Leaving the Shire

Not long ago, I received a letter from the City of Sonoma, informing me that my license to operate a rickshaw business had expired. This came as something of a surprise, as I wasn't aware that I had a rickshaw business.



I assumed they had the wrong address, or perhaps the previous tenant had tried (and failed) to make a living in rickshaws. But over the last few weeks, I haven't been able to get it out of my mind. There was no contact name listed for the company, just "Sonoma Valley Rickshaw Tours." So maybe I am the president and CEO and I just never realized it until now. Could that have happened when I wasn't paying attention?

KEEP ON READIN', IT DON'T COST NUTHIN'

It also occurred to me that I might be receiving mail from a parallel universe. Which led me to wonder, which me is happier, the me that writes for a living or the me that shuttles tourists around Sonoma all day in a two-wheeled cart? The parallel universe me probably isn't very intellectually stimulated, but I bet he has calf muscles that look like Popeye's forearms.

Have you ever had those moments when you catch a glimpse of what your life might've been, and you start thinking about whether the decisions you've made over the last year - hell, over the last 24 hours - were correct and true? What if I've just been too lazy to recognize my destiny when it's so glaringly obvious to everybody else, even the local government? Mick Jagger gave up a lucrative accounting career to join the Rolling Stones, which in hindsight was a pretty good call. But I'm not so certain of my own choices. Maybe I was put on this planet to be the Mick Jagger of rickshaws and I'm just wasting my potential.

It reminds me of that too-quoted Robert Frost poem: "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I took the one less traveled by." I never thought about it until now, but I honestly can't say I took the road less traveled by. I enjoy being a writer, but it's hardly original. Go to any social gathering and announce that you're a writer and you'll be lucky to get an indifferent shrug. You're not a unique snowflake. Nobody is gonna stare at you with slack-jawed amazement like you're Joseph Merrick. You might as well tell them you're the drummer in an unsigned emo band. It's not like saying, "Me? Oh, I'm in the rickshaw business. Anybody feel like taking a ride?"



These thoughts have been heavy on my mind lately, mostly because I'll be leaving Sonoma soon. Not just Sonoma, but all of California. I've decided to flee the West Coast, at least temporarily, and try my luck along the coast of a different ocean. This news came as no surprise to my Sonoma friends, who have repeatedly accused me of being a "flight risk," even long before I announced plans to skip town like a hitchhiking Bill Bixby.

But I'm not leaving because of my terminally short attention span. This time, it boils down to economics. California is fucking expensive. And in my old age, struggling to pay the bills just doesn't have the same romance it once did. I want things to be easy for once. I want to live someplace that, while it may not have the hipster cred of California, allows me the financial freedom to be selective, and write only what I want to write rather than what's necessary to afford my obscenely steep rent. It's struck me lately that I've been forking over an awful lot of money to live in a desirable zip code, despite the fact that I hardly ever leave the house. When you spend all of your time in front of a computer, does it really matter if you're conveniently located near a vibrant nightlife scene?

So I'm packing up my meager belongings and moving to a beach community that has been repeatedly described to me as "sleepy". I'm going to become one of those old farts who walks barefoot on the beach every morning, throws a frisbee to his dog until noon and then works on his novel until dusk. I may grow bored of such sedentary pleasures after a few months, but I'm going to give it a go anyway. Because at some point in your life, you gotta do something impulsive and stupid. You gotta find that envelope of money buried under the black rock next to the oak tree and go join your convict buddy in Zihuatanejo.

I don't mean that literally, of course. Wrong ocean, for one thing. But I hope the Atlantic is as blue as it has been in my dreams. I hope.

I know it's not going to be easy. And this is coming from a guy who's moved at least once every year for the past decade. One does not leave Sonoma without regret, and more than a little apprehension. It's not just sentimentality. It's out-and-out fear. A friend of mine named Ryan Lely summed it up perfectly. During a business trip that took him out of town, he compared the emotions involved in leaving Sonoma, even for a short period, with "Hobbits leaving the Shire." I've never heard a more apt description of what it's like to call this place home. When you're in Sonoma, it's a never-ending party. There's drinking and smoking and constant revelry. And it comes with an unspoken assurance that you're protected from the outside world. Venture too far away and you could be hunted by Black Riders and Orcs and any sort of mythological creature. But in the Shire, you're safe. Nothing can touch you here.

I've felt that every time I've left Sonoma, even if it's just for an afternoon in San Francisco. When I return, it's like gasping for air. I need a big mug of ale at the Prancing Pony with Frodo and Sam before I start to feel normal again. So I have no reason to believe it's going to be any different when I try to leave for good. I know there'll be at least a small part of me that thinks, "Okay, I'm just gonna drop the ring in Mount Doom and then I can come home again." You can't ever really forget the Shire. You know there'll always be a lantern burning in the front window of your smial, calling you back when you finally tell Gandalf to take his Fellowship and shove it up his wrinkled bunghole.



