Stuff - Just Some Things I Felt Like Talking About

What's it gonna take?
How many lives?
How many voices left unheard?
How many years?
How many tears,
Until the ones in power hear the word.¹

Last weekend I had the privilege of standing on stage at the 2008 Concert for Lost Voices with some of the finest folk and blues musicians in the world - Josh White, Jr., Kitty Donohoe, Peter "Madcat" Ruth, the Unity of Ann Arbor Women's Ensemble, Guys With Guitars, and Cliff Gracey - making music for hundreds of people in my back yard and on boats across the lake.

And now here I am a week later. The chairs are gone, the sound equipment has been packed off to another gig, and the Scottie's Potties have been hauled away. As the lingering aromas of patchouli and Zingerman's beef brisket dissipate into the air over the lake, I am still staggering around the yard, cleaning the last few empty Dasani bottles and dazed ex-hippies out from behind the hot tub.

I spent all day yesterday "busking."

Busking is an activity that involves whaling away on a guitar or a banjo while trying to sing loudly enough to be heard over the sounds of passing Harley-Davidsons and pedestrians shrieking into cell phones. Usually in the key of "D."

Me, not the pedestrians or the Harleys.

I was hired to provide street entertainment in the nearby city of Plymouth as part of "Kidpalooza," an event organized by the area merchants to provide a fun day downtown for families with young children. I sang "Aiken Drum," and "Little White Duck," and "Shake My Sillies Out," and "We Are Going To Be Friends" for hundreds of children who had their faces painted with bunny rabbit noses and whiskers.

One evening not too long ago I was sitting out on the deck with my friend Tom, sipping a mug of beer, gazing at the lake, and admiring the festive way our dock twists and undulates its way out into the water. The warm glow of the setting sun bathed the cloud-white sail of a small sloop silently slicing through the glassy evening water, and flooded the trees and houses across the lake in a shimmering pool of golden light.

At that moment Tom finished his beer, stood up, belched, and said, "Well, I have to run. The new episode of Ice Road Truckers is on tonight, and it looks like Alex might have a blood clot."

That sentence probably made a lot of sense to Tom. 

As we all know, the Chinese invented gunpowder. Being deeply philosophical thinkers, it did not take them too long before they saw how useful the stuff could be for transforming entire enemy armies into big holes in the ground.

As a point of reference, this was at about the time in European history when chucking a spear at someone you didn't much care for was the pinnacle of modern military technology.

After a while the Chinese decided that even if you didn't have any bad guys around that you wanted to blow into bad-guy hash, you should still be able have fun with your gunpowder, and so they invented fireworks.

This afternoon my friend and I dropped into a friendly neighborhood tavern to grab some lunch and to watch the Detroit Red Wings CRUSH the Colorado Avalanche in the second round of the NHL playoffs. Now, if you happen to be a Colorado Avalanche fan, you should know that I deeply respect the Colorado team, and that I also respect you as a fellow sport fan. Cheer up - I'm sure your guys will do better next time out.

Just kidding. The Avs suck.

Anyway, I didn't really want to talk about the hockey game. I want to talk about something else in that tavern, something you can count on finding in lots of bars, along with oceans of alcohol-fueled despair and happy hour hot wing specials. I want to talk about people who smoke cigarettes.