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Here’s my a cappella take on a Jackson Browne classic from 1982.  Enjoy!

I love The Beach Boys.  Here’s my take on my favorite song of theirs.  Apparently, Brian Wilson and Tony Asher wrote this song in 20 minutes.  The bridge blows my mind every time I hear it.  Enjoy.

Thanks for checking out my new Facebook music page, where I’ll post announcements about some exciting things to come in 2012!

This is a new song that I wrote over the past two days with my new ukulele.  It’s called “These Days.”  (Lyrics are below.)  Enjoy and thanks for stopping by.

Jamie’s working on a manuscript

Kelly’s working on the dinner shift

They got a place by the water

It seems to suit them fine

Jamie makes a living tending bar

Kelly knows he’s gonna be a star

They’re gonna driving out west, have a home in the Hollywood hills

They’ve been dreaming about it for a long, long time

But that’s the thing about it…

They keep running out of time

‘Cause these days, these days are flying by

These days, these days are flying by

These days, these days are flying by

These days, these days are flying by

Mark and Chloe need a change of scene

They’re tired of living in the L.A. dream

They gotta make their minds up before it’s too far gone

Maybe move to a Texas town, get back on solid ground

Find out where it all went wrong

They’ve been dreaming about it for a long, long time

But that’s the thing about it…

They keep running out of time

‘Cause these days, these days are flying by

These days, these days are flying by

These days, these days are flying by

These days, these days are flying by

These days are flying by, these days are flying by

These days are flying by, these days are flying by

These days are flying by, these days are flying by

These days are flying by, these days are flying by

Me & the one and only Wanya Morris of Boyz II Men!  What a joy it was to perform onstage with him for our upcoming PBS special.  (Thanks to Eileen for the picture.)

“My dear brothers and sisters, be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to get angry.  Your anger can never make things right in God’s sight.” (James 1:19)

Today I met a man named Kevin from Harrisburg, PA who was looking for a fight.  I’ll get to him later, though. 

I was having lunch with my friend Richard discussing (among other things) how he used to get picked on by the bigger, older kids in school.  Richard told me that he quickly had to learn how to diffuse tense situations and disarm the kids who picked on him with his brain instead of his fists.  In the two years we’ve known each other, I’ve seen Richard charm complete strangers within seconds of meeting them simply by being himself.  

Roll into a random city to find that you have a team of gruff, obstinate stagehands on your hands?  They’re no match for Richard.  After he meets them, they morph into helpful, gracious people who love unloading microphone stands and t-shirts from the cavernous underbellies of a tour bus.  In sub-freezing temperatures.

What’s that, an unruly concert-goer crossed the line and caused a scene during a show?  Not only will they soon see why Richard has called security to throw them out of the venue, but they’ll most likely agree that they were being inappropriate as they’re escorted out.  

Are you a flustered airline representative having a horrible day dealing with line after line after line of delayed, dismayed, and disgruntled travelers?  Richard’s instantly your friend once he steps up to the counter wearing his favorite Harley-Davidson cap on his head and a smile on his face.

I don’t know how the guy does it.  He undoubtedly has a gift for disarming people who need to be disarmed.  It’s amazing to see in action, really.  He’d lay down his life for his friends without a hesitation.  He’s just that kind of guy.

Now that you have a picture of Richard’s personality, allow me to paint one for you of Kevin, the Pennsylvanian construction worker from earlier.

Within seconds of sitting down next to us at the bar of the restaurant (and overhearing Richard recalling some fights that he avoided in high school), Kevin - a goateed guy no shorter than 6’4” clad in shorts and a button-down shirt that opened enough to show off an upper torso of tattoos that lurked below - told Richard that he must not have known how to fight growing up.  Richard politely told him that actually, no, he knew how to fight, he simply chose not to when the opportunity to do otherwise arose.  Kevin, unappeased, turned his line of questioning to me.  

“What about you?  If I said “let’s go outside right now” to you, what would you do?  What if I got in your face right now?”

I told him that I wouldn’t fight him, but I’d sure as hell defend my family, friends, or someone weak getting picked on for no reason.

