An Open Letter to Paul Simon

Dear Paul Simon:

I have something I want to say. And I'd like to say it the way your song lyrics taught me things could (and should) be said: With softness, strength, wry humor, and an economy of language that belies a wealth of emotion.

So here goes:

Godammit, Paul, you can't fucking do this to me!

Do you mind if I call you Paul?

No, your disarming smile won't make it all better this time.

Look, I don't know how often you read my little blog. In my humble opinion, you really should keep up with it. You would learn about monkey art, and how to make pea soup and sweetheart balls and how to grow beans. You would be introduced to my poetry, which sometimes is (I think) truly poetic and sometimes is just about penises. The way poetry is, as you know.

You would also see that I'm a longtime and devoted fan of your music and of you personally. To me, there's only one person in the world worthy of receiving the coveted "Left-Handed Jewish Singer-Songwriters Married to a Former Member of New Bohemians" tag, and it's you, Paul.

Even Artie misses by that much.

The point is, way back in high school - a long, long time ago, even before you released Graceland - I said in a high-school writing assignment that one of my greatest goals in life was to see concerts by Bob Dylan and Paul Simon (that's you). I've seen Bob in concert twice, as you surely know if in fact you do read my blog. Or if Bob reads my blog and has told you about it. If you guys ever get together and chat about blogs you enjoy. Maybe over some nice pea soup. 

But I digress.

But while I've seen Mr. Dylan perform, I've never seen you. I've actually seen a number of my 60s musical heroes live: Michael Nesmith, Peter Tork, the Moody Blues, Ringo Starr, Brian Wilson. Yet if all these talented artists are like stuffed heads hanging over the mantel of my heart, then one mahogany plaque is still missing its lovingly amputated and painstakingly preserved trophy: Paulsimonicus harmonius newyorkicus.

If that's not, you know, pushing the metaphor too far.

Anyway, today you announced on social media that your upcoming tour will be your last. Thankfully, this will bring you to Dallas one final time, on June 1. Your retirement is not immediate, unlike Neil Diamond's, who just jerked the fucking rug out from under all of us who have spent their lives hoping to you see sing in person, just once, even while their sister has seen him multiple times, not that I begrudge her that joy.

You know?

Paul, I love you and Neil almost as much as I love
my sister. Can I call you Paul?

I don't hold out great hope that I'll have the opportunity to catch your final Dallas show. Or the means. My Precocious Daughter graduates in June, and apparently it now costs as much to graduate from high school as it cost me to get an entire college education. She's my priority, emotionally and financially, but believe me, if I could save enough money for front-row tickets to your show by not eating between now and June 1, I'd totally do it. I can always eat on June 2, right?

I'm sad, is what I'm trying to say. Sad that you're in the twilight of your illustrious career, sad that we can't always tick off all the items on our bucket lists, sad that time merely shrugs at our best efforts to slow it to an endless waltz instead of a headlong jitterbug through life.

Fucking time.

But I'm happy to hear your voice - on my records, my CDs, my streams, and of course, in my head.

Still, that long-ago invitation to come to my place and sing "Mother and Child Reunion" to me is always open. You can bring Edie. I'll make some sweetheart balls.

Love,

Chuck

Confession, or Lover's Lament

I'm going to make an informed guess that, among my 15 or so readers, at least a couple of you have experienced being in a relationship with a musician.

Always assuming that either Edie Brickell or Paul Simon
is a loyal Drunkard. Right?

Musicians are amazing, you know? They're talented, they're sensitive (at least when they're playing), they're perpetually interesting.

And the love of their life is...their music.

I get it. Really. Because I'm a writer.

Hard cold truth: Loving a musician means - at best - sharing his/her heart with music.

If you love a musician, the best you can hope for is a polyamorous relationship. You will never be their only love. Their first love? PAFF. Musicians will never put you first. No matter how much they love you, they cannot ever put you first. Music is always #1.

If you can accept that, you can share a piece of their heart. Which is a beautiful thing. Maybe the most beautiful thing you'll ever know.

But you will not - cannot - command their devotion. They can't hear you over the constant cacophony in their head.

Don't even try shouting. Trust me.

Love yourself before even attempting to love a musician. It's your only - only - shot at survival.

