Posted 2:07 AM by sport

Still out of touch with everyone, still reeling from an unexpectedly brutal anniversary of Sept 11 and a terrifying false alarm regarding Miles' health, here I am with more whinging - but first a toast.

Two of my pals, actor nonpareil Brad Dourif and jokewriter now-and-later Steve Young, were nominated for Emmy awards, but neither nabbed the trophy. Still, I applaud both gentlemen for taking their great talents to such heights of professional recognition. Brad’s loss was compensated (in my world, anyway) by winner Michael Imperioli’s surprising thank you to John Cassavetes. I dig Imperioli’s work on The Sopranos lots, but now I owe him a drink if we ever occupy the same dive. Dear Claudia looked stunning alongside Brad at the gala event, and young Cleo got to meet Larry David at the afterparty, so all in all, it looked like a good time was had in Hollywood
What about life on Long Island, though?

Shelley’s busy back at work. Alex is busy back at school. Miles and Lily are busy continuing to grow in brilliance and beauty. And Sport continues to swell like a hog tick as he shuffles listlessly from room to room.

I’ve succeeded in isolating myself from everything and everyone. My brain is shriveling like some plum decaying in time-lapse footage. Apart from the babies, all I busy myself with is file sharing. A possible advantage of the disintegration of creativity is this newly revived enjoyment of all sorts of music and sounds; I’m discovering and rediscovering things without any “anxiety of influence” thanks to the free-flowing mp3 tit. Primitive electronics, many Frenchmen, massive orchestral densities, Chinese moonsongs, Drunken celebs cutting voiceovers, children playing with Panasonic portables, disco relics and raver favorites. I grab ‘em and burn ‘em and spin ‘em all day and night. It’s odd to encounter peculiar facets of real beauty in even the Rodd Keiths and Jandeks of the world that I cannot find in any of my own work.

I can see lush gardens where most folks see nothing but ugly weeds, yet I can’t raise me a blade of goddamn grass. So it goes, and so it went. With this in mind I’m glad that devouring this huge accumulation of cdrs is just pleasure without envy. It feels a bit like the obsessive pursuits of my younger days, when I couldn’t grab LP records fast enough to satisfy the thirst. It doesn’t bug me that kids like Daedelus are making such cool stuff or that folks my own age - like Nick Cave – boast catalogs of unreleased toss-asides that shame my best efforts. I’m just enjoying the music. And despite all common sense, there are weak blips of activity even here in loser’s alley.

I’m scheduled to do a couple of tunes at a benefit in October. 2 or 3 numbers. I hope it’s fun. I haven’t performed since an unpleasant Knitting Factory set about two years ago. Actually, there was another set the next day at a benefit for an ailing acquaintance, but that was too rotten to regard as anything more than a death rattle. Some friends I enjoy and admire are kindly accompanying. It’ll be a weirdly active interval, since I’m also attending Brian Wilson’s SMILE concerts and a Neil Innes gig around the same time. House hubby making the scene! Better eat my Wheaties.

In my mind, and on scraps of paper and tape… but mostly in my mind… there are two albums. Both would be relatively modest as far as number of tracks, but the conceit behind the plan calls for two distinct collections, made simultaneously. This should help prevent the eclecticism that was one of the hallmarks of my prior flops as well as providing plenty of busywork to keep me out of trouble. I got a Fender amp and a heap of drum breaks to help fashion these guaranteed solid sinkers, should time and metal energy ever permit (not to mention the seemingly impossible prospect of learning how to use the digital mini-studio my wonderful and optimistic wife got for me a few years ago). This time it’ll be pretty much just me. I can inflict my hobby on KRS and they may accept or reject, but I can’t ask real musicians to expend much effort anymore.

So here I am, back where I started. A rabid music fan who plays with tape recorders in his room.