We all go through life with our own set of fears and insecurities.  Mine have always held me back from fully pursuing the things that I want most.  I trip over them time after time.  So many goals unachieved, not because I couldn’t to it, but because I was too scared to try.  Over the past year, I have spent a lot of time thinking about that and trying to figure out how to change it.

In November of last year, my brother Sean died.  He was thirty-nine and in good health, and yet he was felled by a heart attack one day while at work.  The doctors could offer no explanation.  In the cloud of trying to make sense of something I could never understand, I inevitably arrived at the only conclusion available.  A tired old axiom so horribly cliche that it has to be true.

Life is short.  Life is fragile.  It can end at any time.  Make the most of it.

In the months that followed I gave a lot of thought to that truism, and pondered whether I really was making the most of it.  To be honest - I didn’t really feel like I was.  This troubled me terribly.

During this period of angst and uncertainty, I was hit with another bombshell.  In February I received an e-mail from my old friend Josh, about a mutual friend of ours who is known by all of us as Super Dave.

If you don’t know - Super Dave Osborne was a comedian in the 80’s who’s act was a parody of Evil Kenevil.  He would set up these elaborate stunts, which would blow up in his face Wylie Coyote style.  Hilarity ensued.  My high school friends and I had a thing for giving each other silly nicknames.  I don’t recall why or when we started calling David Myers “Super Dave,” but the nickname has stayed with him to this day.

The news in Josh’s e-mail was awful. Super Dave had been diagnosed with stage four melanoma.  It had advanced to a point where they could do nothing for him, except prolong the inevitable.  The doctors gave him six to twelve months, and that was with treatment.  I was stunned.

I remember saying to myself, “Jesus Christ, are people I care about just gonna start dying?”

Little by little, details of Dave’s experience trickled in via Facebook.  He was undergoing the treatment so that he could have as much time as possible with friends and family.  I wondered if I would have had it in me to do the same thing.

I got to see Dave in August when I was back home for my high school reunion.  We met for coffee.  I confess to feeling a little uncomfortable.  What on Earth do you say to a man in that situation?

Months of treatment had left him weakened.  He needed crutches to get around.  His face was swollen.  But Dave was still Dave.  Same silly sense of humor.  Same quirks and curiosities.  Somehow he had maintained a positive attitude through all of this.

When I told him how much I admired that, he shrugged and said, “What else can I do?”

I saw him again a few weeks later in Las Vegas.  His doctor had given him the all-clear for a short getaway.  His trip just happened to coincide with mine.  I met him and the friends he was traveling with for dinner.  The restaurant on the top floor of the Rio.

He was in a wheelchair.  His movements were a bit shakier.  His voice slurred a bit more.  But he was still Dave.  Still unbroken.  He talked about playing poker and seeing the “Price is Right” show.  He was happy.

After dinner we spent a little time enjoying the view from the Rio’s rooftop bar.  As Dave sat in his wheelchair taking in the Vegas Strip in all its neon majesty, I realized this was the last time I would ever see him.  It was sad, but in an odd way, kind of sweet too.

The next day I sat with my journal, hoping to get some writing done.  I sipped a beer and stared at a blank page.  A song called “Grace Cathedral Hill” by the Decemberists was stuck in my head.  Everything I tried to write came out sounding like a rip off of that.

I got to thinking about Dave.  A man known as Super Dave hanging out in the city where Evil Kenevil did some of his most famous work.  Appropriate.

I pressed my pen to the blank page and wrote the word “Daredevil.”

Then came four lines of lyrics.  In my head, I sang them to a melody which sounded suspiciously similar to the chorus of “Grace Cathedral Hill.”  I turned the page and moved on to other things.

Weeks later I came back to the idea.  I decided that I didn’t want to write a song about Dave per se.  It was more about the lesson I was trying to learn from him.  The way he was handling this crisis inspired me to re-think the whole fear and insecurity issue.  In the face of cancer, Dave was doing whatever it took to enjoy his life.  Surely I could do the same in the face of my own psychological baggage.

The first verse sites one of my favorite metaphors.  Whenever I feel afraid to try something new, I get this image of myself standing on the high dive too scared to jump.

The second verse references a time when Sean visited me in Santa Monica.  He had taken a three month leave of absence from his job to do a cross-country motorcycle trip - a lifelong dream of his.  I really admired him for doing it.

