Setlists: Columbus vs. Louisville

I'll post my review tomorrow, but expect something glowing. If you know of my love for the only song in the second encore, then you know where I'm headed.

Lucinda (intertwined with "Ain't Goin' Down to the Well")
Way Down in the Hole
Falling Down
All the World is Green
Chocolate Jesus
Cemetery Polka
Sins of My Father
16 Shells from a Thirty-Ought Six
Trampled Rose
Cold Cold Ground
November
Black Market Baby
Hoist That Rag
Lucky Day
Innocent When You Dream
Lost in the Harbour
Lie to Me
Misery is the River of the World
Big in Japan
Dirt in the Ground
Make it Rain

First Encore:
Jesus Gonna Be Here
Eyeball Kid
House Where Nobody Lives

Second Encore:
Time

Now, compare that with Louisville, Aug. 7, 2006:

Make It Rain
Hoist that Rag
Shore Leave
God's Away on Business
All the World is Green
November
Falling Down
Tom Traubert's Blues
Tango til they're Sore
House Where Nobody Lives
Lucky Day
Who's Been Talkin' / Til the Money Runs Out
Eyeball Kid
Murder In The Red Barn
Lie to Me, Baby
Shake it
Circus
Trampled Rose
Get Behind The Mule
It Rains on Me
Goin Out West

Day After Tomorrow
Don't Go Into That Barn

Spinal Tap Moments

Bear with me here - I know Spinal Tap has many moments.

I refer to this one.

Tap and their manager, Ian, were stuck outside a hotel when Duke Fame and his agent, played by Howard Hessman, walks by. Tap tries to chat with them, and the greasy agent can't hide his disdain - even though Fame opened for Tap when he was starting out.

Finally, Hessman pulls ranks and drops this chestnut before walking away:
"Listen we'd love to stand around and chat, but we gotta sit down in the lobby and wait for the limo."

It might be one of the best movie blowoffs ever and like so many moments in Tap, it breezes by before it really registers.

So anytime someone gives me a brush-off that sounds gentle and first but becomes harsher the more you think about it, that's a "Spinal Tap moment. "

A P.R. told me that her client "would be passing on the opportunity for an interview" - same thing, different context. Media relations types excel at using soft language to fend off reporter types.

The phrase popped into my head at a wedding last year. Someone I had met at the previous night's rehearsal dinner and had a good conversation with walked by and then sat down with about 10 minutes prior to the ceremony. After three or four minutes, this woman gave an approximation of the Hessman line and moved up all of three rows. A pure Spinal Tap moment.

"Fuck you" might be considered rude, but at least it's succinct.

The Universal Language of Bob's Bar

I don't know this fellow, might never see him again, but he proved my theory correct - People know Bob's Bar.
I wanted to see if anyone would notice the shirt commemorating the 93 beers I finished between Spring 2006 and Winter 2007. I couldn't be the only Bonnaroo attendee with a love for the overhopped ales poured at Bob's.

Midway through Saturday afternoon, I departed B.B. King for Levon Helm and Iron & Wine when amid the shops and food vendors ... I heard someone yell out for Bob's Bar. This guy flagged me down and insisted I come with him for a picture ... I insisted on one in return.

Sunday morning, before I traded in this salt-crusted filthy thing, another pack of Columbusites gave me a big "Hey! Bob's Bar! In Columbus, right?" It was the perfect conversation starter for fleeting Bonnaroo friends.

"Cultural Hub of the Midwest" indeed ... maybe it's time Jim and the Bob's boys extend that to include the Mid-South as well.

Teenage Bill Melville, Eat Your Heart Out

Check out the blurry Jack White on the jumbo screen to the left. This was the vantage point for the Raconteurs, Metallica, Chris Rock, Jack Johnson, and Pearl Jam.









Erin and I pose with miniature Raconteurs shredding it up in the background.








Casey and I can only flash the horns as Metallica rages through "Last Caress" and James Hetfield never breaks from his wicked grin.

