Both Sides Now

I just served as an on-the-record source for the first time, with a trade pub reporter who believed me to a high-level healthcare pundit.

Save your laughs; I've long-since beat you to them.

I immediately understood the trepidation radiated by people being interviewed. This reporter couldn't repeat back what I said to her to save her life - every notion about my research work was preconceived, and she kept trying to cram my words to fit her theme. I fully expect to have someone complain , and fully plan to respond with my own criticisms if necessary.

What a strange first - I was on TV programs as a reporter, a radio show and occasionally took questions from journalism students needing to talk about the practice. I never indulged in the Benedetti "I'm my own unnamed source in this story" brand of journalism. I rarely wrote columns as a reporter for fear of showing my personal political cards to the readers. As a columnist, I rarely turned back into a reporter.

Still, I can't say I enjoyed speaking as an (ahem) authority.

"We're not eating Mr. Pinchy, he's part of the family now."

What do I earn for visiting the fancy grocery instead of the dilapidated store down the street?

A staredown with a lobster eager to break his rusty cage ... and scuttle.

If it were a tank so thick with lobsters that the only visible movements were swiveling antennae and claws seeking leverage, I could have ignored it. The plight of piled crustaceans is more easily obscured that than a lonesome feisty one.

But this one wanted out badly, grinding his legs against the tank and rubbing those banded claws futilely against the glass.

That last angry lobster saw the world beyond the square tank ...if, of course, a lobster can can feel anger or want more from life than captivity ending in a steaming stockpot.

Circling the store, I passed the tank again to the same reaction. Damn that charismatic invertebrate. "OK, fine .... I won't eat your kind anymore either," I muttered in the empty seafood aisle. So long as chickens don't silence their annoying traits anytime soon, I'm not turning veggie.

Nor does my sudden change of heart save that lobster - by the end of the weekend, it cracked shell will mingle in the trash of someone much richer than myself. If I've learned nothing else from The Simpsons, I know that all lobsters taken from the ocean are destined for a warm bath.

So lobster has departed the menu - actually, it departed three years ago, the last time I had some for dinner.

I'll give it up, no matter the tenderness of the tail meat ... OK, I have to go back to my carrots now.

Team Gordon Back on the 5K Circuit

We can’t vote for Bart Gordon, but we can run for him. Again.

On a hazy morning when the clouds spit out just enough rain to amplify the humidity, I found myself pounding the mean streets of Murfreesboro and Middle Tennessee State University for a man I never met.

When Gordon’s rep first handed me a shirt, I knew nothing of the man. But I'm happy to run for him - it's an election year, and that meant Team Gordon was outfitted in performance running shirts for the big race.

Since our benefactor is considered the fastest man in Congress, I felt a litte better about turning myself into a running political advertisement. That nickname is no joke - Gordon's won the Capital Challenge 19 years in a row, and at age 59 finished the 2008 race in 18 minutes, 40 seconds.

Our little band represents everything a politician about to face voters would in runners – we crossed the finish line every two to four minutes, with times from 22 to 40 minutes.

I ran bare-eared, taking a break from the iPod. Whether it changed the outcome, I can’t tell. It meant hearing a state Senator say hello the volunteers guarding every intersection along the course. Plus, the flat route flew by In any event, it marked my first sub-30 minute finish in 2008 – and my last 5K for the next six weeks. Everrything on the calendar will be six miles or more in preparation for the Second Annual Murfreesboro Half Marathon on Oct. 11.

The web site bills it as “flatter than last year.” Given what I have seen of The ‘Boro, that should indicate better results than the rolling course of the Country Music Half.

New Jersey's Patron Saint Charms Nashville

Waiting in the long line for a spot close to Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band yielded immediate benefits.

An hour before the doors opened, we caught pieces of the soundcheck echoing through the Sommet Center atrium, with the E Streeters running through a Sam Cooke song several times until they finally locked in step.

When they emerged to begin their epic set, there was no question that they locked it in every step of the way.

