Wednesday, September 29, 2010

critical juncture

hey there... got the promo cd's... so i can continue to promo!
yes...

one sheet
cd
envelope
postage
gig

one sheet
cd
envelope
postage 50 times
one article

one sheet
cd
envelope
postage
your cd ends up on ebay

one sheet
cd
envelope
postage
return to sender

i could do this all day.

grimm

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

water water anywhere

"Thats how you do it, don't hot dog it, now. Use both hands! Don't hot dog it."

I want to believe my father coined that phrase, "don't hot dog it"; probably not, but I'd like to think that. we were playing catch, the front yard carpeted with grass... jungle grass that barely gave under foot. Dad would throw the ball as high in the air as he could, a pop fly. Youthful perception dictated his strength combined with a tennis ball's mass would send it to the mesophere.

Of course, it wasn't too far in the air. I could catch the pop-fly. Now, 25 years later it dawns on me... in this lil' recollection, neither my father nor I liked baseball. Not a homerun. Not a pitch. Not a game, really. We had gone to Memorial Stadium a few times... but my it was my mother whom loved baseball.

The link, besides DNA, I have with, Pop... as I call him... is bad movies, more on that in later blog. Sailing became his passion for a long while. Our first boat was an Ensenada 19, a nineteen foot stronghold of spiders. The earliest memory of that boat was right after he bought it; we packed in mom's fake wood paneled corolla wagon... and drove to some development, I'll never remember where... but, I remember it was dusk and drizzling. The boat didn't look like any sailboat I had seen before... most boats I had seen had a raised cabin with little windows you could spy passing vessels... spacious cabins where you might engage a pirate in sword play... the Ensenada 19 did not live up to these fantasies.

But my father's excitement bubbled over, if he could have, he'd a jumped on the deck right there on the trailer in a white american suburb, hoisted the sails, lowered the keel, and set off to navigate the Cul-de-sac. he didn't though. We drove home, he-excited, me-nonplussed.

The idea of sailing has a sort of romanticized hold on the male of the species... we see it in poetry, novels, films... the man and the sea... some salty, iron wrinkled man with white brillo scruff squinting his slate dry eyes into a distant horizon... he talks of the mystery of the sea... "the sea, she's a cruel mistress, but ye have to obey."

ARGH.

For my dad though, he didn't romanticize the sea and all her briney peccadilloes. he felt free on the susquehannah. really, not until right now, as I click keys and sip my coffee, did such a realization appear. On the water perhaps, my father felt equal to everyone else out there. The rules couldn't be simpler. You only go as far as your skill allows, your attention to winds and currents, the weather forecast... these factors mattered in piloting any vessel. Here my father controlled his movement... as well as or better than most folks.

My dad found freedom, too. In childhood, my father contracted Polio leaving him with a withered leg resulting in a severe limp. Despite the disease he swam, biked, played tennis. Working his body twice as hard as the other boys, men, he excelled and usually rose to the top... maybe not rose... that indicates a certain ease... he pulled himself to the top. But on the water... his legs weren't necessary for sailing, of course my brother and I were the crew... but he was free... the dry land and the doubled effort had no say in what he did on the boat. boats cut through water and if conditions are right, they glide unimpeded, unobstructed... like birds. If that were the case, every trip we took on the boat allowed my dad to truly breath, truly move.

grimm

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

substitute for another guy

Big Show on Friday! Are you going...? you should go? yes... you should go!

CD Release show is coming up... have you bought your tickets yet? you haven't? You should...

Why wouldn't you? Come on! You've got to go! Come on...

okay

back to my posts about the hampden post office...

out of the corner of his eye he noticed the dark sliver, the overhead florescent lights hummed reassurance, coaxing him forward. his fingers flitted nervously as he held his package, anticipating its placement. is it too soon? is that slot big enough to handle his load? his clothes started to feel tighter, his mouth went dry. slowly he lifted the stuffed envelope in to position, the edges of the mail slot and the package touched gently... a kiss. held his breath, closed his eyes and tentatively applied pressure to the back of the plump yellow parcel, destined for Los Angeles. the opening refused his offering, he felt his forward motion slowing to halt. he opened his eyes and stared with desire and violence. teeth clenched and eyes narrowed, "oh, you'll take all of this... don't deny me, don't deny ME!" with a renewed, burning passion he switched his stance to that of a man holding closed a gate against the marauding barbarians, howling and desparate to loot and ravage whatever they find. He gripped his package by both hands and pushed forward while tugging and swiveling left to right, left to right, Left to Right, LEft to RIght, LEFt to RIGht!, LEFT To RIGHt!, LEFT TO RIGHT! Suddenly all resistance gave and he found his fingers wriggling in the slot... the cool air from the mail room touched his digits. He didn't realize it at first, but he was panting, drops of sweat sliding down his face, settling in the dimples of his cheeks. A rush of warmth and elation washed over his frame, his soul. Conquest. He straightened his back and stared at his victory, his eyes widened... above the slot read, "LOCAL DELIVERY ONLY."

okay... this is the last installment of this sort of thing... i was thinking i might go on with it... but it's just silly!

