’s a humane mental insurance policy.

“What are you always riding the train for?”

He sits across from me at the table. He stretches his right hand out and touches the golden and curved knob of the right back door. His left arm sweeps back and touches one of Rose’s plants on the sill.

“I like the rhythm of the train. I like looking out the windows.”

“You always liked this one too. Didn’t you?” I point outside at the rain and the leaves and the rocks and the water in the pool and then the fence and beyond that the woods and beyond that the Smith’s house through the woods.

“One of the better ones I’ve looked through.”

“You were at church?”

“Yes.” He sips.

I sip. “They mention your mother?”

“Not that I heard.”

“The bastards.”

I’m quiet thinking of that damn church and how Rose wanted to go every Sunday. My mother wanted me to marry a good woman well I married a good woman a god-fearing woman just like my mother.

“Dad?” Tom says.

“Yeah?”

“Are you going to be alright tomorrow?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Sober?”

“Don’t tell James or Maggie.” I wink.

Tom laughs and takes another sip of his beer. I look him in the eye and nod my head. He slides his beer across the wood and I slide my bottle. The can is cool, wet, and slick. I lift it. Cold beer and carbonation. We make eye contact and laugh together.

“Dad?” He says.

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you keep the house?”

I lean my neck back, look up at the skylight, and see the drops forming a momentary perfect circle and then splash and slide down the glass. There are streaks running in every direction from perfect symmetrical natural liquid circles.

“Because if I couldn’t save her, why would I save the house? It wasn’t ours anyway. It was hers.”

I feel hot and angry but that’s not the way I mean it and that’s not the way I want it to sound. Tom slides the Cutty Sark across the table at me.

“I don’t believe that.”

“Now you’re getting the hang of it.”

He moves to get up. His hands are poised on the table, his forearm muscles are contracted and a vein runs up from along the joint of his thumb’s distal phalange. But he sits back down again, wet with strands of dark grass hair hanging low on his forehead.

“You’re alright, dad.”

“You too?”

“I think so.”

“At least you’re that far.”

Tom and I drink together. I’m not quite sure what time it is but it has to be after noon. Although, I’m not quite sure what the difference is.

Wade MVP (Or the End of the Argument)

So we've just gone through an amazing week of Dwyane Wade heroics. I'm listening to "Every Night" by Paul McCartney. This whole NBA season has been completely focused on Kobe Bryant and Lebron James and rightfully so. Their teams (along with the Celtics) have been dominating the standings. Lebron put up a not so triple double at MSG right after Kobe laid down 61 in typical Kobe fashion (0 assists). The Cavs and Lakers could very well meet in the finals. We all know Kobe is a killer and Lebron is a freak of nature. However, Dwyane Wade silently, consistently is the best player in the NBA.

The MVP debate has historically centered around this dilemma. Player A is putting up great numbers and his team has a great record and is in the thick of the playoff/Finals discussion. Meanwhile Player B is putting up astounding numbers and without him his team would win maximum 15-20 games. Usually Player A, if taken away, would see his team drop in his absence, but not in such a dramatic fashion. Usually, Player B is putting up the bigger scoring numbers. In the end, in the NBA, it's player A that gets the MVP.

This year is different. Not only is Wade the leading scorer in the league, averaging an even 30.0 points per game as of this evening, he is also in the top 5 in steals and assists. Now, Kobe certainly shoulder a huge load for the Lakers from 2004-2006. However, that was the era when we saw Kobe score 81 points. Dwyane Wade is never going to score 81 points, nor does he ever want to. Dwyane Wade is a killer just like Kobe. Kobe, Lebron and Dwyane are the only three killers in the game today. There is no one else, and if anyone argues then they are arguing to degrees, because those three are the only ones who will kill you to win the game (i.e. the M.J, Bird, Magic, Isiah gene). I may give you Chris Paul as a 4th member on some nights, but not full fledged yet - he's too much point guard.