First Tim, Now George ... Who's Next?

June hasn't been a good month for me and my personal heroes.

For all the shock around Tim Russert's death, the loss of George Carlin was a bigger blow. He was one of the only celebrities I met outside the confines of journalism. I got about ninety seconds of face time at the Mayfield Heights Barnes & Noble when he appeared for a signing session for Brain Droppings, his first book.

Through all the box sets, DVDs, books and two live concerts, those seconds stuck with me. I didn't bore him with details of our long history. I used to sneak down to watch his HBO specials after my parents went to sleep. The severely stifled laughter never gave me away.

In my teen years, I discovered my parents liked him too - Dad and I saw him twice, and Mom kept some types in her car. In fact, Dad woke me this morning with the news. I'd not been as sad over a celebrity death since Johnny Cash.

Ironically, I'd watched the first episode of Saturday Night Live on Sunday night, not knowing he was already gone - I even thought about traveling to an upcoming concert to see him again.

It was just like a night in Washington D.C. nearly seven years ago, when Erin Roberts and I drank beers at the Rathskeller and talked about George Harrison, only to wake up to news of his death.

Moreso than other comedians, Carlin had a love of language and words - and not just those seven famous words. There's always "Baseball vs. Football," or the bit on Mohammed Ali ("If you won't kill 'em, we're not going to let you beat 'em up"). I always fell back on "The Things We Share," "The Planet is Fine" or "Free Floating Hostility" - Plus, he hated golf (see "Golf Courses for the Homeless"), which immediately endeared me to him. A Carlin comedy special was an event - what new musings on life and politics would George spout this time?

Few could go so quickly from a shit joke to trashing American politics to how we use soft language to strip away meaning and emotion. Few want to, which is what made the man great.

Now, I have to work, and starting with An Evening With Wally Londo, I will write about Colorado's low-cost generic pharmacy plan while working through his discography.

With some of the man's milder words, I'll leave you:

"Tonight's forecast ... dark, with continued dark until morning."

"Life is a series of dogs."

"The closest most of these assholes ever came to a cow is when they stopped to take a piss at an Arby's" (on men who wear cowboy hats).

"Simon says, 'Go fuck yourself.'"

The Chinese Democracy of Bonnaroo Blog Posts

Finally, let us put this to bed.

Jam Worth Spreading

Rather than settling in for three hours of My Morning Jacket, we beelined for The Other Tent and the mystery prize called SuperJam. Until the impromptu band hits the stage, no one reveals the lineup.

Rolling the dice proved fortuitous – 20 minutes after we arrived the irregular sprinkling showers split into a sheer downpour that left the festive scrounging for cover. People outside the tent crammed and screamed at those of us with the foresight to grab a seat.

When I first heard about SuperJam, two names came to mind – Jack White and bassist Les Claypool, two musicians with a proclivity for jamming outside their comfort zones.

With the crew sliding an upright bass among the microphones, the first participant was revealed.

With a delay due to cancelled flights in Chicago, more people jammed outside the tent seeking shelter. In a different setting, the delay might have turned riotous. But not in Machester.

Finally around 1:30 Claypool stepped forward to emcee, and Jack White slinked over to his Fender Mustang without a trace of rock star in his steps. Who would fill out the lineup - Eddie Vedder, Robert Plant, Jack Johnson, or Sam Beam from Iron & Wine?

[Upon further review of blurry YouTube footage, it might not have been Jack White after all - after the 100-minute wait for them to start, my mind might have started to see who it wanted to see. But a cowboy hat, black shirt, pale skin and a Fender Mustang or Jaguar? If it wasn't Jack White, this guy sure wanted to be him. ]

Thankfully none of the above appeared, and my new favorite band Gogol Bordello finished the lineup. The NYC gypsy punks were suitably stewed and ready to waltz through some improvised tunes.

