tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1712353949489634762023-11-15T19:26:57.092-08:00the velvet elk|| official don dilego blog site ||loungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171235394948963476.post-67219002935556707702010-10-14T19:25:00.000-07:002010-10-14T19:35:16.288-07:00Battle the Band<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><b><br /></b></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">[DAD] Donald?</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">[ME] Yeah Dad, sorry to wake you.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">[DAD] Do you know what goddamn time it is?</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">[ME] I know. It went later than I thought.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"> [SILENCE]</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">[ME] Sorry. Goodnight.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"> [HEADING OFF TO BED]</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">[DAD] Well...did you win?</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">[ME] Actually, yes.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"> [INDETERMINABLE LENGTH OF SILENCE]</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">[DAD] Don’t forget to mow the lawn tomorrow.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">[ME] [SMILING] Ok.good </span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">night.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><br /><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">Ok, so that might not paint the greatest picture there, but that exchange with my father when I was 15 or 16 remains one of the fondest memories of him before his passing. Donald Sr. was</span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">a gruff, solid rock of an Italian father. Quite conservative, somewhat anti-social, but as dependable as I think a father could ever hope to be. From as far back as I can remember, the only real bond we ever shared was baseball. More specifically the Boston Red Sox. It’s a time-honored story, the father/son/Red Sox thing, but I did live it with him. And I loved to play. He encouraged, as most any dad to son would do, the playing of any and all sports.He wasn’t what you might call, an avid supporter of the arts. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">In all my years of growing up through school, I only really ever got in one fight. Let me set the scene for you. Fifth grade of CT Plunkett Intermediate School in Adams, MA. Probably an early December morning on the playground before the school day has begun. I am wearing a classic wool NFL football hat of my favorite team, replete with the requisite pom pom top. As we’re doing our usual running around the playground, someone grabs</span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">the hat off my head and starts a game of “keep away.” Give it back! I shout. My friend tosses it to another guy, who is not so much my friend, and worse, a sixth grader! I swear, give it back! As this sixth grade enemy swings to send hat sailing to next person, the pom pom tears away and the hat falls into the muddy snow. All of a sudden everything is in slow motion. Sa-low-ah-mow-shee-uhn. Ba</span>m! The rage swells up inside as I see the Dallas Cowboys logo lying in the mud. And then I pounce.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 195px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghCnXyIYR-1iWDbseBS1vfbbcLcH35wZ35Mhv_yZysHqKdV2C3p3lQo8bqwBet1nGdNXfHzve8R3b-YI5-VyPzuh42KibRfD_J_VBRDB6d0zp-3RSbrAHU8e5RY-up_P1zJK14ygaz4kU/s200/Screen+shot+2010-10-10+at+12.23.11+PM.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528095576900013186" /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"> Immediately we are surrounded by the population of the playground as is want to happen in these circumstances. Fight Fight Fight!! It occurs to me, even in the throws of battle, that I am in this fight they are shouting about! Me. To that point I had never been in a lick of trouble. Got good grades. Played sports sports sports, ate fluffernutter sand</span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">wiches by the dozen, and mowed the lawn dutifully. So there I am. wrestling with a sixth grader (which was a big deal at the time) over the honor of my muddied and now tassle-less Dallas Cowboys wool football hat, and all I can think about is how much trouble I’m going to get in by my dad for getting in trouble. He was a terrific disciplinarian. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">The crowd begins to shuffle and I can hear faint but strengthening strains of “break it up now. Break it up!” Oh god. Oh man. I can’t believe I just got into a fight. I can’t believe I’M actually the one everyone’s shouting “fight fight fight!” too. Ugh. And now here come what is sure to be the principal, to break up this mini war. I am yanked from the ground by a solid and strong arm. As I spin to accept my sure fired detention and public humiliation, I am greeted by...my dad??? </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">You see, I grew up with my younger sister, aka “The Little Princess”. Certain rules, such as promptness, did not apply to her, as it often doesn’t to the only daughter of an Italian father. As it so happens that day, though not uncommon to say the least, my sister was late for school and was receiving a ride from my day. Door to door service. The fight broke out just as they were pulling up. Timing is everything folks. So I spin around to find my dad holding my arm and the whole scene has put me in some weird breathless shock. “What’s going on? What happened?” he asks. To this day I am not sure exactly how it may have looked to the crowd surrounding us or my sister or my best friends standing there, but all that came out of my mouth, sobbing, was, “Hee--ripped-uh---the---pom pom---off---uhhh---my---uhh---football---hat--uhh!” Bahhhhhh!!!</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">Oh man, what a scene. My one moment of fight glory, and there I am, barely able to talk, crying to my dad about the “Pom Pom Incident.” He looks over at the perp, then back at me. I am ready to be hauled away for my punishment...in front of everyone. He opens his mouth...”Well, did you win</span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">?”</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">I shake my head yes. He gets in car and drives off. I think the replacement hat was The New England Patriots.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">So that was my dad. Certainly no two anecdotes should define one person, but in many ways I think it does with him. Years soon thereafter, I got into music, but ultimate path in life. Let’s just say he wasn’t happy. Any mention of rehearsals or bands or gigs resulted in classic “ABC After School Special” type father-son shouting matches. “It’s all drugs and potheads and idiots in Rock and Roll! I don’t want yo hanging out with those types!!” But dad, my friends aren’t like that. “Ehhh, what do you know, you’re just a bathtub diving wild indian.” This was of course, his go-to put down of me or my artistic pursuits. That or the refreshingly brief “shithead.” So needless to say, my love of music was in no way shared or endorsed by my dad, despite what you see in this photo:</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 198px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA00KvV91fOV2HCAZ6nz05z2nv1p8V_Yb9if8crYY-33euyymL80dqelxmPq-XsHUjcxCDb-mUKjkklqwNkh5Wqn-l0nT-PUWI3Ihw_x3FqVv-jJBl55Zh_CB74viwrATIOcVlTKXzTNE/s200/don&dad_band.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528094157359127794" /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">Now a caveat. Though I may not have felt it or con</span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">veyed it to him at the time, my dad was the greatest and most perfect father I could have had growing up. He provided everything I needed to become the person I am today. And though I certainly am layered with a litany of faults, I feel pretty good about myself most days, and certainly happy with the life music has enriched me with. Every bit of it I can trace to my father. Of course, if he were alive today his response would like and simply be, “shithead.” But knowing all this, and the fact that he had stopped being a part of my when I was still a teenager, not a day goes by where he manages to make some guest appearance in recesses of my thoughts. He’s obviously been a large and looming influence on me.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">So back to the dialogue that opened this now -approaching-novel-length story.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">[DAD] Do you know what goddamn time it is?</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">[ME] I know. It went later than I thought.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"> [SILENCE]</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">[ME] Sorry. Goodnight.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"> [HEADING OFF TO BED]</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">[DAD] Well...did you win?</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">That was my dad in his truest most magnificent light. I had just come home from my debut musical performance with my first ever group in a Battle of the Bands competition a couple towns over in a place aptly called the “RockBox.” Magically and intoxicatingly, we had won. Oh man, was I ever hooked. He absolutely HATED HATED that I was doing music. Hated it. I didn’t even know for sure he had a clue what I was out doing that night or why I was getting in so late. He never seemed to listen to me, specifically when it came to the defense of my musical pursuits.As I slowly crept up the stairwell that long-ago night, trying desperately not to awake my sleeping-in-judgement father, I felt lonely. Very alone and unsupported in what felt like a life decision to live and breathe music. A joy I felt could never be shared with him in the way we could share, say, our displeasure with the Boston Red Sox pitching or a</span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">wful coaching. I was elated over my band’s victory that night, but conflicted with it being an inner happiness in our household. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">So as I heard my father’s gruff voice from within his bedroom calling out my late return in no uncertain terms, it only served to cement my loneliness. And then, “did you win?” It’s all I ever needed to hear from him. It’s all he could muster, and I’m sure it took everything for him to ask.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">And it still means the world to me.</span></p><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 196px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMZPisoAC9OMC77jF8QNQSPR3AX6xTvdQ43qMsiIFiOB5rGfpT0OaIyk3FDxZPqmyXRHfNgeb6yuPczuiwOD2dDSp-B-G-2toUDk2g78E7YbG2aBl7ACSBLhCZZKNWBUpVxVIk1pv9ncc/s200/don_dad_3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528094582533010706" /> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">I’m sure my dad would be “happy” to know he remains my greatest musical influence.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px; text-align: justify; font: 9.0px 'Al Bayan'; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p>loungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171235394948963476.post-88003936444086056782010-10-13T06:59:00.000-07:002010-10-13T06:59:32.204-07:00Dreamin | Don DiLego | Live on Fearless TV<object style="background-image:url(http://i1.ytimg.com/vi/t1yGZtsMwhU/hqdefault.jpg)" width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/t1yGZtsMwhU?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/t1yGZtsMwhU?fs=1&hl=en_US" width="425" height="344" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object>loungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171235394948963476.post-26961912799211716472010-06-14T18:36:00.000-07:002010-06-14T18:37:19.064-07:00Summer shows, new music...<div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 5px; padding-right: 5px; padding-bottom: 5px; padding-left: 5px; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); height: 320px; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">Way too much to fill in at the moment, so much more to come.<div><br /></div><div>But in the foreground, 3 shows on the books coming up:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; "><b>[[ June 21 ]]<i> as Don DiLego</i></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; ">Minneapolis, MN</span></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; ">The Fineline Music Cafe:</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; "><br /></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; ">318 First Avenue North</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; "><br /></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; ">Minneapolis, MN 55401</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; "><br /></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; ">ph (612) 338-8100</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; "><br /></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; "><a class="moz-txt-link-abbreviated" href="http://www.finelinemusic.com/" style="color: blue !important; text-decoration: none !important; ">www.finelinemusic.com</a></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-weight: normal; font-size: medium; "><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><br /></span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><br /></span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; "><b>[[ July 19 ]] <i>as </i></b></span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; display: inline !important; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; "><b><i>Don DiLego</i></b></span></span></div></span></span></b></div><div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; ">New York, NY</span></span></div><div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; ">Rockwood Music Hall:</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; "><br /></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 15px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; ">196 Allen Street<br />New York, NY 10002-1418<br />(212) 477-4155</span><br /></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; "><a class="moz-txt-link-abbreviated" href="http://www.finelinemusic.com/" style="color: blue !important; text-decoration: none !important; ">http://www.rockwoodmusichall.com/</a></span></span></span></b></div><div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><br /></span></span></b></div><div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><br /></span></span></b></div><div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; "><b>[[ Aug 30 ]] as <i>Beautiful Small Machines</i></b></span></span></div><div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; ">New York, NY</span></span></div><div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; ">Rockwood Music Hall (Stage 2):</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; "><br /></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 15px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; ">196 Allen Street<br />New York, NY 10002-1418<br />(212) 477-4155</span><br /></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; "><a class="moz-txt-link-abbreviated" href="http://www.finelinemusic.com/" style="color: blue !important; text-decoration: none !important; ">http://www.rockwoodmusichall.com/</a></span></span></span></b></div><div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><br /></span></span></b></div><div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><br /></span></span></b></div><div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><br /></span></span></b></div><div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';">Just returned from tour in Italy, and working on that post. More to come...