There's a lot I'm going to miss about this place. I'm going to miss being able to walk down to the local bar and share a beer with a Mark Twain impersonator. I'm going to miss the homeless dude who walks by my house with his grocery cart every morning at exactly 8:20am, and the rooster down the block who always misses his wake-up crow at dawn and doesn't get a start on the day until at least noon. I'm going to miss the Mexican family next door that celebrates everything - even a holiday like "Tuesday" - with a mariachi band. I'm going to miss the doctor who gets so drunk after work that he'll openly discuss the symptoms of his patients. ("Buy the next round and I'll tell you about Mrs. Henderson's rash. I swear it looks just like a Rorschach inkblot.") I'm going to miss being able to ask anybody, "Can I interest you in some abortion and gay marriage?" and know that their answer will be, "Yes, please." I'm going to miss getting in the car for a spontaneous afternoon of wine tasting, and stumbling onto a winery populated with dozen of cats, some of whom enjoy plunking their paws into the free samples of olive oil, or a Jewish vintner who isn't shy about telling the Christian tourists that his wine "tastes better than the blood of Christ." I'm going to miss the random crazies, like the film festival producer who drunk-dials her employees and hasn't figured out that her husband is flamingly gay (and, as he once loudly admitted at a holiday party, a "bottom"), and the wild-eyed woman I met stumbling through the park who warned me that teenagers were injecting smallpox into the soil with their dirty, dirty hypodermic needles. I'm going to miss the lion hysteria and the swingers and of course the sherpas. Well, I won't miss the sherpas so much. For those of you who've decided to stay, don't say you haven't been warned. Those sneaky bastards are gonna take over. Mark my words!

Above all, I'm going to miss my rickshaw business, which last I heard has fallen by the wayside. I'm not going to lie and claim I haven't been tempted. How difficult would it be to go down to City Hall and renew my rickshaw license? Sign a few forms and pay a small deposit and I could have a completely different life. But then I remember a family vacation to St. Maarten a few years ago, and how I became so enamored with the tropical island paradise that I seriously considered staying and opening my own beachside bar. In my sun-drenched stupor, it seemed like such a perfect idea. But had I actually followed through on this hare-brained scheme, I'm sure it wouldn't have lived up to my expectations. One morning I'd stumble to work at my bamboo hut near the cruise ship dock, where I sell mojitos to fat American tourists, and I'd have the inevitable haunting epiphany. "Oh sweet Moses," I'd mutter, the panic washing over me like a stroke. "I've made a terrible, terrible mistake." Running a Caribbean bar, like owning a rickshaw business, is one of those things that seems really cool in your fantasies, but in reality, not so much.

I probably won't be blogging again until early October. I need to spend the next week saying my goodbyes to the Hobbits... er, I mean friends. Everyone I've so much as met in passing wants some face-to-face time before I blow the coop. And it seems there's at least one "surprise" going-away party planned, which I wouldn't know about were it not for the people walking up to me on the street and asking, "So how do I get invited to your surprise going-away party?" After posting this, I fully expect to be drunk for the entire week. And the Shire jokes will likely be coming fast and furious. I've already had several friends say to me, in their best Boromir impression: "You carry the fate of us all, little one. If this is indeed the will of the Council, then Gondor will see it done." I don't know if this means that I'm not the only one who sees the obvious similarities between Sonoma and the Shire, or just that my friends are bigger nerds than I ever suspected.

After that, I'll be driving across the country. I want to see everything, because I don't know when I'll get this chance again. From ocean to ocean, it shouldn't take more than three days. But I intend to take my time. Apparently there's a really big hole in the northwest corner of Arizona that I should check out. And I'd like to see New Orleans again before it's finally washed away by an angry god. If I see or do anything worth writing about, you'll be the first to know. But don't be alarmed by my radio silence. I promise I'll be back at some point in early October, and we'll pick up where we left off.

I get the feeling that it's going to be a very strange year. For all I know, I'll end up in another town populated by little people with overly hairy feet. Maybe I'm meant to live in a Shire. But whatever happens next, I've got a trunk full of wine and a willingness to try just about anything, as long as it doesn't involve a rickshaw. At least for now, that seems as good a destiny as any.