The loose set centered around a trio of Tom Waits covers – “I Don’t Wanna Grow Up,” “Way Down in the Hole” and “Cold Cold Ground.” They ambled through the songs, turning them into the 15-minute epics necessary to make it a jam session. White looked perfectly content plucking some random notes and the occasional arpeggio. In a typically goody outfit with a latex mask that had to be hot as Hell, Les Claypool was an effective emcee, egging the audience into various nonsensical chants descended from his days as Primus’ frontman.

By this point, the fight with my body neared its end, and I’d lost long ago. SuperJam would end the night, but returning the tent, the music kept me going. After earning a spider bite in my late-night trip to the bathroom, I was really finished.

From the distant Which Stage, the Kentucky boys in MMJ serenaded me with innovative covers – first they brought a horn section up for a brilliant take on the Bobby Womack soul masterpiece “Across 110^th Street.” Then they made a fan forever as I crawled into my tent to the opening strains of the Velvet Undeground’s last opus, “Oh! Sweet Nuthin” blared through their guitars.

The Point of No Return

Rain pounded Manchester well into Saturday morning.

My hair was not the greasy mess I anticipated, and sponge baths kept my scent from leaning into rancid produce territory.

So I decided to forgo any thought of a shower and sweat my way through it. At best, my pheromones would punch through the deodorant mask; at worst, my friends would forgive me, and our concert neighbors would hate us.

After burning a few American Spirits with the Indian boys and the festival veteran two tents over, scent was not a worry.

Shortly before entering, I lost Erin and Sheri, so I set out to wander for a few hours before Iron & Wine, where I knew I’d catch them.

I caught a little of Gogol bordello’s afternoon set, which was not as drenched in alcohol as SuperJam. They again demonstrated themselves worthy heirs to the tight musicianship and party spirit of The Pogues. Super Taranta was my first purchase upon returning to Nashville.

Old Man #2 of 3: B.B. King

Are you allowed to be disappointed at a legend? Ask anyone who saw Chuck Berry at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame show 13 years ago.

I have to give the same answer from the five songs I heard from B.B. King. I found myself wishing I’d not skipped out on all those opportunities to catch him in Pittsburgh, Buffalo, Cleveland, Columbus and Nashville.

At 82, King is more storyteller than blues virtuoso. His massive band and horn section filled the gaps. He and Lucille were more like an elderly couple that endure on routine and little else; his faithful guitar was too much a prop at times.

I don’t blame the old man for not being able to tear it up anymore; I blame myself for expecting Live at the Regal.

Old Man #3 of 3: Little Levon

After a few sweeps though the Iron & Wine’s swelling crowd, the Stacey sisters walked in. They found a spot and I immediately charged back to the Other Tent to catch Levon Helm. A decade after beating throat cancer, his album Dirt Farmer showed the Band’s greatest voice remained strong. Onstage, he was diminutive behind his drum kit, even as he mowed down the small crowd with his voice.

Without the time to wait for him to revive a few Band favorites, I skipped back over for my favorite folkie.

Beam’s Choice

Although he’s better in a smaller setting, I couldn’t shut out Iron & Wine. Sam Beam rearranged his songs heavily for the concert stage. It has the effect of turning every opening note into a question, and the first words into a revelation.

With a full band, even new tunes like “White Tooth Man,” “Pagan Angel and a Borrowed Car” and Boy With a Coin” roared out fresh and well-oiled.

His heart-wrenching versions of “Carousel” and “Upward Over the Mountain” again proved his craft for tough folk tunes peppered with abstract lyrics.

We left as the mournful tones of “Trapeze Swinger” began, and the song followed us all the way to Jack Johnson, with me fending off tears the whole way.

Home Stretch

With apologizes to Neil Young, at Bonnaroo, even Jack Johnson has got soul. He’s an original Bonnaroo guy, but now too popular for anywhere but the What Stage and its massive lawn.

And honestly, the man can spit out a dynamic take on Zep’s “Whole Lotta Love.”