</span></span></b></div><div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';">I am right behind you.</span></div><div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS';">dd</span></div></span></span></b></span></span></span></b></div></span></span></b></div></div>loungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171235394948963476.post-29385452335884250732010-05-12T09:56:00.000-07:002010-05-12T10:01:19.043-07:00Italy Redux<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><b>May 29</b> - June 5 will be back in Italy for a week of shows. Check tour page for that.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">And of course, THIS SATURDAY, MAY 15, I'll be playing a set at </span></span><a href="http://www.boweryballroom.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The Bowery Ballroom</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> opening for </span></span><a href="http://www.jessemalin.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Jesse Malin & The St. Marks Social</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">. 8pm.</span></span></div>loungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171235394948963476.post-11346957020682463472010-03-19T09:43:00.000-07:002010-03-19T09:44:35.219-07:00New Tour Dates added and other brilliant activities<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Al Bayan'; color: #584d4d"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">Some new dates added. In addition to the March 26th <a href="http://www.beautifulsmallmachines.com">Beautiful Small Machines</a> show in NYC at Webster Hall Studio, I will be doing a couple solo dates in support of<a href="http://www.myspace.com/jessemalin"> Jesse Malin & The St. Mark’s Social</a>. Check here.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Al Bayan'; color: #584d4d; min-height: 17.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Al Bayan'; color: #584d4d"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px">Just finished producing the debut album for San Francisco’s <b>The Winterboys</b>. Kind of on the gospel tip and very 70’s. I’m diggin’. Also did a single for <a href="http://www.willienile.com/">Willie Nile’s</a> upcoming album, <b>“The Innocent Ones.”</b> The song is called “<b>One Guitar</b>” and is so ridiculously brilliant my only goal was to stay out of it’s damn way. The proceeds of the version I produced will benefit cancer research for the <b>TJ Martell Foundation</b>. Will keep you posted on this as it unfolds. (sorry to get all CNN on ya)</span></p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Al Bayan', serif;font-size:100%;color:#584D4D;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><br /></span></span></div>loungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171235394948963476.post-55751546679786822492010-02-10T05:43:00.000-08:002010-02-10T06:05:55.381-08:00Jesse Malin & The St. Marks SocialIt's been a year in the making, but <b>Jesse Malin's</b> new album, "<b>Love it to Life</b>" will be out on <a href="http://sideonedummy.com/">SideOneDummy Records</a> (home to Gogol Bordello & Gaslight Anthem) on April 27th. Jesse and I had spent a good chunk of the past year up at The Velvet Elk Studios and in squalor rehearsal pads in NYC basements writing and banging out the record. And now that it's finally done, it's time to perform these bastard children. <div><br /></div><div>Jesse has decided on adding the band moniker <a href="http://www.myspace.com/jessemalin">The St. Marks Social</a>, to coincide with the spirit in which the record was made. The band is great, and despite the 844 other bands I see to be in these days (actually 2), I will be the crazy guy in the corner playing everything from guitar to bongos to piano to tambourine. I may even bust out a cowbell. So with the pending release, we've set up a series of residency shows in New York City at the <a href="http://www.theboweryelectric.com/">Bowery Electric</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Feb 13 | Feb 25 | Mar 4| Mar 11 |</b> <i>possibly Mar 18, 24</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>There is a chance I may open one of the later dates, and will keep you posted as it gets closer. </div><div>In the meantime, keep your ears to the radio for the first single "Burning the Bowery" which has already begun to receive airplay, and hope to see you at The Bowery Electric this month...and beyond.</div><div><br /></div><div>Cheers, d.lego</div><div><br /></div><div><i><br /></i></div>loungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171235394948963476.post-28464990010257786802010-01-29T08:10:00.000-08:002010-01-29T08:11:38.012-08:00The Triathlon Diaries - Volume Three<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 16.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px 'Trebuchet MS'"><b>Asbury Park 2010 | Episode Three</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'">The Road to the Asbury Park Triathlon, July 2010</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 12.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 12.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'"><b>Prologue</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'">Sometime during the late, cold months of 2009, musician and decided non-runner Don DiLego, perhaps slightly inebriated, hears amongst the caucaphony of music and conversation in Barramundi in the Lower Eat Side, a couple buddies discuss their plans to compete in a "triathlon man, yes!" in the summer of 2010. Not surprisingly, Don spins to insert himself not only into the conversation, but into the race itself, the 2010 Asbury Park Mini-Triathlon (found out about the "mini" part afterwards). Awkwardly, Tim "Santa's Helper" McManus and JJ "The Deuce" O'Connor agree to share information on said race. In fact encouraging if not daring our hero to enter. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 12.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'">These are the chronicles of Don's path to glory, infamy, and perhaps the infirmary. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 12.0px"><b></b><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 12.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'"><b>Episode Three - Jan 27</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'">When we last visited Don (that's me) in his quest for summer glory, speedos, and manly man stuff, he had suffered a minor yet significant setback on his road to the Asbury Park Triathlon tis July. Though previously thought to be a conquerable "mini" style triathlon, he been incorrect. The reality of the "full-manly length" competition had brought upon what they call in the biz, an "exercise malaise." Not entirely rare, this affliction has visited no less than many other heroic AND historic luminaries such as, the guy who first went to the moon and other guys who wanted to go to the moon. Plus, others.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 12.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'">So as you can clearly and plainly see, Don found himself in, though unenviable, a major AND historically chronicled funk. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 12.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'">Not unlike many of our fabled superheroes of the past and future, Don began to veer away from <i>actually</i> exercising, and began focusing on <i>thinking</i> about it really really hard. With one wowee of a twist...he started thinking about not exercising while in the Caribbean. Genius? You betcha.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 12.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'">And with all this time to focus on not-exercising, he started to formulate keywords for his training going forward. Words that would represent his dedication to his own body. The commitment to being the manliest man in the race. Chiseled out of steel. Emotionless as a rock. Problem was, nothing came to him. Blank. Extra blank. What follows is the actual original list, found in the trash at The Beach Bar in St. John, that Don had begun working on to inspire himself to train hard...</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 12.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><img src="webkit-fake-url://07E04E2B-0BF0-4212-ABE8-488190D585D5/unknown.jpeg" alt="unknown.jpeg" /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 12.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'">Obviously, there were a few flaws on his list. Another setback. However, after drinking his 4th Painkiller at the bar, Don would have what they call, again- "in the biz", a "eureka moment." The list came flooding out to him. The words that would define his triathlon training henceforth! They were and ARE, in one word...totally so very magnificent and manly awesome. A new day. A rebirth. Training on...but big time.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 12.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'">What follows below, are Don's <b>new</b> keywords that will define his training for the 2010 Asbury Park Triathlon this July. Enjoy.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 12.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'"><i>(Any resemblance to the plot keywords from the 1989 Sylvester Stallone and Kurt Russell vehicle, "Tango & Cash" , which can be found on the IMDB database, are completely and utterly coincidental. Crazy and zany coincidence. These are totally Don's Triathlon keywords. Manly training keywords.)</i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 16.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px 'Trebuchet MS'"><b>Plot keywords for</b><span style="font: 14.0px 'Lucida Grande'"><b><br /></b><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0098439/"><span style="font: 14.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; text-decoration: line-through"><b>Tango & Cash</b></span></a></span><span style="text-decoration: line-through"><b> (</b><a href="http://www.imdb.com/Sections/Years/1989/"><span style="text-decoration: line-through ; color:#153299;"><b>1989</b></span></a><b>) </b></span><b> Don's Triathlon Training </b><span style="color:#0f3f86;"><b>(2010)</b></span></p> <ul style="list-style-type: disc"> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/prison/">Prison</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/escape/">Escape</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/framed/">Framed</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/torture/">Torture</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/locker-room/">Locker Room</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/lasersight/">Lasersight</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/shot-in-the-forehead/">Shot In The Forehead</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/gatling-gun/">Gatling Gun</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/cross-dresser/">Cross Dresser</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/bare-butt/">Bare Butt</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/strip-club/">Strip Club</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/buddy-cop/">Buddy Cop</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/explosion/">Explosion</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/hand-grenade/">Hand Grenade</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/timebomb/">Timebomb</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/shower/">Shower</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/car-bomb/">Car Bomb</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/crime-boss/">Crime Boss</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/organized-crime/">Organized Crime</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/gender-disguise/">Gender Disguise</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/exploding-building/">Exploding Building</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/bare-breasts/">Bare Breasts</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/undressing/">Undressing</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/aquarium/">Aquarium</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/police/">Police</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/cop-in-prison/">Cop In Prison</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/machine-gun/">Machine Gun</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/female-nudity/">Female Nudity</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/straight-razor/">Straight Razor</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/male-nudity/">Male Nudity</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #153299"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/brother-sister-relationship/">Brother Sister Relationship</a></li> <li style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; color: #174fae"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/keyword/electrocution/"><span style="text-decoration: underline">Electrocution</span></a></li> </ul> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'">See you at the finish line, suckas! I'm gonna triathlon your face.