I’ve had this Theory bouncing around my head for awhile, and as I haven’t posted jack-squat on this here sweet blog o’ mine in many moons, I’ll let ‘er rip:

From time to time over the last decade or two, I’ve been a part of a Band. You know, a Band: One of those loosely defined collectives of musicians who build up a virtual family of their own making and then proceed to bitch and squabble with one another in more perverse and pervasive ways than any dysfunctional clan of inbred hill-jacks on Jerry Springer.

We’ve fought over women; we’ve feuded over money. We’ve brawled about where to play, how to play, what to wear, and what to say. We’ve clashed when we drank too much and snapped when we didn’t guzzle enough. And for what? For a few positive write-ups here and there. For a chance to be the Cool Kids for a moment in another of a one-in-million short-lived and ever-mutating Scenes. And, yes, we did it for the Music.

There’s nothing quite like those moments when it all comes together. Whether it was funk or punk, whether it was sober or drunk, the promise of the sublime was often so close at hand. Every once in awhile Heaven would touch Earth. That was a good place to be, and it made up for all of the above.

Hexed as I am, and having learned nothing from the past, I’m bound to repeat this accursed cycle of love and loss again before my time is up.

So I must ask: Who among you is worthy to join hand-in-hand with me on this noble quest to Rock ‘n Roll Nirvana? With whom shall I scale the sacred walls of this Electric Valhalla?

(Back to my Theory:)

To make it in a band, you’ve gotta earn 10 Points. There’s 2 ways to score on this game of rock. (So we can all play!) The first 10-point scale is one of musicality (aka, “How much do you rock?”) The better you are at your given instrument, the more points you can earn. If you have other talents, like the ability to produce non-cringe-inducing background vocals, you can earn bonus points. Knowledge of music theory and a studied musical palette round out this category.

The second 10-point scale is one of amiability. If your company is worth keeping, you can tally up your quota here. If you’re a fun guy, you get points. If you can keep your composure and a good attitude at a 2am gig on a Tuesday attended solely by the bartender and her luckless boyfriend, you get points. If you’re hardworking and responsible as well, you can really rack up the bonus points.

Got it? Let’s clarify with a few practical examples:

You really need a keyboardist to propel your punk-rock up and over the next new wave, but alas, none are to be found. You turn to Craig’s list where you find a classically-trained vintage moog-loving (and owning!) eccentric who lives across town. On the 10-point scale of musicality he’s, yes, a perfect 10! However, the guy’s a pain in the arse who’s pretty sure your Duran Duran tribute act is beneath him and does his best to let you know that he’s capable of so much more, thus scoring no points on the second scale. However, he’s already earned his 10 points suggesting chords, fixing harmonies, and re-writing the bridge and introduction of your first big single. He’s in!

You really need a keyboardist to propel your punk-rock up and over the next new wave, but alas, none are to be found. You decide that the bassist’s brother (who’s always hanging around rehearsal anyway, fetching beers, hauling gear and cracking jokes) might do. So you buy an old Roland on e-bay and give him a shot. He sucks, but with practice, can push the keys your tell him to push more or less with the beat. Although he failed to make it on the board musically, his “good-guyness” (and wacky on-stage antics) earned him a 10 in the second round. He’s in!

I like to think I’m about a 5 or 6 on each scale, giving me a blended 10. Sure I can play a bit, but I can also be a bastard. And sure, sometimes I miss a cue I’ve rehearsed a thousand times, but I can usually laugh at myself when I do.

All that being said, I’d rather work with an overall decent guy than a hot-shot musician. No one’s getting famous around here, but you can miss out on having fun pretty fast.

(This blog shall return.)

However, the Love Boat of my life has hit an iceberg of Exciting and New and I must attend to the burst bulwarks before my cup runneth all over my Client’s vintage white-shag rug.

That really pisses ‘em off. Every time.

… but they don’t like to be alone with me.

Half our fence fell prostrate before Mother Nature as She decided that 50 degrees was too magnanimous a December fortune for Her children in Ohio. The error was sternly corrected with a high-winded 30 degree drop over the next few hours.

My neighbor and I meet the next day to walk the line, one to a side. “It never was a good fence,” I tell him. He says it doesn’t matter that it’s down for awhile. “I can take Duke out on a leash,” he says. “Don’t worry, he can poop in my yard,” I reply.

A New Year dawns, the temperature stretches for 60 to greet the second week. Remembering my duty, I apply hammer to nail and stake to earth to raise the fence back to a useful, if not perfect, condition. I rejoice in the afternoon spent in the sun. I remember back to earlier existence when I purchased these same boots, this Carhartt jacket. When afternoons and often whole days were lost in the silence of the woods. When I earned my paychecks turning trees to cord wood, wrestling boulders, caring for the saplings of another harvest. Though today I’ve neglected most of my responsibilities, I sleep the deseved sleep of satisfaction in work well-accomplished.

But Mother Nature disagrees. She does not think that a few e-mails should be sufficient to cover my ass. She sends Her winds again. She taunts me with Her warmth and then sends Her storm. Feeling the fear of a five-year-old as the house shakes/shudders/moans, I scramble to the safety of sleep with covers pulled high over head and dread blowing all around me.

I awake to find my fence face-down again, genuflecting to its Mistress. My still-sharp stakes torn up and strewn about. Like shark’s teeth on the beach, they give evidence to a once great creature, now no more. Today, I must mend the wall again. Armed with twice the nails, deeper stakes, but a broken will, I buttress again without complaint.

It never was a good fence. And now there is poop in my yard.  But I am happy.

Maybe it was the pending solstice, which seems to have hit at 6am this morning. I don’t know, but something flipped today for the better.

Yesterday was a bad day for my insides. How do I know?

I felt compelled to listen to Born To Run (both album and song) repeatedly. For some reason, it’s a guaranteed tear-jerker for me. Ask Rocs, she’ll tell you: there’s times I’ve bawled. Oh yes. Yesterday’s listening was shear masochism. Tramps like us… (sniff)

Then it switched to the music of my youth. America. (The song, not the band.) Which has just a darn tootin’ few too many similarities to the aforementioned Springsteen number. I’m getting concerned.

So I’m trying to run away from something. But then I woke up with Love Bites on the brain. At 4am. It’s a breakthrough!

The days are again getting longer. Springtime is in the air. I can hear the birds. Can’t you?

… if you can’t write a cohesive paragraph or three about it once you’re done? I enjoy staring at words and turning pages while on the john, but perhaps I should be a little more engaged.