I’m not a Jack hater, but I recognize where he’s headed – this man will be Jimmy Buffett in a decade. The surf lifestyle has already won him millions of fans, and when my generation approaches forty, they will morph into Surfheads, tailgate with margaritas and wear Jack Johnson brand sandals (if they don’t already make them; I’m not bothering to look).

But after several long days, mellow fit the crowd, and was sorely needed a an intro to Pearl Jam. Eddie Vedder couldn’t be restrained until 10:30, and came onstage for a quick duet with Johnson.

Another Flavorful Jam

As with Metallica, Pearl Jam was a wild card. Ably mixing their best tunes with rarities, covers and Vedder’s inevitable Bush-hating rants, this outfit came to kick Bonnaroo’s ass.

Mission accomplished, with Vedder chugging wine throughout it all.

They played the best of Ten, gave me a bolt of “Corduroy” and threw in “Crazy Mary” for good measure. Their 2 and a half hours melted by, luring me back to a band I abandoned as a surly high schooler who couldn’t handle that everyone planned to buy Versus. I traded in Ten and never touched another PJ album despite how much I loved “Corduroy”; maybe it’s time to reconsider.

By the time they hit the encore, the wine had hit hard Vedder. He dedicated a song to a friend injured in the Iraq war who’s health took a turn for the worse. The always-intense Vedder nearly broke down.

With a pair of well-picked covers – The Who’s “Love Reign O’er Me” and “All Along the Watchtower” – Pearl Jam sent off my teenage self in grand fashion.

By that time, Kanye’s set had been moved back to 3:15.

Sigur Ros would have put me to sleep at the That Tent anyway, so I wandered back, laid down and let them do their work from my tent.

I’m Glad I Didn’t Wait (for Kanye or Sunday night)

How ironic that Chris joked about the “Kanye-sized ego” needed to run for president, when the festive had a big dose in store for the on Sunday morning.

Perhaps he’ll call his next record Persona non Grata, because that’s what Kanye West turned himself into at Bonnaroo by taking the stage at 4:30 a.m., a mere 495 minutes after his original start time. Dawn quickly broke on his light show; West never acknowledged the delay or the audience, going through the motions and departing.

Rogue Wave singer Zach Rogue asked the audience if Kanye really went on at 4:30 and assured the small afternoon crowd that “We would never do that to you.” These indie rockers stretched out their sound into dream alt-country pastures, showing chops they lacked when opening for The Shins four summers ago.

After they wrapped up, I scrambled back to the campsite to find the Indian boys moved their car, and I had a clear shot at the road. I pulled up, then sprinted inside to bid goodbye to my camping buddies. Beneath the giant rasta heads, I waited while Orchestra Baobob from Senegal unwittingly played my Bonnaroo swan song.

While somewhat disappointed in myself for skipping Solomon Burke and Broken Social Scene, I was marinated, cooked and ready to peel out of this oven. Ten minutes later, I-24 again stretched out before me, then 70 miles of highway and a shower were the only obstacles between me and a deep dreamless sleep.

Futuroo

A week later, I can’t see myself staking another tent in Manchester. This lineup grabbed me, but there were few that might drag me back.

But America finally has a festival system rooted in the European model – bands not fit a genre to perform at many, next year I might hit the road.

Actually, I hit the road for the next in five weeks – the Pitchfork Festival at Union Park in Chicago. I bought a Sunday pass because I preferred the lineup (Dinosaur Jr., Spiritualized, Spoon and Apples in Stereo) and didn’t have to drop cash on the other nights for the small yet feisty festival.

'Roo Report Part 1

The dreams have started, and at times I feel a phantom wristband where my Bonnaroo one sat for four days. My nose is actively peeling, but my headache remains and I still wince at sunlight.

You can scrounge through plenty of concert diaries from publications and bloggers across the country. The festival log here represents the musings of a Bonnaroo skeptic, a first-timer who might never return but remained happy for the journey.