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Trebuchet MS'">d.lego</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p></span></span></div>loungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171235394948963476.post-25877912028161105032010-01-11T21:54:00.000-08:002010-01-11T23:17:58.640-08:00The Triathlon Diaries - Volume Two<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'Trebuchet MS', serif;"><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Asbury Park 2010</span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The Road to the Asbury Park Triathlon, July 2010</span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Prologue</span></span></b></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Sometime during the late, cold months of 2009, musician and decided non-runner Don DiLego, perhaps slightly inebriated, hears amongst the caucaphony of music and conversation in Barramundi in the Lower Eat Side, a couple buddies discuss their plans to compete in a "triathlon man, yes!" in the summer of 2010. Not surprisingly, Don spins to insert himself not only into the conversation, but into the race itself, the 2010 Asbury Park Mini-Triathlon (found out about the "</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">mini" part afterwards). Awkwardly, Tim </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Santa's Helper" </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">McManus and JJ </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"The Deuce"</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> O'Connor agree to share information on said race. In fact encouraging if not </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">daring</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> our hero to enter.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">These are the chronicles of Don's path to glory, infamy, and perhaps the infirmary.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Chronicle Two - Jan 12</span></span></b></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I was dealt a crushing blow to my training today. Perhaps more of a mental than physical setback. Though I have recovered from the initial pain of my first "training session", what mainly has driven me in my glorious quest for additional manhood, was the inner knowledge that I would kill in a mini-triathlon, whatever one of those might really be. It just seemed...well...doable. And despite my friend Jake's assertion that it is in fact </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">he</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> with the Kevin McHale running style that would hobble to the finish line in last place, a dead last loser, it is I who is now overcome with the fear that last place may be welcoming me and my Billy Joel waddle at the end of the race.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">You see race fans, Santa's Helper informed me that I was mistaken on the distance of this race, and in a voraciously crushing way. Simply put, he replaced the word "mini" with "olympic." This is quite a leap. In fact, is there a bigger competitive leap?? So now where does this leave me?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Six months, i.e half a YEAR, seemed quite long enough to put myself into a decent enough condition to run 3 miles, bike 10, and swim 500 meters. Now...ugh...it's like, run Rhode Island, bike Pennsylvania, and then swim the Mississippi Delta. And, unless this is pure rumor, I think there are giant eels in all three legs!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">When I was a nerdly (hard to believe I know) young tyke in all of second grade, my Uncle Francis took me to my first professional baseball game. Fenway Park. It felt like the trip from the remote reaches of the Berkshires to the city life of Boston was an eternity. In fact, I couldn't believe at the time that we didn't need to fly there. I couldn't possibly have been more excited. Just as we left, my dad slipped my uncle some money so that I could grab a souvenir at the park. Needless to say, the experience was mesmerizing. It's been said many times in movie lore. but crossing that threshold from the bowels of a ballpark into the grand lights of the stadium is like that scene, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">always</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> like that scene, in "Close Encounters" when the ufos finally land and open up their ship's bay doors to the silent gaffaws of the skinny 70's humans. I still silently gaffaw. No kidding.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Anyway, after the game, I nearly peed my pants running to the souvenir shop. Which, incidentally, would have helped me in the long run, because....</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I of course NEEDED to buy not a Red Sox ball cap, a Red Sox jersey, a Red Sox jacket, some Red Sox baseball pants, but but BUT...all of them together. Yes, the full uniform. And hey, what would make me more popular at school the next day than if I arrived at the playground in the morning dressed it the whole rig. Not only a true Red Sox fan, but a true player! I imagined a slow Rudy clap begin as I proudly strutted onto the school grounds. A knowing look from my teacher Mrs. Filiaut that I, Donald DiLego Jr was so. very. awesome. Even though awesome was probably never a word yet. And also even though I didn't invent the word awesome. But I could have. And she would know it then and there. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We always played a pickup game of whiffle ball that time</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> of year in the morning before school. God, I was gonna make the coolest impression. Almost there...rounding the corner...I can see Mack Head now...there's Paul...hey guys, "check it out!!!"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">How do you spell "whah whahh whahhhhhhh..."?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I'm sure it couldn't have been the case, but I don't have the memory of anyone on that playground </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">not</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> laughing at me. It was 100% the true opposite of what I had expected. Completely miscalculated on every level. Couldn't have backfired any worse. I was immediately ridiculed. And though at the time I would have argued differently, I don't think my "transitions" glasses h</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">elped the scene any.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 181px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGV6zLhDIg1Sl0pAol_153LEQorAzqJYrvx-LwKKwhakUVfJHln6f7n9PqH_bvZPPLDWMBzfbYTISbimm1KvJMEJCTy2-0GyrcSMfQ2XUiGeq9ucSJPK1cHOAsRk4EqSa3IMzqb_TctKo/s200/Don_12_2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425743251297546594" /> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It was an unmitigated disaster. Driven from my first period class with a hunk of shame, I retreated to the boy's room, and disrobed as much as I could. I was left with sneakers, no socks, the Red Sox pants, a dirty white t-shirt, and a chubby gut. Man, what a scene. I cannot believe I didn't punch me. In fact, I don't think I ever really got this incident expunged from my permanent record. Seems some old friend or another manages to drudge this one up every so often. So here's what I'm saying. God forbid I show up to the triathlon in my undersized, fully outfiitted Red Sox uniform.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Or more importantly, I may have learned enough from that incident to be in a position to properly reassess my current situation. On the one hand, I don't want to bite off more than I can chew (not the full Red Sox uniform). But on the other hand, I want to prove my manly worth at the big race (full Red Sox uniform). They say you learn from your mistakes, and I friends, am no exception to this time-tested truth. I will not pull another full Red Sox uniform debacle once the triathlon roles around, for this time I will play it smarter. This time, I intend to march to the starting line not only with the proverbial full Red Sox baseball uniform, but also with an official Red Sox bat, ball, and game program. For THAT is what I must have been missing that wondrous spring day in 1978. The bat!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Watch out Santa's Helper and The Deuce and friend who runs like Kevin McHale. For I am wearing a full on, blown out 1978 Boston Red Sox kids-sized baseball uniform with official Carl Yazstremski signed bat and a pair of"transitions" sun shade glasses to the triathlon and I will toast you and your matching aqua friction-reducing speedos.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Hi Mrs. Filiaut!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana, serif;"><br /></span></div></span>loungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171235394948963476.post-31658716930052002452010-01-09T19:24:00.000-08:002010-01-09T23:34:07.641-08:00The Triathlon Diaries - Volume One<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'Trebuchet MS';font-size:medium;"><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Asbury Park 2010</span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The Road to the Asbury Park Triathlon, July 2010</span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Prologue</span></span></b></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Sometime during the late, cold months of 2009, musician and decided non-runner Don DiLego, perhaps slightly inebriated, hears amongst the caucaphony of music and conversation in Barramundi in the Lower Eat Side, a couple buddies discuss their plans to compete in a "triathlon man, yes!" in the summer of 2010. Not surprisingly, Don spins to insert himself not only into the conversation, but into the race itself, the 2010 Asbury Park Mini-Triathlon (found out about the "mini" part afterwards). Awkwardly, Tim </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Santa's Helper" </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">McManus and JJ </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"The Deuce"</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> O'Connor agree to share information on said race. In fact encouraging if not </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">daring</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> our hero to enter. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">These are the chronicles of Don's path to glory, infamy, and perhaps the infirmary. </span></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Chronicle One</span></span></b></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Jan 4 (aka "Day One")</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> - Training has begun, and I am ready to attack. I give myself a mental deuce and head off the gym in the hotel I'm staying at in San Francisco.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">6:47pm - I insert my key card which gains me entry into the quite plush hotel gym here at the Palace. Confidently, I step through the gym portal and into the exercise</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">room replete with state-of-the-art treadmills, bicycles, and Stepmasters. The wicked witch of the west stares menacingly down at me from her perch at CNN inside the</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">50" plasma screen. She calls herself "Nancy Grace" , perhaps to keep me off-balance. It doesn't work. I step up to what appears to be a new treadmill and launch myself into a 3 m.p.h. warmup, oh, and at a slight incline...beeeyatch!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">6:52pm - Though I haven't exactly "jogged" as they say in the "exercise world" for some...errrr....two time/years or so, I seem to feel no worries about my first day goal of 3 miles. For the record, I am wearing wrestling shoes.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">6:54pm - Dolly Parton has really really big breasts and I don't know when she got 'em, but they don't look to be there early on in this Dolly bio I'm watching on Biography. She's awesome. What a set of tonsils. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">6:55pm - Time to rev it up to 5.5 m.p.h., take me down to 1.5 on the gradient meter. No problem. Already at .68 miles. I got this.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">6:59pm - I am exhausted. The commercial breaks during the Dolly bio are excruciatingly long long. Has anyone seen this infommercial for the "Shake Weight." What the???</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">7:03pm - Ok ok. Settling in now. 1.15 miles. I feel I can do this, but wish the miles went by faster. Let's bump it up to 6 m.p.h.. Flat slope. These shoes seem fine! I don't what all the fuss is about "proper running shoes." Isn't there a barefoot movement now or something?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">7:07pm - I may have failed to mention that the treadmill is directly facing the large, cool, empty swimming pool. Mmmmmm....water.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">7:14pm - Possibly blacked out for a minute or two, cause I seem to have missed the return to "Dolly" from the commercial break. And now, no lie, a 3-minute commercial on some miracle</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">women's support strap that goes over the bra and keeps women's breasts just under their chin. Where they anatomically belong? The women in the commercial look happy AND scared. Who's behind this product anyway? A million dollars says it rhymes with a "schman". </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">7:14:35pm - Oh look at me! Crossing over 2 miles. I got this. However, I can't. feel. feet.