A Buyer's Guide To My 1992 Honda Accord, Which I Have Regrettably Decided To Sell

Her name is Clementine. I'm not sure why I gave her that name. I think it had something to do with an Elliot Smith song. And she kinda looks like a Clementine, don't you think? Please do not refer to her by a different name, or as "you fucking piece of shit, turn over already!" It's natural to get angry at her, but show some patience and you'll be rewarded. And always, always call her by her birth name. If you don't, she may ignore you. Don't misunderstand me; I don't mean to suggest that she will come when called. She is not the Batmobile. But when she breaks down - and trust me, she breaks down a lot - you're going to have to coax her back to life. Don't bother looking under her hood. There's nothing for you there. Instead, try soothing her by gently stroking the steering wheel and saying, in a soft, reassuring voice, "Cooooome on, Clementine. You can do it, girl. I believe in you. Make daddy proud." Clementine, like any other living thing, needs to feel safe and loved before she can perform up to her potential.

KEEP ON READIN'! IT'S LIKE CANDY, BUT FOR YOUR EYES.

She comes with air conditioning, but I wouldn't bother. The knobs are long gone. I know, weird, right? What kind of klepto would steal knobs from somebody's car? What the hell are you gonna do with them? Anyway, if you're one of those people who can't function if it's a few degrees above 72, you can usually get the AC turned on with a pair of pliers. Problem is, you have to plan for this in advance, and pliers can be a little clunky on a keychain. And as you'll soon discover, when you start jabbing at the dashboard with a sharp object, passengers tend to get nervous and say things like, "Just let me out here." Even if you get the AC to kick in, you may not be happy with the results. It has been described, by more than a few disgruntled people, as "old man breathing." Even at its coldest setting, it still spits out a jetstream of air that's warm and sticky, smelling vaguely of a Chinatown meat market. And I swear to god, it makes a sound that can only be compared to asthmatic wheezing. You're better off opening a window.

Speaking of the windows, you may want to consider leaving them open all the time. Trust me, nobody is going to steal her. And... I'm not sure how to phrase this delicately so I'm just gonna come right out with it... she doesn't have door handles. I don't mean on the outside. That'd just be crazy. I mean on the inside, on either passenger-side door. How this happened is a long and uninteresting story. Let's just say that when I lived in LA, a mechanic recommended getting new door handles and I accidentally left town before the replacements arrived. It's really not as bad as it sounds. I mean sure, once you get in and close the door, you're pretty much trapped. You either have to roll down the window and reach around to the outside handle, or you can do what I did and adapt. You ever watch that show Dukes of Hazzard? Remember how Bo and Luke would jump into their car through the open windows? That was kinda cool, right? Well, think of this as getting in touch with your inner redneck. Something as tedious as going to the grocery store to pick up milk is suddenly transformed into an action-packed car chase. And talk about good exercise! Diving into your seat every time you take a drive is gonna build some serious upper body strength.



I should probably mention a few other small things that don't work. Like the speedometer. Actually, that's only partly true. Her speedometer works most of the time. But every now and then, usually when you're on a major highway, the speedometer's needle will suddenly just collapse like a flatlining heart monitor. Sure, you could call it a "flaw" or a "mechanical defect". But I think it's part of Clementine's charm. When I'm barreling down some country road and my gaze drifts to the malfunctioning speedometer, my initial reaction is panic. But then I think, what is Clementine trying to teach me? Have I become too preoccupied with the numbers in my life? How much money do I make, how many hours can I work in a day, how fast am I going? Maybe I need to get rid of that clutter and just live for today. Stop watching the clock and embrace the moment. I know that it's silly to suggest that an automobile might have a religious affiliation, but I'm reasonably certain that Clementine is a Buddhist.

The radio is as good as new but... well, it's complicated. For some reason, every time you start her up, it's like you've reconnected the battery. The clock blinks 12:00, and you need to type in the radio's security code. I've had several mechanics try to diagnose the problem, and nobody has a clue why this keeps happening. But if you don't mind reprogramming your favorite radio stations every day, then you're gonna love this car. Oh, and this may not be a big deal, but Clementine can be stubborn about which signals she'll receive. It has nothing to do with the antenna, it's solely a personality quirk. Clementine does not care for Top 40. Nor does she enjoy jazz, soul, rock (classic or modern), R&B, hip-hop, classical, or talk radio. But she loves Mexican music. Anything with a lot of tuba and accordion in it. You could be driving through Boise, Idaho and she'll still manage to find a Mexican station. She's like a satellite dish on wheels, but only for tunes that feature a lot of mournful trumpet solos and "Aye-aye-aye-aye-aye!" This has led me to believe that Clementine has Mexican roots. If you're really intent on owning this car, you might want to learn a few simple phrases in her native tongue. Usted es un coche encantador y usted va rápidamente!

