In the midst of all my mid-life reflection last week, I received an email from a guy I hadn’t heard from in 
twenty years. John* had tracked me down through the massive power of the Internet, so of course, I immediately directed him to the Basement Songs (we writers are kind of narcissistic that way). After a friendly exchange of e-mails that detailed an overview of our lives, John checked out a couple of my columns and wrote me a follow up e-mail. He told me to disregard the previous e-mail as bullshit. He then wrote one of the most confessional letters that has ever shown up in my Gmail inbox. I’m not going to go into details because his life isn’t an open book like mine (again, narcissism), but I will say that John had a rough time in the ’90s. Happily, through the love of a good woman who never gave up on him, he’s dug himself out and now leads a happier life.
I understood what he was talking about. I went through a period of months a couple years ago in which I suffered through a paralyzing depression. I couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel and each day it got harder and harder to get up and face life. I, too, am lucky that I had a good woman and good friends to help me through the times and to right the course of my life. Have you ever experienced that? Have you ever tripped into the dark sides of your psyche and dragged your loved ones with you? If you haven’t been through that hell, then you, my friend, are fortunate. (more…)
If vampires, mysteries and romance are your thing, you can do much worse than 
There seem to be two camps of people when it comes to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame: those who feel that rock and roll deserves a permanent place to showcase the important effect it’s has had on popular culture, and those who believe that the intention of rock music was rebellion against the mainstream; that a stuffy old shrine goes against everything the music stands for, and screw you if you don’t agree with them. I belong to the former group, partly because I’m from Cleveland, Ohio and got caught up in the hysteria of bringing the Rock Hall to the north coast, and also because I feel that there needs to be a place where people can look at rock and roll as an art and examine its history. I’ve been to the museum, and could have stayed for days marveling at Hendrix’s guitar and fragments of Keith Moon’s drum kit.
It reminds me of my sophomore year at BGSU, when I’d zip around the campus on the red one-speed I bought for three bucks from my friend, Brett. With my Toledo Mud Hens hat turned backwards and an obnoxious turquoise backpack over my shoulders, I’d ride to classes or just tool around aimlessly with the strong Bowling Green winds trying to blow me over. Accompanying me on these journeys was my semi-reliable Emerson portable cassette player (made from the finest plastic China had to offer). And blasting through my headphones in October of ’89 were my favorite albums at the time: Edie Brickell & New Bohemians’ 
The Life and Times of Vivienne Vyle
The Brothers Bloom
goes to sleep at night. When she was younger, it was to help ease her fears over the creaks and rattles of her room when the lights were off. As she got older, this routine turned into an opportunity for the two of us to catch up on our days. I found out about how school was for her, and Sophie asked me questions about my job. For the past year I have tried to end this nightly routine. Whenever I expressed this to Julie, my great wife admonished me by saying, “There’s going to come a time when she wants nothing to do with you. Enjoy this while you can.” Generally I pooh pooh this comment; I can’t imagine my daughter not wanting her dad around.
An Audience of One (2009, Indiepix)
New Tricks: Season One (2009, BBC)
Columbus for a couple weeks, so I guess he felt one more bash was justified before he left for college. In the past, I had sat upstairs and watched a video while the music thumped through the basement door, but this year was different. I was a freshman in high school and I knew some of the people downstairs. Furthermore, I was deemed old enough (not “cool enough,” mind you) to join the older kids in the basement.