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">7:17pm - Listen. exercise is definitely a good thing, but man, I am b-o-r-e-d. Dolly keeps me going though. Resolution 2010. Dolly Parton concert. This is non-negotiable.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">7:19pm - Ok. I'm done. Almost 2.5 miles, a good start. However, the sweat on my body and exhaustion on my face has "10k" written all over it.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">7:20pm - To the pool!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">7:20:02pm - Oh wait. There's a sauna? Probably best for everyone if I test that out first. Looks dangerous. I got this.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">7:38pm - 65% chance I may have passed out again, cause there's NO WAY I've been in here for over 15 minutes. Back to the exercise room.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">7:40pm - Time to work on the six-pack. I place an exercise matt on the ground and just as I get started, the door creeks open. (ok, it's a new door so it didn't creek. Actually, I don't think it made </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">any</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> noise. Can we get a foley guy in here?) In walks who we will call, "exerciser #2.", or #2 for short. Now, I don't mind sharing the place with anyone else, that's not exactly the problem. But I JUST STARTED my sit-ups, and she's witnessed me "just start." Now I'm screwed cause I'll have to do a ton of these things to look like a "real" exerciser to #2. Damn public exercising!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">7:42pm - Thirteen. Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen. Twenty-Five. Thirty. Thirty-Two. And........a hundred. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">7:44pm - Ill-fated decision #2. The dumbbells. I've likely already been in here too long for my first triathlon training session, but my masculinity suggested I do some bench presses to work on the arms a bit. Bad call.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">7:47pm - Ok. Enough of that. To the pool!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">7:47:14pm - Whoa, slow down partner. Let's drink some aqua. Ahhhhhh.... ok, to. the. pool...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">7:48 pm - I enter the pool area. A couple young tikes are frolicking in the low end with their wussy inflatable arm bands and wimpy "parental supervision." I'm totally gonna toast these guys! Woooooo!!! mini-triathlon 2010!!!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">7:49pm - Water looks cold. Me to kids: "</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Looks cold</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">." Kids eyes to me: "</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">You're old."</span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">7:50pm - Jump right in. These kids can't intimidate me. Pool is pretty large. Not olympic size, but not the backyard in-ground christmas-bonus size either. I've always been a pretty good swimmer, have I mentioned this yet? </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">7:51pm - Note to self. No bench pressing, running, or sauna visiting of any kind prior to swimming. My arms hurt. I begin to sink. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(insert squiggly/wavy lines on screen going back and forth...back and forth)</span></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">7:53pm - Apparently, I have passed out again, as I am coming to with one of the 5 year-olds helping me up saying something to the effect of, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"hey, wake up. You're gonna be ok. Just breathe. Breathe mister. Good thing I was here, if it weren't for the oxygen from my inflatable arm band, you would've been dead. Dead!" </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In the background, the other kid and father are laughing at me. The younger brother appears to be wearing a t-shirt that reads "First Place - 2007 Asbury Park Mini-Triathlon." Or something like that.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(re-insert squiggly/wavy lines on screen going back and forth...back and forth)</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">7:51pm - Realized I had a flash-forward there. I'm still swimming under my own power, though truth be told, the lap and a half have taken their toll. I push it to four. Though I manage to complete this, I should of asked the kids' father to spot me just in case.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">7:55pm - All toweled up, heading back to room. Feeling pretty good actually. I mean, not physically, but mentally I'm on fire. Give myself another mental deuce as I get back to my room, exhausted but full of confidence. I'm gonna mini-triathlon the crap out of 2010!!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Epilogue:</span></span></b></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">6:55 am - Not. feeling. Good. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">My feet are throbbing and my shoulders feel like the scarecrow's from the Wizard of Oz. Ok, maybe I don't know what that means either, but you're with me. You got this.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">6:57am - As my eyes begin to adjust themselves to being back awake, I focus on the cushionless soles of my wrestling sneaks. Which harkens me back to Ill-fated decision #1. It goes like this:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Do not wear wrestling sneakers on a treadmill while running for the first time in ages in an ego-driven attempt to prove your manhood during "training" for a mini-triathlon a half a year away." </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Or something like that.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">7:15am - Coffee is kicking in. Coming to my senses a bit. Resolve to "dial it down a notch or two" during next workout. I got this.</span></span></div><div><br /></div></span></div>loungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171235394948963476.post-6721287498950882862009-12-03T15:25:00.001-08:002009-12-03T15:25:24.907-08:00The White Owl<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span style="text-decoration: underline"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">The White Owl</span></b></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Words from my 40th birthday</span></i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">(Oslo, Norway on way to Copenhagen)</span></i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><i></i><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Well, here I am, 40 years on this planet. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">My first waking thought, is that 15 years from the age I now find myself being as of this morning, the man who brought me into this world came down with the cancer. Dying a few months later, he wondered why it could it be so unfair. I remember few things about that time. This is odd to me, because I was no child, though 19 is no age to lose a dad. Yet somehow, the most vividly traumatic moment of my life is tucked away in a place I can't ever seem to fully unlock. Perhaps that's for the better. Who's to tell such things?</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Anyway (I love this word), 15 years is not a long time from where I now stand. Actually, it's short enough to envision myself there now, and to imagine what it must've felt like for my father to know that at 55 he was going to die soon…well, I can't half imagine what was going through his head. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">I know this much. He wasn't happy about it. This is an obvious understatement. Who's "happy" about coming to terms with their mortality? But I mean this is an odder sense. Looking back, I hate that I realize now, how little I got to know my father. This is partly due to my young ignorance and part due to his italian machismo. Either way, it stinks. So here I am, typing away, and I can't really say what he felt for certain. I know he was scared. Scared enough that it scared me to see him so scared. I never saw that in my father. Saw him cry a few tears…once…when he thought his semi-estranged youngest son David was lost on Mt. Greylock during the annual Ramble climb up the mountain that nearly the whole town participated in. Emotionally, that was about it. My father had a hard time communicating his emotions to me, his eldest son. That's ok I guess. There are a litany of things I am thankful to him for, a list that grows longer with every passing year. And in many ways I thank him for what I feel are my emotional "survival skills." Trust me when I say that is a gift that keeps on giving.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">The fifty-five of my father is not the fifty-five I envision for myself. At fifty-five, my father seemed, old. I guess it's always that way, much in the way a twenty-one year old likely would look to me as, well, old. But I think in my dad's case, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">he</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> felt old. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">I don't feel old.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">I want to know what my dad liked. I know what he </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">was </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">like, but not what he liked. In regards to women, he seemed noncommittal. I'd scoff at this, but a forty-year old who's never been married himself holds not such a powerful position in which to pass judgement. My mother and he divorced when I was five. Were it not for me, my brother, and my sister, I could nary think of a reason they married in the first place. But yet here I sit. Born into this world. I think. I am. So I thank them. I know, or at least strongly am of the opinion, that he loved my mom as much as he was capable of loving a woman. As much as he was capable in giving of himself, he did to her. I'd go so far as to say he quite literally could not understand why that wasn't enough for her. Like I said, two peas form a different pod.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">I know that my dad owned a super-cool bar, and didn't drink. This always struck me as odd, but I look back at that as awesome. He'd occasionally, and I mean occasionally, pop open a Budweiser that he stored in our basement. Those dusty bottles must have lasted years down there. I know my dad loved to work. This is all he did. Again, who am I to sit in judgement of this since I now find myself the exact. same. way.</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> (If anyone ever reads this, please take note that I have paused about 10 minutes here to reflect on that last sentence I just wrote.) </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">The freight train still ran through Adams back then. How cool was it that this is how my dad received his shipments of beer kegs? The train! Imagine a 10 year old kid standing by the tracks, waiting for the train to rumble down the tracks and slowly come to a hard staccato stop in format of me. Me! At my dad's place. The freight car would open and out would roll to silver barrels to the stations' back door. My dad's beer. Man, that was so cool. I'd sit and wait to wave to the man in the back of the caboose. That was a </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">thing</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> back then. Waving to the man at the back of the caboose. Come to think of it, what was he always doing there anyway? What job was </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">that? </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Was he happy? I miss that.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><i></i><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">There's a lot of dancing around what I am trying to say here for the simple reason that I don't know what it is I am trying to say. This is simply a long-overdue journal entry that simply started as a way for me to note that on my 40th birthday I was on tour in Europe on the way from Oslo to Copenhagen. Except, those were't the words that came out. For pretty much the last 10 years or so I have exhausted myself telling people that "age doesn't matter to me." Should the day pass that I turn 40, it will have no more meaning that turning 30…or maybe even 20 for that matter. For "I am not an ageist!" Whatever that means. In most regards, I still believe all these things, but going to sleep last night was not an easy task. I wasn't depressed or sad or scared or drunk even. The best I can describe it, was that I felt like a radio receiver whose dial couldn't locate and tune in any one station. My mind was frantically scanning the dial. Cutting in and out of memories and thoughts and ideas. When I had finally fallen asleep, I awoke an hour or so later panting heavily, fighting for breath. It was no nightmare I was having, nor some wild dream chase. It was just that in my head, I couldn't catch my breath. My memories were all fighting for their own individual scrap of attention and consequently, they would get none.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">So here's what I did. I put on The Joshua Tree.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">I put on U2's The Joshua Tree, and though it took 5 or maybe 6 songs, I finally drifted off. Because I did remember that when I was in high school, when I was untainted by the "music biz", I loved loved </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">loved</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> listening to albums. Over and over. The Joshua Tree was one of them. It was one of those records that I analyzed for every last note. Every snare hit, kick drum pattern, vocal reverb, acoustic strum, instrument panning, tonal mix, and every last word. I ate it up. This was not the only record of course. But I was feeling, lying there at 3am, that maybe Duran Duran's "Rio" wouldn't quite send me off to dreamland in quite the same way…though that record was no less analyzed by my pre-pubescent ears either! But what putting on The Joshua Tree did for me, was stabilize the frequencies and memories buzzing around in my head that were keeping me awake. Putting on that record allowed me to instinctively hone in on, say, the high-hat pattern of "Bullet The Blue Sky" or the infinite guitar chime of "With or Without You." Ahhh, sleep.