Just another day in the life of a guy who makes rich guys richer

CEDAR RAPIDS, Iowa -- Here we go again, go, go, go, go, Iowa, Illinois, North Carolina, Illinois, Iowa, go, go go, the kid in 2C has been screaming since takeoff (actually he’s been screaming since we were at the gate), turn up the iPod, let Patrice Pike scream at me instead, at least she has some sense of tone, go, go, go, “I presume you’ll send the updates on this document tonight,” yeah, I’ll do that, after I land at 10 p.m. after I’ve been working since 7 a.m., go, go, go, THEM: got time for a question? ME: no THEM: just a quick question? :) , ME: k, what’s your question? THEM: can we do blah blah blah blah blah? ME: no, we can’t make the system do that, THEM: why not? Shouldn’t it work that way? :-( go, go, go, can I get a decision on this document I gave you Tuesday?, go, go, “no, we’ll have to put that in front of the committee,” go, go, go, Wendy’s for lunch, McDonald’s for dinner, I can sleep after I’ve made some more money for these other people, go, go, go, what a team player you are, what a professional, “the most professional person I’ve ever worked with”, go, go, go, gotta go, answer the phone, “got a question,” it’s a two-parter, a three-parter, let’s go back to the first thing you said, I can explain that part, “why does it work that way?” I don’t know, I’ll never know, it wasn’t my decision, I don’t defend the functionality, I just describe it, go, go, go, go, go, it can always be worse, at least you have a job, at least that’s not your kid screaming in 2C, it could be so much worse, go, go, go, let’s get going, but wait, there are storms, somewhere, we’re not going to go just yet, can’t go, it’s not safe, ok, now let’s go, on to the next thing, no time to do this thing right, it's about 90 percent there, "well, that's enough, let’s just go on to the next thing, we can go back to the other thing later," go, go, go, go, I gotta get back to the other thing, but I can’t remember what it was, go, go, go, phone’s ringing again, can’t get it now, hit the Ignore button, if it was important they’ll leave a message, gotta send a message, go, go, go, hey, you know, I don’t think I can do this anymore, “yeah, me neither, things are tough all over, did you update those spreadsheets I asked you to update?” go, go, no time to listen or evaluate or try to come up with a way to go more efficiently ‘cause we gotta for christ’s sweet sake go, where are we going? hell if I know, I just know we gotta go, 'cause that’s what we do, we go, next place, “ding” you have new mail “ding” THEM: I think we found a bug ME: what kind of bug? THEM: it does this when it’s supposed to do that ME: let me check on that for you THEM: I’ll be waiting :-) ME: k, I’ll get right back to you after I “ding” come see me when you have a second “rrrrrrrrrrrrrrring” I need some help right now, THEM: you there? ME: no, go, go, go, keep going, goddammit, because if you stop, you’ll be forced to think about how ridiculous it all is.

It's been a long time

1984: We're driving from school to my house in J.T.'s 1973 Dodge Dart. This Dart was sharp as hell; 360 V8, Centerline wheels, shackled up in the back just enough to look cool. J.T. had laid significant amounts of rubber on the way home, including a donut in the Fassnight Park parking lot. On the stereo was what I thought was typical late-'70s classic rock. "Listen to this guy hold this note," J.T. said. J.T. was a musician of some renown; he was a saxophone player in the school marching band, and he was probably the person from whom I learned the most about playing guitar. He had an appreciation for good music. The song was "Peace of Mind." The band was Boston. I was stunned by this guy's vocal power. That was the missing piece; that was the thing that Boston had that the other Camaro-rock (or, in this case, Dart-rock) bands had. I was hooked right there. I borrowed the tape, copied it, and played it over. And over. And over.

1986: Boston had not put out a new album since 1978. The Rock 99 morning jock was hyping the new single. "We're playing it at 8:15," he said. Damn. My first class was at 8. I decided, "Not today." I drove around campus, waiting for the song. As I heard the first few chords of "Amanda," I said, "Yeah, that's Boston."