The third verse is about that night on the top of the Rio, taking in the scenery with a guy called Super Dave.

My point here is not to mourn my brother, nor to prematurely eulogize my ailing friend.  This song is more a plea to myself to push past my fears and really live.  I can’t say that I’ve mastered that, but I’m working on it.  (Suggestions are welcome.)

Last I heard, Dave is still with us, but declining rapidly.  He is not expected to make it much longer.  I am told that even at this stage, he is maintaining good spirits.

The one-year anniversary of Sean’s passing lurks around the corner.  I wonder how I will feel on that day.  I would like to think that I will look back at a challenging year and feel that I have grown.  I hope it will not be a day to grieve, but a day to be grateful for lessons learned.

Thanks for reading.  I know this is a tough subject.  I would love to read any comments you’d care to leave.

Please click here to download the track if you haven't already.

- First and foremost, I cannot recommend “LOVE” strongly enough.  It is an amazing, jaw-dropping spectacle of music and dance.  Stunning visuals and breath-taking acrobatics.  Yes, the tickets are pricey, but it’s worth every penny.  Especially if you’re a Beatles fan, but even if you’re not...   you just gotta see this show.



- By the way, if you’re not a Beatles fan...   what the hell is wrong with you?

- As an addendum to my previous post about babies on airplanes, I would like to suggest that children should not be allowed in Las Vegas.  Ever.  Trust me, it’s better for them, it’s better for the grown ups.

- It only takes a day or two for me to become accustomed to a rental car and a hotel shower.  So much so that when I come home, the handling of my own car feels weird to me, and I am briefly confused by how to turn my own shower on and off.  It’s weird.



- Ladies, If you’re gonna wear those dresses, then we’re gonna stare at your boobs.  That’s Just the way it goes.  If you don’t like it, where something else.



- I was sitting at a red light and I actually saw an Elvis sitting in a van.  Awesome!



- Why can’t Southwest just give me a damn seat assignment?  How could that system possibly benefit them?  I don’t see how it could save them money or make them more efficient or accomplish anything other than annoying the crap out of their customers.  Am I missing something here?

- Seriously, they should set up check points at the city limits, like the ones they have in California for out-of-state produce.  If you have kids in the car, you have to leave them at the check point or you can’t come in.

- I’m a big fan of Top Chef.  I had to DVR last week’s season premiere, since I was out of town.  I just watched it.  It’s in Las Vegas this year.  The chefs are cooking at M Resort, where I gambled, and shopping at a Whole Foods that I walked through.  Why does that make me feel...   I don’t know...   special somehow?

- There’s always some jackass who wants to split tens.

- Do breast implants come with the cocktail waitress’ outfits or do they have to supply their own?

- When I was in college, the trend was theme-oriented hotel/casinos like Excaliber, Luxor, and Treasure Island.  Later, the trend became upscale luxurious places like Bellagio, the Venetian, and the Wynn.  The current, less talked-about trend is to build quiet resorts far away from the Strip like M Resort and Green Valley Ranch.  These are toned-down experiences that cater to locals and people who want to get away from it all.  I’ve been to a few of them.  They’re nice - very clean, very elegant.  But somehow, I don’t find them satisfying.  God help me, I actually miss the cheesiness of the Strip.

- Okay, okay, we’ll put one of those rooms with the colorful plastic balls at the check point, so the kids will have something to do while Mom and Dad squander their college fund on keno.  Happy?



My recent trip to Vegas yielded what is by far my biggest payoff ever at the casinos.  The way it all went down was so absurd, I can’t help but see it as kind of a joke.

I was in Las Vegas for my annual fantasy football draft.  I have been in a league with some friends from Los Angeles for several years.  We like to use the draft as an excuse to get together in Las Vegas and have a few laughs.

I arrived in on Wednesday.  One of the guys in the league - John - has a timeshare deal at a resort south of the strip, which he used to get us a great deal on a room.  The draft wasn’t until Saturday and most of the guys weren’t arriving until Friday.  John had the room for the whole week though, so I figured - why not go early and enjoy a nice long stay?  John and his brother Dave were already there.