I'm in love with a musician. But I have no intention of sacrificing my soul to the capricious winds of his attention.

I am myself. No matter what.

I believe that he and I will meet halfway in our respective arts.

It's the only way I can love him.

If I'm wrong, I still have my soul.

How many of you can say that?

Fair Day, 2016

Yesterday was Fair Day.

I told you guys that Drummer Boy and Precocious Daughter and I would be attending the State Fair of Texas together this year. And yesterday was the day.

For those of you who don't live in or come from Texas: Just about every school child in the Dallas Metroplex gets a day off during the Fair, specifically to go to the Fair. Every child gets a free ticket.

That's how Texas rolls.

You should see this before you die, seriously.

Of course, PDaughter left hers at home and we ended up buying her a full-price ticket (despite my suggestion that she should remain in the car for six hours while Drummer Boy and I went in, to teach her a lesson about responsibility). But still.

I had never been to the Fair on School Day. When I was married, my ex and I actually used to pull PDaughter out of school on a Tuesday during the Fair's run, when admission was $2 with an empty can of Dr Pepper (again, this is Texas), and all the rides were discounted. But now that she's in high school, with a greater courseload and, of course, marching band, that's not really possible. So School Day it was.

Holy crap, was it crowded.

You don't understand how crowded.

Sort of. But more.

Here's the thing: I don't like crowds. They freak me out. But they freak out PDaughter even more, and so it fell to me to be the strong, unruffled adult as we made our way through, like, 12 billion people. Yes, more than the population of the Earth. That's how popular the State Fair of Texas is.

It was a crowd of old and young, black and white and brown, muscle shirts and hijabs, able-bodied and wheelchair-bound, families and couples and packs of rowdy teens. And with one exception, every single person we encountered was polite and cheerful and respectful. That exception was a loudmouth, rude, aggressive middle-aged white guy, who wasn't wearing a "Make America Great Again" gimme cap but might as well have been.

There's almost no chance that guy will read this, but just in case: You are damn lucky you stopped talking smack to me when you did, because my boyfriend was about to break you into pieces.

I should totally not be proud of that. But I kind of am.

So. One of my favorite attractions at the Fair is the World's Largest Traveling Reptile Show. It's so cheesy. PDaughter and I have gone in for several years. My ex never wanted to go with us, but Drummer Boy was totally game.

Alive Reptiles, you guys!

This year they had a "Siamese Spitting Cobra," which Google tells me is actually properly known as an Indo-Chinese Spitting Cobra. This is a beautiful black-and-white speckled serpent. The specimen in the Reptile Show was particularly active: slithering, rearing up, flicking its fork-ed tongue. And then, as we watched through the glass, it turned to look us straight in the eye, and it hooded at us.

Holy shit. Beautiful but deadly af.

It was. So. Cool. And terrifying.

We also ate Fletcher's corny dogs. Which is required by state law. No shit.

And we saw the famous Budweiser Clydesdales. They are beautiful, you guys.

They also tend to attract loud, rude Trump supporters, unfortunately.
Not their fault, thought.

We did not ride the Crazy Mouse, which was the favorite ride of the Baudelaire family. PDaughter decided the line was too long, and I was legit relieved, because it would have been weird to ride it with Drummer Boy.

Yeah. The Texas State Fair with Drummer Boy and PDaughter, the two most important people in my life, was amazing. But it was hard to shake the decades of Fair memories I accumulated with my ex and with my little Baudelaire family after PDaughter joined us.

It was sweet. It was difficult. It was joyous. It was bittersweet.

I had such a good time. Despite the traffic, and the expense, and the crowds, and the weird, intrusive memories.

If you have a bucket list, attending the State Fair of Texas should be on it.

Really.

I may be biased, having attended it with the two most important people in my life.

I had an awesome day.

The rest will be in the book. I promise

Couples Therapy with the Brickell-Simons

Things in New Canaan, Connecticut have calmed down since April 26th, when singer-songwriter-strange-bedfellows Paul Simon and Edie Brickell were arrested for disorderly conduct following a domestic incident.

Or, as I call them, Dorf and Eddie Van Halen.

Aside: If I were married to Paul Simon, I would never in a million years hit or shove him, no matter how annoying he got. Because he's Paul Simon. I would hug him and love him and squeeze him and call him Al. Geez, Edie.

