Confessions

I already broke down about Huey Lewis, but now I've got Sports on (recently acquired on vinyl, bitches, the jacket photos clearly showing Huey and the News singing the anthem center court at the coliseum over the Golden State Emblem) and I want to keep the tap flowing. The thing about Huey, and really a lot of records produced in the 80's, top 40 or otherwise- it's the envelope, as in the sound envelope. There's this great, clean space around every syllable, every horn stab, every riff. It's all palm-muted, noise-gated, wide digital reverb. It's the fucking sound of newness. I want everything I write to be like that (reason why I write so infrequently, I rarely think like that. I think like dribble into a blog).

Number 2: I cannot get into Bob Dylan. I feel like I'm stabbing so many people in the back by saying this, especially because of the unfortunate name thing, but I just haven't heard, seen, read anything that makes me fall in love with him. I only mention this because, consequently, I can't get into this discussion amongst poets, lots of them, that takes Dylan's genius as a given. Sorry.

I hacked up the bark of a real, live, century-plus redwood tree to attach little pieces of no-longe live redwood timbers to make a fence to keep deer from eating a precious little garden I'm building for someone. My job is impossibly fucked up sometimes.

I haven't read a book in months.