By a lucky coincidence, some old friends of mine from Virginia were in town as well, so I met them at the Rio for dinner.  After that, I had a seat at a video poker bar and inserted twenty bucks.  By the time I finished the beer I was drinking, I was up $13.75 and decided that would be a fine time to walk away.

Back at the room, I joked that I had taken the Rio for everything they had.  (“Don’t bother going to the Rio this weekend boys, cause they’re all outta money!”)

On Thursday afternoon I went over to the Hard Rock, which has long been my favorite casino and just a cool place to hang out.  I played a little blackjack and walked away $25 richer, bringing the total to $38.75 for the week so far.  So now the joke became that I was taking down Vegas’ casinos one by one.  (“I hope word doesn’t get around or none of these places will let me in the door!”)

On Thursday night, John, Dave, and I went to see LOVE (the Beatles/Cirque du Soleil show) at the Mirage.  We had a little time to kill before the show, so John and I played Let It Ride, which is a poke derivation.  John and the dealer had to (very patiently) explain the rules to me a few times, but I eventually got the hang of it. 

Initially, I was losing money on every hand, and I couldn’t quite understand why John liked this game so much.  Then I hit a run of great hands that ended up netting $115 for me.  Obviously, that’s a bigger number, but the joking around continued.  (“Three in a row!  Brian’s taking down Vegas one casino at a time!”)  That brought the total to $153.75 for the week.

After the show, John and Dave went back to the resort, but I was in the mood to stay out a while.  I had a craving for one of those cold slushy drinks with lots of rum in them.  I remembered that they had those right next door at Treasure Island.

With a delicious strawberry daiquiri / piña colada mixture in my hand (oh yeah, I went for the mix), I wandered into TI’s casino and had a seat at a blackjack table.  At first the dealer made me nervous, because she was a little slow.  Not slow as in dumb, I mean she dealt the cards very slowly.  She would deal three cards, then pause to chat with us, then deal a few more and pause again.  It was kind of annoying at first.  It got less and less annoying as I kept winning.

Eventually a couple of drunken frat boy types muscled their way onto the table.  (Vegas is always lousy with drunken frat boy types.)  They were being kind of obnoxious, so I took that as my signal to leave...   with another $90 in my pocket.  The running total was now $243.75, for those of you keeping score.  The sarcastic bravado escalated.  (“Hey Las Vegas, how does it feel to be Brian’s bitch?”)

I spent most of Friday relaxing at the resort.  More members of our little gang arrived later in the day.  My friend Laurie, who lives and works in Las Vegas, told me about a new place south of the Strip called M Resort.  She recommended their buffet.  So we all headed to M Resort to indulge in a food-coma-inducing dinner.

After eating, a few of us cozied up to a craps table, where I added another $17 to my winnings.  By that point, Laurie showed up.  The two us did a little catching up over a couple of drinks at the poolside bar, while the rest of the guys did...   I don’t know, whatever it is they decided to do.

On our way back through the casino, Laurie stopped to put $20 in a penny slot machine.  I have to tell you that I don’t like slot machines.  They’re boring.  You push a button and you watch some wheels spin.  Big whoop.  I need to feel like I am participating in the game somehow or I lose interest.  Same thing with roulette or keno.  Where’s the fun in sitting there waiting to see which number comes up?  Boring.

And these penny machines are even more worse, because I don’t understand them.  Instead of the traditional rollers, they have digital screens with computerized images and multiple lines that are hard to follow, and even when I win something I have no idea why I won.

But I figured what the hell, I’ll play some penny slots.  To me it was really just a means to keep the conversation going.  I put twenty bucks in the machine next to Laurie’s and continued to shoot the breeze with her, barely paying attention to the buttons I was pressing, and steadily losing money in tiny increments.  Suddenly, my machine made a lot of noise.  The “Total Credits” counter raced upwards.  Apparently I had hit something sorta big (again, I have no idea what), because now I was up $24.76.

“I’m done,” I declared and printed out my ticket.  That, plus the $17 from earlier brought the total to $285.51 for the week.  This was beginning to feel less like a joke.  Winning money in little dribs and drabs was adding up to something substantial.

Most of Saturday was eaten up by the fantasy football draft.  I’ll spare you the details.  That evening, we went back to M Resort, because they had $5 craps tables.  We weren’t going to find that on the Strip on a Saturday night.