Now, where the difference arises is that, Wade will not let his team lose, but he will not go about it by trying to score as much as possible. Sure he pours it in, but his assist lines are just as ridiculous. Look at his lines the past two weeks:

OPP MIN PTS TREB AST TO STL BLK 03/04 PHO 39 35 6 16 1 1 1 03/06 TOR 40 42 6 8 8 1 1 03/07 CLE 41 25 8 12 3 4 0 03/09 CHI 50 48 6 12 5 4 3 03/11 BOS 37 32 4 7 1 4 0 03/14 UTA 52 50 10 9 6 4 2 5 out of 6 games he broke 30 points. 3 out of 6 games he broke double digits in assists. 1 out of 6 games he broke double digit rebounds, which a combo 1/2 guard really isn't expected to do. 4 out of six games he had 4 steals - a great to extraordinary stat for those who don't know. The turnovers are still his one weak spot, but look at that - 3 blocks in one game for a 6'4" guard. See, Dwyane Wade is putting his team on his back entirely, but still remaining an all around player who can fill in the stat sheet, he is explosive, he is physical and yet still graceful. I know the media and any true NBA fan will be in awe of Lebron. Lebron is a physical specimen, he can get it done in the clutch, and he has carried a team to the Finals. We can't go by history in an MVP race. I think we can safely say that Kobe should be ruled out of the race this year. This race is down to the two guys who will be dominating this award for the next 5 years. Lebron and Wade. You can't lose with either, but if you look at Wade's overall body of work, the caliber and amount of support he has compared to Lebron (Lebron can get plenty of assists with Mo Williams knocking down 3's, with Varajao flopping baskets in out of control, with Big Z lumbering in for a dunk) while Wade has to hope that his young shooters can make a three to get an assist. The Heat will be better next year and the Cavs will be just as good and may be the reigning champs. So let Lebron get his MVP as he defends his title. This is Wade's year. No one has worked harder, taken on more, but still shared and been a model player. Sorry 04'-06' Kobe you were amazing, but not at the same balance as Wade, which is why it took the 2007-2008 Kobe to win it. The 2008-2009 Wade season is changing the mold, and that's why he is going to win it. Now, the next installment of From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt: Ben I’m in my bathrobe and the shower is running. I’m wasting the water and I know that. But I’ve always loved the sound of the shower, the sound of repetitive falling water as natural in its way as rain. I remember when I used to take a shower in the morning and when I’d step out James would be curled up on the bathroom rug with a towel over him sleeping. I’d laugh every time. There’s something natural about it. The warmth, the moisture and the sound. It’s like the womb. That stuff was always surprising about being a father. How your kids could do strange little things like that. Be so attached to you. You never imagine that. Another person being so attached to you that they’d wake up to come and lay and listen to you shower. But that’s what it is to be a parent. You can never project that, you can’t project a child sleeping on the bathroom floor or waking you up before dawn on Christmas. Those are the images you have, but you can’t fully project that. You can’t fully project the feeling of being in that bed in the dark on Christmas Morning and you are still a college student in some way wanting to sleep as late as possible when you can, but here they come. Here are these little people that can’t wait to wake you up and be alive and can’t wait for you to be up and be alive so that you can watch them open presents. And you want sleep so bad, but there is a joy in you – an unknown glowing organ that flourishes at moments like that. When the little legs and arms jump on the comforter in the dark and these kids are you and they need and love you. But those are all memories and old feelings. I’m still here in my bathrobe and drunk. The bathroom still looks the same with the jacuzzi empty and the baskets with the different colored soaps and gels that I never used. I should just dump them all in the jacuzzi and lie there instead of taking a shower. Maybe I will. On the sink a glass of water is resting on the flat part next to the faucet. It’s one of the glasses with the red flowers on it. In the sink is my second Cutty Sark bottle. I took a few sips before. I open the stall. Water sprinkles my forearm. I turn off the knobs. Steam has started to fill the bathroom and everything feels damp and comfortable. I step to the jacuzzi and turn on the water. I stop the drain and watch it fill. When we first moved in, Rose and I would use the jacuzzi all the time. It was a luxury to have. That was the beginning of the prosperous time. We had Maggie and James. So much room and so many bathrooms. We still had a healthy sex life then too. Three times a week it was I think. We’d put the kids to sleep and the house was so big that it didn’t matter. But she’s dead now. Thinking about the sex you had with your dead wife. And how can I possibly get all of that back? I can’t and I know that but it would be nice. The water is filling and I pour in some soap. It’s a round smooth plastic bottle with blue liquid. Then there’s a red one, its raspberry scented. I pour that into the mix too. A green one is next: kiwi. A purple one: passion fruit and plum. These are all scents I’ve smelt before but never known. Although it looks like the bottles have hardly been used. The soap and bubbles are rising and frothing beneath the flow of the faucet. The water is just about higher than the jets. I turn the jets on; some of the water shoots out of the tub and hits my robe thigh. It’s warm and leaves a soapy mark. The water has risen above the jets and now everything is bubbly and the room is steamy and smells like a strange rotten and overripe fruit vendor. I remove my robe. My skin is wrinkled. There are some liver spots on my thigh. I could’ve had more if I drank all those years. I step to the sink and take the bottle of Cutty Sark with me. I look at my naked self in the mirror. Just another day of vanity. Remember when I was 20? Looking in the mirror all the time then. I’m walking over to the tub and now I’m sinking into the bubbles and the steam and watching the suds wrap around the bottle.

