Wedding Preacher

Slept with the wedding preacher. We shared a bed, although I think I'm the only one who got any sleep. I snore something fierce--that's what they tell me.

Madison, Indiana, celebrating the marriage of dear friends. Ryan was the preacher and I the wedding singer.

He's a great speaker. Passionate, challenging, insightful. A witty man, and playful, both on and off stage. I'm remembering his competitive bowling game when the boys went out for Alburn's bachelor party. Not bad, dude. We should go bowling again.

There are now three wedding sermons that I remember. One by Sam Leonor a year ago in Riverside, one by Andy at Liana and Jason's wedding, and Ryan's from yesterday: That marriages are meant to be live-action models of Grace, deployed so the world can see how God loves.

Ceremony completed, we had a smile over the ying-yang of his black-tie-on-white-shirt against my white-tie-on-black-shirt.

Then good times at the reception (I suck at blowing bubbles...) chatting with Kentucky Darren and the Michigan Smiths. That'd be a good name for a bluegrass band, right?

Found out this morning that Ryan likes bluegrass. I didn't know that. Wouldn't have guessed. And that's exactly what I liked about this trip.

I see him leading community actions in Hollywood and participating in the public conversation on healthcare reform. I hear him next door in his office, moderating a conference call between various church leaders and President Obama.

But it's these one-on-one moments when I see this man I respect in a different way.

Sitting in Starbucks at Louisville International Airport, planning the worship service for this coming Sabbath, I remember how much I enjoy working with him. I don't think I yet know half the reasons God aligned us in mission and ministry, but I know it's been an honor for me.

We board different flights to Chicago, whence he'll drive to Michigan and I'll catch Southwest to Portland. We'll both be back in Hollywood by weekend, God willing.

As he rises in the public scene, the activist minister, holding tightly to faith in one hand and reaching intently for social justice with the other, I think of him most fondly as the guy who showed me how to use the Iphone I borrowed for the weekend.

A single phrase to describe my friend Ryan Bell: Jetset Bowling Preacher

Smoke and Alcohol

I loved, and I do mean loved, working for Jeff Meader and Laurent Montalieu. Their collaborative companies, Oregon Wine Services and NW (NorthWest) Wine Company produce and/or store many of the great wines of the Willamette Valley.  They are also two of the finest gentlemen I've known. 

Most wineries delivered by tanker-truck. The guys in production would quick-connect the tanker and pump to our stainless-steel storage and let me know when it was all in-house so I could schedule a crew for bottling. 

This job was different. The wine was in two one-thousand gallon plastic tanks and we were going to bring them in by loading the tanks into the back of our 24-foot box, used-to-be-a-moving-truck. 

Both tanks forklifted into place, securely strapped to railings, the roll-down door padlocked, I set about a lovely 15-mile drive through vineyard and country back-road.  

I figured on driving gingerly with that much weight in the back. But even my 35 mph beginning was dangerously ambitious. Sloshing liquid so disheveled my truck that around an early corner one side of the truck started lifting off the road.

As I felt the wheels lifting, I thought, 

"Wow, mom was right, alcohol's gonna kill me!" 

Pleased with my own cleverness, I renegotiated a slower pace and settled in for the return trip. And then the thought, 

"This is gonna be a long, hard ride."  

For some reason my mind turned to the story of a guy coming home from a long, hard ride. Doesn't have a name, we call him prodigal, but I think prodigal's an adjective. 

Might be the gorgeous scenery, or the woody fragrance of pinot wafting forward from my cargo. Might be the steady maintenance of adrenaline to my heightened senses. Whatever it was, the muse stayed with me while I drove, and the entire song downloaded during those 90 minutes in the cab of a 24-foot box, used-to-be-a-moving-truck. 

I wanted to remember it, so I called myself on the cellphone and sang it to my voicemail. 

The song is "Smoke & Alcohol" and it's available on my website starting today, September 1st. Click here to download it for $1 US: 

Well, I don't need no more pictures

Took my pictures off the wall

And I tried to drown these voices 

In a blend of smoke and alcohol

Leave no reminder that I'm traveling all alone

Been a long, hard ride

There's only one road coming home

Well, I'm the blacksheep in my family

And I disappoint my wife

But I'm driving this new highway

It's called the way, the truth, the life

Your folks can't get there for you

You got to drive it on your own

Been a long, hard ride

There's only one road coming home

There's only one way

When I returned to my senses, I said I wanna go home

There's only one way

I been livin' like an animal, don't wanna do it no more

There's only one way

I was thinking I could get me a job down at the family store

There's only one way

He said come to me when you get tired and you're feeling heavy laden

I'll take your load and I'll give you more than you have ever taken

One condition, you got to follow where I go

Been a long, hard ride

There's only one road coming home

There's only one way

When I returned to my senses, I said I wanna go home

There's only one way

I been livin' like an animal, don't wanna do it no more

There's only one way

I was thinking I could get me a job down at the family store

There's only one way

People, they gonna disappoint you

People, they gonna let you down

Don't leave your treasure where the moth can find it

And don't build your shelter on shaky ground

There's only one way

When I returned to my senses, I said I wanna go home

There's only one way

I been livin like an animal, don't wanna do it no more

There's only one way

I was thinking I could get me a job down at the family store

There's only one way

Well, I don't need no more pictures

Took my pictures off the wall

And I tried to drown these voices in a blend of smoke and alcohol

But it ain't workin'

My head is ringing like a phone

Been a long, hard ride

There's only one road coming home

photo by Sean Amlaner

Sit-in

You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave...