Anyway, Paul has accepted an award from New York University, and Edie has gone back to her concert tour with Steve Martin (apparently the guys in New Bohemians are shit out of luck with regard to a reunion, so long as there are old guys Edie can explore her daddy issues with. With whom Edie can explore her daddy issues. Whatever.) It's all good, apparently.

I happen to know that Mr. and Mrs. Brickell-Simon invested in some marital counseling to help them resolve the issues behind their spat. And I have exclusive details of just how that went down. Really. No, really.

*****

Therapist: All right, why don't we begin with you, Mrs. Simon?

Edie: Do I look like his mother? I'm Ms. Brickell.

Therapist: My apologies, Ms. Brickell. I -

Edie: I mean, I'm still a vibrant woman! It just happens that my husband is much older than I am. I'm nowhere near his age, got it?

Paul: Zzzzz.

Edie: Wake up, Paul! We're in counseling. (shakes him gently by the shoulder)

Paul: Zzz - what?! Don't shove me any more! I'm sorry about the bedsheets! Koo-koo-ca-choo!

Therapist: All right, well. Ms. Brickell, why don't you explain what happened on the day of the...incident?

Edie: I just lost my cool, you know? I mean, I love my husband. And I have no problem with the fact that he's sold millions more records than I have, or that he still sells out concerts, or that he's in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, or that he's been on "Saturday Night Live" five times and I've only been on once, or...What was I saying?

Therapist: You love your husband.

Edie: Right! And I do. But it's not easy being married to Paul Simon, you know.

Paul: I'm not the kind of man who tends to socialize.

Edie: That! That right there is what I'm talking about!

Therapist: I don't understand. He merely said...

Paul: I seem to lean on old familiar ways.

Edie: Goddamn it, Paul, you know I hate when you do that!

Therapist: Now, wait just a minute. Mr. Simon, do you want to expand on this thought?

Paul: I ain't no fool for love songs that whisper in my ears.

Edie: Don't encourage him, doctor. He does this all the time, it drives me crazy.

Paul: Still crazy after all these years.

Edie: Aauugh!!

Therapist: Mr. Simon, let's explore your feelings for your wife, shall we? What would you like to say to her?

Paul: First thing I remember when you came into my life, I said I'm gonna get that girl no matter what I do.

Therapist: That's a lovely sentiment.

Edie: It's not a sentiment! It's a goddamn lyric from 30 years ago! He hardly ever speaks to me, he just quotes lyrics from his old songs!

Therapist: Mr. Simon, how do you react to your wife's feelings about this?

Paul: All my words come back to me in shades of mediocrity, like emptiness and harmony. I need someone to comfort me.

Edie: I never even liked that fucking song.

Therapist: Ms. Brickell, your husband says he feels mediocre and empty. He needs comforting. Do you think you provide that for him?

Edie: Provide? I provide him with love and companionship and a bottle of Ensure every morning. I gave him three beautiful children and someone to share his golden years with. And he can't even come up with a way to say "Good morning" that he didn't think of before I was born!

Paul: Hear my words that I might teach you. Take my arm that I might reach you.

Edie: I give up.

Therapist: Now, wait. I think there is a very loving relationship here. You can get past your problems if you just communicate.

Edie: Do you really think so?

Therapist: Yes, of course. Besides, think of the children.

Paul: Think of the boy in the bubble and the baby with the baboon heart.

Edie: That's it. I'm going back on tour with Steve Martin.

*****

OK, clearly they have some work to do. But it's a start. Maybe Paul should make Edie a nice dinner sometime. You know, something with parsely, sage, rosemary, and maybe some other herb.

Random Post from the Road

Just a few observations as I get ready to fly home from my first business trip in five years.

1. About 90% of my trepidation about this trip was wondering how bad the security checkpoints had gotten in the last five years. Because, you know, I hate taking off my shoes in public (I suffer from Hideous Feet Syndrome). Also, I usually do something wrong when I put my stuff on the conveyor belt - do my shoes go in the tote or on the belt? cell phone stays in the purse or not? STOP JUDGING ME, TSA EMPLOYEES. And the last time I flew, they hadn't come up with the grand idea of x-raying me in case I had a shiv up my hooha. Can't I just sign a note promising that I won't take off my pants during the flight so I can access a hidden weapon of stabbery?

