Merle's latest communique, translated from Semaphore

Late summer, into autumn, is my Respite Season.  For months my days have been plagued with the sounds of children shrieking with abandon at the pool across the way, and with ambulance sirens wailing and offending on their lumbering sprints into the Emergency bay at the hospital on the corner.  I’ve been playing Guess The Breed as lapdogs have been barking into the surrounding hard surfaces lining this little lagoon I live on, undoubtedly feeling beefier and tougher when their barks instantly echo back.  Summer’s reign is fading, and some of the jocularity, the team spirit, the seasonal, intoxicated laughter is mercifully waning.  I am ready for hibernation and solitude, a take-out Everett & Jones barbecue combo plate and a big ol’ ice-cold Trader Joe’s Limeade.

Frankly, I’ve been stuck, blocked, hamstrung.  My summer has brought some excellent players into my sphere, and rehearsals hummed along until other obligations pulled them away from arranging these old tunes that I love.  My blog, a casualty of summer and unwillingness, has been designated an abandoned asylum.  I’m bored with my own history.  I wonder, “Where’s the funny stuff?  Sing through me, O Daughters of Zeus!  Gimme a bone here!”

Turns out the Muses have been camping out at my mailbox, and I never noticed until a week ago.  Poster tube after shipping box after slick, opaque envelope - sometimes a single serving, sometimes three and four per day:  the solicitation begins.  It’s Payola Time!

"On this shrunken globe, men can no longer live as strangers." ~ Adlai E. Stevenson
Such a bitter truth ...

I am a lifetime member of the Country Music Association by some comical quirk of fate.  A friend in the country and western field thought it would be mutually beneficial if he were to provide me with a membership.  Far be it from me to refuse; it might just come in handy one day.  November is fast approaching, and with it the CMA Awards. Yay.

http://www.bridgestonearena.com/events/detail/the-47th-annual-cma-awards    

The fine art of pandering without sacrificing any plaid-shirtsleeves-rolled-up, backwards-ball-cap cool is presenting six shows a week in and around my mailbox.  Sometimes the "incentives" are too bulky to fit in the box.  My mail lady then dutifully dumps them at my door.  These are the hilarious and sometimes disturbing efforts to bag my votes for Entertainer of the Year, Vocalist of the Year, Album of the Year, Musical Event of the Year, New Artist of the Year.  I have opened valentines from “The Next Big Voice In Country Music” (sadly, not Haggard) and “The New Hat In Town” (not Tom Mix).  If the Next Big Voice were also the New Hat, think of all the trees that could be saved.  One promo piece came disguised as a U.S. Passport.  Cute.  I saw this very same format used for a wedding invitation and reception two years ago.  I’ve been bombarded with love by ten artists I’ve never heard of.  Two vinyl LPs made their way from Nashville in what can only be described as pizza delivery boxes.  I’ve received a 12”x16” poster from one artist’s management in a shipping tube that is over 21” long with a 10” circumference and would have held 100 posters, not just one.  Evidently the only “green” valued in Nashville is the kind that buys more ball caps, more worn-out t-shirts, and more working girl stilettoes ‘n’ bustiers ‘n’ kozmetix ‘n’ kounterfeit kleavage.

Legs sell records.

Follow The Leader:  

Legs sell records.

    Which CD
   would YOU
        buy?                                     

(I didn't have

to buy

 either!

Just lucky,

I guess!)

                                                          

BREASTS SELL RECORDS.

WHERE'S JULIE LONDON
WHEN YOU NEED HER?

  "BREAKTHROUGH?"

  THIS GUY HAS NOTHING ON 

JOE DALLESANDRO.

Someone please tell me what this means!
Should I be amazed?  Depressed?

My favorite feature in all this gratis junk is the no-uncertain-terms sticker affixed to the bait:  “For Promotion Only - Ownership Reserved By [record company] - Sale Is Unlawful”.  First they buy you a lobster dinner; when dessert is done they threaten you with cement overshoes.  I feel robbed, with all this giveth-ing and taketh-ing away.  I’m tempted to sell this stuff cheap, but I’ve been to Rahway (now East Jersey State Prison):  the Big House is just no place for a girl like me.  Besides, they’re having MRSA outbreaks among the prisoners.  That alone is enough to make me steer clear.  I promise I won’t sell any of the CDs, DVDs, vinyl - none of it.  I’ll save all of it until Hanukkah and Christmas are tapping me on the shoulder, at which time I shall "repurpose" them.  

I’m thinking about write-in votes.  Stringbean.  Grandpa Jones.  My personal favorite and spiritual kin, Cousin Jody.  Maybe someone who tallies up the votes might see my suggestions, and get a good laugh and a brief glimpse of how it used to be done in the days when a simple heartsong had more impact than an anthem.

_________________________________________________________________________

On another note, attention should be given to the dreadful news that Linda Ronstadt has been diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease.  I don’t know Linda, I’ve never been on a show with her.  I imagine that if she suspected Parkinson’s seven or eight years ago when she first started experiencing symptoms, then she would have been noticing gradual changes in her voice and in the effort she had to expend to make the notes come out the way she wanted them to.  Now the news is telling us she “can’t sing a note” and will never sing again, because people with Parkinson’s cannot sing.

Somewhere in this process she must have been considering a Plan B, another way to invest her energies and her talents, a different kind of gig that would fulfill her and bring joy, or at least comfort, to others.   I understand she has a new book coming out called “Simple Dreams.”  She is smart, she’s talented, she has both experience and wisdom.  You can’t lie around in your flannels and expect to purchase qualities like those online with your debit card.  She earned it, all of it, by slugging it out in the trenches and giving, giving.  I’m confident that she will find unique ways to be creative and useful.  I don’t find it easy to digest the fact that most of my own life is gone, or that much of it was squandered.  We are all being called to the finish line, but while we’re still here we would do well to remember that it’s not the amount of time left that matters.  It’s how we summon the courage to continue living meaningful lives in the face of struggles that threaten to shut us down.     

Linda Ronstadt has a tough road ahead.  I wish her a miraculous absence of suffering and fear, with no regret, only gratitude and contentment.  I hope she will be surrounded by family and friends who honestly have her well-being at heart.  I hope she understands the tremendous impact she has had on contemporary music, and among fans and singers who have looked to her as a mentor. May twilight bring to her window a rainbow of birds, with melodies of love and comfort and reminders of a life well-lived. That will assign full-circle meaning to every note she gave us.
  
People with Parkinson’s CAN sing.  
They do it in their hearts and minds.