Don, Jake, and I set up shop at one end of a table...   and folks, lemme tell ya...   we went on a tear.  I mean, we had the sort of craps game people dream of.  We rocked.  With the help of my friends and the other fine people at the table, I racked up another $251.

Let me say that again. 

$251. 

For one round of craps. 

Sweet.

The joke was no longer a joke. I was on a serious hot streak that had now reached $536.51 for the week.  Sweet.

The three of us decided to head on up to the Mirage.  Don and Jake wanted to see the Revolution Lounge, a Beatles themed bar outside the LOVE theater.  We went in separate cars and I got there first.  While waiting for them, I decided - what the hell - to have another run at the very same Let It Ride table that had been so lucky for me the other night.

Oh my, was that a mistake.  Within ten minutes, I lost $50.

Oh no!  The miraculous streak was finally over!  Oh, how foolish I was not to quit while I was ahead!  Why did I have to be so greedy?  Did I really think the odds would never catch up to me?

I hung my head in shame and sulked over to the Revolution Lounge to drown my sorrows in a round of overpriced drinks with my sympathetic friends...

...after which I sat down at a black jack table and won back $25 of what I had lost.  Heh heh.

On Sunday morning we all had to get back to our lives.  Don, Jake, Ted, and I chose to wrap up the weekend at Mandalay Bay’s Sunday brunch buffet.  After that, Don had to catch his flight back to San Francisco.  Jake and Ted had to make the long drive back to LA.

I had two hours to kill before I had to head to the airport for my flight back to Portland, so I strolled over to the Luxor, where the “what the hell” philosophy took over once again.  And yielded me another $20 at a blackjack table.

So my $50 loss got pared down to a $5 loss, and I went to the airport having lifted a total of $531.51 from the various gaming facilities of Sin City.

I must admit that I was tempted to try and jack the total up even higher (they have slot machines at the airport for God’s sake), but decided it was time to leave well enough alone.  After all, the key to coming out on top is knowing when to walk away.  And there were other sorts of games waiting for me back at home.

I have a few of my well-known “Random Thoughts and Observations” to share about Vegas, this trip, and travel in general.  I will share those in the next post.

I am typing this at 30,000 feet, with Las Vegas in my rear-view and Portland in the ever-decreasing distance.  (Man, I love having a laptop!)  I am returning from a trip that centered around the annual fantasy football draft that I participate in with some old friends from LA.

There was some sort of weather issue that slowed down the pace at which aircraft could take off from McCarran Airport. The result was a long line of planes waiting to get off the ground.  During the forty-five minutes that we spent sitting on the taxi way, I had a nice view of the Las Vegas Strip out the window.

This glistening monument to excess.  This grotesque display of American arrogance.  This gathering of edifices built upon greed and adorned in thick garishness.

Why do I love it so much?

Las Vegas is like a smooth-talking huckster who bilks you out of your last dollar, and somehow makes you love him for doing it.  I’m an intelligent man - I know that the whole town is one big con game, even the parts that don’t involve gambling.  Yet the con is so slick and entertaining that I always want to come back for more. 

I first visited Las Vegas when I was in college and have been back many times since.  Back then, for a bunch of poor theater students, the strategy was simply to hold out.  When you could only afford to lose $40, you had to make it last.  That meant making the smallest, safest bets at the slowest-paced games, all the while praying for the miraculous big payoff we all knew wasn’t coming.

Eight to ten of us would cram into the cheapest hotel room we could find and eat the cheapest food (if you can call it that) we could find, all so we would have more money for gambling.  Every precious dime we could take to the casino represented one more shot at that elusive jackpot.

It was stressful and a little depressing.  I have no idea why we kept doing it.

At some point my friends and I all reached a point in our lives where we actually had decent jobs, and therefore a little bit of money to spend.  Suddenly, trips to Vegas became more like actual vacations, rather than Quixote-like journeys through the dessert in search of buried treasure.  We even discovered (much to our surprise) that there are lot of fun things to do in Las Vegas that have nothing to do with gambling.

Still budget-minded of course, but we’d dine at the occasional nice restaurant, hang out in the odd trendy night club, and even spring for a non-circus-themed hotel room that didn’t reek of ammonia.

