Two years ago I quietly began writing the Basement Songs posts on my blog, Thunderbolt. At the time I didn’t know who my audience was, as I honestly believed that ten, maybe twenty readers were checking out Thunderbolt on a weekly basis. Inspired by some of the finer music blogs I’d come across, I thought that Basement Songs would be an interesting alternative to the daily confessionals I was posting. At least it could be fun. As I’ve written before, the early months of 2007 were tough. I believe that the 2005 death of my friend, Matt, and a laundry list of regrets and unresolved issues finally caught up with me. Coupled with the ongoing stress of worrying about my son, I sunk into a deep funk (and not the kind of funk that involves the groove of Duck Dunn). Despite those dark months, I found great pleasure in writing the Basement Songs. A friend used the term “therapeutic communication” once, and I believe that’s a sound way of describing what I was doing. Again, I had no idea who was reading; I just needed to get some things off of my chest, and I wanted to share my love of certain music.
One person who was reading happened to be Jeff Giles, whose Jefitoblog was one of the best written and enjoyable sites I visited daily. Jeff and I became friends thanks to a comment he made about Springsteen and my response. This led to the exchange of some choice bootlegs, an Idiot’s Guide to Journey, and then one of the kindest gestures I’ve experienced this decade: Bloggers for a Cure, in which Jeff and some other fine bloggers (most of whom write for this site) joined together to raise money for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. Jeff was also a strong supporter of the Basement Songs and would link each new post in his weekly “Friday Linkfest.” (more…)
In our house, the Donnas’ “New Kid in School” is known as the song with the ‘A’ word in it. It’s a word Sophie and Jacob have heard hundred of times, as their father spits out profanity like Darren McGavin in A Christmas Story. We hear “New Kid in School” quite a bit in the house these days; it’s become one of Jacob’s favorite tracks to play on Rock Band. His affinity for this song, as well as classics by the Clash, Ramones and Replacements, confirms what I’ve suspected for a couple of years now: My boy likes his music fast and loud.
Since the days when he’d jump around carrying a ukulele like a guitar during Springsteen’s “The Rising,” Jake has always been a boisterous little kid. His voice booms throughout the house whenever he’s happy (or angry, or sad). One of the reasons I believe he’s so loud is because of his breathing treatments. Twice a day the buzzing of his nebulizer machine and the vibrating noise of his Vest take over the house. It’s hard for me to hear when I’m standing at the other end of the house; imagine what it must be like sitting right next to the machines. Add to that the constant hissing of the misting medicine he has to breathe in and the whole experience must feel quite claustrophobic. When you take this into consideration, is it any wonder that Jake’s voice thunders from room to room? (more…)
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…)
In an effort to conserve gas and save money, I’ve been riding my bike to the train station on a regular basis. 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’ Shooting Rubberbands at the Stars and Jeff Beck’s Guitar Shop.
Brickell and her band were the flavor of the month, with a hit single and exposure on the radio and MTV. Beck’s record, on the other hand, was released with hardly any airplay and little press (the only review I read appeared in Rolling Stone). What the mainstream missed was their loss, because this is one killer album. Featuring his longtime collaborator Tony Hyams on keyboards and former Missing Persons drummer Terry Bozzio, Guitar Shop is a solid mix of rockers and ballads. Moreover, each instrumental displays a 45- year old Beck on fire, showing up the hair metal rockers half his age who dominated the radio in the late ’80s. In the movie in my head, when I wanted to feel cool and ride around like I was Mel Gibson on a bike, I would cue up “Big Block,” with its funky beat and nasty guitar solo, and just cruise the campus. (more…)
Since the day we moved into our house, I have regularly snuggled my daughter Sophie for about 10 minutes before she 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.
I vividly recall dropping her off for the first time at daycare when she was just two months old. It happened to coincide with my first day at a new job, so I was already a bundle of raw nerves. Letting her go and placing her into the care of people I barely knew was one of the worst things I ever had to do, and after I left the daycare, I had a meltdown in my car before finding the strength to start the car. I felt like she was already moving on. (more…)
One of my brother’s infamous parties was going on downstairs in the basement. He didn’t have to return to 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.
I may have been the youngest person in the room, and I didn’t care. Sitting on the second-hand, musty green couch, located right next to the stereo, I stared as the few girls I knew (just a year ahead of me) made out with guys two or three years older than them. I studied the techniques of concealing alcohol in plastic cups in case my parents decided to make an unexpected visit. Mostly, though, I just listened to music and got to play DJ. I was spinning The Big Chill soundtrack, that collection of ’60s hits that started the Hollywood trend of marketing movies to the sound of nostalgia and oldies. I hadn’t seen the movie yet; it wasn’t on my list of must-see videos — it didn’t have blood and guts or lowbrow humor. But I loved the songs compiled by writer/director Lawrence Kasdan. While I tapped my foot and did some dorky air drumming to Marvin Gaye and The Rascals, I felt the couch shift as someone sat down next to me. (more…)
In 1994, outside the special effects warehouse where I worked, a cat had delivered a litter underneath a pile of lumber directly next to the open area where we used fiberglass chemicals. To save these babies from cancerous fumes they were moved to a safer location, but the mother never returned. A group of us divided up the kittens and when the runt, a squeaky fur ball with white fur and black and white gray patches one her back and legs, was the only one unclaimed, Julie and I adopted her. We named her Doodle.