Ugh. Anyway, security turned out to be total non-issue. I put everything in the tote, the nice TSA lady groped my right ankle (wearing latex gloves, a smart move when in proximity of my feet), and away I went. And here at Logan, I didn't even have to take anything out of my bag! Take that, evildoers! You're not the boss of us! Boston Strong, motherfuckers!

2. Last weekend, Precocious Daughter and I watched the movie Flight. The timing on that was maybe not so great. On the one hand, I was totally confident that if we ran into unexpected turbulence, Denzel Washington would pull us through. On the other hand, if you're familiar with the movie, I have two words for you: minibar scene. I was much less worried about a plane crash than I was about what might happen if I were confronted with a fully-stocked minibar in my hotel room. Turns out my company is far too cheap to put me up in a hotel fancy enough to have in-room booze. Thus I was able to remain happily sober for the two days I was here. Which is a good thing, as I would have completely embarrassed myself in front of my colleagues. Because their ability to drink like goddamn Atlantic cod in the middle of the week put mine to shame. No way I was going to take on a bunch of seasoned Yankees in a game of Who Can Hold Their Liquor? These people are legendary.

3. I was not able to put my song about Mr. and Mrs. Edie Brickell and Their Adventures in Domestic Violence to music while I was here. I was just too tired after a night of pretending to be a lively and engaged professional person to do anything but fall asleep on the multitude of comfy pillows I was provided. Eight pillows, just for little old me? So sweet. But I do intend to record it for your listening horror bemusement at some point. As soon as I have some time to myself, uninterrupted, with no one listening. Say, 2018.

4. I had lunch at a place called Wahlburger's, which apparently is owned Mark, Donnie, Paul, Marlon, and Tito Wahlburg and has its own reality show. Everyone in my group had to sign a waiver because they were filming inside, although the only camera I saw disappeared about two minutes after we sat down, so I doubt I'll be making my TV debut on the show. I had a haddock sandwich, because when in Boston, you have to eat seafood. It was OK. I met some dude named Nacho, who I guess is a friend of Marky Mark's. Seems like a nice guy, although he accused one of my co-workers of touching his butt. 

5. People in Boston really do say "wicked" and "pahk the cah," so I will no longer feel bad about employing these stereotypes when impersonating people in Boston. Remember, behind every stereotype are a bunch of people who actually talk and act exactly the way you expected them to.  

In conclusion, I'm sorry there are no pictures in this post. But I hate the touchpad on my laptop and I don't have a mouse. So open another tab and Google "damn clever pictures about travel, minibars, feet, celebrities, and Marky Mark." Then look at the first five pictures you see. Boom, you're a blogger. 

OK, going to read the Nelson DeMille paperback I just bought (time-honored Baudelaire tradition when flying) and see if they push back my flight even further. Latah, Drunkahds.

 

Edie Brickell Really Has an Unfair Height Advantage in a Fight

I'm torn.

Possibly the greatest celebrity news story of the year came out today. Paul Simon and Edie Brickell were arrested on disorderly conduct charges following a "domestic incident" at their swanky Connecticut home.

How awesome is that?

So naturally, I wrote it up as a parody of Paul's classic hit "Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard."

But try as I might, I couldn't record it properly. Because I have to catch a plane in the morning and because Precocious Daughter was here so I only had the length of time she was in the shower to do it and because I'm pretty inept at operating the mixing software and blah blah blah.

So I didn't get to record the track.

Maybe tomorrow night when I'm all by myself in a hotel room in Boston I'll take another crack at it. Because really, it's much funnier when I sing it, because my voice is inherently funny.

But I don't want to wait to post my parody lyrics, because things like this have a shelf life. It may be too late already.

Here goes nothing. And then I owe someone a post about hagfish.

The Ballad of Paul Simon and Edie Brickell
(sung to the tune of "Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard" - music below if you want to sing along)
by Chuck Baudelaire

Well, Edie Brickell has a story to tell
And Paul Simon is complainin'
About the time they were tested and both got arrested
For disturbing the peace in New Canaan.

