It's Not Even Thanksgiving Yet

My friend Seth Gitell has a hilarious post on his blog about how Christmas music is arriving earlier and earlier every year. He also takes a nice shot at Lowe's for selling "Holiday Trees" instead of Christmas Trees, his premise being that people out buying those trees are shopping for Christmas trees anyway.

I agree that we're playing Christmas music way too early. Cases in point:

1. I just put up a Veterans' Day post. Why? Because it was just Veterans' Day.
2. Bruce and the band are playing their last pre-Thanksgiving concerts right now: Tonight in Albany, then Sunday and Monday here in Boston.
3. Thanksgiving (my favorite holiday) is next week. Christmas shopping season doesn't officially begin until the day after Thanksgiving.
4. One of my favorite Boston radio stations becomes my least favorite every December, when it switches to an all-Christmas format. Guess what? They switched to all-Christmas a few days ago.

I'm not a Scrooge. I love giving gifts to the Saint and the kids, and to our friends. I love receiving them, too. I love the "spirit of Christmas" most of all. Of course I don't mind hearing Bruce singing "Merry Christmas, Baby" or playing his version of "Santa Claus is Comin' to Town." Come to think of it, I also love it when Adam Sandler sings "Happy Hanukkah." But whether Christmas is a season or a single day, six weeks is a bit much.

Six weeks. That's... Lent... which is about giving up, not giving.

Thanks for the timely post on an untimely subject, Seth. And in case I forget next year, have an easy fast (which you can break with another trip to the Midwest Grill).

Adam

Please Stand By

We are NOT experiencing technical difficulties. We are not dead. We are busy. All of us.

The Saint is busy teaching and parenting. Oldest Son is busy studying and hanging out with his friends. Middle Child is busy studying and studying and teaching quantum physics and studying. Daughter is busy changing her clothes for the seventeenth time today, every day.

I am busy parenting and proofing this manuscript. It's the tedious stage, because I'm not trying to create new scenes; I'm not trying to edit it; I'm just trying to make sure it reads well and that I haven't made any mistakes. In other words, even though the sooner I finish, the sooner we submit, it's tough, bleary-eyed, my-head-shall-soon-explode tedium.

So that's why you haven't heard from me lately. You will hear from me soon, if I survive this last read-through.

Adam

Truly Random

1. The Saint and the boys are back in school. Daughter is back in daycare. Everything seems to be going smoothly, though nobody is sleeping as much as we were a few days ago.

2. I saw the video for Radio Nowhere. I'm now all stressed out that I might not get concert tickets.

3. My manuscript will be winging its way to New York, via the ether, within days, probably within hours.

4. Go over and visit the Great and Gifted Jamie Ford. While you're there, congratulate him on his nifty, well-earned, six-figure publishing deal.

Adam

Proving Motive

I'm most of the way done with this latest draft. I'm thrilled with the edits. As usual, my agents suggested some very good fixes, and the book is better for it.

One of their suggested edits involved the motive for the central murder in this mystery. They were right: the original motive sucked. And now, finding a new motive is my last plot clot. I'll get this thing back to them by the end of this week, I think. The only problem is that I would have liked to have mailed it back last week.

I'll have more on this later. Hopefully, I'll be able to report to you at the end of this week that the manuscript is once again on its way to New York.

In the meantime, Oldest Son has returned from the Cape, Middle Child has already begun third grade, and Daughter still believes she's in charge of the household. She's certainly in charge of we who possess Y Chromosomes. The Saint has figured out Daughter.

The Saint, by the way, is still a rock star. She's preparing for another year, taking on an honors-level class in addition to all her other stuff. She's not terribly wild that I post about her here, but blogging about her is a lot more fun than blogging about my novel. Don't you agree?

Now that I've made that disclosure, let me mention that my college roommate, the first person not named Nick Alicino with whom I really discussed writing, married a woman (I also knew her in college) who grew up about four blocks from where I live now. We finally visited the other day. We'd spoken and e-mailed quite a bit, but we hadn't actually seen each other since Oldest Son's baptism, almost fourteen years ago. Of course, seeing each other again (the brief description, for each of us: significantly less on top, slightly more in the middle), we felt like fourteen seconds had elapsed instead of fourteen years. Nice having friends like that, right?

Finally, you might see a few vicarious travelogues here in the coming weeks. Seems my parents have decided to visit Italy. Best Man and Godfather has gone to Vegas. And Cousin Matt is in Merry Olde England.

I had a motive in writing all this, but I seem to have misplaced it. Oh, well. Back to my edits.

Adam

Finally, A Party

This Summer has flown by. I mean, it's August 3. Middle Child starts school in less than three weeks. It seems like The Saint has just finished school herself. That graduate course on Shakespeare went more than halfway into July. The Saint earned an A, but I'm sure you've already guessed that.

I'm too tired for a transitional paragraph.