The first night the two of us woke up periodically to feed Doodle from a syringe. She was so tiny that Julie could put her in the front pocket of her overalls. Over the next week or so she slept on the bed with us, or on my chest where she would knead my chest with her claws. When she was hungry she would “mew,” which was pathetic and sweet at the same time. This all took place in our first apartment, a one bedroom sweatbox located in North Hollywood. It was a big place, but the AC didn’t work, thus the summer days were almost unbearable from the hundred-plus degree heat in the San Fernando Valley. Couple that with the class bells from nearby North Hollywood High during the school year, and you can understand why the rent was pretty cheap. (more…)
Matt and I had a plan. Fed up with the director of our high school fall play, we decided to play a practical joke on her. We were seniors; we thought we ruled the school. Even though we still had to worry about grades and the prospect of getting into college, we carried with us an air of invincibility. We thought we were kings.
October, 1987. The air was cooler; the days were shorter and the leaves dangled for life in shades of red and gold. When we weren’t studying for AP English, running cross country or out on the practice field with the marching band, we were rehearsing in the junior high auditorium on its sturdy old stage and hundreds of empty seats in front of us. Matt and I would typically carpool to rehearsals, generally in the Whomobile. To psyche ourselves up we’d blast the car stereo and sing at the top of our lungs. We’d listen to U2’s The Joshua Tree and Sting’s …Nothing Like the Sun. The latter album, with its chilly demeanor, intricate music and thoughtful lyrics, felt better suited for the autumn. My favorite song was “Straight to My Heart”; Matt liked Sting’s collaboration with Gil Evans, the cover of Jimi Hendrix’s “Little Wing.” We both loved “Englishman in New York.” Sting’s tribute to his friend, writer Quentin Crisp, has a whimsical tone, tinged with Sting’s typical melancholy and Branford Marsalis’s weeping saxophone. It will always remind me of my friendship with Matt and the evening we rewrote Agatha Christie. (more…)
Friday night, Julie took me aside to tell me the results of Jacob’s latest throat culture. Each time he goes to an appointment with his CF doctor they shove a swab down his throat and test him for harmful bacteria. One bacteria they look for is Pseudomonas aeruginosa, a particularly menacing bug for people with cystic fibrosis that can create havoc on a patient’s lungs. To combat it the antibiotic tobramycin, or TOBI, is added to the daily regiment of inhaled medicines a CF patient must undergo each morning and night. This latest test revealed that Jacob is culturing Pseudomonas aeruginosa and will be starting a daily regiment of TOBI. Although he only showed a small amount of the bacteria, the news is still unsettling, another reminder of how helpless we sometimes feel in combating CF.
Soon after Julie gave me the news, the elephant returned. The elephant is this pressure I feel on my chest that takes my breath away. The elephant is always accompanied with his friend, the snake, who winds its way through my stomach and causes unrest. Joining them this time, for a limited engagement, was the sloth, weighing down on my back, making slouching on the couch in front of the television or curling up in a ball the only things I wanted to do. (more…)
Two years ago, when I was working on this column’s debut, I wrote about Bruce Springsteen’s “Book of Dreams” and what the song means to Julie and me. During the first month of our courtship I created my first mixtape for her, entitled HEY, HEY, JULIE! On that tape was the Springsteen song, one that’s grown to have profound meaning in our relationship.
We began dating in August of 1992, and soon thereafter, I threw this tape together in a flurry of inspiration, wanting to give Julie something that came from my heart. I don’t recall the actual minutes spent in my parents’ basement picking the songs or laying them down on a Maxell cassette (my brand of choice), but looking back on the list of songs, I’m happy to see they still add up to 90 quailty minutes of music.
Before Nick Hornby wonderfully wrote about what makes a good mixtape in High Fidelity, I assembled exactly the right combination of hip, well known and somewhat obscure songs from my small music collection. Combining big hits like “Learning to Fly,” “What I Am,” and “All This Time” with lesser-known songs by popular artists such as “Until the End of the World,” “Shining Star,” and “Getting to Know You,” while tossing in some hard to find (at the time) songs like “Baby Mine” and “Wild Night” made this tape eclectic, but still enjoyable to listen to and quite accessible. (more…)
In our house, the Donnas’ 
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.
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’ 
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.
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.
Matt and I had a plan. Fed up with the director of our high school fall play, we decided to play a practical joke on her. We were seniors; we thought we ruled the school. Even though we still had to worry about grades and the prospect of getting into college, we carried with us an air of invincibility. We thought we were kings.
an appointment with his CF doctor they shove a swab down his throat and test him for harmful bacteria. One bacteria they look for is 
Two years ago, when I was working on this column’s debut, I wrote about Bruce Springsteen’s 