And the gambling actually became fun.  Strange that when you care a little less about winning, you actually seem to win more often.  Funny how dropping $30 at the blackjack table stops feeling like the end of the world when you know where your next paycheck is coming from.

Over the course of my life I’ve had trips to Vegas where I won a little money, trips where I lost a little money, trips where I broke even.  Never a huge payout, but never a devastating loss either.  I don’t risk enough for either to be a possibility.  On the whole, Vegas and I are probably just about even.  I think.

But of course, breaking even is not good enough.  We all want to beat the huckster at his own game, don’t we?  And so, year after year, I return to this oasis of opulence to drink.  To try, one more time, to beat the house.

Which I sort of did this time.  Those of you who are my Facebook friends may have seen my recent status updates in which I boasted of my winnings.  Some have asked about the particulars of this little “hot streak” of mine, so I will tell the tale in my next entry.  Stay tuned.

A couple of weeks ago, I posted a blog about The Decemberists’ concert I saw at Edgefield.  I neglected to mention that at that show, I won a pair of tickets to see The Fray.  I just got home from that, and I feel obliged to post about it as well.

I will reiterate my stance from The Decemberists post - this is NOT a review.  I am merely sharing some observations about the experience.  Having seen two shows at the same venue so close together, I was struck by the differences in the experiences.

I like The Fray, but I wouldn’t say they’re one of my favorites.  I think they’re a solid band, with a cool sound, and they’ve got a few songs that I like a lot.  I’m just not nuts about them though, ya know?  I was thrilled to win the tickets, but I doubt that I would have paid to see them.

I left the show feeling pretty much the same way about them as I did when I walked in. They sounded great and I enjoyed their set, but they didn’t exactly blow me away.  I had a good time, but they didn’t do anything to make me move them from the “like ‘em” column to the “love ‘em” column.

I attended this concert with my friend Angie Kopshy, who is a much bigger fan than I am.  A fellow veteran of the now-defunct 9 Muses open mic night, Angie was the first friend I ever made in Portland.  She’s a great musician in her own right and you should check her out on MySpace.  Angie was a great companion for this concert and we had a lot of fun together.

Anyway, let the random observations begin...

- When I haven’t eaten, it only takes one beer to make me pretty loopy.  So after finishing that first beer, I had a cheeseburger.  Seven bucks is pretty steep for a cheeseburger, but trust me - it was necessary.

- The first opening act was a band called Vedera.  They were actually my favorite part of the evening.  I love discovering new bands!

- The second opening act was called Jack’s Mannequin, who was clearly very popular with the crowd, but I still liked Vedera better.  I admit that I may be biased by two things.  (1) Vedera’s lead singer was a cute girl and (2) throughout Jack Mannequin’s set there were two teenage fan boys screaming in my ear.  That aside, I honestly liked Vedera better.

- A note to the lead singer of Jack’s Mannequin - just because you play the piano does not mean you are Tori Amos.  Or Chris Martin.  Or Billy Joel. Or Jerry Lee Lewis.  Please stop stealing their schtick.

- I promise this is the last time I’ll make fun of Jack’s Mannequin, but their guitarist and bassist both played instruments that looked like they were ordered from The Sharper Image catalog.  They were shiny and plastic-looking with squared-off headstocks.  They looked like the type of axes corporate execs put in their offices to make themselves look cool.  Weird choice for such a young band.

- At the front of the stage were three security guards. Two big burly guys and one very pretty young woman.  A cute girl who’s tough enough that they trust her to guard the stage?  Nice!

- It’s general admission.  If you want to be up close to the stage, that’s cool, but it means you have to get there early.  If you don’t want to get there early, that’s cool too, but it means you have to settle for a spot further back.  That’s just the way it works.  Please do not assume that you can muscle your way up to the front - past all those people who did show up early - when the show starts. That ain’t cool.

- The crowd for this show wasn’t nearly as hospitable as the one at The Decemberists.  There was a lot more pushing and shoving and people just being generally rude.  Angie and I were both pretty annoyed by that.

- Watching people jockey for position at what can only be described as a “Pavilion of Port-a-Potties” is one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen.

- Isaac Slade is one seriously white dude.  The guy practically glows, he’s so white.