Loose, spontaneous and totally in control, Bruce and Co. grabbed the wheel, took turns even they didn't expect and only eased off the gas with their final bow after "Dancing in the Dark" closed a 45-minute encore.

With a few sections in the Sommet Center's 300 level glaringly empty, the E Streeters couldn't have come any closer to a sell out, not in Music City. The crowd more than compensated for the vacant seats. Not a verse went by without some sing-alongs, and Springsteen frequently turned the microphone over audience members in the front row.

Springsteen plucked signs song request signs from the crowd - as well as one declaring "I Love Max" - then proceeded to tear through "Good Rockin' Tonight" before telling us all about that "God damn guitar" in the middle of Greetings From Asbury Park tune "Growin' Up," in which he recounted buying his first guitar.

The more elaborate the sign, the better chance it stood with The Boss - "Girls In Their Summer Clothes" was inevitable once he grabbed one reading "Boys in Their Summer Clothes" with a picture of a younger Bruce playing baseball in 70's-era short shorts.

A few nuggets from Springsteen's non-E Street moments made the cut - the best song ever written about the collapse of the Rust Belt ("Youngstown") and the raucous fiddle tune "American Land" from the Seeger Sessions tour. He also crooned through the first few bars of "Walk the Line" to satisfy a request for a Johnny Cash tune and in honor of Joe Strummer's birthday, effortlessly bashed out The Clash's version of "I Fought the Law."

But that was the beauty. The performances felt effortless. When it didn't - the band huddling to discuss how to play some of the requests - Bruce and Co. provided moments no other band could duplicate.

In a cavernous hockey arena, they connect with their fans. Taking audience requests, shaking hands with fans bunched up against the stage railing, Bruce sitting in a lone chair at the edge of the sage for "I'm On Fire," tossing a harmonica to a kid in the crowd .... those acts make sense of all the white manes in the pit area. Across three-plus decades, Bruce's audience always comes back.

Five hours after getting in line, nearly three after the show started, our common refrain for how many songs they played was, "I lost count." With the band's relentless drive and improvised setlist, keeping pace with the E Street gang was demanding yet constantly rewarding.

Connect these thoughts at your own risk

Benefit of Leaving Mainstream Journalism #10,213:
The company is sending me to a one-day health plan conference in Denver. Twice I've driven through while helping friends move west of the Rockies, but only stopped once for a quick breakfast after a night spent crossing Kansas.
So I visit Denver mid-week, sit through a day's worth of sessions that will be transformed into stories, and finally meet the sources I've known only by phone for a year.
Then it's two days of fun, provided Denver does not get buried in one of those early snowstorms.
By meeting with sources and working on Columbus Day (a paid holiday on the other side), I can spend two extra days at 5,280 and above, crafting a nice mini-vacation and write off nearly the entire venture.
Take that, community journalism.

***

Ever time a driver runs down a cyclist, I run through every time I nearly ended up as a hood ornament.
In six years of regular riding, those near-collisions with bumpers number in the dozens. Surprisingly, most came in Columbus - Nashville's West End has highly dangerous intersection for cyclists, so I know to to pedal with extreme caution.
Once you accept that drivers pay attention to those moving under their own power, it gets easier.
Expect the SUV'ers to make the dumbest driving decision possible, and you'll never get angry - or flattened - when they do.

***

I wish Coldplay got a few albums under their belt for turning popular - Viva la Vida has some quality songs, but too many with half-baked lyrics and synth-drenched melodies. This band still feels in need of an identity. Maybe on Album No. %.
Plus, I can't help but like Chris Martin - he's hardly a typical, egomaniacal rock star - despite having a wife more famous than him. In the RS interview, he came off as a guy glad for what life delivered him - he admits Gwyneth is the only person he's ever been in love with.
(You know how I know I'm gay?) ...

***

For the first time in five years, I left the dentist's office with a clean bill of teeth. After all those times my mouth became a mining operation, I was due.
Plus, my dentist is in her early 40's, divorced, a mother of two and never fails to make men's heads turn. (You know how I not I'm not gay?) ...