--From the song "Hotel California" by Don Felder, Don Henley. and Glenn Frey of The Eagles. 

The 5th Floor is inescapable. Biology writes its name in blood. 

_________________________________________________________

A couple years ago I met this guy. People told me I'd like him, which is something funny that people say sometimes. 

"You're gonna like this guy!"

If I don't like him, do I get money back?  

Plus, I like everybody, so what's the big deal?

He plays a great cello. Makes a mean cranberry and tonic. Asks direct questions. Asked me about my loneliness. Did I answer simply because he asked? Would I have answered another stranger with such depth and transparency? Was it because of his training as a therapist? He just graduated from Loma Linda University, Phd. In Clinical Psychology. 

photo by Austin Bacchus

After listening to my fears, why in the world did he and his wife come over that Sunday, laden with food and good company? What made them sit with me when I was so painfully uninteresting? I was empty and they sat with me. 

I had the divorce leprosy. We don't know what to do with that. How do we treat these living dead? They're not single. They're not married. Are they contagious?

I fell asleep and they were still there an hour later when I woke up. How rude of me! They said they were glad of the opportunity to help me relax. 

He lives far away and I may not see him for a while. But I think in the few encounters we did have, I found someone I'm connected to by geography-resistant ties. 

Blood, they say, is thicker than water. 

The Biologicals are coming.

A single phrase to describe my cousin Derek Bacchus: He sat with me . . .

Editor

http://www.freeimages.co.uk/

Behind Guitar Center, up one block, one block west, up another block, is a  street lined with those trees with the gorgeous purple flowers. Such an amazing, vibrant color. We used to walk up that street every day at lunch-time. 

First time I met her, she was a customer. By the time she came to work there, we were already friends. 

Gear-head. I don't think that's a mean thing to say about her. She'd probably say the same. I admire her fascination with equipment and levels and processes. Loves to set up studios and run tracking sessions and label stuff and mix down and tweak this and balance that. When she worked in Hollywood, she'd get hired to consult on studio design and setup all the time.  

There's a podcast in the works for Sounds Like Humans. Her idea. It's a behind-the-scenes look at the making of the album, some of the conversations between me and Suren and Mike, some of the sessions at the studio, some of the challenges and the triumphs. 

We hung out a couple hours last night. Which sort of violates my whole not hanging out with women after dark thing. But technically, this was on Ichat and she wasn't really in my office; she's 300 miles away. Videoconferencing has been our way of meeting the last few months on this project. 

Basically, she's got me taping my whole life. With this many things to check off today's list, it's hard to remember to drag the camera and tripod along as well. 

Speaking of the camera...when we first talked about this podcast a few months ago, I said, "yeah this is a cool idea, but I can't afford a video camera right now. It's taking everything I've got to just make the music."

She said, "what's your address?" 

A few days later my video camera showed up in the mail. With instructions to film everything and send her the tapes. She'll edit the footage. Qualified for the After; she was there for the Before.  Seems right she should be part of the storytelling of  God reconstructing my life. 

Been a while since I walked up that street. 

Jacaranda. 

That's what those trees are called . . .  Jacaranda. 

photo by Truth

A single phrase to describe my friend Truth Knox:  Tweaker of Visuals

Video Bromance

I've never registered for stuff before. Say you're getting married in a few months, like November-ish. You can go to the store and make a list of stuff you want and if your friends like you enough, they'll buy this stuff for you! 

I am not making this up. Seriously!

Ok, I realize this isn't news to most of you, but apparently I've led a very sheltered life...

I went with my friend and his fiancee' to register at Macy's. It's too much fun. They give you a scanner and turn you loose in the store and whatever you scan goes on the magic list. 

I was like, "you get all this free stuff just for getting married?...seriously?"

Shoot, I was about to propose to the next woman that walked through the department. Then I remembered I'm already in love with somebody. Whew, that was close. 

Wednesday night we went to the Icehouse in Pasadena for an evening of stand-up comedy. Good times. 

Sunday morning to the studio for a tracking and mixing session. After the studio we went home and played video games. You don't understand. I do NOT play video games. Heck, I don't play games.  Seriously. . .

It was crazy fun. I don't even know the name of it. Just some racing game where you go as fast as you can until you crash full speed into the side of a mountain, or get bogged in lava and melt into nothing with hardly a whimper. 'Cause you're just that tough. Or maybe 'cause you know you'll be back at the push of a button. 

photo by MariaNoel

Between video games and pizza he had a prop-design project and I had to review some notes on the computer. He worked his project; I worked mine. Still counted as hangout time. Conversation comes when it comes. It's perfectly alright to just be in the same space and not say anything. 