- Until tonight, I did not realize that Joe King sings lead on “Ungodly Hour.”  His voice is surprisingly similar to Isaac’s.  What are the odds that two guys with that voice would end up in the same band?

- The Fray brought one seriously cool light show with them.  I didn’t expect that sort of thing to work at this venue, but it really did.

- There is such a thing as too loud.  I know, a rock concert is supposed to be loud, and I’m down with that, but if you crank the mains up too high, the mix goes right out the window.  I want to hear each of the instruments clearly.  I want to hear the vocals clearly.  The trick is to get the volume loud enough to be fun, but not so loud that the musicians’ performances get lost in a mess of distortion.  Some sound engineers get this concept, some don’t.  The guy running the board tonight doesn’t get it.

- I have no idea how we managed to get out of that parking lot so quickly.  At the last show, it took me half an hour.  Tonight we zipped right out.

- The camera on my phone still sucks.

I was taking a red-eye flight from Portland to New York, where I would connect to Washington DC.  To avoid any legal issues, I won’t say the name of the airline.  Let’s just say it rhymes with “Pet Glue.”

It was my intention to sleep.  A somewhat naive intention, given that I’ve never really been able to sleep on planes.  This time around I was determined to make it happen.  No watching the TV service that Pet Glue is famous for.  No drink. No snack. Just sleep.

I had a few things on my side.  I hadn’t had much sleep the night before and I’d had a busy day, so I was tired.  I took a melatonin just before boarding. 

Also, Pet Glue makes a big deal of handing out “Snooze Kits” on their red-eye flights.  This is just a small pouch containing a blindfold and a pair of little glue - er - blue earplugs.  I figured this would come in handy, but it turned out to be useless.  The earplugs didn’t block out much in the way of noise and the blindfold was uncomfortable, which actually made it harder to get to sleep.

But there was a larger problem standing in the way of my good night’s sleep.

Babies.

There was a baby in the row behind me  Their was a baby in the row in front of me.  There were babies scattered throughout the cabin so as to make it seem more like a maternity ward than an airplane.

Now, I got nothing against babies. I like babies.  Hell, I used to be a baby.  But on a four-and-a-half hour transcontinental flight, they can be a nightmare.  Let’s face it, it only takes one screaming baby to ruin a flight, and we had a whole bunch of potential hell raisers on board.

These kids didn’t scream continuously throughout the flight.  No no, the were much craftier than that.  They seemed to have a well-crafted and carefully coordinated strategy.  For most of the flight they were all quiet.  But just when I was drifting off, one of them would start wailing like Charlie Parker.  Just for a minute.  Just long enough to make sure I was really awake.

So in the end, there I was - watching the TV with a drink and a snack, and wondering why babies can’t travel like pets. Strap them into their car seats and toss them in the cargo compartment.  Pipe in some music by The Wiggles and they’ll be fine.

Okay, now that I’m off the plane it doesn’t sound like such a great idea.

Tonight I went to see the Decemberists out at Edgefield.  I would like to categorically state that the following piece of writing is NOT a review.  That would make me a critic, and I hate critics.  Besides, reviews are boring.  I do however enjoy sharing my random little observations about such things, as some of you know from those lengthy vacation blogs I’ve written in the past.  Since I ain’t been on vacation in a while, I may as well share my musings about an interesting evening out.

For the benefit of my non-Oregonian friends, I should explain that Edgefield is a hotel/spa in a little town called Troutdale, which is about thirty minutes east of Portland.  There’s a grand old manor house (which is the hotel), and several smaller buildings about the grounds (restaurants and spa facilities), all in a style of architecture which my limited knowledge of such things assumes to be late 19th or early 20th century.  I was told by someone in the audience tonight that the place was originally an insane asylum.  Now it’s a picturesque resort.  Edgefield is owned and run by a company called McMenamins, which owns several old hotels around Oregon, as well as a number of nightclubs and restaurants in Portland.

Anyway, Edgefield has this big lawn where they do concerts during the summer.   It’s sort of an amphitheater, with a big stage facing a hillside.  All general admission - just come on in and grab a spot on the lawn.  This was both my first time seeing The Decemberists live, and my first show at Edgefield.  I had no idea what to expect from either experience, but was pretty excited.

The website said the show would start at 6 pm, which struck me as early, but I took their word for it.  It also said that parking was limited and recommended arriving early.  I took their word on that point as well.  I got there around 4:50 and cars were already pouring into the parking lot. 