He analyzed my answer and announced to us that he had empirically decided that I had “heart” while Richard had none.  I respectfully begged to differ.

“No, he has heart.  You don’t know him.  By the way, my name’s Ryan, what’s yours?”

Kevin shook my hand briefly, perhaps a bit surprised by the gesture, and told me his name.  I asked him what he did for a living, where he was from, what he was doing in town, that sort of thing.  Once I learned that he was born in San Antonio, lived in Harrisburg, worked in construction, and was on vacation with his kids and brother, his next question totally caught me off guard.

“Are you gay?  I mean, your personality makes you come across gay.  You look gay to me.”

Obviously, this conversation had nowhere to go but up.

“No, I’m not gay,” I replied after a couple seconds of shock, indicating to my wedding ring.

“How does that make you feel that I just told you that I thought you were gay from the second I met you and I don’t even know you?” Kevin asked.

“Let me tell you something,” I replied, as the bartender and manager silently began to become aware of the situation.  ”I perform onstage for a living with nine other guys.  You’re not the first person who has told me they think I’m gay nor will you be the last.”

“You’re just very feminine,” he resorted to telling me, meaning “effeminate.”  ”You should probably reevaluate yourself,” he continued.

“Thank you for your suggestion,” I told him, trying to bring the conversation to a close.

“What about him?” he blurted, pointing at Richard, who replied in perfect timing with the line of the day.

“Who, me?  I love my penis.  I don’t want to see his, though,” Richard laughed as he motioned over to me.

“You just come across gay.  I mean, if I offended you…” he trailed off weakly, hoping to offend me.

“It’s water under the bridge, man.  We’re cool,” I said, taking a sip of water from the glass that suddenly looked like the ideal thing to shatter over his skull.

I’m glad I didn’t follow through with that thought, though, because at this point in the conversation, Kevin began to tell us how earlier he was smoking a cigarette on the boardwalk that surrounds the casino outside and was approached by a “skinny black Muslim,” as he put it, who had apparently solicited cocaine to him.

“I’m here in town with my (expletive) kids, man, and this (expletive) dude wants to sell me coke.  I used to (expletive)-ing sell coke, man!  I took that (expletive)’s bag from him, ripped it open, tasted that (expletive), and threw it back in his (expletive)-ing face.  That Muslim was trying to rip me off!  It wasn’t even cocaine!”

Kevin’s agitation was growing with each passing second and I began to feel extremely uneasy, to say the least.  My “Spidey senses,” as Richard would put it later, were going off like crazy and I felt a surge of adrenalin course through me as Kevin’s voice heightened.  

He reenacted getting in the dealer’s face, unsnapped his shirt (in a restaurant, mind you), moved in within inches of my face and seethed “You wanna go, mother(expletive)er?”  

I seriously think he thought I was trying to sell him cocaine in McCormick & Schmick’s.

I could tell that this conversation could end up one of two ways:  I could tell Kevin to get out of my face and potentially be stabbed/shot/converted to neo-Nazism OR I could attempt to keep the conversation in as neutral a state as possible until Richard and I could remove ourselves from the situation.

“Wow.  What ended up happening?” I inquired, shoveling food into my mouth.

“I slapped that skinny Muslim in his face,” he proudly declared.

If I had been a gaunt, homosexual, black Muslim hearing this vitriol, my head would’ve exploded.  The (sort of)fit(ish), heterosexual, white Christian in me, however, was angered almost beyond control by the ignorant bigot that sat three feet away from me.  Thankfully, Kevin’s meal was delivered to the bar by a server who shot Richard and me a glance as if to determine from us whether he needed to call security.

As he took to his food like a ravenous beast, I prayed a quick “Lord, be in complete control of this situation and give me an out if I need it.”  Immediately I felt protected, although my body remained on high alert.  

Looking back on it, I think what I feared the most during the entire ordeal was not the “what is happening right now?” but the “what could happen right now?”  This guy all but smelled of evil.  His disposition screamed as though he wanted more than nothing else to replace some deeply buried wound from his past with as much hate and bitterness as he possibly could inflict on someone else.  He could have had a gun on him and I wouldn’t even know it.  