The neighbors heard it all,
What Edie said to Paul.
Her mama was appalled,
And the police were called.

There was a fuss, Edie tried to discuss,
But Paul didn't want to hear it.
He couldn't take any more, but when he went for the door
Edie wouldn't let him anywhere near it.

The cops were on their way
When someone started shoving
They were on their way
Disorderly conduct was the charge that day
You'd never know 'em,
The way they were goin'...
New Bohemians singer and Garfunkel's co-star
New Bohemians singer and Garfunkel's co-star.

Long story short, they wound up in court
TMZ let the story leak.
They got a slap on the wrist and the case was dismissed
If they promised not to fight again next week.

Now they're on their way
Paul says he still loves Edie
They're going home
To put it in song on their best guitars
Back to New Canaan
Where they'll be remainin'...
New Bohemians singer and Garfunkel's co-star
New Bohemians singer and Garfunkel's co-star.
New Bohemians singer and Garfunkel's co-star.

Songs of Me

I found this nifty website called Six Songs of Me, which you should visit because it's a great idea and illustrates the universal power of music.

Which, lest we forget, hath charms.

Basically, the fine folks behind the site ask you to submit a list of songs that are important to you in each of six categories. Thousands of people have done it, and you can browse their lists and also see how many people have chosen any given song (spoiler alert: Beatles songs tend to get mentioned more often than, say, Social Distortion tunes).

I'm going to submit my list today, and I thought I'd share them here, too. You should submit yours, and also share them here or on my Facebook page. Because I love to know what makes my Drunkards tick, and also because I may get some killer mixtape tracks out of it. I know, no one calls them mixtapes any more. You kids get off my lawn.

Also, why don't phones have dial tones any more?
Grumble grumble.

But I digress.

Support the Six Songs of Me project. I'm not connected to it in any way, by the by. I just like cool Internet stuff. And music. And thinking about my own funeral. Yeah.

Six Songs of Me

What was the first song you ever bought?
"Heartbreaker" by Pat Benatar. It may not have been the very first, but it was close.

What song always gets you dancing?
"I Was Made for Lovin' You" by Kiss. If you own the Wii game "Just Dance 2," you'll understand.

What song takes you back to your childhood?
"Kodachrome" by Paul Simon. Hearing the word "crap" on the radio always made me giggle.

What is your perfect love song?
"I Will" by the Beatles.

What song would you want at your funeral?
"Can't Find My Way Home" by Blind Faith. Or maybe "It's the End of World As We Know It" by R.E.M.

Song that makes you, you.
"Like a Rolling Stone" by Bob Dylan.


Your turn.

Unresolved

Happy New Year, everyone! Yeah, I'm a day late. I didn't post of New Year's Day because...um, I was attacked by rabid monkeys that chewed off my fingers so I couldn't type. No? Would you believe...Paul Simon actually came by to deliver that Christmas gift I asked for? No?

Would you believe I got to doing stuff with my family and just plain forgot until it was too late?

Truth is stranger than fiction. Especially when it comes from me. Yeah, Precocious Daughter and I did some shopping - there was no food in the house that didn't originate in a stocking - and then we grabbed Beloved Spouse and hit the movies (Hugo - have you seen this movie? Fabulous.) Then we watched the Dallas Cowboys play the sorriest game of professional football since the last sorry game they played, and then boom, it was bedtime.

PDaughter and I also went on a failed quest for a rug to put in the living room. More on that later - it's a great story that involves hats, nerds, and a ceramic hedgehog.


Here's a picture of an adorable real hedgehog, because I'm too lazy
to go take a picture of the ceramic one in question.

D'awwwwww. Anyway, since it's a new year, let's talk about resolutions. I'm not making any this year. I'm very bad at keeping them. In fact, if you want me to not get something done, just make me resolve to do it. It's one of my psychological quirks, along with an intense fear of abandonment and my conflicted feelings toward potatoes.


Check your DSM-IV. It's got to be in there somewhere.



Really, I'm not good at setting goals and making them happen. I do much better working on the spur of the moment, up against ridiculous deadlines, and with no real plan of action. You may remember the saga of my amazing concrete floor, which started with BelSpouse ripping up all the carpet 10 days before Thanksgiving and ended with a fabulous paint effect, with several near-coronaries in between. That's how I roll, and bless BelSpouse for recognizing it.


