Sunday, April 10, 2016

Thoughts on the Lawn and The Boss

Yes, I mowed that...and I liked it!

I mowed the lawn today.

Between, essentially, May and the end of October, that would be standard operating procedure. But on April 10 (National Siblings Day, because Everything Must Have a Day), when it's only 46 degrees, and the ground is still sort of soft from the winter, it's a little unusual.

But that's me. Weird, I suppose.

I loved it.

I mean, the thing to understand is that I wanted to make sure the mower would start. It did (after I jumped it off my car), so I wanted it to run for a bit. So...I mowed. Some of the grass didn't go wrong from having it cut (including in that image above). The rest of the yard benefitted from having the twigs and tree branches mulched up.

Don't get me wrong. I won't enjoy it in the not-too-distant future. When it's 95 degrees and the grass is too high.

Yet that time is often my time, in that while my phone is omnipresent, I can still sort of zone out. Maybe I can listen to a ballgame of music (and, yes, good music). Many times, I just think. Which is dangerous.

Blog posts get written after I think.

I will dispel with the #Robcasting, thus sparing my thoughts on things like Bo Bice and Rob Thomas* (Jesus, can stores not play drivel that pounds a spike into your brain for hours after you listen to it?).

* More proof that looks matter with music.

Therefore, I will not climb back onto the American Idol soapbox (that's where ol' Bo comes in...I mean, who really likes him? Nickelback fans?). Oh believe me, I wasn't done the other night. That was the tame version.

I smiled a lot as I buzzed around the yard. My hands were cold, but the smell was that of spring. Of summer. I could smell the cut grass, albeit mixed with the exhaust of the machine, but after it was over it smelled of warm, sunny days.

Of lots of catches with footballs and baseballs.

Of my comfy folding chair with the little tray that pops up to hold a cold beverage and a book.

Of taking a walk or riding a bike.

Of kids playing (even if they're all playing a video game. Sean included).

Despite the thoughts of wanting to write about things that grind my gears, I enjoyed being outside as the daylights faded and the evening grew even cooler.

Sunday nights aren't always my favorite anyway (Sean has gone back to his mother by then), so it was nice to just do something that perhaps seemed strange to others.

A final thing, and this has been percolating in my mind for about 48 hours: Bruce Springsteen can do what he wants. I know he's socially and politically active (yeah, go play another Dem fundraiser). All well and good. Part of what puts him in that line of Woodie Guthrie to Bob Dylan.


Deciding to bail on a concert in North Carolina 48 hours before showtime just isn't cool. Some kid in Greensboro has never seen you before. Some family has booked a hotel or plane tickets to get to this show. Let's be real: if you were a nobody trying to make it, you'd play the show. But because you have more money than you know what to do with, you can afford to be socially conscious.

I get it, Boss. You're the man of the people and you care about human rights. But try telling people that when they can't afford to plunk down $200 to go to one of your shows.

You and I weren't on the best of terms recently, for multiple reasons. I feel like you've lost touch. Something has been ruined for me. As I've said before, maybe it's because I couldn't afford to see you more than that one time, thus rendering me a terrible fan**.

** Yes, there are people who really think this way.

Let's be clear: the North Carolina "bathroom law" isn't cool, but it isn't entirely what meets the eye either.

This isn't a "shut up and sing" thing. It's a "make good on your commitment to your fans" thing. A little more lead time to cancel it, and I'd likely think nothing of it. Forty-eight hours before the gig? No.

We'll make up eventually, I suppose. But let it known that I never had such issues with Mssrs. McCartney, Lennon, Starr, and Harrison. Or a Mr. Lewis of Marin County, California.

You were born to run, Bruce. Back to the mansion on the hill. But don't look for Crazy Janie. She's with Rosalita, trying to get the machine that's a dud, out stuck in the mud, somewhere in the swamps of Jersey.

You left her there.

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