Our bartender friend would tell me later in the evening that she gravely weighed giving him a steak knife with his meal.  

Earlier, when Kevin didn’t get the response from Richard that he wanted, he tried to get it out of me.  Neither of us gave it to him.  In retrospect, that was the best move we could’ve made.  

Soon, enough time thankfully passed while Kevin ate mostly in silence and we closed our checks.  Richard and I made eye contact, nonverbally communicated a novel in a second’s glance, got up, and wished Kevin a good rest of his day, offering our hands, which he shook.

It wasn’t warm, nor was it curt, our departure.  It was straight-forward, sufficiently polite, and void of any flair, really.  I can’t report that Richard and I saved the day and Kevin had a true change of heart after our encounter with him, although I wish I could.  I can’t say he came face-to-face later with his ignorance and unfounded hatred and became convicted in his soul of his errors.  Who knows what he thought of us.  For all I know, he thought I was a gay cocaine dealer and Richard was a soft weakling to whom I sold my wares.

What saddened - and continues to sadden - me most about Kevin is how broken he was.  Under an armor of poisonous diatribes and outrageous interrogations, was a beat-up guy.  Maybe that beat-up guy was a six-year-old kid who was molested by an uncle, or a neighbor, or a pastor.  Maybe that beat-up guy was a bright young man who was told he’d never amount to anything so he gave up on his dreams for himself and focused his pain on anyone who was different than he was.  Maybe that beat-up guy never knew his parents.  Maybe 7th-grade Richard could have become that beat-up guy later in life.  Why he didn’t and Kevin did will remain a mystery to me…

Today’s encounter reminded me of a sermon I heard in church exactly two years ago today (talk about chills when I discovered that date in my Bible just now!).  Seriously, that’s just weird.  Got the signal loud and clear, God.  Gracias.

Six types of anger were analyzed, namely:  

1. Suppressed anger, which grows and become displaced into various areas of our lives,
2. Repressed anger, which is buried and forgotten until it turns against us physically and emotionally,
3. Aggressive anger, which comes in the form of sarcasm, bickering, and rage,
4. Passive anger, which comes in the form of pouting, withdrawal, or cold shoulders, 
5. Sublimated anger, which is transferred or vented into an positive activity, and
6. Assertive anger, which is managed effectively, openly, responsibly, and honestly.

Kevin was angry at something; I can only imagine what.  I became angry for numerous reasons during our encounter.  Throughout our brief time together, however, I had on my heart the verses that read “Don’t sin by letting anger gain control over you…for anger gives a mighty foothold to the Devil.  Instead, be kind to each other, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, just as God through Christ has forgiven you.”  (Ephesians 5:26-27, 32)

I prayed for Kevin during our encounter - admittedly, more for protection from him should he have decided to snap on Richard or me - and I prayed again for him tonight that he might be blessed and shown God’s love.  After all, every one of us is broken at our core, no matter how beautifully crafted the fronts are which we put up daily as experts in deception.  

I encourage you, if you’re so inclined, to pray for Kevin.  I don’t even know his last name, but I believe that his Creator knows everything about him and that’s all I need to know.

Thanks.

Here’s a new song I wrote recently entitled “What Are We Fighting For?”  Thank you for listening.  Enjoy!

The list below shall serve as motivation until the time to record said songs is right…

NEVERBEENRECORDED

• Broken Promises
• Captain Harry
• Chicago
• Devil on My Shoulder
• Didn’t Know It at the Time
• Falling Into You
• Granary (One If By Land, Two If By Sea)
• Hop Into Shotgun
• I’m Not Ever Coming Back
• I’m Not Gonna Let You Go (When I Get You Alone)
• Indiana
• Just One Kiss
• Lead Me, Lord
• My Christmas Wish For You
• Rhythm on the Radio
• Summer Drive
• Walnut Street Blues
• We’ll See You Someday (Brad’s Song)
• What Are We Fighting For
• Will You Wait For Me

FINISHTHESEALREADY!