Hiatus Over...Reign of Terror to Begin?

It's been a long month. Christmas, New Year's, watching puppet shows, Barack Obama, NFL Playoffs, the sun. One of the coldest Januaries I can remember in years. I am back to one hundred percent healthy. I can do this for all of you, whoever you are. I'm gonna get ripe like these tomatos and swiss chards upstairs there.

I'll be good I promise and make sure to give ye plenty t' read. Starting with another section of "From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt."


Ben

I’m alone now. I’m outside by the pool. The world is dark and the moon is waxing. I’m cradling the bottle in my right arm as I lay on the lounge. Nearly waxed this bottle off over the whole day. A bottle a day keeps the doctor in me at bay.

But there is so much to heal. Both of my daughters and both of my sons. I can see myself in James so much. The way he tries to heal people, to mend wounds. The difference is, is that he’s more like his mother. He’s noble, he looks noble; he sounds noble, and is noble to the point that it can be irritating. Except to the person who loves you. Me for Rose. Eve for him. I’ve healed. I can heal. I do it and did it in my own way. Quietly because it was a duty and duties are done in silence.

There is a coolness touching everything. I can feel it caressing my skin and my hair. If I walked on the perimeter I would feel it hovering over the leaves. It’s the autumn. What was that one good thing Kerouac said? Everyone goes home in October. Well it’s not October and everyone is home.

But no one cleans the pool anymore. I did it twice this summer, but we always leave it up to that robot now. It’s not the same, though. When we first got the pool James and I would both clean it. He’d listen to his music and do it during the day and on the weekends. I’d come home from work and clean it at night during the week. Look at it, glowing greenish and dark denim. It’s always looked this way in the dark. Those deep blue stones. Santos charged a high price but the work was worth it and who am I counting pennies? I was never a penny counter. This bottle feels good on my gut. It’s not quite a gut, but when I slouch like this, it’s unavoidable.

Yes, it’s definitely a cool night. When I was growing up, every year I looked forward to nights like this in September. During the day, the sun will beat down on the flowers and the trees, but at night, the wind picks up a little. The way I thought of it was that the cold hid in the ground until winter and that in the fall it made its first reemergence only at night. It made logical sense to me then. But tonight everything is touched by dampness and coolness. On all the leaves and petals there will be little marks of moisture.

I’m an old man now. My wife is dead. The songs of my youth don’t ring in my ears like they used to. I never thought I’d be old. Look at Cutty Sark. The bottle never ages, it keeps being produced looking the same and never changing. Orange label and orange liquid. If only humans could be as simple and adaptable as that. The model of my body has been outlived. I have four children that prove that. I have four children. Each one probably detests seeing me like this. I’m sure they all know about my past, the mistakes and jokes I made. I don’t regret it and I never did. Rose may have saved me. I’m sure she did because I couldn’t have helped the kids the way I did if I was getting like this all the time. I could’ve loved them. I always would’ve. But I couldn’t have helped them. I couldn’tve been a father. Although I never quite figured out what that meant. I heard the phrase “be a father” at soccer games, dance recitals, music concerts, and lacrosse camps, but I never really understood it. I had a part in creating them and I was always there to help. But I never knew when I crossed in the holy territory of being a father.

I suppose it all means as much as you want it to or as little. There are plenty of fathers out there who simply planted the seed for their children and didn’t do a thing after. Yet, other fathers destroyed their children’s lives by taking their title of “Dad” as a license to kill their child’s independence. Being a parent is terrible, but it’s a business I’m glad I got into.

