The Wombury's Dream Concert Series

Hello Dear Breeders,

Today's the big day for the Wilco tickets. As you may or may not know, the Wilco tickles the Wombury's fancy. Is any other artist worth listening to? Maybe not. For years, the Wombury has listened religiously to every Wilco album, sponging up every chord, note, and lyric as if they hold the secret to life. He's seen them twice in concert, once in 2004 at Carnegie Hall, and once this past June in Shelburne, VT, not far from the Loaf of Bread (the 2007 concert was sans N, and precipitated their fateful summer reunion.)

Seeing Wilco changed the way the Wombury viewed live music, but not for the better. It dawned on him that Rock Concerts sort of blow. At least for the Wombury. The Wombury is an album listener. He grew up Abbey Road, The Joshua Tree, Led Zepplin IV. These are unified works of art, not a collection of 10 singles. That's why the Wombuy hated 90s music. Bands like Better than Ezra, who were a dime a dozen, would toss off one decent song for the radio, you'd buy the album and the other 11 tracks sounded like they were composed by mentally handicapped gradeschoolers with access to recording equipment.

Now, the Wombury never got the chance to see his favorite bands in their heyday, the once exception being U2's Pop Tour in 1997, which was terrible, and Bruce Springsteen in 1999. What he realized is that concerts are unfulfilling because they're like listening to mix tape of the band's best songs, or like a radio station that plays only favorite bands songs in all the wrong order. It drives the Wombury crazy. He hates change, which is why it angered so much when his mother cut and permed her hair back in 1983. The order of tracks on an album is important to good bands. Good bands deliberate for hours on end about the best possible sequence. It's nearly impossible for me to listen to "Jesus, etc." without first hearing "War on War,". So, back in 2004 the Wombury announced he was giving up Rock Concerts in favor of more satisfying genres like Jazz or Symphonies. Pure improvisation or Pure Composition. Nothing else. The perfect show, he said, back in 2004, would be for a band to play an album live, like Phish use to do (but they covered other bands' albums), from beginning to end. This was like a crusade of mine. Rock Concerts suck, anyone who says otherwise is stupid.

Somehow the Gods of Rock have smiled upon me, and presented me with the ultimate experience. My favorite band playing five nights in a row, playing their entire catalogue, one album per night. Just sit with that awesomeness for a second. Sit with it. Play with it. Tickle it under the chin and make cooing noises at it. Take the awesomeness, put it a greased pan and bake into an awesomeness cake.

So, in ten minutes the scramble will begin online for tickets. Right now we have a solid strategy to score tickets for each night. We have a posse. There's Wilco fan extraordinaire, E, from Madison, her brother P, the Wombury and Mlevy. Each person gets a different night, four tickets apiece.

Let the games begin. And yes, I know this is a boring post. Give me a free pass. Bedgaro is back in town and we were up late having dinner in Queens of all places.

And now for a picture of a woman from Iowa,

(You have nothing to worry about, other than you)

Until then,

The Wombury

The Wombury Tries to Move On, Literally

Hello Dear Breeders,

Craziest thing happened to the Wombury today. I'm standing at the corner of Myrtle and Flatbush in Brooklyn, in a part of Brooklyn I rarely frequent, on my way to get the results of my TB shot. The time is, I don't know, 2:15 pm, and as I'm standing on the curb I debate whether or not to cross the street. It wasn't the Wombury's right of way, but the traffic light was stalling, so crossing in front of the cars was feasible. Typical me, I held back. Well who should take the right turn onto Flatbush, right in front of me, but N. No kidding. As soon as the familiar dented and scratched rear-end bumper made it's appearance, I knew it was N's car.

How strange and amazing is coincidence? There was just enough coincidence involved to bring the Wombury within a hair's breadth of seeing N for the first time in over a month, but not enough coincidence to make legitimate eye contact. Not to mention that this was exactly the scenario the Wombury stated publicly he dreamt about, which is something that didn't dawn on him at the time. Eerie, in a way. Then again, that's the Wombury's existential torment: all of his dark dreams come true, but none of his exquisite fantasies.

So the Wombury whipped out his cell phone and called N, under the impression that a cell phone call would act as an invisible lasso to pull the car back to the aforementioned intersection. The human mind is a thing of wonder. Anyway, there was a brief phone call. Polite, pleasant, neutral talk about holiday shopping and weather and traffic. It was fine, in a neutral sort of way.