One of Clementine's most distinguishing features is the Clemson Alumni sticker on her rear window. I am not responsible for this, as I never attended Clemson University. When I first adopted her in the late 90s, I made repeated attempts to remove this sticker, with no success. I tried scraping it with a razor blade and dousing it with turpentine and nail polish remover. I don't know what that fucking thing is made of, but I've come to accept it as permanent, and it would behoove you to do the same. Clementine is like one of those girls who got a lower back tattoo in college, and while she doesn't really care for it anymore, she's pretty much stuck with it. You might occasionally get jealous when you look at the tattoo, remembering that she had a life before she met you. But you're going to have to be the bigger person and accept it. Don't ask a lot of questions like, "So who was this Clemson dude? Were you guys serious or something? You must've been, you got his name tattooed on you. Whatever, that's cool. I think I'm gonna sleep on the couch tonight." Don't be that way. If she could take it back, you know she would.

Yes, I'm aware that she has a broken taillight, but I've never considered getting it fixed. Oh sure, I could've sent her to the finest cosmetic surgeons in California. I came very close to doing so, but then I thought, what kind of message is that sending to Clementine? "You're only as desirable as what's on the surface." Y'know what? To hell with that. It's what's inside that counts. If you end up taking her home, you're certainly welcome to pay for any repairs you think are necessary. But I'm warning you right now, you'll just break her heart. You think she's not already insecure about her appearance? She's been around the block a few times. She's been driven hard and put away wet. But she has inner beauty, and she needs somebody in her life who can recognize that. If you're looking for some young, attractive, fuel-efficient bitch to drive around town like a trophy car, you're barking up the wrong tree. This is an automobile with substance, not some bimbo with a sleek paint job and a fancy schmancy "emissions certification."



I hope you're not one of those superficial people who's gonna look at her and say, "When is the last time you took her to a carwash?" Yeah, yeah, I know, she's covered in a thin layer of grime. But that's not because I'm too lazy to get her cleaned. I understand how my lady thinks. I know she's a tomboy, and she's never happier than when she's kicking up some dirt, showing off in front of the other cars. And you know what else? She's driven across the country several times, from the Pacific to the Atlantic and back again. She's lived in every time zone in the country. That's not the dirt of somebody with bad hygiene. That's the dirt of history. You could take a hose to her and she'd clean up real nice. But that would be like hacking away at the rings of a Sequoia Redwood. Every mud-stained tire and filthy window is like a diary of all she's seen and experienced over the years. Do you want to take that away from her? Do you not have a soul?

You've probably already noticed that Clementine has just over 210,000 miles on her. Does that frighten you? Does that seem like too much? Would you walk up to a 100 year old man and tell him, "You've lived too long, grandpa; time to kick up the daisies?" Of course not! You'd revere and celebrate him. Now, to be fair, Clementine's longevity is not entirely her choice. She has, on at least one occasion, stared into the abyss of mortality - or, in the cold rhetoric of my car insurance company, been "totaled." But I refused to let her go, and used every resource available to bring her back to me. Some friends started calling her Lazarus, but I don't think that's entirely accurate. From what little I know of the New Testament, Lazarus actually appreciated being resurrected. A better analogy would probably be Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Remember in season six when Buffy was raised from the dead by her meddlesome friends? Was she grateful for the second chance? Fuck no! She was bitter and pissed off. That's Clementine in a nutshell. She's had some traumatizing accidents that would've snuffed out lesser cars, but I've never given her the courtesy of eternal slumber. I never pulled the plug on her. And I think she resents me for it. Every once in a while, she starts vibrating violently for no reason. I know what she's trying to tell me. "Why didn't you let me die?!" But how can you let somebody you love this much slip through your fingers? How can you say goodbye when the heart says, "No! I need more time! I can't let you go yet! Stay with me! Hold me, Clementine! Tell me everything is going to be okay!" My point is, she's got a few more years in her. All she needs is a transmission flush and a new timing belt. Oh, and maybe some counseling. She'll be fine.

Promise me that you'll take her somewhere special. She's seen a lot in her short life, and I don't think it's fair to keep her alive if there are no surprises left for her. She's gazed at the awesome beauty of Niagara Falls. She's trolled the Strip in Las Vegas. She's butted heads with buffalo in Yellowstone Park. She's sipped on the best gasolines - always neat, no ice - in Texas, Utah, Georgia, Oregon, and Michigan. She's endured ice storms in Chicago and sunned on white beaches in Sarasota, Florida. I mean no offense, but she's loved and lost more in the last ten years than you will in your entire life. I'm not saying you're a bad person, I'm just saying you get a car like this, you don't waste her on pointless errands. Just because you settled for mediocrity doesn't mean you have to drag Clementine down with you. Why don't you get out and explore the world with her? She's never been to Seattle. I've always regretted that. We've never talked about it, but I think she would've liked to see the Space Needle at least once. And, oh my god, I never took her to Manhattan. Can you believe that? I blame myself. I was too caught up in what I wanted and my own needs; I never thought about what might make her happy. How can I claim to love her so much and yet I've never given her the thrill of driving side by side with the taxis in New York? For a car, that's like the Running of the Bulls. But you can make amends for my mistakes. You can give her the opportunities that I never got the chance to. Don't be a douchebag who squanders his car's talents like he squandered his own life. Don't let her remaining years be devoted to making beer runs for you and your frat boy buddies. She's better than that. She's got so much more living to do, and she deserves more than making sure you have enough Pabst and microwave mac-and-cheese.