The Slow Road to Manchester
So here we start, when 70 interstate miles sounded so simple. The Coffee County Sheriff’s office tacked on 28 – all drivers went way past the Bonnaroo exit to the dreaded line we hoped to avoid. At 7:15 a.m., we ground to a stop, 15 miles away.

We barely moved until Sheri needed to hit the bathroom, then the cars rolled an unexpected mile along the emergency lane. Sheri caught us after we pulled from the pack during the next long stop.

Then the Tee-Hee Girls began their dance. Descended from some sorority with low standards, the girls in the car in front of us cock-teased every group of boys that wandered past the stopped vehicles. They yanked out a boombox to start a mini-rave 10 miles from Bonnaroo; unfortunately for the wandering boys, that was all they yanked out. I drank copious amounts of water, longed for a Yuengling and tore through 50 pages of Lucky Bastard.

Then the traffic picked up to where the dance party had to wait until the tents poles went up. We rolled the last five miles to the security checkpoint, where a simple “no” about glass bottles got me through, and then it was set-up time.

Twenty minutes after 12 noon, the Sisters Stacey and I had beers in hand, tents standing, and a conversation going with the Indian boys from Drexel University in Philly who parked next to us.

The anticipation of all that music was downright painful.

We hunted down the Staceys’ friends for a few mid-afternoon brews, then grilled some Bocas before venturing to Centeroo, where gruff security search everything for beer and illegal materials that somehow slip inside the venue anyway. A guard shouted at me for not stepping away from the checkpoint fast enough, so I loudly dubbed them “The Gestaperoo.” Not only did I get laughs, but I demonstrated the impotency of Bonnaroo security (e.g. they didn’t kick me out for being my usual mouthy self).

The first night’s music coasted by, and I never made it to buzzband Vampire Weekend – their Ivy League credentials turned me off anyway. With the long night rapidly catching me, and the horror stories of sleepless, humid Bonnaroo nights never manifested.

With a thick fingernail moon and the Big Dipper clearly pointing out the Northern Star, the music didn’t matter. Inside the tent, I heard every note of the Dark Orchestra’s Dead reenactment, and it propelled me straight to sleep.

The next morning, I heard one of our tent neighbors exclaim, “Walking through that crowd was one of the most impossible tasks I’ve ever had to accomplish.” She was referring the neo-hippies drawn by the DSO.

And I thought I was soft.

Frantic Friday

Rising to complete a vigorous constitutional before the bathrooms drew a line, I read and made friends with our Indian neighbors, two recent college graduates on their last hurrah before careers dragged them apart. A few well-disguised joints and splashes of Jack Daniels made them enjoyable neighbors, even if the one guy’s girlfriend never spoke a word to me.

We started with the music – and Drive-By Truckers never sounded better. While the diehards can’t handle the bassist’s vocals, the set had a strange cohesiveness that let them escape their Lynyrd Skynyrd influences and rock in the Friday lineup as only a Southern band could.

Forty-five minutes later, the migration began, with Argentine/Swede Jose Gonzalez quickly going subtle. For once, he wasn’t alone on stage; a percussionist rounded out his sound, and he clearly earned a new following by the close of his 45-minute set. People leaving the stage had no idea who they just saw, yet few wanted to forget.

Tegan & Sara didn’t keep the vibe going. Identical twins who have become a latter-day Indigo Girls, but their synth-pop has yet to move into multiple dimensions. A few songs, as “Walking with a Ghost,” resonate, but they were the exceptions.

Stephen Marley only had to say “Hey mon, here be another of my dad’s songs.” He never did, but the crowd was already there. That was fine – he didn’t draw the obnoxious Tegan & Sara fans, so the reggae revival worked fine, even if it did sound a lot like a cover band working its way through Legend.