***

That's all I have, aside from sore fingers. Tomorrow: All about Bruce.

When Can I Disappear into the Ether?

Somewhere in the mangle of a weekend of best-ever cab drivers, hideous road rage, insufferable deadlines, MMJ and a party I could not manage to leave, my buddy Jamie Leigh and I got talking about up and disappearing.

How would our worlds respond if any of us pulled up and walked away without notice?

How long would it take for people to realize?

Now, for those of you who’ve known me long enough to remember a time or nine when I just got bored with a party and walked out without a word, this might not surprise.

But it’s always tantalizing.

In a long-gone America, you could disappear easily into the frontier. Maybe an Indian raid or bandits robbed and killed you 100 miles from home. Maybe you found comfort in the view from Big Sky Country. You didn’t need to come back.

With identification so much a part of society, you can’t really go “off the grid” without some world-class forgeries in your pocket. Hell, for most of us, “off the grid” consists of turning off the cell phone for an evening, or not answering e-mail for a few weeks.

But in a way, the cell phone offers greater freedom – if someone did finally track you down, you could shrug them off with a simple “ I can’t talk. I’m finally about to get my seventh continent out of the way and once I get on the boat to Antarctica, cell towers become a rare commodity.”

The people at work would know first; more than one day without a call, and someone knows something is out of place. Hell, they shook off my diplomatic attempts to not have the stock office birthday gathering I had no interest in. They might give me a day, but after two, the hunt would be on.

I could dodge most others for a little while, but eventually my flight would be known.

Plus, Orange Fury would pose a problem in my case – he’s the worst traveler of all time, and how could I dump His Aloofness into someone else’s care without tipping my hat?

If I have that abrupt urge for going, I better walk to the car and take off blasting Neil Young’s “Albuquerque” all the way through a Texas night. Sure, I might tell work so my little excursion doesn’t leave me jobless upon my return.

Until I’m independently wealthy, I can’t completely disconnect, I guess. But I can dream.

And should I vanish for a short time, I really will come back – I lean too hard on my friends to go all Thoreau on everyone.

Dear MMJ: More Surprises, Less Jamming Please

I hate to compare shows, but My Morning Jacket forced my hand Friday.

As they noodled past the two and a half hour market at Nashville's Riverfront Park, I understood how deeply Jim James and Co. spoiled me with their show for the ages at Bonnaroo.

Anyone who broke out covers of Bobby Womack’s “Across 110^th Street” and the Velvet Underground’s “Oh! Sweet Nuthin’” in the same set would.

Seventy miles from Manchester, their long versions of songs frequently turned into the oblivious party guest unable to recognize it’s time to leave.

Now, I had no expectation they would repeat Bonnaroo – those are special circumstances for many bands, and Kirk Hammett doesn’t just show up for a few songs everyday (nor did I have interest in sitting through a downpour). But that set displayed the band’s live boldness.

Don’t think of it as a disappointment - for the first two hours, MMJ had me at almost every turn.

Expertly mixing in tracks from across their oeuvre, they never faltered, even when James appeared onstage in a cape for a few songs.

They had to compete with a Titans preseason game across the Cumberland, along with the General Jackson, coal barges and evening river traffic. Fireworks from the game gave James the dry-witted moment of the night: “We paid a lot of money for them. I hope you enjoy them.”

When they stuck to that script – “Librarian,” “Touch Me I’m Going to Scream Pt. 1” and “Off the Record” – the results were amazing. Few bands put out a tighter effort.

When the songs meandered into sparse, atmospheric jams looking back at the 10-minute mark, they lost their adventurous edges to a repetition unbecoming of a crack live band.

Concerts that push the three-hour mark always run the risk of monotony if the musicians fail to tread carefully. Jamming can take inspired turns, but it's a tough line to walk.

MMJ never courted that territory in June, but as 11 p.m. neared, those extended versions bumped up against their limits, and the quirky covers were sorely missed. I ducked out at that point, more than satisfied with what I heard earlier.

Some of the dull moments can be chalked up to the kinks that often plague the first show on a tour.