I know she's not long for this world. She's getting older, and it's only a matter of time before she coughs her last breath and ascends to that great junkyard in the sky. But I have one small favor to ask of you: Don't let her die without dignity. From the moment I set eyes on Clementine, I knew she was going to leave this earthly plane in a blaze of glory. I saw it all in my dreams. Here's how it needs to go down. I want you to cover her with gasoline, set her on fire, and then drive her off an embankment. You don't have to jump with her, of course. You can leap out at the last second. I'm not asking you to put yourself at risk. I just want your assurance that her exit is going to be worthy of her legacy; something that combines the theatrics of a Viking funeral with the over-the-top violence of a mafia hit. If you think of it, maybe you could even line her with explosives. Ideally, I imagine her hitting the bottom of a ravine and exploding in a mini-mushroom cloud of yellow and orange. That's the way to go, don't you think? I would've done it myself, but I don't want to cut her life short just because I can't take her with me. That and, well, as the Dame keeps telling me, it's apparently illegal. Is that true though? It's my car, right? Why can't I set it on fire and run it off a cliff? Doesn't the immediate family have a say in an automobile's assisted suicide anymore? I'll give you a forwarding address so you can send me pictures of the funeral. And I want the ashes. In a nice urn, too. None of that cheap shit.



Let's see, have I forgotten anything...? Well, try to be selective about the people you allow inside her. She's very particular about her politics, and she doesn't like passengers who are obvious bigots. She's pro-choice, she's against the war, and I have my suspicions that she's bi. I need to know she'll be surrounded by the right influences. Please don't ever consider covering her in bumper stickers, especially if they're in any way religious. You slap a "Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition" bumper sticker on her ass and I will personally slash her tires while you're sleeping. I am so not kidding.

You know what? Just forget it. I don't like your attitude. You're not taking this nearly as seriously as you should be. You haven't taken any notes, and I'm starting to doubt that you have what it takes to own a car with this much personality. Why don't you go to that used car place downtown and buy yourself a nice Yugo. That'll probably be more to your liking. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to spoon with Clementine and assure her that the bad man won't take her away. Thanks ever so much for putting her in a foul mood. That's awfully swell of you.

Two More Stories About Music (A Spitz Mix: part 2)

(To read the first two stories about music, go here.)



LOVE IS A BATTLEFIELD: Pat Benatar

An Indian casino is something that sounds like a good idea in theory. When you're facing a weekend with nothing to do and it's so humid outside it feels like a dog's mouth, playing the slots in air-conditioned comfort might as well be a Caribbean vacation. But then you get there, and within fifteen minutes you've lost everything to a goddamn Wheel of Fortune machine, and you realize that you're trapped in a desert prison of neon, clove cigarettes and old people. After a few drinks, it's easy to overthink your misfortune. You'll start talking about Howard Zinn and the mass genocide of the Native Americans, and convince yourself that your gambling losses are penance for the evil done by white men.

"We're just paying them back for stealing their land," I explained to the Dame. "One nickel at a time."

While this did manage to assuage our guilt, it didn't do much for our boredom. Being broke in a casino is like being a eunuch in a whorehouse. There's not much for you there. You know what's apparently not as fun to watch as it is to do? Gambling. Who knew?

YOU GOTTA KNOW WHEN TO FOLD THEM, KNOW WHEN TO HOLD THEM, KNOW WHEN TO WALK AWAY, KNOW WHEN TO... KEEP ON READIN'

We eventually ended up at the only bar that'd let us pay for a gin-and-tonic with loose change - which we shared like teenagers at a soda shop, sipping from our respective twisty straws - and discovered that the casino had another source of entertainment that wouldn't cost us one red cent.

Karaoke.

Let me make myself clear: I do not enjoy karaoke. I will not do it, I will not pretend to think about doing it, and if you do it, I will not applaud your efforts or make you feel for a moment like you did anything admirable. I'm sorry if that sounds harsh, but I feel very strongly about this. I just don't see the up side of standing on a stage and sharing your lack of singing talent with a crowd of strangers. If you had any actual musical ability, you wouldn't be doing karaoke. Anybody who cares about music knows that every time somebody sings a Wham song over a bad recording of synthesizers, an angel loses its wings.