grimm

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

on my desk

blakes' poetry and design
three by flannery o'connor
four short novels by herman melville
the wit of sir winston
the musician's handbook
wallace stegner angle of repose
4 months of receipts
my lamp
a freshly emptied bowl of oatmeal
my laptop
checkbook

interesting?

getting excited for the disc, a few days
and it should be here in all its
duplicated glory.

spoke with sam sessa of the baltimore
sun yesterday, we'll be doing another
baltimore unsigned... this will be our
third time in... which is cool...

i have begun a love affair with
the post office. we see each other once or twice
a week. i'll walk casually down the block
and gently tug on the front doors. we all
know why i'm there, yet we don't say it out
loud. there is a glance; there is an offer;
there is an exchange, a release, and then
there is satisfaction. tristesse.

my needs being met, i walk back to my house.

maybe i should start a new career or writing
postal romance stories...

Linda's tongue slid between her pouty lips, glistening, nervous. the stamp, waiting in anticipation with its back side up, quivered slightly. she dabbed her moisture on the small postage guarantee completely and gently. the stamp, once dry, now sticky thick with glue, ached to be handled and pressed firmly in to a corner, trapped and manipulated by her hot fingers, the ultimate submission. before she could catch her breath, it was over. her eyes slowly refocused on the egg shell white envelope and in the upper right edge Gloria Steinam knowingly smiled up at her, a forty-four cent mark by her feminine ear. Linda smiled back, fulfilled and grateful.

grimm

Monday, September 20, 2010

inside via outside

strangely alive
borne by fingers and feathers

halo overhead
and locked by a knot

worried hearts
beat until they become leather

fired hard
without notice; we are lost

spun by winds
whispered by currents

only and until
tips of mountains speak

will we need
the horizon, again

directionless
doesn't mean, free

Thursday, September 16, 2010

carrying out plans

it's a simple process...
make a list,
do some stuff,
check off the list...
not rocket science.

items that have remained unchecked:

book pittsburgh
book detroit
book indianapolis
book cleveland

these are proving to be harder than both
the north and and the south

ugh.

i'm reminded of a story tess gallagher told about raymond carver...
she was talking about cleaning out his closet after his death and
finding a note in a shirt pocket... it was grocery list he had made
not too long before his impending death from lung cancer...

the list (i am paraphrasing):

cereal
hot chocolate
paper towels
Paris?
Africa?
Australia?


i think i'm starting to like lists... maybe stretch out a bit...
maybe i can blog the list of things to do and then comment
when i completed them? wouldn't that be interesting?

perhaps not.

so far on my list:

house things:

shower (maybe)
call carpenter
help murray move glass table top
start laundry

music things:

mail out posters to NC
mail out promo cd's
contact press links in NC
contact the following bars:
Memories Charcoal Grille
Whistling Oyster
Diablita's
James Joyce
Riptide by the Bay
Kooper's
The Still
O'Lordan's
Sunset Grille

log in to No Depression
update web sites
get tires on van checked and fix spare
put gretsch guitars on craigslist


quite a list.

grimm

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

world in a world

i've moved my laptop to the basement.
big move. the computer, the cable, the coffee
and then the table.

the tours star to peek over the atlantic

we just picked up a show with bitter ruin from
the u.k.

it will be in wilmington NC... OCT. 17th @ the juggling gypsy.

where do club names come from?

proposed club names:

the blender
my amoeba
the veldt
mind space
the nucleus
cloud 10
pink motel
office max
tire dump
warner's pit
hair mouth
the whizz
gary's fantastic depot
wilted fern
ugly's
mass appeal
tongue tomb
spiffy
the sheath
turner's
hooch's
upper deck
kiran's blade

okay... i'm bored with this.

grimm

Friday, September 10, 2010

west coasting

so a week away to the west coast and the triumphant
trumpeting of high hopped libations had their say.

they spoke in tongues, their taste bitter to crisp.
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm... the flight home was rough

got to hang out with patrick hughes, brief stay as a
drummer for the june star. saw his band, mneumonic sounds.

groovy drum loops with live drums and sparkles. thick
bass loops and synthesizer sighs... one word, atmosphere.

they were very wonderful and i enjoyed the event... the
lyrics have that semi girl sound of the ingenue and the

chanteuse if that is even possible. elegant and crushing.
inspiring. so i've returned to emails and getting

back into making lists so i can check them off! selling
some guitars! my two gretsch duo jets are for sale!

i'll even autograph them. that was a joke. sort of.
ha ha... tomorrow 12:30 june star plays the hampden fest

for the best 20 minutes of your lives. if i were you
i'd go. we're going to be awesome... a brilliant flame

of americana! rally your friends... invite your enemies!
all will not be lost.

oh... i think i wrote a new song somewhere along the line.
groovy... check back later? send me a message.

grimm

Friday, September 03, 2010

Time out

Hey ho...

Quick check-in. Out of the rotation blog wise...
I trust that you are fine and well... My new
Old guitar will be in my hands by next week... Excitement
Yes that is all right now... Will check in later?

You are all very cute

Grimm