The Raconteurs deserve only one descriptor – blistering. Not for a second did the quartet let up, and they could have headlined without a second thought. Maybe Jack White needs to sit out a year so Bonnaroo appreciates him more. As much as they plowed through their newer cuts, they back off on others. “Store Bought Bones” became a funky, skeletal jam punctuated by three White solos.

Erin’s buddy Casey convinced us all that “Rich Kid’s Blues” was about to segue into “The End” from The Doors ... for about 10 seconds. It never happened, but it only augmented the onstage drama already provided by The Raconteurs.

Old Man #1 of 3: Willie Nelson

My only goal for the weekend was to catch the three old men I might not have the chance to see again – other goals would emerge as the weekend lumbered on. But catching Willie Nelson was a Friday priority – at 75, I couldn’t count on him to ply the concert circuit much longer. I knew every tune he and his band played; for the familiarity, they never felt as if they went through the motions. That show was more a family affair than any other – two of Willie’s sons, but the scions of his ancient band also joined the festivities. There was not a more laidback show the entire weekend – take that, Jack Johnson.

The weekend's shortest hour belonged to Chris Rock. For all the white folks nervously laughing at many jokes, he never avoided controversy, his observations about men and women were spot-on (men can't go backwards sexually, women cannot go backwards materially). The political material aped a recent Rolling Stone interview, but he tucked in enough new bits to keep it fresh. Plus, he advocated the need to kill Flava Flav, that his continued existence gives John McCain ammunition to say, "This guy isn't what I stand for." Can you argue that point?

Hell, he could have stood up there just bugging out his eyes for an hour and I wouldn't have stopped laughing.

OK, I'm officially over the Napster fiasco
Rock then introduced the biggest question mark of the weekend - Metallica. Would they play their less-dynamic newer stuff, debut songs from their upcoming record, or fall flat on the Bonnaroo audience?I heard the first words of "Creeping Death" and my mind dusted off all the lyrics I'd memorized at 14. More Ride the Lightning followed - "For Whom the Bell Tolls" and the title track, before they broke the show open with a range of songs from their first five -and unarguably best - albums.

That teenage Melville would have been happy to know that when his adult successor finally saw Metallica, his hair was long enough to rip off the bandanna and let it fly until an aching neck forced him to stop.

Even though Lars Ulrich wears the pants in this band, James Hetfield is a consummate rock frontman, teasing the audience, giving them verses to sing, and leading them

Short blasts like "Last Caress" and "So What" spiced up the set between epics like "Master of Puppets" and "...And Justice For All." They reveled in their moment, and rewarded the tens of thousands watching.

Really, it shouldn't be surprising; Metallica has played the European festival circuit for more than 20 years, and Bonnaroo's eclectic lineup follows the spirit of Glastonbury and others.

I couldn't help feel a little sorry for them - they played one song ("The Memory Remains") recorded after 1991. Hell, this concert could have been held in 1992, minus the band's haircuts. Everything else was nearly 20 years old. They disavowed such a large chunk of their work. Still, there's nothing wrong with Metallica clinging to their brightest moments; no one had to suffer through "Here of the Day" or "Unforgiven Two."

(Up next: Who showed up for Super Jam)

Because I'm the Only Person You Know Who Owns a "Meet the Press" T-Shirt

Thanks to all who texted and e-mailed while I waited for The Raconteurs to start Friday afternoon.

Non-journalists might not realize how big a loss Tim Russert was. For all his pit bullish tendencies as an interviewer, he was always fair, something rarely said about the legions of talking heads out there.

Let me just say that no one could ask a question in as many ways as Tim Russert about aspirations for higher office.

The last one I saw was Jim Webb, and as with everything else named as a presidential candidate or running mate, any attempt to reveal the door open was met with Russert trying to force his way inside.

No one came to an interview better prepared. The last time I saw him, he skewered Scott McClellan above a fire of comments he'd made that contradicted his money-grubbing memoir.

I only saw him lose his temper once, during a Colin Powell interview via satellite. When the questioning got tough, a Powell aide turned around the camera in protest and Russert immediately scolded Power about the inappropriateness of that act.