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">But I'm up again, on the bus to Copenhagen, happy and lucky to be alive. I mean this.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">What I do not like is to be away from the people that matter most to me right now. That stings a bit. Of course, this goes against my theory that birthdays are no big deal. That, more specifically, turning 40 is no. big. deal. But to say those words now feels in some way a small slight to the years my father put in doing what he did absolutely best in </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">his</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> time on the planet, and that was to be my dad. He did that for me better than anyone else. That was </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">his </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">deal. This is what he loved more than anything. The fact that he showed it in ways that were often contrary to how I may have preferred as a teenage know-it-all, are beside the point. Here's something I remember he said to me just before he passed, and he said little because he was mostly in agonizing pain his final months. "Just remember that </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">everything</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> I did, I did for you kids. You're all I lived for." </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">And that was that.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">You see, us. me. That was my dad's "thing." Much in the same way that music is my "thing." It's what kept him grounded, focused, alive. We should all hope for such a thing. I cannot tell you how many times a week I count my blessing that I have music in my life. More importantly, a passion for it. I would be lying if I didn't tell you about all it's constant heartache, passionless dismissals, repetitive disappointments. But so be it. If I didn't have it, I would have no idea where the hell I would be. No. damn. idea. Now, I could sit around and wonder if I should be making more money, should be married, should have kids, should be more static in my traveling ways. There are way too many "should I's" to count. But for me, and this is just for </span><span style="text-decoration: underline"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">me</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> mind you</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> (fill in your own life passion here)</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">, for me I wake up with a song in my head almost every day. I have likely half-written no less that 5000 songs in my life. Actually, that thought kind of depresses me. But but but, to be so lucky to wake up almost every living day of my life with something that makes me pop out of bed to grab my guitar or notebook or camera…well, there could be worse things. So in that, count me successful. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">A good and dear friend of mine, nameless and 5 years my junior, is going through his midlife crisis now. Until now, music has meant the same to him as likely me, but he feels music hasn't been kind to him. He doesn't mean this in a materialistic way. Just that the return hasn't justified the means, and that if he doesn't get off the train right now, he may never come to terms with that. I feel for him a ton. This can be a dark place to be, and if I woke up this morning, turning 40, and thought "what have I been wasting my life on?", I can't imagine the darkness that may have enshrouded me. Again, this is why I am thankful every day for the mere existence of clarity or purpose in my life. Every day. Confident am I that my friend is on the right course…for him. He </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">needs</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> to do this. To make this change. And to do it now. But this is why I claim to not be an ageist. You don't have to turn 40, or 30, or 50, or 60, or 20 to start questioning "your purpose." I am sure there are some 9 and a half year olds right now bummed they are turning 10 years OLD. For me, I am on a bus driven by not me, headed towards a town where no one knows me and is looking forward to hearing me perform songs. My songs. There is no way to place a value on this.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Day in and day out my father headed off to his converted train station bar, serving tap pours and bottled Bud to the locals. I remember Lefty, Bear, Greeny. They became mythological characters in my childhood upbringing. Coming home from Sunday school and church, we would walk to my dad's bar for a ride home. There Bear and Lefty always sat on their bar stools, 11am be damned. I can't begin to remember who the hell they really were, but I love them now. Love them. Perhaps in some way I resented the amount of time my father spent working and away from us. With Lefty and Bear. But there it stood, his thing. This is what made sense to him. So I'll accept this now in another light, and that is what I'll take away from my "big" four-oh. Simply, a better understanding.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Except for one thing.</span></i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><i></i><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">The White Owl.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">My birthday wish. And here it is. My "big" 40th birthday wish is to alter…errr…change slightly, one childhood memory. That's it. I've lived long enough I think to have earned that. I don't need any wrapped gift or money, just this one small edit to my biography. So here we go.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">I am 12 years old. My final year in Little League, and baseball is my passion. I live and breathe baseball. I, Donald Joseph DiLego Jr. WILL BE a professional baseball player. Or so I thought at the time. Anyway (still my fave) I grew up in a small town in The Berkshires called Adams. I cannot think of a single thing I would change from that fact. Shocked I would not be if no less than Norman Rockwell himself were to have claimed the childhood comings and goings of Adams were his true muse. Some do not enjoy their childhood or place of it, I am not one of them. I ate it up. No regrets. Ok, back to Little League. I am in my final year of my mandatory 4 year limit, and I, Don DILego - future professional ball player - have never hit a home run. Oh the other-worldy joy that would bring! Besides, my best friend Paul at the time had what seemed likes hundreds of them…per game.!</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Four games left to go.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Now, I told you of my father's work schedule. Coming from a small town such as I, and perhaps you, parents would flock to the games to root their kids on. This was a fact. My dad did not. That was also a fact. It took me a long long time to come to terms with that - and I think I still have performance anxiety because of it. But he was always busy doing what he did, which was to make our lives in picturesque Adams as comfortable as they were. Could he have squeezed in the occasional game in here or there? Definitely. But such was the deal. All through Little League I would watch Paul's parents and everyone else's come to the games, but no Donald Sr. Over the years, I just began to accept this and not really let it bother me too much. Sort of.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Game 17. </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">I believe our games started around 6pm, a lovely time on a sunny Berkshire summer day. Though I usually played shortstop, I somehow remember playing 2nd base on this day. I also remember that we were the home team that game. The home team Lions. Purple and maroon uniforms. They weren't as cool as the yellow and black Elks uniforms, but not bad. And either were we that year. In fact, though the Elks usually won year in and year out, this year (my last) we challenged them with a great second half. The upstart Lions. Ok, so listen. We run into the dugout after the visitor half of the first inning. I'm excited. I used to bat 2nd in the lineup then, as I would always do during by baseball "career." I walk out to the on-deck circle, and leaning against the 3 foot chain link fence, a White Owl cigar hanging from the center of his mouth, is my father. At game number 17. Why </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">that</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> day, I don't know. But there he was, and not in the stands mind you. Right there. Next to the batter's box. I cracked a spontaneous half-smile, but then immediately became petrified. You see, I could perform in from of </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">other </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">kid's parents. Dive for the ball. Run hard on a liner to right. But I hadn't tested my nerves out in front of my own. And my dad was tough. A classic rough-edged full blood conservative Italian father. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">"No son of mine is going to play that druggy rock and roll music."</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> But that's for another time. On a side note - I will say that he had one of the greatest and craziest nickname/insults he would yell when he was beyond agree with me. He'd yell "Shithead!!!!" to my dopey-eyed face, "You're a bathtub diving long-haired wild indian!!!" Then, remnants of the corn on the cob he ate 4 days ago would come flying out of his teeth. Like he had installed some magical corn-saving storage unit in his teeth for just such occasions. It was all I could do to hold back the laughter, and most times I didn't manage even that. Anyway, I still don't know what "bathtub diving'" really means, though I suspect it means I somehow plain lost my mind in a crazy bathtub-diving accident, should there exist one.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Back to the game, and I'm in the batter's box, and my knees are shaking. It's all I can do to concentrate on the pitcher, but I'm not doing a very good job of that to say the least. I swing meekly and I either…</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">A) ground out like a tee-baller to the pitcher, or more likely,</span></i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">B) strike out swinging</span></i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><i></i><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Because it's my birthday, let's just go with "A" for now. The next inning in the field went no better. Grounder through my legs. Error, second base. My nerves were getting the best of me, and in the wise old tradition of "there's no crying in baseball," I said word zero to anyone about this. In fact, I doubt most of my teammates even knew what my father </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">looked </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">like! He wasn't exactly the school-play going kind of dad. So here I've gone and struck out and made an easy error, all in the last inning and all in front of my cigar-smoking-never-seen-me-play-ball dad. I can't believe it. Actually, I can. I'm a father/son Little League virgin, and there are only 3 games to go in my Little League career. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">I'm siting in the dugout now, and I'm getting angry. I'm angry at myself for my nerves, I'm angry at my dad for </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">his</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> nerve. How dare he show up now. But then it begins to pass. Here is my chance. Now. My legs begin to steady themselves. My hand no longer trembles. So what that it took 3 and 3/4 years for him to come out to see me play. He's here. Him and his White Owl. White Owl is a funny cigar brand. I used to like the box.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Third inning, we rally. The Elks took an early lead in this important playoff-deciding game. But the Lions were hot. We're down by a run when I get my second chance at bat. I decided to not turn to look back at my dad while I was on-deck. Not this time. Steady. Focus. Even when you're twelve, the less you think when you play baseball, the better off you'll be. Man on first, I'm up at bat. Our field, the Albert Reid Little League Field, was quite small outside of the dimensions of the field itself. In fact, we had special rules for passed balls behind the catcher as he could almost lean back against the backstop, sitting a couple feet behind him. I forget the actual rule, but what I remember is that fans could stand inches behind the players and watch the at-bat. Such was the case this at-bat, and this girl Jamie B, who had a crush on me, stood directly behind the backstop with her friend.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">I took ball one. Always did. Liked to see what was coming at me. Get comfortable.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">I did. I felt good. The pitcher wound up and sent his 50mph-seemed-like 90mph fastball steaming towards me…towards me…towards me…then I heard it.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">"Hit a home run for Jaime!!!"