1987: Rock 99 is giving away tickets to the Boston tour. Unfortunately, the closest stop to Anytown is more than 1,000 miles away. We didn't win, but we went anyway. I had a friend who lived near the Alpine Valley venue in Wisconsin. F. had a relative who lived nearby. M. had, well, a few days off. I had some friends who lived up there who could hook us up with a party. We packed up my 1980 Citation and pointed it north. The odometer showed "21245" or something like that when we left. That was back in the days where cars didn't usually last long enough to necessitate the "1" that should have been the first digit of that six-digit number. The car miraculously held up for the trip. It fell apart soon thereafter. The show was incredible; outdoors, fourth of four nights, more than 45,000 at the venue.

1989: Headed home after a night of abusing various substances. In the passenger seat of Mickey's 1988 Daytona Shelby. Trying to hold it together and not throw up all over said Daytona. Mickey's worried about my health (or, more likely, his upholstery.) He pops in a tape. I hear "Rock 'n' Roll Band." I breathe easier, and relax a bit in the seat. The urge to yak has passed. Mickey says, "I knew that would make you feel better."

I like a lot of different types of music. Some of these types leave me open to ridicule. I'm OK with that. I love Boston. It has been the one constant through nearly 25 years of my personal evolution. It still makes me feel better whenever I hear a Boston song, just like it did that night in Mickey's car. "Don't Look Back" is my personal transition song, the first song played when I start some new job or new thing. I hope they play "Long Time" and "Party" at my funeral.

And yes, the two albums they did after "Third Stage" sucked. I'm aware of that.

I'm very saddened by Brad Delp's too-soon departure; saddened in a way I don't remember feeling since hearing that Stevie Ray Vaughan's helicopter had crashed (oddly, it crashed leaving the same venue at which we saw Boston in 1987.)

From the Boston Globe's appreciation: "Brad always signed everything that people brought him,'' said [Sean] Sturgess [general manager of the club where Delp's band Beatlejuice, a Beatles tribute band, was supposed to have played tonight]. "Some bands just draw 45 people and you can't get them to stay around to greet their fans. Brad often stayed until the end of the night. We'd even have to tell him to leave sometimes because it was getting late.''

The two times I saw Boston play, Delp seemed to be very much enjoying himself, and very much in tune with what the band's fans wanted to hear. He certainly was in tune with what I wanted to hear.

A few words I hear in my head whenever I start to overdo on the job-stress thing:

Now you're climbing to the top of the company ladder
Hope it doesn't take too long
Can't you see there'll come a day when it won't matter
Come a day when you'll be gone ...

Brad Delp is gone. The music still matters. Thanks, man, and RIP.

Brad Delp, 1951-2007

The voice that made Boston unique among the Camaro-rock bands of the late '70s died last night in his southern New Hampshire home. He was 55. More from the Boston Globe here. More from me later.

Turn the key to the left

For most of January, I was in Australia. For most of February, I was in North Carolina. Suffice to say those two places are separated by a lot more than 10,000 miles and a really big ocean. Suffice also to say that neither of those places is home.

My calendar shows no items in green type this week. This means no trips. No airport parking, no expense reports, no Planter's Fruit and Nut Trail Mix. I have become inexplicably addicted to Planter's Fruit and Nut Trail Mix -- but I only eat it at airports. Don't ask me why, because I just won't have a good answer. Traveling for business requires a certain level of obsessive-compulsive disorder. It's important to do things the same way, every time. Traveling is unnatural enough as it is; the routine is the reality, and any deviation from the routine can cause enough of a wrinkle in the space-time continuum to drive you completely over the edge.

For the next 10 days or so, blessedly, none of that matters. I'm home, and doing Home Things. Sunday was one of those glorious This-Is-Why-We-Live-in-Florida days. Clear, bright, 72 degrees. The Boy and I detailed my car. I took a short but rewarding motorcycle ride. The Wife was looking glorious, as she always does. Just a wonderful day, the kind of day I wish I could go to File --> Save As and recover from a folder whenever I needed to recharge.

For the rest of this week, I'll commute back and forth to The Office. Cool mornings lie ahead; it'll be Thursday before it'll be warm enough to make motorcycle commuting practical. Catching up on the inevitable work that piles up when I'm out will keep me busy during the day. Home-cooked meals (for a change) will keep me fed during the evening. It's going to be a good week. I hope yours will be, too.