• Crybaby
• Walking After Dark

MAYBEGIVETHESEANOTHERSHOT?

• Maybe on Another Day
• Round In Circles
• Turn My Head to Home
• Windows Down

COVERIDEAS

• Her Town Too (w/Lugs)
• Reminiscing
• Walking In Memphis

I met a seagull today that was the size of my cat.  For comparison’s sake, Rusty weighs 12 pounds.  That’s a huge maritime bird, people.

Birds have been weirding me out lately and by that I mean that I’ve recently grown terrified of birds that come within a 10-foot radius of me.  By terrified I mean I say things to the approaching bird like “You better not!” or “Dude, what the…” if I make eye contact with one that lasts longer than 2 seconds.  I usually swat futilely whatever I have in my possession at the flying beast and shimmy along nervously, doing my best to maintain my cool factor in the eyes of any passersby (great word, passersby).

If I see a bird indoors and it isn’t in a cage or the frozen foods aisle, it makes me uneasy.  Not because I dislike birds; on the contrary, I enjoy and appreciate the beauty our aviary friends bring into the world.  I curiously enjoy how some birds hop about while others strut, for example.  I am intrigued by their different calls to each other and the opportunity it presents me to make up dialogue in my head as to what they’re saying (Bird 1: “Hey!” Bird 2: “Oh, hey!”).  I dig pigeons because I feel like I could pick one up right off the street if I wanted a pet pigeon for the day and he’d be cool with it as long as I gave him some bread crumbs or trash to eat now and then.  Indoor birds, though, make me deal with a mixed bag of emotions ranging from pity to sheer terror.

Just because I don’t know if the poor little guy is going to fly mistakenly into my skull and peck out my eyes thinking they’re the nearest exit to his freedom.  Maya Angelou was full of crap.  I know why the caged bird sings:  he wants to eat your face.

Back to the seagull today, though.  I was making some calls outside, enjoying the view of the water, when this dude flew down and gracefully landed on the railing of the boardwalk.  He stared at me with his strikingly human eyes and we peered into each other’s souls for what seemed like a minute or two.  I was mid-conversation when he freaked the youknowwhat out of me and tore - that’s the best word I can come up with to describe the violence of the act - a crab out of his home in between two rocks.

I swatted the air in front of me instinctively and wept.

After my brain processed the lethal assassination attempt that occurred before my eyes and I changed my shorts, I watched a seagull dogfight of epic proportions occur in the once peaceful midsummer sky.

If you’re a seagull and see another seagull with a crab, all you want to do is steal that freaking crab.  Shoot, that other seagull could be your best seagull buddy - the one you laugh and cry with - and all you want to do is steal the lunch he worked hard for; lunch that he’d probably share with his lady seagull back home, who has been sitting on unborn seagull babies that will one day hatch into sweet, beautiful creatures.  

You want to steal nourishment from your best friend’s unborn seagull children, you twisted freak!  

I couldn’t believe it.  14 seconds earlier there was only one seagull hanging around, just doing his thing, taking in the day.  He finds one crab and suddenly 18 seagulls appeared out of nowhere - I seriously think they’re the ninjas of the bird world (ironically clad in all white, but I digress) - and it was ON.  They went screaming and squawking after this dude and his crab lunch like a roving gang of Ed Hardy-t-shirt-sporting 5’6” douchebags 100 feet behind a bachelorette party in Atlantic City (a really classy bachelorette party, by the way; ladies who really respect and honor the penis-headband bedazzling process).  

(That, class, was an example of simile, which uses “like” or “as” to help compare two different things.  Granted, it was a little on the TMI end of the spectrum, but it’s a simile nonetheless.  Next week, metaphor.)

The airborne melee I witnessed could’ve been described best as the seagull equivalent of quidditch.  I wouldn’t know because I have friends and don’t read Harry Potter, but you get my point.  I guarantee that crab was clawing with everything he had to escape the hellish fray, plop peacefully back into the ocean, scurry underneath the closest rock, and weep in his little crab shower fully clothed.