As I've repeatedly reminded my karaoke-inclined friends, I am willing to make an exception. If the songbook contains even one tune by Cap'n Jazz, I will take to the stage with gusto. Any Cap'n Jazz song. "Little League", "We Are Scientists!", "Scary Kids Scaring Kids." You name it, I'll belt it out. I think I'd do a particularly good job with "Oh Messy Life." Lord knows I've practiced it enough in private. I can hit the perfect pitch in the chorus, screaming "You are bolder than buzzing buuuuuuuuuuuuuugs" at such a screeching volume that it'll give you a seizure.

Not surprisingly, Cap'n Jazz wasn't among the selections at the casino karaoke. There weren't even songs I could enjoy with ironic detachment. In the right mood, I can dig me some Styx. "Mr. Roboto" or "Come Sail Away" always makes me smile. Same thing with Loverboy. "Lovin' Every Minute of It" is a little slice of heaven. If more people wore sweatbands and rocked out on keytars, there'd be no more war in the world. I truly believe that.

Instead, we were treated to the usual karaoke standards: "Dancing Queen," "My Way," "Suspicious Minds". The singers - mostly bland 20-somethings drunk on free booze - delivered renditions that were bombastic in their mediocrity. They'd punch the air during the chorus to indicate their rockin' ebullience, or point at the audience with exaggerated gestures, as if their performance was a scathing satire of 80s hair-bands. When they returned to their tables, high-fiving their friends and loved ones, it was tempting to walk over and whisper into their ear, "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, but what happens at an Indian casino sometimes ends up on YouTube."

We were just about to call it a night when a woman named Jules burst onto the stage like an extra from The Apple. I'm not usually one to notice what somebody is wearing, but Jules had obviously put a lot of thought into her ensem: A burgundy lycra-poly blend jumpsuit with faux crushed velvet around the neck and openings on either side, running from her armpit to her ankles, loosely attached with corset strings that exposed her bra, among other things. She was also morbidly obese, which isn't something I normally find worthy of mockery. But if you're five foot three and your weight is the title of a Frank Miller comic about Spartans, maybe you don't dress like a courtesan from the 16th century. That's all I'm saying.

The Dame and I sat back down, mesmerized by Jules even before she opened her mouth. As the familiar chords of "These Boots Were Made For Walking" blared over the sound system, Jules grasped the microphone like it was the boney neck of an ex-lover and launched into a performance that was nothing less than a revelation. Her brilliance wasn't in her stage antics, which so many karaoke hacks use to make up for their lack of talent. There was no pointing or punching or David-Lee-Roth-on-coke high kicks. Jules barely moved at all. She kept her feet planted firmly on the stage and stared out at the audience with the petrified expression of a deer in headlights. But the emotion came through in her voice - as sweet and heart-heavy as the unbaked cookie dough she likely had for dinner.

Because the bar was mostly empty and the karaoke pickings were slim, Jules was allowed to do several songs back-to-back. Her choices were telling. "You're So Vain," "I Done Got Over It," "I Will Survive," "Hit The Road Jack," "You're No Good." All songs of female redemption and dumping loser boyfriends. We wondered, could this recurring theme be intentional? Was Jules trying to exorcise the demons of her past relationships? Did we really live in a world where a woman like Jules, who wasn't afraid to let a little pudge squeeze out from the sides of her jumpsuit, could be so unlucky in love?

The Dame and I went through a very strange transformation during Jules' set. At first, we responded with muffled laughter. But after the second or third song, it stopped being funny. Jules was still a walking parody of scorned womanhood, but we were finding it increasingly difficult to appreciate her ironically. I can't laugh at somebody unless I think they're at least partly in on the joke. I needed a glimmer of recognition in her eyes, something to suggest that the tragicomedy she called her life was some sort of Andy Kaufman prank. But her heartbreak was sincere, and she honestly believed that sharing her pain via karaoke was a valid form of artistic expression.

During a short break, the Dame ran into Jules in the restroom and told her how much we enjoyed her set. Jules just nodded politely, as if she'd expected this reaction, and said, "You haven't seen anything yet. Stay tuned." When the Dame told me about their exchange, I knew exactly what had to happen next. We had to become the adoring fans that Jules deserved. Not fans with a wink and a nudge, who's every compliment came with quotation marks (we really "enjoyed" your "performance") but fans who took her as seriously as she took herself. We would be as unconditionally supportive as a judge at the Special Olympics, as attentive as Squeaky Fromme listening to the White Album.