There was another layer of twinged regret in not seeing N. He's moving on, literally, to another apartment and borough by the end of the month. The likely candidates for his new location are the Bronx, Harlem, and the Upper West Side. The Bronx is the most intriguing. On the one hand it's the Bronx. On the other hand it's 600 dollars a month. On the other hand the borough feels totally isolated from Manhattan, even thought its ten minutes away, because it has almost none of the hyperactivity of Manhattan. On the other hand it's ten minutes from work. On the other hand, you wonder about the Weekends, Saturday nights, being so far from Brooklyn. On the other hand, Fort Greene is poisoned for me. On the other hand, the Bronx has none of Brooklyn's transplanted-midwestern charm. On the other hand, the Bronx has none of Brooklyn's transplanted-midwestern annoyance, and besides, it's kind of cool to be a white dude living in the Bronx. It's like being Daniel Boone. Without the slaughtering of innocent of Native Americans on the frontier. (But then again, why were the N.A.s so stubborn about claiming it as "theirs"?).

Ultimately, the Bronx works for the Wombury. It's the perfect place for him to edit his masterpiece. Furthermore, deep down inside, the Wombury has a love-hate relationship with white people, Park Slope, Fort Greene, and Manhattan. Part of him sort doesn't like one aspect of how "cute" and "awesome" and "hip" all those places are. It's like boot camp for people moving up the social ladder, (or Montclair, NJ, whichever comes first). Deep inside, the Wombury's favorite neighborhood of all-time is his Aunt Margaret's neighborhood in Sioux City, IA, and the Bronx is the most Sioux City-esque of the five boroughs, filled with Working class, salt-of-the-earth families. Not Montclair Families with Volvos and a hard-on for Panera Bread (and yes, I've had Panera. Someday I plan on buying the joint-issued, Panera designed Volvo Sandwich Wagon). The point is not to disparage Montclair, but that all things considered, there is a pretty decent chance, barring mathematically-bizarre coincidences like today, that the Wombury may not see N in the foreseeable future.

And now for a picture of men from Uzbekistan.

(How many roads must a man walk before his hemorrhoids start to burn? Just ask Brian Edgar)

Until then,

The Wombury

The Wombury Has a Dream

Hello Dear Breeders,

Last night the Wombury had a dream about N. When he awoke he asked himself what might have prompted such torment from his unmerciful unconscious mind. He concluded that it stems from last night's activities, which included a first-peek at the footage from the Wombury's travels with Bob. That's right, Bob and the Wombury re-united for the first time since parting ways on David and Elizabeth's farm back in mid-October, nearly two months. We met in the Park Slope apartment with two editors who were interested in looking at the footage.

They seemed to like the stories and the footage, but said more groundwork needs to be done before they would consider tackling the project. They said it was mandatory that the Wombury sit down with the footage, all 60 hours, watch it, and write a script based on the larger themes. Well, it's already clear what this piece is about. It's about a quest for the true meaning of freedom and commitment undertaken by someone who is being consumed by his inability to choose either one. Bob is the Jiminy Cricket who attempts to pull me back from the edge. In the end, the Wombury returns to where he started, in the Bronx, sadder but wiser.

The task is to find any and all footage that fits this story-line description. which will be a time-consuming project, but worthy nonetheless. The real question is the emotional toll it will take on the Wombury as he is forced to confront repeatedly this rather slow, painful disintegration on film day after day. Not that all the footage is depressing, far from it. There's a recurring joke about donating sperm in case I die before the movie is finished. At one point I'm convinced Bob and I are going to be kidnapped by a 19 year old hippie named Lucas. Lucas plays saxaphone on the street for spare change, which endears him to Bob but frightens me. As we wait for Lucas to give us a lift I get all worked up. I'm worried they'll make Bob do something horrible, like tie me up and cut my "boyz" off. I ask Bob on camera if he's going to do the deed. Bob says he would but he promises to keep my boys in a warm glass of water. Keeps the sperm alive longer. It's a pretty funny scene.