Admittedly, I can’t report with confidence that the crab made it out alive.  I think he was dropped and caught and dropped and caught and dropped and eaten enough that he is most likely now deceased.  

On that positive note, I leave you this warning:  don’t let the spindly little legs, beautiful ballet-like flight patterns, or humorous way they’re depicted in Finding Nemo fool you.  Seagulls are murderers and know that you are terrified of them.  

Oh, and how about that little sparrow smashing about from window to window in the gym the other day that nearly clipped my face at 80 mph?  That adorable dainty creature (outside) - you know, Colonel Hoppingsworth - knows that he can make you cut your workout short because (trapped, inside) he’s a dive-bombing feathered kamikaze of destruction who has no qualms about pecking your brains out through your ear.

Hitchcock had it right:  birds are freaking nuts.  

Long live human walruses!

I sing with nine friends from college and get to call it my job.  Check us out!

The walrus just became my new favorite animal.

This all started tonight when my cousin posted a picture on Facebook of herself and her younger sister, circa 1989.  They are seated in a little red wagon and my younger cousin looks like her face has begun the slow, painful process of eating itself.  Seriously, her cheeks are freaking huge.  Like, physically impossible huge.  No child should ever suffer the immense weight of so much face fat at such a young age.  ”Behemoth” doesn’t begin to describe their sheer magnitude.  They appear to have their own gravitational pull.  It’s sad, really.

“She looks like a pufferfish wearing a bonnet,” I wrote under the picture.

“She was the size of a baby walrus growing up,” my cousin replied.

“I can’t hold my pee in I’m laughing so hard,” her younger sister typed with her walrus hands, peeing all over herself in a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

This hilarious discussion led to me Googling “baby walrus,” which was a delight in and of itself because I knew in my heart of hearts that this term has never been Googled before by anyone anywhere.  Go ahead and do it later and tell me how awesome the image results were for you.

While we’re on the subject of walruses, I’ve long held the notion that no human better resembles the walrus - and vice versa - than Wilford Brimley.If you put a walrus in a Quaker Oats or Liberty Medical diabetes testing supplies commercial, I wouldn’t know the difference.  I’d be like, “Look at that walrus riding a horse trying to sell me oatmeal!  I bet he has diabetes!”  (For the record, diabetes is no laughing matter.  Wilford Brimley pronouncing it “diabeetus” is however.)

There exists on YouTube a clip of Wilford Brimley’s face morphing into that of a walrus.  The resemblance is uncanny.  The whiskers, the mustache, it’s beautiful.  As if that isn’t amazing enough, someone with far too much time on their hands - probably a pimply Danish hooligan named Kaarll - created an unreal YouTube remix entitled “Wilford Brimley’s Diabetes Dance Mix.”  Again, search for it after reading this and send me a mental high-five.  I couldn’t make this stuff up better if I tried.

If I may digress, just think for a minute about how cool it would be to own a walrus and train it to do tricks for your friends…

Obviously, the first trick I would teach Ben (that’s what I’d name him) would be to sing along in a British accent to The Beatles’ “I Am the Walrus.”  On every “goo goo g’joob” he’d lift his John Lennon glasses with his flipper and cross his walrus eyes and there would be much frivolity indeed.  ”LOL!” my friends would exclaim.

I’d train him to valet cars at various large social gatherings such as wedding receptions or neighborhood block parties.  He’d wear a red velvet tuxedo jacket and do a horrible job.

I’d sign him up for toothpaste commercials.

We’d be best friends.  

That is, until he had to go back to his walrus family at sea (understandable) and we’d be forced to part ways.  He’d gently pat my side with his walrus flipper, entrust me with his John Lennon glasses, and clumsily waddle off the dock and into the cold, bitter waters of goodbye, while tender strains of “I’m Free” by John Secada would meander about softly in the distance.

“Godspeed, sweet friend.  Godspeed,” I’d say.  

Fade to black, credits, hilarious outtakes of Ben as a valet setting off car alarms and losing keys over a Smashmouth song.