</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">It happened a split second before I swung the bat. I knew right away it was one of my best swings ever. My adrenaline was already sky-high going into the at-bat that I raced for first. I think I heard my coach screaming "get…out…of…here!" As I hit second base, I could see the center fielder standing still. Then it hit me. What I had done. I had hit my first home run, dead center field. And no cheap shot either. Cleared the fence dead and true. My teammates raced out of the dug out to meet me at home, but I was looking beyond them already. The thing is, as silly as it may sound, there is almost no greater feeling than hitting a home run. They are truly sublime lest alone in front of your dad. I cannot begin to imagine what it must feel like to hit one in the playoffs or the World Series to win a game. My fear is that there would be some inner bug in my ear to jump off a bridge after that because it would be all downhill afterwards. But I digress.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Waiting at home were all my teammates and my coach, he with a big grin on his face. My coach always liked me. Liked the way I played the game. I worked hard, got dirty, dove for balls. Hitting the ball, however, never came that natural to me. I tried hard, but was scrappy and not too powerful. Without a doubt, I could see in his eyes that he knew what it meant for me. Hard to argue that it may have </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">almost</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> meant as much to him after seeing me play for 4 years without one.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">I'm about to cross home plate when I look to the right and there stands Jaime with a coy look on her face, her friend devilishly beaming. "He likes you, he likes you!" I didn't, but you wouldn't know that from the direct order I had just obeyed. But all this temporary chaos was a mere prelude to the payoff I was about to get as I proudly jogged by the on-deck circle, where the scent of White Owl still hung in the air. Not only had my father finally come, but he had come to THE game. Of all games to show up at, he had hit the dad lottery. A proud father seeing his son hit the go-ahead home run…which incidentally happened to be his first. On a side note, and no disrespect to sex in any way, the first home run is much better than the first, well, you know.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Anyway, fist in the air, I swing my gaze towards my father, and my heart sinks. Sinks like a broken ship. He's not standing there.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">How could I expect anything else? He had never come to my games before, and of course he finally comes only to catch my strike out and error. That game plays in my head over and over. Should you ask me and my dad, put in separate rooms, to write about it, you'd get two wildly different stories. Wildly different. Me of hitting a magnificent home run in front of a proud papa, and he of watching his son "try hard" but not doing so well. When I got to his bar that night for a ride home, I asked him if he saw "it." My home run. He said he had to leave to get back to work, because he couldn't trust anyone there. He could never trust anyone else to this task. Never. I was crushed. From the top of the mountain to the bottom of the sea in minutes. Still, I did smell that White Owl when I crossed home plate.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">I never really forgave my father for that. Yes, there are worse things a parent can do to a child for sure. But this incident has always haunted and stuck with me, like an old bully who you are no longer afraid of but occasionally reminds you of what you </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">used</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> to be afraid of. My father and I didn't really have the relationship where I felt comfortable sitting down and saying, "why didn't you stay?"</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">So, why didn't he stay?</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Today is my birthday, my 40th. I am a lucky man, a fortunate human. The gifts given me have been invaluable and unrepayable. The fact that I have 2 working arms, legs, and eyes, is a fact that does not escape me any day. But a stated before, today is my birthday.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">So with that in mind..I can answer the above question. Confidently and without looking back.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">I'm crossing 3rd base on my way home. My teammates are as excited as I am. For not only have I hit the all-consuming home run, but I have put the Lions in the lead. (details to confirm this last fact are a bit murky, but what the hell). I can see Jaime out of the corner of my eye. "Don't look at her" runs through my head. I don't. But how will I live </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">this</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> down tomorrow at school? As I hit home plate, I am mobbed by an unruly pack of Lions. My team. For a few fleeting minutes, all of planet earth is celebrating my incredible feat. Or so it seems. Really. But all this temporary chaos is a mere prelude to the payoff I am about to get as I proudly jog by the on-deck circle, where the scent of White Owl still hangs in the air. Not only had my father finally come, but he had come to THE game. Of all games to show up at, he had hit the dad lottery. A proud father seeing his son hit the go-ahead home run…which incidentally happened to be his first. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Fist in the air, I swing my gaze towards my father, but he is not there. Right before my heart begins to sink, I see the water-logged end of the White Owl laying next to the fence, still burning out. I turn around, and there it is. The tan 1979 Dodge Dart with the white roof that my dad owned. Door just closing, engine coughing to life. You see, my father was never one for words, he left that to me. I can see now that the man I knew as my dad would never have been able to say the right words to me as I arrived at the fence in front of the on-deck circle. He wasn't comfortable with that. He also was not a hugger. His pride was in his silence. He came and saw what he needed to see. Time to retire back to what he knew, his work. He always had his work. And the one memory of his oldest son hitting his first home run.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">And that would be enough.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Unspoken.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><i></i><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><i></i><br /></p>loungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171235394948963476.post-60532903228393512892009-11-20T10:42:00.000-08:002009-11-20T10:43:28.246-08:00italy oopsso a couple dates have been rearranged on the italy tour.<br />you can check these out on the <a href="http://www.dondilego.com/dondilego.com/tour.html">tour page</a>.loungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171235394948963476.post-86431448132509254962009-11-19T18:58:00.000-08:002009-11-19T19:01:12.200-08:00Upcoming Tour Dates<span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >solo don in italy</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">25 nov | assagio, italy | live forum | solo show | 8pm</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">26 nov | legnano, italy | stomp | band show | 8pm</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">27 nov | tba</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">28 nov | savona, italy | raindogs | band show | 8pm</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">29 nov | francavella bisio, italy | pub 1340 | band show | 8pm</span></span><span style="display: block;" id="formatbar_Buttons"><span class="menu-top on" style="display: block;" id="formatbar_FontSize" title="Font size" onmouseover="ButtonHoverOn(this);" onmouseout="ButtonHoverOff(this);" onmouseup="" onmousedown="CheckFormatting(event);toggleFontSizeMenu();ButtonMouseDown(this);"><img src="img/blank.gif" alt="Font size" class="gl_size" border="0" /></span></span><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >light of day tour</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">1 dec | oslo, norway | herr nilsen</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">2 dec... | stockholm, sweden | tba</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">3 dec | copenhagen, denmark | krudttonden</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">4 dec | melle, germany | ballsaal</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">5 dec | como, italy | bloom</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">6 dec | latina, italy | teatro gabriele d'annunzio</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">7 dec | lugo, italy | teatro rossini</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">8 dec | luzerne, switzerland | casineum</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">9 dec | amsterdam, holland | tba</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">10 dec | london, england | the half moon</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">11 dec | colwyn bay, wales | the interchange</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">12 dec | dublin, ireland | the village venue</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">13 dec | madrid, spain | ramdall music live</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">[<a href="http://www.lightofday.org/calendar-of-events.php">more info on this tour</a>]</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >holiday/birthday blowout</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">19 dec | new york cityy | the bowery electric | band show | 8pm</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >Annual St. John Tour 2010</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">20 jan | st. john, usvi | rhumb lines | 7pm</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">21 jan | st. john, usvi | beach bar | 10pm</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">22 jan | st. john, usvi | larry's landing | 10pm</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">23 jan | st. john, usvi | beach bar | 10pm</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">24 jan | st. john, usvi | island blues | 7pm</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">25 jan | st. john, usvi | tba | 7pm</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">26 jan | st. john, usvi | tba | 7pm<br /><br /><br /></span></span>loungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171235394948963476.post-41589215877382733162009-11-18T10:58:00.000-08:002009-11-18T11:11:59.297-08:00New website up and up and upOk. I know I say this all the time, but yes in fact, the new website, designed by yours truly on a flight home from las vegas, is now online and on the internets for your viewing pleasure. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip1VUDxHCuEZE-0NXHsTkP-_zoJ1Lg1q6BINBRkApHkzwrFns_14OkGEDs1Loc4HQT4fs0sejV2GA3xSbTJZfkAXp61yywAht-LS108a6RgANr3QE_rIIXbRWjTP8TtFbixv2H2fOVddU/s1600/Screen+shot+2009-11-18+at+1.59.54+PM.png"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 193px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip1VUDxHCuEZE-0NXHsTkP-_zoJ1Lg1q6BINBRkApHkzwrFns_14OkGEDs1Loc4HQT4fs0sejV2GA3xSbTJZfkAXp61yywAht-LS108a6RgANr3QE_rIIXbRWjTP8TtFbixv2H2fOVddU/s200/Screen+shot+2009-11-18+at+1.59.54+PM.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405520594876607346" /></a><br />I'm putting it live before I've worked all the quirks out, but at least it's close. Simple is the word of the day here folks.<br /><br />In other news, I'm headed off to my tour of italy and then the all over europe in a little over a week. please check <a href="http://dondilego.com/dondilego.com/tour.html">here</a> for more info on the dates. The first week will be my lone self on a solo tour of italy, and then I will join the <span style="font-weight:bold;"><a href="http://www.lightofday.org/calendar-of-events.php">Light of Day</a></span> songwriter's tour with the likes of<span style="font-weight:bold;"> Jesse Malin, Marah, Willie Nile</span>, and more.<br /><br />What else? Oh yes, my other sci-fi retro-future pop outfit <span style="font-weight:bold;"><a href="http://www.beautifulsmallmachines.com">beautiful small machines</a>,</span> has just released a new single called "Simple Joys" which our...ahem...am I really saying this...our friend Simon Le Bon from Duran Duran lent guest vocals. And by the way, he totally kicks the song's ass. Go get it <a href="http://itunes.apple.com/us/album/simple-joys-4-roy-pris/id331920677?i=331921393&uo=6">here</a>.<br /><br />Thanks for checking in. I will be writing as the european tour kicks along in a wee bit. So off you go to the <a href="http://www.dondilego.com">new website</a>.loungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171235394948963476.post-80971940117324204302009-07-25T16:53:00.000-07:002009-07-25T16:56:50.046-07:00New video creationJust finished creating/editing a new video for <b>Beautiful Small Machines</b>.<br /><br />If you want to be traumatized, go <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/loungesingah">watch it now</a>.loungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171235394948963476.post-79691148966132090482009-03-03T12:25:00.001-08:002009-03-03T12:25:56.371-08:00Slow but steady wins the...I feel like this may be a bit of a pre-Spring Cleaning blog entry. Random, slightly unfocused, bloated, meandering, salty, but informational nontheless.<br /><br />The first bit of news is this. The new Will Ferrell produced HBO series "<a href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3Lmhiby5jb20vZWFzdGJvdW5kYW5kZG93bi8=" target="_blank">Eastbound and Down</a>" starring Danny McBride, is featuring one of me own pieces of tunage, "Dreamin." I believe this will take place during episode 4. Next...<br /><br />My new band with Bree Sharp and the members of City Breathing will be playing in New York City on March 10th at 8:30p at <a href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3LnRoZWJvd2VyeWVsZWN0cmljLmNvbS8=" target="_blank">The Bowery Electric</a>, for "The East Side Conspiracy" show. Yes, I would love to see you. Yes, I need you more than you need me. Yes, I love you too. Next...