Her next song was "Love Is A Battlefield," and even the drunks who'd just stumbled into the bar knew that something special was happening here. There was electricity in the air. Maybe it was because Jules had proof that somebody in the audience actually cared. Every lyric resonated with meaning. When she sang, "Heartache to heartache we stand/ No promises, no demands," she might as well have been screaming, "To hell with you, Darryl! I ain't got time to heat you up another goddamn hot-pocket! I'm goin' down to the injun casino and sing me some karaoke. And when I get back, you best be out my trailer for good! You hear me Darryl? Don't make me call daddy!"

We may have taken our enthusiasm a little too far. When the song reached its dramatic crescendo, the Dame and I stood up and danced like the hookers in Pat Benatar's video, with defiant shimmying and finger-snapping. "Thank you, Jules," we wanted to scream at her. "Thank you for giving us the strength to blow off our metaphorical pimps!" She began giving us worrisome looks, and even before the final note had faded, she fled the stage and disappeared into the casino.

We thought about chasing after her and apologizing for the way we acted. But y'know, we weren't really sorry at all. Because of her, we'd given in to that raw, primal part of ourselves that Jules personified; the part that wants to let down the ironic facade and cry along with a Peter Cetera song, the part that thinks Garth Brook's "The River" would make a great wedding song, the part that believes every rose does have its thorn and your body might really be a wonderland.

I still won't do karaoke. I may be a sappy and sentimental gayboy on the inside, but when I think anybody is watching, I'm still the smirking cynic who quotes Cap'n Jazz lyrics.

To paraphrase the world's most famous singing hooker, no one can tell me I'm wrong. Love is a battlefield. Snap!

* * *



RECOGNITION SCENE: The Mountain Goats

I love the Mountain Goats.

I love that the band's name is plural, even though it's just one guy playing an acoustic guitar. I love that John Darnielle, the lead singer (okay, the only singer), has a piercing nasal tenor that makes most people scrunch up their face and say, "What the hell is that?" I love that he's written hundreds of beautiful and sometimes hilarious songs about gardening, talking animals, abusive relationships in Florida, Aztec mythology and ancient Danish burial traditions - sometimes all at the same time. I love that most of his songs were recorded on a Panasonic RX-FT500 boombox, giving them the same crisp sound quality of an answering machine circa 1988.



But most of all, I love that you can't truly appreciate the Goats as a passive listener. You can buy most of their albums at the usual places - Amazon, iTunes, etc - but a good chunk of their catalog, and some might even argue their best work, has to be found. During the 90s, John released dozens of songs on indie compilations and label samplers, which tended to have the distribution of a family holiday newsletter. To be a Mountain Goat fan means taking part in a never-ending scavenger hunt. You're constantly scouring used record stores and garage sales, looking for even a single Goats' track to add to your collection. And then your nights are spent trying to guess how the songs fit together, like pieces to a very fucked-up puzzle.

When the Goats played in San Francisco last March, I was at all three shows. John was touring with a full band this time - a bassist and a drummer, which I'll admit was something of a disappointment. I never wanted to become one of those guys who begins each sentence with "Back in my day...," but apparently it's already happened. Even more bizarre, I'm only a sentimental old fart when it comes to obscure lo-fi singer-songwriters.

ME: You know, son, the original version of "Cai Dao Blowout" didn't have that thumping bass riff and the pounding drums. It was just an acoustic guitar and one man. Yeah, things were a lot simpler back then.

(Long, awkward silence.)

FUTURE OFFSPRING: What the fuck are you talking about, old man?

My nonexistent son may never think I'm cool, but come to think of it, not many people my own age think I'm all that cool, either. I'll admit it, I enjoy being in a musical minority. I like that the Mountain Goats are never going to be played on the radio, and I'll never be standing in line at a grocery store and overhear a gaggle of teenage girls saying, "Yo, have you heard 'If England Were What England Seems Then We Would Only Have Our Dreams'? It's mad fresh, dawg!" There's a weird comfort in going to a Goats' show and standing in line outside the venue with people who think just like you. For at least one night, you're not the only one who wonders why there hasn't been a new song about the Alpha Couple in years, or if John never released Hail and Farewell, Gothenburg because it was too autobiographical, or actually care if he's working on a concept album about monsters. We talk about these things like they're secrets, but really, nobody else on the planet could give two shits.

At the first show in San Francisco, I arrived early enough to get a spot within slapping distance of the stage. It's a curious phenomenon of my old age: at 20, I didn't put a lot of pre-planning into live music. But in my late 30s, I'm like a war strategist. I'll study a club's floor plan for weeks, carefully determining the best vantage point. Should I be dead center, stage left or stage right? And when I show up and claim my little plot of land, I defend it fiercely. That means no checking out the t-shirt booth because there's still an hour before the show starts, and under no conditions going to the bathroom. I'm not saying I've ever used them, but I have looked into catheter bags, and I'm telling you, it doesn't sound like such a crazy idea.