Because now my front room looks like this.
That's right, balloons and streamers and everything.

Also, I did something very, very important in 2010 that wasn't the result of a resolution and probably would never have happened if I'd made one. I made this blog a daily commitment and published a new post almost every single day. Not because I grimly promised that I was going to do it, come hell or high water. That would have made it a chore and a grind and I would have resented the hell out of it and all of you before too long. Don't worry, I always resent the ones I love, so it wouldn't have been all bad. The point is, after 43 years on this Earth I've come to realize that my brain is wired to zero in on that cosmic loophole between promising to do something and actually doing it. The last thing you want me to ever do is tell you I'm going to do something. It's the kiss of death, folks.

You get some really interesting results when you Google "kiss of death."
This one is pretty awesome.

So I have a bunch of things I'd like to do in 2011, and I'm not going to "resolve" to do any of them. The important things in life tend to happen without planning. The most important things happen despite our best efforts. PDaughter is going to become a teenager this year, no matter what I do or say. I'm going to make a bunch of stupid mistakes, and no resolution to be even slightly perfect is going to change that. And I'm just not going to feed my loophole mentality by setting certain goals and therefore putting them safely out of reach for yet another year. Screw you, brain. And the lumpy potato you resemble.

This year I'm going to keep my commitments - get up in the morning and go to work, pay my bills, renew the car registration at roughly the correct time, vote for whichever candidate makes me the least physically ill in November. Those aren't resolutions, they're just life. Outside of that I'm going to do as many of the things that I think are truly important as my limited time, energy, and resources allow. I will fail, repeatedly and maybe spectacularly (and for the sake of this blog, I hope entertainingly). But God will keep lobbing opportunities at me, if He is so willing, and I'll field as many of them as I can. Based on past experience, I have a feeling that I'll manage to connect with the ones that really matter and hit them out of the park.

But no promises. What are you trying to do, freak me out? You're in league with the potatoes, aren't you?

Happy 2012, Drunkards. Stay tuned for another year of this crap. And thanks for tuning in at all. I'm baffled but grateful. If any of you sees Paul Simon, tell him I'm still waiting for him.

The Fourth (and Final) Item on My Christmas List

See? There are only four things, total, on my Christmas list. I'm not greedy. Let's recap the first three, shall we?

First, a hand-painted oil reproduction of Edmund Bristow's "Before the Monkey Duel."

Second, a pair of hermit crabs, which I have been prohibited from owning.

Third, a poseable Kermit the Frog to replace the one I loved but threw out in a fit of pique a few years ago.

I don't think any of those things are too much to ask. Somehow I've gotten a reputation as being difficult, demanding, and unreasonable. Which I entirely deserve. But not when it comes to Christmas.  I would really rather give and not receive. Receiving makes me nervous, to tell you the truth.


Why are you being so nice to me?

In that spirit, here's the fourth and final item on my Christmas list:

I want Paul Simon to come to my house and sing "Mother and Child Reunion" to me.


Maybe you've heard of him.

 Now, I know what you're thinking. And believe me, I'm willing to compromise. He can sing "American Tune" or "Graceland" if he wants. Hell, he's Paul Simon. I'm not going to tell him which of his many classic songs to sing to me. I would just prefer "Mother and Child Reunion," that's all.


Only a motion away.

In fact, I'd be willing to go further and say that I'd be happy if any left-handed Jewish singer-songwriter married to a former member of New Bohemians came to my house and sang "Mother and Child Reunion" to me. Again, I'd prefer Paul Simon. But if there are others, hell, I'll welcome them with a cup of eggnog and my rapt attention. We can watch Scrooge together.


The 1951 adaptation of A Christmas Carol starring Alastair Sim, of course.
Don't come to my house if you don't know that.
Unless you're a left-handed Jewish singer-songwriter married
to a former member of New Bohemians.

 I'll be waiting, Paul. Can I call you Paul? After all, you can call me Al. *snort* Sorry, I had to go there.

OK, so if anyone wants to know where I am, I'll be home making cookies and practicing my high harmonies. You know, just in case someone wants to sing "At the Zoo" with me. It could happen. Merry Christmas to all!