Did I mention how much he will be missed?

Once I Remember my Name ....

then I'll get to those Bonnaroo posts.

I'm pretty burned, pretty marinated and still collating all the music I saw. Sensory overloads on that scale need a little distance before writing coherently. I left early and slept away the difference.

But by 3 on Sunday, my first-ever bout of claustrophobia set in, due to the 60,000-plus human swarm and four days minus any personal space. So don't ask me about Robert Plant/Alison Krauss - I saw them two months ago, and there's no way their Bonnaroo performance topped the April 20 Louisville show.

So stick around, there's more to come on the big show, including a the weekend's long goodbye to the teenage Melville.

No Sleep Till Bonnaroo

At least that's what I'm told. The Stacey sisters depart Columbus in a few hours, and we all caravan down I-24 to Manchester at 5 a.m. to queue up for a prime camping spot.

I'm ambivalent at best about the Roo. If offered a refund, I'd snatch it up. After two weeks of swelter and personally soaked T-shirts, this sweat factory does not feel like sweating amongst 60,000-plus people also going without showers or indoor plumbing for four days.

Lower expectations, however, are a good thing - that way, there's no disappointment.

So long as I see Willie, B.B and Levon, I'll probably consider it a success. We'll double that if the mounted security don't hassle me over my Paulaner mini-keg.

If I return with a tick-borne disease or a punched trunk lock, that could get downgraded.

Then again, if someone is selling "Down with Parasites" bumper stickers, everything else is gravy.

To Dream an Impossible Joe

Some bike rides go about five miles too long.

Sunday's two hours of sun left my legs unsteady and a shower cooled me down into sleep mode. After an hour of napping, I awoke to find I literally couldn’t get up. Exhaustion riddled these bones.

I had no choice but to turn out another hour before I started work on my freelance story. Later I’d understand I had no choice for less tangible reasons - this was a dream I needed to have.

Beginning in medias res as all dreams do, I walked between my two apartments simmering over some guy with a girlfriend stealing someone else’s girlfriend. This tale’s progression made the who and why irrelevant; it could have been my girlfriend, for all I know. She had a tight jawline, porcelain skin, a Clara Bow haircut and remained highly anonymous.

It was laundry night, and my newer apartment finally had facilities.

I’d held onto both my current Nashville apartment and now rented a second, a walk-up which I shared with good ole Marjie Korcheck and … my brother Joe.

This was not the Joe of reality, here he wore some scraggly facial hair. was skinny, active and did things around the apartment. The sweatsuits he usually wears were replaced with a red sports coat, a white dress shirt a skinny hipster tie knotted perfectly (did he do that too?). It all matched, and seemed strangely appropriate of the personality I’ve always known lurking behind the fog. His had been cut in a rough approximation of how he’s always worn it

Isn’t it amazing that your brain can build a brand-new version of a person you’ve known your whole life, someone who you saw in every phase. This composite was scarily accurate.

As I shuttled between apartments on two nights – even in the dream, I wondered how I afforded two leases – the girlfriend theft was eating at me. I wish I knew why, but dreams never come with answers. People on the new block were talking about it, although some of those congregating at the apartment building’s security door were definitely echoes or amalgams of familiar people.

And as with almost all it dream appearances, Joe could talk.

As I pulled half-wet boxers from the washer – living without laundry facilities has become such a hassle that my dreams must soothe that open wound – Joe walked into the kitchen behind me.

Joe had put some gourmet chocolate chip cookies on a plate, and told me he bought them. As I pulled out his standard chair at the head of the table, the fact that Joe had just told me he bought cookies hit like a cornered heavyweight.

At that point I was stuck in that limbo where a dream becomes lucid yet the dream takes every action to sustain it. I had to grab what I could , so we shared an extended hug in which I called him my best buddy, and he said thanks in a croaking yet pleasant voice.