<br /><br />What the hell have I been doing? Well, besides producing <a href="http://www.myspace.com/eleanordubinsky" target="_blank">this girl</a> and working in a strange but exciting new capacity on new tunes with <a href="http://www.myspace.com/jessemalin" target="_blank"></a>, and finishing the soundtrack /score to <a href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3LnJhbmNoZXJvdGhlbW92aWUuY29tLw==" target="_blank">this movie</a>, and forever reading <a href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vZW4ud2lraXBlZGlhLm9yZy93aWtpL0FfU2hvcnRfSGlzdG9yeV9vZl9OZWFybHlfRXZlcnl0aGluZw==" target="_blank">this book</a>, I have been writing and scheming my next release while, oh yes I nearly forgot, playing with the aforementioned <a href="http://www.myspace.com/beautifulsmallmachines" target="_blank"> Beautiful Small Machines</a>. Phew. Next...<br /><br />All this while mentally preparing for another season of Red Sox baseball, and yearning to mow a lawn. Drop me a note and say hello. More updates coming fast and furious. For those on the East Coast, there IS a light at the end of the tunnel. For everyone else, err, there is a light at the end of the tunnel. I can see it clearly.<br /><br />Hope you can make it out on the 10th.<br />Peace, <br />Don<br /><br /><a href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vdHdpdHRlci5jb20vZG9uZGlsZWdv" target="_blank">twitter</a><br /><a href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vZG9uZGlsZWdvLmJsb2dzcG90LmNvbS8=" target="_blank">blog</a><br /><a href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3LmZhY2Vib29rLmNvbS9wYWdlcy9Eb24tRGlMZWdvLzE4Njc4NzkyNzY1P3JlZj1z" target="_blank">facebook</a><br /><br />loungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171235394948963476.post-7465145737242763012009-01-29T12:17:00.000-08:002009-01-29T12:18:28.583-08:00words::words::more words::obama::words::don't read::The election of Barack Obama as President of the United States, a country equally as valued for it's symbolism as it's literal political and financial achievements, can not truiy be underscored enough. It's of a magnitude, for many reasons beyond the man himself, that equals or exceeds any movement of this past century. But though I am myself-along with a great majority of our planet-overwhelmed by it all, the thing that makes it all even more incredible, is the stoic reserve with which the man himself has accepted his historic rise and ultimate victory.<br /><br />He doesn't view it as we do. Sure, he understands the impact his aacendence has had. But this was not his ultimate destination. It is simply (albeit spectacularly so) a necessary vehicle to our national, and perhaps international transformation. Or so I hope.<br /><br />Ok then. Back into the studio Mr. DiLego.loungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171235394948963476.post-65415924478636783702008-11-06T07:51:00.000-08:002008-11-06T08:24:13.443-08:00Our Great CollectiveHere's the deal. And it's pretty simple.<br /><br />At the very least and core of what took place on tuesday night, is the basic fact that I retrieved some sense, however slight and buried deep down, yes some sense of a faith in our country and in people to make a reasoned choice to look forward and think of making things better.<br /><br />I am not saying anything that probably most of you already feel. If there were words on the tip of my lips that I felt were more profound and poetic, then I would wax on here about our great collective moment we experienced. But I quite simply do not possess that ability to transcend what already was a magnificent moment. So I will pacify myself with the images that remain ingrained in my head and the people with whom I shared our collective historic moment.<br /><br />And I hope you shared that too.<br /><br />Words sometimes are just not enough.loungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171235394948963476.post-87668138623379339012008-08-16T23:48:00.000-07:002008-08-16T23:49:09.042-07:00Billy Joel vs. Wood PanellingWood Panelling vs. Billy Joel<br />In defense of Billy Joel.<br />(Previously titled, "Don Will Never Write for Pitchfork")<br /><br /><br /><br />i don't entirely get it, to be honest. I mean, I DO get it...but not entirely.<br />Among musicians, it's fairly if not ENTIRELY uncommon to hear any kind words directed towards the music created by Mr. Joel. Honestly, now that I am thinking about it, no musician friends of mine wax poetically or even muse kindly towards the aforementioned "piano man." And perhaps that's it right there, that he wrote, "Piano Man." More on that later.<br /><br />Thing is, I don't believe them. At least not all of them. Sure, it's way waaayy easier to say, for example. that "hey, wasn't listening to that AM radio crap at the time. Had my head wrapped around the Sex Pistols, the New York art-punk scene and all that. Couldn't give a crap about what that dude had to say about eating in an Italian Restaurant." Well, something like that.<br /><br />You see, admitting to liking Billy Joel has become akin to admitting you favor, say, wood panelling. Thing is, with the right coat of paint, wood panelling ain't all that bad. Might actually rock with the right select furniture. Maybe it's the fact that he's a "piano rocker." Perhaps the indie rocker inside all of us struggling musicians cannot coalesce around any sense of praise for a piano-playing Long Island crooner. But I submit to you that this is way more punk rock at the time than the Sex Pistols ladies and gentlemen. Seriously, think about this. I mean, the Sex Pistols are great. And I'm just using them as an example, for there is really no feud here between Mr. Joel and the SP crew. But outwardly spitting on shit and tearing the world around you apart is overtly more easy than sitting behind a piano and singing songs about your Long Island (see suburbs) upbringing during the heart of the punk movement. <br /><br />I'm not even claiming to be that much of a Billy Joel fan. But what I do like is an underdog. And despite him being a billion some odd selling artist, the guy gets no respect, and that makes him an artistic underdog. It's much easier to say you are REALLY into say, The Arcade Fire, or MGMT, or even Tom Waits. But Billy Joel? NO ONE ever claims this...in public. And the words I submit to you here will likely do little to change that. But despite not being a self-proclaimed Billy Joel fan, I will now offer a few facts that may lead to be finding an old Billy Joel concert tee and cueing up to defend my wearing it in public.<br /><br />1. "The Stranger" - don't care what you have to say. The guitar riff is a little square, but those flat-ass thin sounding drums are awesome and I would kill to have them on my record. Also, these lyrics aren't have bad. <br /><br />Once I used to believe<br />I was such a great romancer<br />Then I came home to a woman<br />That I could not recognize<br />When I pressed her for a reason<br />She refused to even answer<br />It was then I felt the stranger<br />Kick me right between the eye<br /><br /><br /><br />Ouch Billy. This ain't no "Smokin' in the Boys Room."<br /><br />2. The recording of "It's still rock and Roll to me." Again, I'm, not listening to the naysayers. Okay, so I am an analogue recording junkie. But this remains, to me, one of the most incredible sonic pop recording of it's era. Perhaps Billy purposely keeping any piano from this track was his subconscious reacting to the critical silence of his previous albums. But despite what you may feel of this song, this recording represents the era of the late 70's and early early 80's (before what we would consider the "early 80's) in it's finest technical form. Like wood panelling. A great vocal performance too. Almost unrecognizable as Joel.<br /><br />3. "Uptown Girl" doesn't count<br /><br />4. "Allentown" does.<br /><br />5. Me am drunk.<br /><br />6. I've only really experienced writers block (and I hope I am not jinxing myself) once in my life. It was about 1998 or 99. Had gone about 6 months or so without really writing anything or even having an idea as to what to write about. SO one night I am up about 3 in the morning listening to a radio station in New York City. And believe it or not, radio in NYC is not all that great. ESPECIALLY in the late 90's.<br /><br />So a Billy Joel tune comes on...of course. I think it may have been "Scenes From an Italian Restaurant." I may have even sung a lyric or two. But the thing that really struck me, was that as a songwriter, he must be pretty psyched that he has so many songs that people know. That they actually PAY to see him perform them. I mean, at the end of the day, that's a very very amazing feat for a guy from the suburbs of Long Island. Actually for anyone from anywhere. And he just has hit after hit after hit, artistic merits aside, which are of course always just a subjective ideology.<br /><br />I sat there in my room murmuring about how this guy, Billy Joel, has all these songs that everybody knows all the words to and sing along with. It made me both admire and loathe him. And here I couldn't write anything. But them it came out, almost in an instant. A song. A new idea. A new thought. In about 15 minutes I wrote a complete thought. A complete song. A song about how I knew all the words to songs by an artist I wasn't even that much a fan of. How oddly impressive that was. And I just need to write even ONE SONG. So there it came out.<br /><br />"I know all the words to songs by Billy Joel<br />He knows me much better than you<br />I wish I could write songs like Billy Joel<br />Maybe I will."<br /><br />And the thing is, I credit that song, perpetually unreleased, as turning my songwriting fortunes around. Such as they may be. After writing that, I haven't experienced writers block since. Maybe I don't exactly write ye old "hits" like Billy, but I could probably match him for sheer volume of tunage written. And I'd tell him "thanks" for the kick in the butt, if only for hearing his songs one too many times.<br /><br />When I was about seven or so, I remember my dad's handyman coming by the house to install some wood panelling in our living room. It was decidedly hideous. Undebateably so.<br /><br />I truly miss it now.loungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171235394948963476.post-70190172075051877272008-07-21T09:03:00.000-07:002008-07-21T12:44:34.440-07:00Thumbs Up or Thumbs Down?"THUMBS UP!"<br />(A True Story)<br />Act 1<br />Scene One<br /><br />It's late on a stormy and steamy Fourth of July of this year. A group of 4 semi-revelrous adults step into a sparsely crowded <a href="http://images.citysearch.net/profile/37/d6/41740922p1.jpg">West Village bar</a> in Manhattan for a refreshing margarita.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Kristi:</span> "Yeaahhhhhhh!!!"<br /><br />And with that, the foursome step inside the bar and order their cold drinks.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Bree: </span>"So, how about 'Antartica?'"<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Don:</span> "I still like The Meltdowns."<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">You see, the conversation has been about what would make a good band name. Thus far it has been concluded that the answer is none. There are none good band names.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Waitress walks over to table to take our order, slightly distracted, but mostly tired. Don decides to bring in an outside opinion.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Don:</span><span style="font-style:italic;"> (to waitress)</span> "Let me ask you a question here. I'm gonna give you some band names, and you tell me what you like with a Thumbs Up or Thumbs Down. Ok?"<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Don turns to glance over at his company to show he has a master plan. And the true and greatest name of what's been suggested so far, will now be chosen by our unassuming waitress. Just as he's turning back to said waitress with the first band name option, she says...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Waitress</span>: "Ummm...I think I like...Thumbs Up."<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Dumbfounded look on all faces concerned.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Waitress: </span>"Yeah. Because Thumbs Down sounds too negative. So I like Thumbs Up."<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Don</span>: Ok then. Thank you.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">This happened. And I will be thankful for all eternity.<br /></span>loungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171235394948963476.post-3401744597469496142008-07-21T09:01:00.000-07:002008-07-21T09:03:20.089-07:00The "Billie Jean" ArgumentThe story goes like this...<br><br>We're at the zany and remote Velvet Elk Studio working on a song, and the song "Billie Jean" gets brought up. Now, this happens more often than you think. It's one of the most simple and brilliant bass and drum intros to a song. I give it tint fragmential adge over Queens' "Another One Bites the Dust." An edge that will most likely switch sides as soon as I next hear "aNother One..."<br><br>Anyway, we're discussing the brilliance of the "Billie Jean" bass line and stuffing our faces at the same time. Whilst I am in mid-bite, Paul "Eagle Feather" Garisto decides to chime in with his rendition of the aforementioned bass line. However, he does this incorrectly, or so I believe. An argument, of sorts, ensues. Additionally, I believe I may have won this battle, but Eagle still claims otherwise. <br><br>Let's go to the <a href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3LnlvdXR1YmUuY29tL3dhdGNoP3Y9MF9ZWnBmV2hwOWM=" target=_blank> videotape</a>.loungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171235394948963476.post-29107301715657553112008-06-16T08:53:00.000-07:002008-06-16T09:58:10.800-07:00Life as a slugfest.What a crazy weekend, physically AND emotionally.<br /><br />I'll start with the good. Ventured out to the Steel Bridge Songfest in Sturgeon Bay, WI, where I performed a few of the songs I wrote there the previous year. The fellow songwriters that I was involved with were all truly talented and even magical artists. So here's the thing, they've put out a 2-cd compilation of those songs for Steel Bridge. You'd be wise to pick one up. Now, I know...compilations can be a sketchy promise, at best. I'm usually if not always weary of them. So I'd be hard-pressed to recommend one fully. But, yet here I am about to do JUST THAT. This compilation has some INCREDIBLE songs. Obviously I am more attached having been there during their writing process, but you should check them out. K?