Songwise, I heard everything I expected to hear, mostly executed without hitches.

But a little taste of MMJ’s unexpected side would have been welcomed.

America's ... Next (ahem) ... First Mandolin Idol

For 11 years, it was part of the room, not an instrument played for any extended stretches.

I owned a mandolin. No one would call me a mandolin player - especially me.

Bought from a college friend for $265 when he upgraded to a newer model, you might say I tiptoed around the instrument, that I was afraid of it. I put it away frustrated every irregular time I picked it up. My fingers twisted across the tiny fretboard, wrecking chords wherever they landed.

Fiddling around led me to figure out a few songs and chords -REM's "Losing My Religion," a few fragments from Zep's "Battle of Evermore" and "Going to California," intros to a half-dozen Pogues tunes and the outro to "Maggie Mae". But I knew pieces of songs, no chords and never kept it from its case for long.

Now, the mandolin and I try to spend an hour of quality time together every day, learning chords and simple bluegrass tunes in hopes of someday playing before audience larger than a mystified cat.

A month ago, it was propped in the corner, coated in a film of dust and cat hair. My thoughts about it consisted of "I should really play it more often" before moving onto something else and forgetting it again.

Cue musical epiphany: During a conversation in Chicago, I realized that owning mandolin and living Nashville meant I no longer had an excuse to not play it properly. Teachers might be hard to come by in Columbus, but I would never be in a better position to learn.

With a little advice from a mandolin player at work, I found a great teacher at a bargain price (the man has his own line of instruction books, plus a wikipedia page - to honor the student-teacher bond, he'll remain anonymous here).

Two lessons in, I can't say how refreshing it feels to walk out of his practice room. After a terrible day of work, playing "Keep on the Sunny Side" effectively spirited away all its traces.

Holding my own with the bluegrass boys on Full Moon jam nights in Nashville is only the beginning. I'll try one of those in September, once my comfort level rises - that tide is just began to roll in.

I have another dream, one I don't find unrealistic so long as I don't become tethered to Music City.

That desire must stay close to the vest - although it might start along "The Rocky Road to Dublin" or beside "The Sick Bed of Cuchulainn."

The name is Child. Julia Child.

Julia, we always suspected there was more to you, and luckily, your targets never did.

So the First Lady of Cooking on Television served in the corps of American spies prior and during World War II.

We forget there was a time when ordinary Americans played a role in the spy game, before our country decided it needed to monitor us as much as enemies abroad. Child was not the only famous one -Eccentric catcher Moe Berg's photos taken during a baseball barnstorming tour through Japan provided important intelligence for bombing runs a decade later.

They should have kept her on board when the corps folded after WWII ended - she could have baked poisoned dishes for the CIA to serve up to hostile foreign leaders.

Think about the scenarios. Has Charles de Gaullebeen a little too mouthy lately? Has Willy Brandt been yammering too much about Ostpolitik for the CIA's liking? Watch out for special ingredients from that marble-mouthed, awkward woman in the kitchen.

Instead, her machinations were confined to public television, and the world a better off for it.

Cardinal Rule of Running: Never Insult Fellow Runners

If someone rises at 6 a.m. on a Saturday just to run all or part of 3.1 miles, they don't deserve to be heckled.

Now, I might not want to break bagels and bananas with my fellow runner after the race, but I won't knock anyone's decision to hit the asphalt.

Not everyone thinks that way, I learned this weekend. The Hipster ... ahem, Historic East Nashville 5K wound through the trendy neighborhood never venturing more than a half-mile from the start/finish line.

Nearing the finish, I was about to pass a college-age girl when a middle-aged runner who'd already finished gave her this strange bit of encouragement.

"C'mon, you don't want to get beat by the fat guy, do you?"

Yelling "Fuck you" with children in earshot never felt so good. The girl and I shared looks of bewilderment at the old duffer's comments.

Now, since runner's knee kept me from my normal thrice weekly jogs, I have not turned into Chris Farley impersonator. No amount of toning has an impact on the weak Melville chin, unfortunately.