Then we got back to the business of laundry and chatting with Marje, who returned from the ether with more details on the girlfriend theft. That impossible domestic group fit well; Marje had gone to the store with him to get the cookies and joked about the cost.

Then, as all the good ones do, the dream fizzled as the mid-day heat elbowed into the cool late-summer twilight I had conjured as a backdrop.

The comfortable new apartment and dream brother in a red coat all slipped away.

Yet hours later, I still tasted those cookies.

Friday Musings for your Dining Pleasure

The Delaware Avenue bubbling goes on.
My neighbor has yet to dial the police. Percy remains confounded by the noise and scents emanating from the forbidden closet. I'm sweating about what happens when that steady gurgle stops.

Here are some items completely unrelated to that.

They grow up so fast ...

The Canadian geese that congregate at our office's retention ponds hatched their young a few weeks ago, and waddle awkwardly through the parking lot, delighting almost everyone until their masked parents turn aggressive.

Life moves fast in the animal kingdom - the goslings grow from tiny, fuzzy yellow creatures to gray, ugly and agitated, hissing at any pedestrians coming too close. Those ponds might stop stormwater runoff from construction, but they've created an ideal ecosystem for America's favorite nuisance bird.

Thank god for the box turtles and the occasional wild turkey running through the parking lot.

Ryman Relief
... I've skipped out on Marty Stuart's late-night jam twice, missed the last of Porter Wagoner, jumped at a journalism conference the weekend Lou Reed arrived, and been shut out of a Wilco pre-sale for the first time ever.

One year later, I finally have tickets to a show at the Ryman Auditorium, the first temple of country music. Better yet, it's a front-row balcony ticket to see The Raconteurs.

Better less, it's the first seat in the section farthest left of center - record company lowlifes swallow 75 percent of Ryman seats before they even go on sale.

So of course, it will probably still suck somewhat, despite Ticketmaster's claims of a full view. I'll cope, since it marks the first time Jack White has hit that famous stage since my infamous move - minus his surprise appearance with Bob Dylan.

It's a steeper price than the band's surprise shows at the Cannery Ballroom, but in the end, I think it will be worth the unofficial Ryman surcharge.

There's Nothing Brotherly About Half-Marathons
... I'm back on a running routine this week. Signing up to run a half-marathon in Philadelphia in late September ensures that.

I'll try a longer run on Sunday morning, and hope my knee understands what pain must come.

The Chemistry Project, Hour Nine

The bubbling has begun .... and that's all I can reveal.

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crappy Car Keys

Expecting a review, perhaps?

I have too much anger at inanimate objects for that right now. Brace yourself, because all of the talk of keys and ignitions sounds like innuendo.

About six weeks ago, my car key began responding to the Corolla's ignition as if I tried to start a different car.

Grabbing the spare key, I didn't think about the moody ignition again until a few weeks ago when I left the spare at home. I half-expected to walk the three miles back from Target after emptying my cache of swear words at the unresponsive key. It took 10 minutes of such constructive behavior to finally hit the sweet spot and motor away.

Now, the backup has become equally useless, not even sliding completely into the ignition. When it does, it clicks and refuses to budget, almost encouraging me to grow angry enough to break it and immobilize the Corolla.

No such luck, keys - I'm not so angry these days. But I'm getting there.

The 10-minute struggle became a regular routine on almost every driving excursion. In the Walgreen's parking lot, it threatened to turn into a 15 or 20-minute ordeal.

With that, I could not delay any longer.

This morning, I had enough and burned down a locksmith shop to improve my mood .... actually, I left the car and those two useless keys with the dealership.

Whether newly cut keys, a new ignition or a locksmith rebuilding the entire thing, I can't wait until these artifacts leave my hands and the trusty Corolla roars to life on the turn of a wrist.

Maybe I'll give the old keys a proper burial, or keep them as a reminder of those carefree, humid evenings when my swearing at an unresponsive car could have made sailors blush.