<br /><br />Go <a href="http://steelbridgesongfest.org/" target=_blank>here </a> for that.<br /><br />Saturday night was the "big" show on the main stage, featuring Jackson Browne. Jackson has been great about lending his name and time to the cause and supporting this festival. Not to mention the fact that he is an amazing performer as well. The show ended around 10:30pm, with about 100 of us on stage singing the final song. It was somewhere during that song that I was convinced the stage was about to collapse. But I continued to bang the drum sticks instead.<br /><br />12:30am - I begin my drive to Milwaukee for my 5am flight to Nashville. Sad to leave my friends behind.<br /><br />3:30am - arrive in Nashville at airport. Return car. Walk to airline ticket counter. Not open. Stand there for half hour.<br /><br />4:05am - someone from Continental shows up...finally. After 10 minutes of her "getting ready", we get our tickets.<br /><br />4:10am - security line. again, NOT open yet. Stand for 20 minutes. Curiously, about 15 security workers are all standing at their posts waiting for it to turn 4:30am. <br /><br />5:00am-ish - we're off to Nashville! oops. not yet. first leg is to, Houston, TX?!<br /><br />8:15am - we're off to Nashville!<br /><br />11:15am - I'm confused by all the time-zone changes I'll flip-flopping through, but we've made it to NAshville. Miraculously, my whole band on their own individual flights have arrived at airport around the same time. This will be the single-most impressive feature of our day. Well, for musicians that is.<br /><br />1:00pm - check in to hotel in Murfreesboro. I can see the letters of that town quite plainly, but I STILL can't seem to say it correctly. I jump in shower. Johnny and I have effective not slept since 10am yesterday. Feels pretty cool.<br /><br />2:30pm - arrive at Bonnaroo. We get our artist passes. Feel semi-important.<br /><br />3:00pm - pull into parking lot. it's about 95 degrees under a blistering sun. I am a pale white singer-songwriter. Very sexy.<br />We are met by, Griper Nugent. That was correct. He picks us up in golf cart and escorts us onto the grounds to the Sonic Stage area where we will perform. Star treatment. I distinctly recall having perhaps read a few folks lips saying something like.."who are those assholes?"<br /><br />3:15pm - backstage at Sonic. meet the peeps at OurStage who helped pull all this together for us. Very grateful. Watch Susan Tedeschi go on before us and she kills! The audience eats it up.<br /><br />3:30pm - Don DiLego and band rehearse for Bonnaroo. Colin Killalea, who played guitar with me for the FIRST TIME last week in NYC, is standing nect to a giant blue octopus, playing saxophone to "Nicotine Prom Queen." Where am I? Mom?<br /><br />4:30pm - Onstage at Bonnaroo! The crowd has thinned, but we are undeterred. The sun is directly in our faces. I think my bassist Johnny has melted a couple inches. We are un-phazed! We bust into "The Vegas Man" and I do my Elvis intro. Perhaps good for adding 10 folks to the audience. (all claims are unverified and maybe only in Don's head)<br /><br />4:40pm - we're cookin' now. we get a half dozen or so new folks with each tune. The reality is, nary a soul knows who the hell we even are. And we're sandwiched between some incredibly loud bluegrass band and Aimme Mann. We are not winning the battle, but we are managing to take a few prisoners along the way. The band sounds good.<br /><br />4:50pm - To Paul chagrin, I take a tom-tom solo during "Falling Into Space." I try to extend this "solo", but Paul indicated that I sounds like an empty water bottle. I head back to microphone<br /><br />4:55pm - After a monumental white raggae jam with Colin wailing away on tenor sax, our set concludes. I have a gigantic smile on my face to be honest. The grand journey all weekend and all the stress of making the travel arrangements work out to make this happen, just washes away in the glow of the afternoon Bonnaroo sun. We played well, got some festival-goers to listen to us play, and made some new fans. What's not to be happy about?<br /><br />5:10pm - interview with Alyssa Jayne Hale from OurStage in from of giant blue octopus. I attempt to be a wise-ass during my on camera interview. Turns out she's even more of one. I think I fall in love. <br /><br />5:12pm - Occurs to me that everything I just said was not just a conversation in my head and will actually be aired.<br /><br />5:20pm - a guy named Benjamin from Roving Festivals wants to interview me as well. Oh, so this is what the big guys do, eh?<br />Answer a few questions, including..."name some other great underground New York Artists."...when <a href="http://www.myspace.com/ianthomas" target=_blank>Ian Thomas</a> walks by. Ian is a great folk singer-songwriter, who I played with a Jack's in NYC a bunch. Just happens to not only be coincidentally playing Bonnaroo, but also walking right past me doing the interview right then.<br /><br />6:18pm - walking around Bonnaroo grounds. Everyone looks blitzed. I start playing the "I wonder what they're on" game.<br /><br />7:15pm - get ride back to parking lot to load back up. Stay there for an hour playing frisbee in the setting sun with the guys. Sometimes these simple things are grand.<br /><br />8:30pm - back at hotel. I know I'm exhausted but can't sleep. <br /><br />9:05pm - find out that Sadie Loo, one of the cats I dearly love, only 2 years old, had to be put to sleep while I am away. Feel like I just got punched in gut, but am too tired to process it. She was family. She really was.<br /><br />10:30pm? - blankly watch Celtics lose to Lakers, even though I'm not that upset about it. Kinda want to seem them win in Boston anyway. A nice divergence. <br /><br />11:15pm-ish - somehow fall asleep<br /><br />6:30am - someone knocks on our door, making me jump out of bed. No answer. Thanks for that.<br /><br />7:11am - a louder knock. This time I realize that there are 2 buses of Jesus Camp parked outside and they are rounding each other up this morning for departure. Somehow, they keep mistaking Room 310 as fellow members.<br /><br />8:30am - Target. Why am I here? No, seriously. Why?<br /><br />9:30am - my friend Marwan texts me to congratulate my Bonnaroo performance as seen on internet. What?@!<br /><br />9:35am - <a href="http://www.ourstage.com/" target=_blank> OurStage </a> has posted video of my performance and interview. I am clown-like. But it's wonderful how much exposure they are giving me. Glad I am wearing pants.<br /><br />*** Well, now I'm drinking my coffee and laying out my timeline for you because I know there is nothing else on the internet for you to read. So I am filling your void. I feel relieved, saddened, and somewhat rested. I am about to drive all the guys into Nashville to the airport for their respective afternoon flights back home. As for me, it just so worked out that my flight is tomorrow morning. So I will hole up in Nashville tonight, and wander Music Row on my own looking for some sad country music and a bit of whiskey. And that sounds just about right to me.loungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171235394948963476.post-64565862309078966362008-06-11T08:44:00.000-07:002008-06-11T08:49:35.749-07:00Bonnaroo Festival and moreCouldn't be more excited about this weekend. Headed out to Wisconsin for a return to the Steel Bridge Music Festival in Sturgeon Bay, WI with Pat MacDonald, Jackson Browne, et al.<br /><br />Then, then then...<br /><br />Straight down to Manchester, TN to play a set at the Bonnaroo Music Festival.<br />So those of you that may be attending this year, I'll be on the Sonic Stage at 4:30.<br />Hope to see you there!<br /><br />Fest out,<br />DD<br /><br /><a href="http://www.bonnaroo.com/">Bonnaroo Music Festival</a><br /><a href="http://www.steelbridgesongfest.org/">Steel Bridge Music Festival</a>loungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171235394948963476.post-2274375188058178672008-04-08T12:30:00.000-07:002008-04-24T12:31:24.867-07:00Top 5 Welding Films of ALL Time<span style="font-weight:bold;">Top 5 Welding Movies of ALL-TIME</span><br /><br />1. <span style="font-weight:bold;">THIEF</span> (1981) - James Caan is an unstoppable rebel force to behold. Highlights include a full-on 20 minute welding scene as well an extended outdoor panning scene. In fact, great extended panning throughout the whole damn movie.<br /><br />2. <span style="font-weight:bold;">FLASHDANCE </span>(1983) - You know it. I know it...sort of. But as perhaps the most infamous of all welding features, this one deserves the high nod. I won’t let it budge James Caan out though. No way. Still, name a better Pittsburg welding-dancing flick.<br /><br />3. <span style="font-weight:bold;">WELDING THE BIG RING</span> (1904) - The movie that started it all! Who needs talkies.<br /><br />4. <span style="font-weight:bold;">THE MUNSTERS "HAPPY 100TH ANNIVERSARY</span> (1965) - Herman and Lily’s 100th wedding anniversary is fast approaching. Wanting to surprise the other with an amazing gift, Herman and Lily individually acquire part time jobs at the Cleaver Employment Agency. Working as welders at the Crosby Shipyards, but not recognizing each other on account of the heavy welder’s masks, Herman and Lily start flirting with each other. Tensions rise as the couple simultaneously discover each others ’secret’ identity. I mean, really? Can YOU imagine a better plot scenario?<br /><br />5. <span style="font-weight:bold;">VINTAGE WELDING HISTORY</span> w/ Spot, Stick, Arc Welding Footage (2006) - A Saturday night classic. Bar none.<br /><br /><br />* Honorable Mention - <span style="font-weight:bold;">"A KNIGHT’S TALE"</span> - I heard there’s a welding princess in this one. We’ll honor our man Heath with an honorable mention nod.<br /><br /><br />And there you have it. The oft-demanded but never compiled all time great welding movie list. I will NEVER let you down.<br />Here for you,<br />Donloungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171235394948963476.post-27920821720549447192008-03-19T12:31:00.000-07:002008-04-24T12:32:33.711-07:00Hangin' Tough in '08As I contemplate my annual move to the west coast (15 years and counting), and eat my homemade DiLego Formula Soup, I’m staring at a photograph from sometime ago that is not near now, that looks like a comic book version of me. Thing is, it IS me. Wait, did I really wear a Duran Duran shirt for my yearbook photo. Really?! I’m sure it made absolute sense at the time. I hope it did anyway, because I’m certain I almost got beat up for it. (And by "beat up", I mean someone said "Duran Duran are gay!")<br /><br />Moving on. Why am I looking at this evidence? Someone yesterday mentioned the New Kids on The Block and some kind of reunion or rebirth of the band. I lived in Boston during their heydey, and yes, they were bigger than Jesus there. They were everywhere. E V E R Y W H E R E. I think I may have actually wiped myself with NKOTB toilet tissue at one point, though that remains unconfirmed, since I don’t actually remember having gone to the bathroom in the 90’s... (another story)<br /><br />It occurred to me, that my college roomy and I thought it funny at one point, to record this video where we, he and I, were The New Kids. And so we did. Record. That. Song. With. Us. Singing. Hanging. Tough. In. Front. Of. A. Video. Camera. I just remembered this yesterday, and went on a quest to find said tape, aka "the evidence", to see just how funny we were in "making fun" of NKOTB. Folks, here’s how funny we were. None.<br /><br />We were none funny at all. In fact, the jokes on us. BIG TIME. Though I’m sure at the time we may have thought..."Maann, if the New Kids see this, they’ll be SO embarassed! Who’s hangin’ tough now?" <br /><br />Really?! Let’s just put it this way. This tape is getting filed under "never to be seen ever. For all neverness." Fact is, it’s not so much how embarrassing it is to us, as much as my fear that this tape would do more for my career than my music ever has. God bless us all, the YouTubians!<br /><br />So what does this have to do with anything? Absolutely nothing.<br />I’m playing a show this March 28th back at Helsinki in Great Barrington, MA. Details:<br /><br />3/28 – GREAT BARRINGTON, MA @ CLUB HELSINKI – 9PM<br />284 Main St. | Great Barrington, MA 01230 | Tel: 413-528-3394<br />w/ Spottiswoode & His Enemies<br /><br /><br />Next time: we discuss Don’s Western Mass punk rock street cred.<br /><br />Hangin’ tough,<br />DDloungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-171235394948963476.post-4657481843180973432008-03-15T12:34:00.000-07:002008-04-24T12:35:26.257-07:00Yes. I’m announcing a China Tour!Well, not exactly the country, but the woman.<br />The lovely and talented China Forbes (of Pink Martini) is heading out on the road to promote her new solo album, "’78." By sheer coincidence, Ms. China and I shared the same manager in NYC way back when. So here we are some many odd years later playing a tour together.<br /><br />And it’s a great band, not in the very least for the inclusion of Gregg Williams on drums and Lael Alderman on multi-instruments. I will be fool-hardedly handling guitar and some piano and singing along. Look for me and my new guitar pedals in these fancy locations:<br /><br />Apr 7 - Los Angeles, CA @ Troubadour<br />Apr 8 - San Francisco, CA - Great American Music Hall<br />Apr 10 - Portland, OR - The Aladdin<br />Apr 11 - Seattle, WA - Triple Door<br />Apr 13 - Boston, MA (hi mom!) - The Paradise<br />Apr 14 - New York City - Bowery Ballroom<br />Apr 16 - Philadelphia, PA - World Cafe Live<br />Apr 18 - Washington, DC - The Birchmere<br /><br />China’s record is really quite wonderful, and you can listen to it here: <br />China on MySpace.<br /><br />While I spend my time writing the songs for the new record, come out to a show and say hi. See me pretend to know what I’m doing...LIVE!<br /><br />Spring time all the time,<br />Don<br /><br />Other abettors:<br />Gregg Williams<br />Lael Aldermanloungesingahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16887347357622927588noreply@blogger.com0