I was so focused on maintaining my position that I never noticed the girl standing right in front of me. She was barely five foot tall, so she posed no serious view obstruction. And during the first half of the Goats' set, she was easy enough to ignore. But at some point - I think it was during "Palmcorder Yajna" - my gaze drifted down to her leather jacket, and I saw that "Werner Herzog Is Not Afraid of You and Will Beat Your Ass" had been stitched onto the back.

The sentence gave me pause. Werner Herzog? As in the German New Wave filmmaker? And what was all this about him whooping my ass? I wondered if it was an obscure Goats' lyric that I'd somehow missed or forgotten, despite my obsessive nature. Had this elfish woman really trumped my Goats' knowledge? With newfound respect, I took a closer look at her. She was dressed in ripped fishnets, Doc Martens, pigtails and a kilt. And unlike everybody else in the audience, who stood their ground and nodded along with the beat, her enthusiasm was brazen. She was a spark plug, dancing with the flailing limbs of a marionette falling from a skyscraper.

She was the kind of woman you stare at from across a crowded room and have fantasies about what your life together might be like. I imagined a short and passionate courtship, followed by a wedding in Sweden - not because we have any connection to the country, but because she likes the album so much. Our vows would be John Darnielle lyrics, of course, because we're just that nerdy. I'd probably go with "Your bright eyes render all discussion pointless" or "Our love is like the border between Greece and Albania." Wait, no, no, I got it:

"I am not going to lose you
We are going to stay married
Like a Louisiana graveyard
Where nothing stays buried
Where the dead will walk again
Put on their Sunday best
And go with unsuspecting Christian men
La la la la la."

I don't know. Too obvious?



We'd have three kids, which we'd name Jaipur, Elijah and Golden Boy - a private joke that our respective families wouldn't understand. We'd home-school them, of course, because there's nothing they'd learn at school that they couldn't learn by listening to The Coroner's Gambit. If nothing else, they'd know a fuck of a lot about geography. They'd be able to pick out Stalingrad and Reykjavik on a map, which is more than anyone with a public education can say.

I had just gotten to the part in my fantasy where we retired and moved to Florida - which we always knew we would, if only because Tallahassee was the record we fell in love to - when I heard John belting out the last line of a song that sounded strangely familiar.

Hmmm, I thought to myself. That reminds me of "The Recognition Scene". But he hasn't played that in years.

Wait, wait, what? Did I... he wasn't... what the fuck just happened?!

"The Recognition Scene" is my white whale. It was my introduction to the Goats' oeuvre, and I've been hooked ever since. The title refers to that moment in a Greek tragedy when everything sacred goes profane, and the hero realizes just how badly he's screwed up his life. It's when Oedipus says, "Hold on, I fucked who? Awwwwwww crap! Well, been nice seeing you." But John's song is about tragedy on a much smaller scale. It's about recognizing that a relationship is falling apart and there's nothing you can do to save it. Every time I've heard it, it sends a shiver down my spine. I've always wanted to hear John perform it live, and after almost ten years of waiting, I finally got that chance.

And I wasn't paying attention.

It's difficult to express just what a monumental failure this was for me. How can I put this in words you'd understand? It was like being at a Dodgers-Giants game in 1951, and during the ninth inning you decide to sneak out and get a hot dog and a beer, and when you come back everybody is cheering and screaming, and you're like, "What? What did I miss? Bobby Thomson? What about him? What'd he do!?"

Thanks to the Internet, I found a bootleg recording of the concert, including the mythical live version of "Recognition Scene" that I was technically present for. Take a listen...

Recognition Scene....

Did you hear that guy in the audience say "oh my god" and then start howling like a frat boy at a Creed concert? Do you know what it takes to make an indie music nerd drop his hipster pose and give in to shameless displays of excitement? If you're geeky enough to love the Mountain Goats, "The Recognition Scene" will pretty much do it.

After the show, I didn't say hello to that mysterious leather-jacket-and-kilt-wearing girl. For one thing, the Dame probably wouldn't have appreciated it. And besides, despite my very vivid fantasies, I already knew that it'd never work out between us.

"Can we please talk about what you're really angry about?" she'd scream at me during one of our many arguments. "You still haven't forgiven me for distracting you and making you miss 'The Recognition Scene', have you? How many times can I say I'm sorry?!"

Some things are meant to end before they even begin. I watched her leave the club with her friends, and softly hummed the lyrics that, were it not for the pixie spell she'd unwittingly cast on me, I might have actually heard.

"I'm gonna miss you when you're gone, I'm gonna miss you when you're gone."