But dammit, that soured my Saturday. I always thought it was an unspoken rule of running - not every is born Kenyan, or with a body shape conducive covering long distances.

So cut them some slack.

Besides, should I sit at home at not run?

If it did wonders for the physique, America would be bastion of health, not bulging seams.

Things I'm sick of hearing at this moment

Minute-by-minute coverage of Brett Favre's return: See him get off a plane! Watch him walk into Packers headquarters without commenting! When will he suit up for the Jets?! You'd think he was about to be named John McCain's running mate or brokered an Israeli-Palestinian peace deal with all this fanfare.

People in SUVs complaining about the cost of gasoline: Fill in your own complaint, because you hate it too.

China hasn't done enough to improve human rights: They're not exactly environmental pioneers, either. However, I do want to see the water events, and the sailing teams cutting their way through all that algae. China is not a benign dictatorship, people - they found a way to embrace capitalism without doling out freedoms to their citizens. And so long as they buy copious amounts of U.S. debt and keep us afloat, don't expect anything more than rhetoric from American presidents.

House flippers crying about the market collapse: You're not "just trying to get ahead" when you buy four condos with the hope of reselling them at a huge mark-up. Outside of Joel Osteen circles, it's called greed.

The continuous nitpicking between Jarack McBama ... well, you know who I mean. Just three endless months to go.

The crazy woman who paid $50,000 to have her dead pitbull cloned: Lady, there are thousands of good dogs out there trying to avoid euthanasia.And stop acting like those puppies are the same dog that's three years gone - genetically, they're identical. But you can't clone personality.

Dear Aug. 6, 2008 - Welcome Aboard

Seriously, one day makes a massive difference.

Dear August 5, 2008, Kindly Go to Hell

In case you were curious about any impending celebrations, there's your answer.

In case you need a reason to dislike this day, they are myriad, courtesy of the History Channel, the New York Times and Wikipedia:

Abe Lincoln authorized the first federal income tax in 1861.

Marilyn Monroe was found dead on this day in 1962 - the same day Nelson Mandela was jailed. He wouldn't get out until 1990.

The English capture Scottish patriot William Wallace.

Anne Frank and her family were discovered in the Secret Annex and arrested (it happened on August 4, but my theory is it was already Aug. 5 somewhere).

Other deaths - Actor Richard Burton and football coaching legend Paul Brown. Even worse is Ben Kenobi, Sir Alec Guinness, who passed on this day in 2000. The man's name is an anagram for "genuine class." What more do you need?

But seriously, after last year's WEB - Worst Ever Birthday - I'm not celebrating until I'm out of Nashville. Period.

As of today, I'm 31 - jut don't ask me when I got there.

I'll Miss Him More Than His Father

Too many obits will lean on Skip Caray's longevity as an Atlanta Braves broadcaster and his position in the first family of baseball broadcasting.

Too few will talk about why the loss of this broadcaster stings baseball fans so.

He was the first baseball broadcaster I knew as a kid. During four childhood years in rural Georgia, as my baseball fandom emerged, Caray gave it a voice through those TBS broadcasts.

His clean, unassuming tone never sounded bored, even during the dark years of Atlanta baseball, when Dale Murphy led a cast of has-beens and never-wills through seasons guaranteed to end with 90-plus losses - moving from Cleveland made it easy to root for fellow losers like the Braves.

Caray never applied a candy coating to his game-calling - the Braves stunk, and he never shied from telling listeners about their odor of the day. Skip was the cool-headed, straight-talking member of the family.

Baseball broadcasters are a voice in a wilderness for those of us stuck at home. Those calls change how we view the game's great moments - Vin Scully's amazement at Bill Buckner's infamous Game 6 error, Mel Allen's consistently affable "How about that!" call, or the Reds beloved Marty Brenneman. Those voices gently usher listeners through game after game, connecting us to far off events. They play Prometheus, their words sparking imagination's reeds and flesh out every pitch.

Only Skip could bring the diamond at Fulton County Stadium to rural Dublin any night of the season.