I’m getting more sentimental. It’s not just because my wife – my guide – is gone, because it was happening before that. I’m seventy in January. That’s not so old, but old enough that the memories and sentiments pile up enough so that you can be sentimental. I don’t cry about things. I’ve heard about men near death who were easily brought to tears. They cried over Christ, talk of sex, love, American presidents, war and music. It’s funny, the only thing that seems to be missing from that list is death itself, but no one really talks about that as one of the elements of life. Because it’s always seen as the opposite. I don’t think it is. It’s as much a part in life as love or anything else. I’m going to die soon. Rose already did. The clouds are moving in over the stars. I need to finish this bottle and start the next one. Each day has its own agenda. What is tomorrow anyway?

Section 5

Please see Section 5 of "From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt" below. This is the introduction of the patriarch of the family, Ben. From this point forward the narrative cycles between the five different viewpoints you have read so far: James, Tom, Liza, Maggie and Ben.

If you have been following so far, it is September, their mother has died and each sibling is coming home - some have not been home longer than others. Liza has just started college, James works and lives in Washington D.C. with his wife, Eve, who is pregnant. Maggie is a travel photographer who lives in Boston. Tom lives in a different town on Long Island and spends much of his time riding the train. Ben shared a medical practice in town with his brother, but he really wanted to be a comedian. He was known as a legendary drunk before his wife, Rose, made him stop drinking.

Enjoy Ben's first section.


Ben

I’m sitting at our long wooden kitchen table with James and Eve. I’d have to say that Eve looks stunning and she is the kind of girl I would’ve married when I was young. However, I did marry the kind of girl that I would marry. My bottle of Cutty Sark is standing in front of me. I love the taste of it, the look of the old sailboat. I once saw a terrific photo of a cutty sark burning up at sea. The horror of the flames rising and rising against the black clouds and the dark-green hellish waves. It really did look like a medieval painting of Dante’s Inferno. But this bottle is a fine light green and Hart Crane jumped off a cruise ship and not a cutty sark. Does anyone read him anymore? He was my favorite when I was young and still is though I haven’t picked up a book of his work in a long time. There was something to the language, the way it sounded old and yet fast and new at the same time. If there was ever a language that fit the word fleeting then it came from his mouth or brain or soul.

James isn’t trying to take the bottle from me. He and Eve are drinking tea. They have the kettle in front of them resting on an iron trivet. The steam lifts up and my eyes are following it to the navy blue painted ceiling and the strong beam of sunlight that is cutting through the skylight and along the wall. I take a drink from the bottle. James is talking to me.

“Dad do you think that is the best solution?”

“I was never good at math.”

“But you’re a doctor.”

“We didn’t invent calculus or calculators.”

Eve’s hand touches my arm. I feel her nails slightly through the thin green striped sleeve of my white shirt. Her hand is very tan.

“Are you alright, Ben?”

Her hair is still slightly damp and it’s pulled back in a bun that all girls seem to wear their hair. A few strands are falling on her forehead. Her hair is dark brown and her eyes are a lighter shade. You would call them mocha. Everything about her is brown – bronze is the better word. There is something ancient about her, a crafted sculpture. When your son is a child, you hope that he will grow up to marry a girl this beautiful. Even the most humble man at one point or another while looking at his son move and fumble about in the world trying to figure things out, hopes he will marry a girl of outstanding beauty because in some way it makes that deep masculine part of all men proud. However, what you never expect is that it will actually happen or that if it does that the girl will be Eve rousing something in you that is more than sex or more than love for a daughter or daughter in law. I think it might just simply be Love and maybe that is because she reminds me of Rose so damn much even if she doesn’t look a damn thing like her.

My head nods at Eve. “Thank you, Eve.”

She looks a little confused but humors me with a laugh.

I hear the front door open and close.

“Hello?” It’s Mags. My oldest daughter is back. So many women in my life the most important ones are swirling around me now. Liza upstairs, Eve next to me and Mags walking down the hall. But not Rose and because of that I can feel the stitching in me coming undone. She was the surgeon of my life.

Tom walks in from the back door. Mags’ hand is on my shoulder now.

I take a drink from the bottle and feel the burn in my stomach like a ship bursting into flames on the open water.