I've never been more proud of him than watching him prepare for marriage. It's not a game, and he knows that. There's no reset button, and you can tell he's taking it seriously. 

Day after tomorrow, bright and early, we're going off-road to capture a photo for the single "Smoke and Alcohol," posting to my website first of September. 

Single phrase to describe my friend Sean Amlaner: 

My brother, seriously... 

No, seriously!

Rope

IM chatting with a friend who tells me she's come to the end of her rope. 

I've been to the end of my rope. Yet, somehow, I'm still here and the rope continues.  Which makes me wonder, was that the end of the rope I reached last time? Is this the end this time? There's more to this rope than meets the eye. 

As long as there's life, there's rope. (O, that's bad, I should delete that, but I'm not going to... Scott wouldn't want me to)

I relate to my friend. Here I am, once again at the edge of Lennox. 

Can't go any further. I fully expect the promise of God to be fulfilled in my life. Haven't stopped praying. Haven't quit believing. Just ran out of strength, that's all. Can't move a muscle. 

Stalled in the middle of the album. Wrote these songs at a low point in my life. Now I find myself re-living those emotions as I revisit this music. I've been here before, paralyzed. Last time I was paralyzed from fear; this time exhaustion. 

The effect is the same. I'm not moving. Like my friend on IM, it's gonna take a miracle to get me unstuck. 

My latest miracle wears dreads. Came alongside so smoothly I didn't realize what was happening. He came by on a Tuesday evening, told me we'd jam a little. We did. Worked on a track for singer Keaver Brenai. 

After a couple hours, I was ready to call it for the night. He starts having me play one of the songs for the album. Play it again. Ok, wait, slow down that part, shorten that part. Bring that part back again.

Next thing I know, dude's putting me through the paces of a fullblown musical arrangement. And by the way, what am I doing next Tuesday, same time? I'll tell you what we're doing, four more hours of the same. 

He was a professor at Berklee College of Music for 9 years.  Now he's a professional drummer in Los Angeles. I know this cat's got stuff to do. He's got tours and showcases, films to score and tv shows to record cues for. 

His schedule has one open date before he travels to Japan on a grant to study Japanese rhythms for 3 months. I'm pretty sure dude's got more to do than pick me up and dust me off. And drag me to the nearest studio. 

You know what, that's exactly what he's been doing. I was telling Suzanne the other day, I feel like a runner who's collapsed within sight of the finish line. And right when I'm about to give up and just lay there, along comes my brother to lift me up and carry me forward. 

The only date he's got available is July 19th. So that's the day we're going into the studio to restart "Sounds Like Humans." Batch of three songs: Road Trip, Smoke 'n Alcohol, and Sweet Lover. 

I really could not do this without you, my brother, my friend. I watched some of your gigs on Youtube tonight. You are an incredible musician and I'm deeply honored to have encountered you as a collaborator. 

 A single phrase to describe my friend David Cowan: Young Professor Old-Soul Brother

Sing Over Me

I love Sabbath. 

I told you I was sitting on the beach having conversation with God about this. It's tripping me out. Speaking of which, I should warn you now, I'm slightly crazy. I asked God to teach me how spirit works and He said, "OK, then follow me out of your mind." 

Rewind a few years to when Sabbath completely sucked for me. I grew up in a conservative setting where Sabbath was pretty much The Day The Fun Stood Still. 

Basic operational guideline: If there's any chance you might enjoy it, you shouldn't be doing it on Sabbath. 

So although I always felt like there might be something magical about it, the possibility was obscured many years by a list of rules for the doing and the don't-ing of the day. 

A few Sabbaths ago, I went to my Hollywood Church and it was a heavy day. Several of us were hurting, some out loud. There was a fog in the air over the city, a phenomenon called June Gloom. Weird that I've never noticed it before. I've lived in Los Angeles over 25% of my life, and I don't remember this?

Why this year am I acutely aware of the fog? It's 'cause I'm sad and lonely and we'll talk about that later. 

As soon as church was out, I tossed some stuff in the car and headed east. Three weeks earlier I had promised Zoe and Dulce that I'd come out and play music with them on a Sabbath afternoon. 

They just got all this cool new equipment. 

It starts out: "hey, you should come jam with us"

Then it was: "you better come jam with us"

Then it turned into: "if you don't come jam with us, you're dead!"

Don't you love how this escalates from invite to demand to death threat?

I'm so heavy by the time I get there, I'm looking for a way to ditch this, but understand these are two of my dearest friends in the world. The absolute delight on Dulce's face as I walk into the studio is reason enough to drive 100 miles. I figure they'll notice sooner or later, so I might as well divulge:

"Hey you guys, I'm depressed right now and I don't have any music in me..."

So you know what! They played and sang and I just sat there and soaked it up. And it was good medicine. Dulce rockin' the Madonna covers and Zoe on the Pat Benatar. And my spirit peeked out from behind my pain. And that thing that music does began at my toes and worked its way steadily into my heart. 

And it wasn't until later that I remembered you can't sing Madonna tunes on Sabbath.

By which time I felt much better and it was too late. 

A single phrase to describe my friends Zoe and Dulce: Musical Deliverance