Me and this old guitar

Herbie was stolen in Michigan City, Indiana, somewhere around 1978. (I don’t remember why I named my first guitar Herbie.) I left him in the Firebird, along with my leather coat and some other items, when we stopped at a motel overnight, and in the morning Herbie and the coat and I-don’t-remember-what-else were gone. I think of Herbie from time to time, and I have four or five cassettes full of songs I composed and multi-tracked with that nylon string guitar, as well as three or four others where he shared duties with the 12-string I bought in the summer of 1975.

One of my sweetest memories is not long after the theft, when I was visiting my best old New Jersey friend and sharing his nylon-string guitar. He finished playing, looked at the guitar and then at me, and held it out to me and said, “This is yours.” Or maybe he didn’t say a word and the look and the gesture told me he was giving it to me. Come to think of it, I remember it the second way. It’s one of the best gifts I ever received and one I still use to this day.

Friday morning I did something I have not done in literally 13 years: I hooked up a microphone, picked up this guitar, and recorded songs. I marked the files “demo” so I wouldn’t be tempted to share them in this form and to remind myself that I want to create more polished recordings of the songs. I have only recently started playing the guitar again — I have not even raised callouses on my fingertips yet — so these recordings feature only the most rudimentary strumming and thus do not represent the best possible versions of the songs. The main purpose, other than to recapture the fun of recording music, was to preserve the songs and a snapshot of the morning of Nov. 17, 2023.

In case this session someday becomes legendary (my goodness, I have an overblown vision of myself), let the record show that the songs were “Song for My Daughter” and “Tomorrow and Tomorrow,” the first two songs I’ve written in a decade; “Alcohol Alcohol” and “Cozi Won Chu,” two songs I wrote in 1985 during an especially fertile and feral time; and a cover of “Sweet Cherry Wine,” which I consider one of Tommy James’ most underappreciated compositions.

These five are the first nominees for a new album I’m beginning, working title “Songs for My Daughter.” Songwriting has always been a hobby of mine, and I always enjoyed piecing albums together with multi-tracking — 20 distinct albums between 1973 and 2010, which I inflicted on family and friends who patted me on the shoulder and said, gently, “That’s nice.” But I had fun, so I kept on doing it until one day I realized I would never be a star singer-songwriter, which is the silliest reason to stop having fun.

I imagine myself throwing a few dozen new recordings against the wall to find 10 to 14 that stick, which will form my 21st album — w.p. bluhm’s “Hackney Diamonds,” don’t you see. For today, I enjoyed my make-believe recording session, I was pleased that my singing voice still can occasionally hit the right note, and I made a recording of my new songs for posterity in case of the unexpected — I am still arrogant enough to believe posterity would care, believe it or not.

Upon a time once

In a little town in the mountains where Heidi might play — did Heidi live in Switzerland? because that’s where my mind wandered — there was a quaint little house of gingerbread and a little boy and a kindly parent — now, it might have been a little girl, but in either case they lived there. And they waited and lived happily ever after and adventure never came to them, which is to be expected because usually you have to go and seek adventure, and when you find adventure you may discover that you weren’t necessarily wise to seek it out. So we take our leave of the Swiss child and parent because, while a life without adventure may be comfortable, it lacks adventure after all. Still, there’s no place like home.

Life is too short

I have been off my game for most of the year, starting with the first week in January when Red went into the hospital the first time, and especially since Red left this world at the end of June.

I spend way too much time scrolling through social media, or as I like to call it antisocial media, but it’s a way to keep up with people I’ve known through the years, from grade school to the present day.

When I’m on my game, my informal mission has been to find words of encouragement, to entertain, and perhaps to enlighten if I can. I try to do at least one of those “E” words when I post here on the blog or on Facebook, which is the social network I inhabit most of the time.

I’ve never been able to understand why people I’ve known and respected and befriended feel the need to belittle other people’s heartfelt beliefs, be they political or religious or even a favorite movie or food. Memes get shared that distort and mock someone’s beliefs — “I could never date someone who blah blah blah,” for example.

Life is too short. That’s the message this year has slammed in my face. Life is too short to spend time antagonizing people and fighting. Does it somehow comfort you to try to humiliate someone because of their beliefs, their religion, their gender, their race, or any of the other stupid reasons for trying to humiliate someone?

Life is too short — I try to remember that before I respond to something that has insulted or angered or offended me. I try to move on, I try not to respond in kind, I try not to be as snide as those who rain condescension on people who think or believe differently than they do.

Obviously I fail sometimes, and sometimes I rise to the bait and argue with trolls.

I’m doing better, though, because, after all, life is too short.