When I saw how many people had already arrived, I worried that I wouldn’t be able to get a good spot on the lawn, but that worked out okay.  For some reason the early-comers were all staking out spots on the hill, up and away from the stage.  Not too many people had gathered up close to the stage yet, which was where I wanted to be.  I found an unclaimed patch of turf about ten feet from downstage-center, tossed my blanket on the ground, and had a seat.

As we all waited for the music to start, I made friendly with the folks sitting next to me.  They very nicely minded my spot when I went to get a beer.  By the time the show started, the stage area was much more crowded and we were all on our feet.  Everyone I encountered was very nice and respectful of each other though.  More evidence that not every town in America is like LA. 

The show was fantastic - but this ain’t no review, so let’s just move on to the random thoughts and observations...

- It was hot today.  Damn hot.  I put on sunscreen before leaving the house, but during the first fifteen minutes of sitting on the lawn, it felt like I was sweating it all off. I was certain that I would fry.  But it turns out I didn’t pick up any color at all, so I guess that stuff really works.

- Ice cream is awesome on days like today, and you don’t even need to be hungry.


- The first opening act was a local band called Blind Pilot.  (They did, indeed, start at 6 pm.)  I had heard of them, but this was my first time seeing them.  They only did thirty minutes, which really wasn’t enough, but I liked them enough to want to see them again.


- The second opening act was Andrew Bird, who I’d never heard of.  My friends at Buffalo Gap who are into the whole “Loop-Ninja” thing should really check this guy out next time he’s in town.  He has a four-piece band.  The bassist and guitarist do pretty much what you’d expect.  Then he’s got a guy who goes back and forth between drums and keyboard.  Andrew himself trades off between guitar and violin, while also singing and whistling.  Andrew and this drummer/keyboardist guy use loop pedals to create layer upon layer of sound within each song.  All very intricate, but they made it look easy.  Would’ve confused the hell out of me.

- I met a woman named Peggy.  She was playing the role of “cool aunt” by taking her niece and her niece’s friend to their first concert.  Peggy is the first person I’ve ever met with whom I could have an informed conversation about Joseph Arthur’s contributions to Peter Gabriel’s “Big Blue Ball” album.  Though to be fair, it’s not like I’ve ever asked anyone else.


- “The Hazards of Love” works great as a live piece.  I’m glad they played the whole thing from beginning to end.  It’s really the only way to do it.


- Shara Worden is the hot girl that you just wanna nail.  Becky Stark is the nice girl that you can take home to Mom.  Jenny Conlee is the girl you can count on; the one you hope sticks around.


- I’ve always felt that you can’t really tell how good a drummer is until you’ve heard him play live.  More so than with any other instrument.  I can now say that John Moen is pretty damn good.

- Colin Meloy may be to this decade what David Byrne was to the 80’s.  The guy who becomes a rock star, not in spite of being a nerdy intellectual, but because of it.  Except where Byrne was a science & technology nerd, Meloy is a history & literature nerd.  Both appropriate to their respective decades.
  And their respective cities.

- The camera on my phone sucks.

- I wonder why Chris Funk spent so much time with his back to the audience.

- Nate Query looked at little pissed at the top of the show, but his expression got progressively happier as the night went on.  I wonder what that was about.

- I was surprised by how young the crowd was.  For some reason, I’ve always assumed that The Decemberists would mostly appeal to thirty-something wanna-be intellectual types like me.  But the teenagers were out in force and they were diggin’ it.  Makes me feel kinda good about that generation.


- I bought a t-shirt.  I’m wearing it right now.  The pretty girl behind the counter convinced me that it would fit me perfectly.  (Pretty girls behind counters can usually convince me of damn-near anything.)  It’s actually a little too tight.  And it’s cotton, so it’ll shrink.  One more motive for me to lose weight.  It’s a really nice shirt.


Thank you America.

Thank you for getting this right.  Thank you for choosing smart, reasoned, and articulate over divisive, reactionary, and condescending.  For choosing honorable over unscrupulous.  Leadership over political pandering.  Thank you for embracing hope and rejecting fear.

