Singing in my sleep

Last night in a dream, I sang “Thunder Road”, the song by Bruce Springsteen. I have no idea if I imagined myself singing it in my sleep-induced alternate reality or if I was regaling my dozing wife with an actual rendition (she didn't wake me up to shut me down, so I assume it's the former), but I awoke reminded anew of the stunning poetics of that song, a lyric sheet that contends for “Most American Song” in our nation's history.

The song is 33 years old now, but it's resonance is just as powerful today as it was when it was written, if not more so. “Screen door slams, Mary's dress waves,” Springsteen begins, “like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays, Roy Orbison singing for the lonely, Hey, that's me and I want you only, don't send me home again, I just can't face myself alone again.” Compared to other songwriters of his day, or of any day, Springsteen evoked a sense of the literary, that this was a story unfolding, not a mere pop-song confession, or worse, confection.

One can pick almost any line of that song and admire its grace and grit, and the sort-of-recent reissue of the album had music journalists across the world examining the lyric sheet like a cypher, so I'll refrain from a start-to-finish analysis. The line that stuck in my head as I lay in the dawn's early light was the odd romantic overture offered at the end of the first verse:

“...you ain't a beauty but hey, you're alright, and that's alright with me.”

Awwwww, isn't that sweet? Doesn't every young damsel dream of the day that her knight in chrome wheels will pull up to the door and profess, “Yeah, you'll do”?

Of course, the song's hero is no kinder to himself, proclaiming, “Now I'm no hero, that's understood, the only redemption I can offer, girl, is beneath this dirty hood.” And with that, the strength of the song is sealed and the unkindness of the blunt physical description is put in perspective---the only way to beat the game is to play the game, and it's not just beauty queens and hometown heroes who are allowed to take a seat at the table.

Again, it is a thoroughly American song, about throwing one's hat in the ring and pulling one's self up by the boot straps, a sentiment that serves as a precursor to the Outkast line that followed 23 years later, “I wanted a piece of the pie for me and my family, so I made it.” Thunder Road celebrates the self-confident spirit that has driven this nation, that the roads lead to the same places no matter who is behind the wheel and victory goes to those who stop dreaming and start driving.

It's a brilliant song, and if there's anyone out there who has never heard it, you are missing out on something special. (The entire album is a masterwork.)

Unfortunately, I'm not thinking about the song this morning so much as that single line---did I sing it aloud in my sleep? Did my wife hear my warbling croon and think, “Yeah, well you're no George Clooney either, pal”? If my wife is inexplicably moody this week, I think I'll know why. Goddam Bruce.

Reveling in the irony

The freelance advertising writing gig I've had for the last two months, writing headlines, ad copy, brochures and such for a wonderful firm full of wonderful people, turned into a full-time job last week,. Advertising is an industry that I have always wanted to explore (I love great ads, and I'm befuddled by bad ads) but never pushed to get my foot in the door---and suddenly this door opened and I was invited inside.

As I have considered career options (a seemingly endless consideration for a man who took jobs rather than pursuing a career), my wife and I wondered if getting paid to write was a good idea---when a beloved hobby is converted to work, will it become as tedious as the other tasks I have completed under the auspices of employment? Of course, I pondered that in the same way that 20th century Red Sox fans contemplated a World Series title: 86 years of losing makes heartbreak a part of one's soul---would being a winner cause inexplicable identity confusion? The favorite response to that question came from one hardened Sox fan who said, "Maybe so. But I'd sure like to test the theory."

So I'm testing the writing theory, and like the people of Boston, I think I'll make the transition just fine. With the work and the commute, I have much less time for blogs like this (penned during my lunch hour), but I'm going to be making the transition with a permanent smile on my face. I'm sure there are headaches on the horizon, but getting paid to spend the day being creative? That's as close to an ideal career as I can imagine: In the morning I go to the office, but it hardly feels like going to "work".

When my daughter Sage was born, I worried that I would have no time to write, but the reality didn't play out that way: Yes, I had less time, but writing time became a precious commodity, and I found myself using it more diligently---thus, my productivity actually improved. I'm hoping for a similar result with this change, though as my posting frequency shows, I'm still adjusting. (It seems ironic that my writing pace has been slowed because I spend so much more time writing now, but I like that irony.)

So life is good. I certainly wouldn't say I've won yet, but my personal Red Sox are finally in the series, and I'm swinging for the fences. (And hopefully, my personal Bill Buckner stays on the bench.)

Kvetch: Butt....Butt....