And so the Wombury had his dream. In his dream the neighborhood was bright with sunshine. The Wombury's friends burst into his house to inform him they had just seen N with "Jules." The Wombury was curious. He had never seen "Jules" nor had he ever seen N with someone else. He stepped out into the sunshine to have a look, but she disappeared. The Wombury asked his friends if she looked happy. His friends said they could not see her face, but that she skipped as she went to meet "Jules." The Wombury thought about N skipping to meet "Jules." She must be happy, he thought. It'd been awhile since she skipped for him.

And now, since the last two posts have been somewhat somber in tone, the Wombury presents a picture of somebody from another country,

Until then,

The Wombury

The Wombury Says Goodbye

Hello,

Some loyal readers have been writing the Wombury for more information on the saga of his relationship with N. I've thought long and hard about what to put into words and what to omit. In truth, the Wombury's quest to reignite his relationship ended in disappointment. In an earlier post I compared the Wombury's and N's situation to Jules et Jim, the french film about two men competing for the same woman. It wasn't an accurate comparison since Jules knew about Jim and Jim knew about Jules. In the case of the Wombury, the Wombury knew about "Jules", but "Jules" didn't know about the Wombury. Upon further reflection, perhaps Leonard Cohen's Famous Blue Raincoat is a more apt comparison. At any rate, the Wombury is no longer in the picture, it is only "Jules."

It's incredibly difficult to conceive of a life without N. It's more difficult to remember how many opportunities the Wombury had to solidify his relationship with N, to even make her "Mrs. Wombury" for life, and how he squandered all of those moments for...well, it's hard to remember for what treasures he sold his true feelings, but what is clear is how the Wombury paid dearly for what now seems nothing more than a pocket full of baubles. N has told the Wombury several times that she wants to be with someone who treats her well, someone who will be there no matter what or when. Unfortunately, the Wombury cannot claim he was always that man; and she stopped believing his promises that he could become him.

It is probably better to not dwell on such thoughts, but what man in the Wombury's shoes hasn't? In truth, the real danger to the heart isn't found in memories of enmity or regret; the true peril lies in the memory of those tiny delicate throwaway moments that passed blithely between the Wombury and his lady, whether they were a stolen morning caress in the kitchen, or a terrifically lurid session of holding hands, often as a way to keep each other warm while strolling around Brooklyn; or more troublesome yet, the memories of the way she would sweep her locks of hair up in a gaggle of barrettes while mugging innocently for the mirror. Tender memories like those can keep a man, even one as enamored of flight as the Wombury, shackled to his thoughts.

So while the Wombury will most likely continue to nurse that last bit of dying hope, as so many fools before him have, that his lady will come back to him someday, he knows that the only logical recourse is to move on, to let things be, to keep to keep his feet moving, to keep marching, rain or shine, in this silly parade we call existence.

Until then,

The Wombury

The Wombury Returns

Hello Dear Breeders,

Oy Vey! What a week it's been for the muthafuckin' Wombury! Let me start by apologizing for the lack of posts. The Wombury's trusty Macbook went on the fritz, making it nearly impossible to write. Secondly, the Wombury's existence has fallen into a vortex of personal and professional obligations, and no, I'm not referring to my previous life as a male escort to the stars. I'm talking about waiting for three hours at the Flatbush branch of the Department of Health to receive TB shot. Why is it that all public departments feature the same combination of poor customer service and bad flourescent lighting? Anyway, I was told I have a large vein three times by the nurse in charge of extracting my precious blood, a compliment the Wombury took in stride. The funny part of the experience came during a question and answer period. One of the required questions was, "Have you been depressed in the last month?" The Wombury's spirits lifted immediately. "Why yes I have? Can we talk about it?" We could. So we did. The Wombury and the nurse discussed all the ways relationships fall apart and their impact on the human psyche; then she put a needle in my arm and I nearly fainted.

You're probably saying, "Sweet Melissa, Wombury, with all the hubbub in your life, how do you still manage to be so devilishly attractive?" It's not easy, kiddies, it's not easy.

On the job front, the Tour-Guide job is dead to me. My old school up in the Bronx has made me a very attractive offer that promises security, benefits, a good schedule, and nice pay. In short, the good folk of Bronx Letters are willing to make sure the Wombury has both time and money. Who doesn't want more of those two things?


And now for a photograph of woman from Fiji.

(There is nothing without, there is only within. I should've made you breakfast more often.)

Until then,

The Wombury