Over the last eight years I had come to fear that the country I loved was slipping away.  That American government had been overrun by the corrupt, the cynical, and the incompetent.  That we might never be able wrest it back from their greedy hands.  Worse than that, it seemed that many Americans had simply accepted this state of affairs, unable or unwilling to do anything about it.

Yesterday we proved, as we have so many times in our glorious history, that we can come together and do the right thing when it matters most.  Yesterday my country restored my faith in her.  I have never been more proud to be an American than I am right now.  And for the first time in a long while - I have hope.

I am under no false illusions about the years ahead.  The challenges we face are daunting and there is much work to be done.  I know that our newly elected President is not some messianic savior.  I know that he cannot possibly fix everything all by himself.  I have consumed no artificially fruit-flavored beverages.  His election is merely a small, but important, first step toward putting our nation back on the right track. 

This election was not about a candidate.  It was about we who voted for him.  We did not flinch in the face of history.  We chose the right leader at the right time with the right set of skills to handle the challenges facing our nation.  We gave ourselves a fighting chance.  We deserve to be proud of that.

One more thing.  In recent years I have written quite a few angry political songs.  It occurs to me that I may now lose a very powerful source of artistic inspiration.  Thank you America, for making my job so much harder.

You know something?  I’m good.  Seriously, I’m pretty damn good.  I don’t say this to be arrogant.  In fact no one is more surprised than me.

Back in February, I played my first open mic since moving to Portland.  Prior to that night, I hadn’t performed in public (at least not very often) in years.  I had become so sick of the LA music scene, that I just wasn’t interested in playing out anymore.  So when I ventured timidly onto the stage for my first Portland performance, I did so assuming that I would suck.  Not putting myself down - I’m just saying I was out of practice and I expected myself to suck.

But I didn’t suck.  And as I’ve been playing more and more shows over the last six months, I keep surprising myself on stage.  I swear to you, I was never this good in Los Angeles.  My voice sounds better than ever.  My guitar playing is better than ever.  I feel more relaxed and confident than I ever thought possible.

This is not to say that I am flawless.  I do make mistakes.  I sometimes give a weak performance.  But somehow I’ve gotten so much better at handling it.  In the past I would have panicked or tensed up, and made things worse.  Now when a song is not going well, I seem to be able to relax and work my way through it.  So it’s like I’ve even gotten better at screwing up, you know?

I don’t know where the hell this came from or why it happened so suddenly.   I haven’t gone through any new training.  I don’t practice differently or more often than I used to.  Maybe it has something to do with the change of city.  Maybe all those years of not performing benefitted me in some way.  I don’t know, but I like it.

So please believe me when I say that I am not bragging here.  I’m just saying that I seem to be sounding pretty good lately.  And that feels good.

Last week a big white tent appeared in the vacant lot just down the street from my apartment building.  In time the tent was filled with colorful boxes containing fireworks.  Apparently, Washington is one of those states where you can buy fireworks during the week leading up to the Fourth of July.

This is a new experience for me.  The only other two states that I have ever lived in - Virginia and California - did not allow fireworks, other than the very tame sparkler varieties.  For the last few nights, the sound of low-yield munitions popping and crackling has filled the air in my neighborhood.  (Of course, you can also hear those sounds on any night in Los Angeles, fireworks or not.)

I enjoy firework displays.  I mean the big spectacular shows that most communities do on the Fourth.  I get all wide-eyed as a stand there - oohing and aahing - like a big dumb kid.

I’ve seen some great ones too.  In Boston one year.  Washington DC another.  Even quiet little El Segundo, CA (where I lived for seven years) had one of the best I’ve ever seen.  There’s a big park here in Vancouver that supposedly has the best in the area.  I’ll probably head over and check it on Friday night.

But I have to say that I don’t get the appeal of these smaller, personal-use fireworks.  Even as a kid, I never understood all the fuss.  They don’t put on much of a show - just a loud bang and some smoke.  Those Roman candle style things that shoot colored sparks into the air are kind of nice I guess, but even those get boring after awhile.  I guess I just need more showmanship from my explosives.

In any case, it is heartening to know that once a year, we celebrate our nation’s birth by doing three things that Americans have always done very well:  drinking beer, eating fatty foods, and blowing things up.

Seriously though folks, have a great Independence Day.  Be happy.  Be safe.  Be free.