In the history of cigarettes, this decade is unlikely to be referred to as the Golden Age of Smoking: Prices rising at a rate exceeded only by gasoline; thetruth.com compiling disconcerting smoking factoids; governments banning smoking in public buildings and even how close you can be to the door when you're outside the building. Smokers hardly need any more lectures.

Too bad, here comes another one.

Actually, my beef isn't with smokers---many smokers are very conscientious about their consumption choice, and my only commentary on their smoking is hating the thought of any of my friends suffering from lung cancer or emphysema or some other condition that robs them of breath, literally and figuratively. But I have my vices, so I don't deny others theirs. (Though I do avoid some rock clubs due to the inevitable oxygen deprivation that comes with watching a show with 40 active puffers.)

No, my lecture is for litterers.

Along the curbs of Portland, concentrated around bus stops and coffee bars, I regularly see dozens, even scores of cigarette butts discarded in the street. These remnants are made of paper, synthetics, fiberglass, whatever it is they use to formulate the filter on cigarettes, and some smokers seem to think that tossing these butts is not littering. Tossing a candy wrapper on the ground is littering, so why is the same amount of material in cigabutt form not? This disconnect fascinates me. (Not in the way that octopuses fascinate me, but in the way that the bald-faced ambitions of some politicians fascinate me.) “They're biodegradable”, I have heard some butt-tossers inaccurately claim in their defense---they may decompose, but they're hardly biodegradable. Besides, is that a sufficient argument? Given enough time, everything will eventually decompose.

I think most of these smoker/litterers simply don't think about it---tossing a cigarette is tacitly tolerated by the general populace, and what else is a smoker supposed to do with the butt when they're standing on the sidewalk?

How about use an ashtray? I had a friend in Maine who carried a metal case about the size of a Pez dispenser to avoid tossing his butts on the ground, and I have several friends who simply hold onto them until they can dispose of them properly. Seeing them discarded in the street reminds me of a great MTV PSA from the 1980's: "When you throw something away, what exactly does 'away' mean?" In the case of these myriad bits of leftover Camels and Marlboros, “away” is apparently a distance between three and six feet.

If your one of these litterers, I'm hoping you might consider redefining “away” as something more than “away from me.”

Dog Stars

My relationship with my new dog (Lolly) is different than my relationship with my last dog (Boo Radley.) Lolly and I sat on the porch last night discussing this (I did most of the talking, she just listened intently, head cocked, scouring the language for phonics resembling "walk" and "treat") and pondering reasons: Is it a gender difference? (Lolly is female, Boo was a male.) Perhaps an ages-old breed distinction? (Lolly is Shepherd/Lab, Boo was Chow/Golden Retriever) Or is it simply that Lolly is an Aries and I'm a Libra?

I actually don't know if she's an Aries, since her adoption paperwork didn't include a birthday. But when you look up the traits for Aries, it sure sounds like Lolly: "assertive, energetic, intelligent, individualistic, independent, impulsive, full of strength, competitive, eager, headstrong, focused on the present and freedom-loving." (Anyone who has walked Lolly will attest to the accuracy of eager, headstrong, and freedom-loving, and likely has grass-stained knees as evidence.)

I'm no expert on Astrology (a comic understatement on a par with George W Bush saying, "I'm no expert at grammar") but I can't help but wonder if dogs are subject to the same astrologically-assumed behavior patterns of their so-called masters: Astrology has to do with the alignment of the planets and the arrangement of the stars (I imagine an astrologer would respond with exasperation, "The 'arrangement of the stars' never changes, dipshit") so why would it be any different for animals than it is for humans? Most dog owners will confirm that dogs are most certainly affected by full moons, so it stands to reason that they would also be influenced by Venus passing through Saturn's house. (Yes, exasperated astrologer, I know that was likely a Bushian mangle of terminology.) I've known Taurus dogs ("dependable, responsible, loyal, patient, placid, stable, affectionate, sometimes stubborn"), I've known Pisces dogs ("compassionate, empathetic, sensitive, easy-going, undiscriminating, sometimes distracted and lazy") and there has always been more to each of them than mere breed differences.

Frankly, I have always thought that breed differences in dogs are like skin color on humans: It makes a big difference if you want it to make a difference, but it's quite immaterial if you don't, and the only thing preventing a Poodle and a Basset Hound from being friends is the attitude of the dogs themselves, some predisposition against humorously bulbous tails or comically floppy ears.

I'm even more certain of that now: If the Poodle and the Basset opt to tussle, it's not a commentary on the proclivity for belligerence of either breed; it's more likely that the Poodle is a Leo and the Basset is a Scorpio. That's mixing fire and water, friends---of course they're not going to get along.