It's 98 degrees outside and our air conditioner is overworked. Tomorrow, we need to install the backup. It used to be in Daughter's room, but water leaked from it through our bathroom ceiling. We think it'll fit nicely in the den.

Again, fatigue prevents a proper transition. That whole thing about the air conditioner, it's relevant because:

Summer cookout season is finally in full swing. We have this group of five couples who all had kids in Middle Child's kindergarten class. Then those same five kids all played baseball together for two seasons. Two years ago, we started having Saturday cookouts, rotating among all the houses. Pretty soon, it was a good-natured competition, every host trying to wow the guests.

This is our third Summer, and we're still rolling along. We all started late this Summer. The Saint had that course, and the kids went away for Grandchildren's Week, and then we had to retrain them. In the middle of this, the Saint and I decided to put in a new bathroom. Have I mentioned that we only have one bathroom? We have very forgiving neighbors, and we also went to the gym at some very strange hours. But now we can show off a new room. Yeah, it's the bathroom, but it's still new.

So now that we have a new bathroom, we're hosting a Summer cookout.

I just made my Velvet Hammer Peach Sangria. It has wine, cognac, peach schnapps, triple sec, fruit juice, fresh peaches and berries. Drink it over ice on a hot day and it tastes like a spritzer, or maybe fruit punch, hence the velvet hammer appellation.

Best Man and Godfather may find this blasphemous, but I used white wine this time, not red. I sacrificed the richness of a red for the lightness of a white. The temperature is supposed to keep climbing tomorrow, and with the heat index, we'll be well into triple digits. The white stuff will taste better.

On the menu as well: jambalaya. I learned the recipe from a dear friend in college who grew up in New Orleans. I served as his sous chef on several batches of collegiate jambalaya. I also traveled to New Orleans with him, twice (and twice more on my own), sampling various delicacies. This version has ham, chicken, andouille sausage, two kinds of smoked sausage, and shrimp. Sometimes I add crawfish and smoked oysters.

There's a little cayenne pepper, and the andouille sausage is spicy, but other than that, I haven't turned up the heat. It's not really kid food, but I don't want those with bland palates (yeah, you know who you are) to have to recalibrate them. As a bonus, if any of the kids do decide to try it, it's free of all allergens. No nuts, no dairy, no eggs.

I've spent the last few hours chopping cured animal products, cubing fowl and peeling crustaceans. When I thought the worst was over, I minced the two largest onions I have ever seen (together, they were bigger than Rhode Island) and then hacked my hands to pieces when I was supposed to be dicing bell peppers (one green, one red, one yellow and one orange because I wanted all the pretty colors). My hands hurt so much I almost yearned for the bad old days of lawn mowing, but Oldest Son took care of that this evening.

Yes, we'll also have traditional cookout fare like hot dogs, burgers and steak tips. But it's our first party in a while, and I was feeling ambitious. I am exhausted. I'd like to edit a few chapters of my novel, but that new bathroom I mentioned? It needs cleaning.

We have a few neighbors joining us, too. I know he's in Montana, but I'm hoping that the Great and Gifted Jamie Ford drops in, with news. Check the comment section on my last post if you're wondering what news I mean.

I also got a new speaker system for my iPod for my birthday, which means there will be tunes. Thankfully, my Manuscript-Necessitated Bruce Exile is solidly in the rear-view mirror. I believe my Fenway bootleg will be getting a workout tomorrow afternoon.

Come on by. We'll have plenty of beer, food and sangria. Don't say I never warned you about the velvet hammer.

Adam

A Few Loose Ends

So my agent e-mailed me this morning. She loves the manuscript.

That said, yes, I have a few changes to make. I've had most of today to contemplate those changes, and they're relatively painless. Taken as a whole, they tighten the manuscript and make my protagonist into more of a badass.

We're shooting to move this in September, so I'll be back in edit mode for the next few weeks. The bottom line is that these are changes I'm more than willing to make, and they're pretty minor.

Today is a good day.

In the meantime, the Saint's Summer Shakespeare Odyssey is almost over. She's in the midst of a 25-page research paper on Falstaff. The other day, frustrated, she asked me when I'd last written anything based on research. She didn't like my answer: That 405 page manuscript I'm about to slice into again. I don't think my reply contributed toward our marital bliss.

Grandchildren's Week is over. The kids are back. We've commenced retraining them.

Finally, my cousin Matt and his wife Jeni are in from San Diego this weekend, so if you haven't heard from me by Tuesday or so, send out a search party.

Adam

Blazing Through the Third Draft

I ended up cutting more than 10,000 words between my first draft and my second. I'm now roaring through draft 3. If I stay on my current pace (Middle Child's baseball season is over, so to my regret, I'm no longer coaching two games per week), I'll finish sometime next week.

That draft goes in the mail to New York.

In other news, Oldest Son and my tenured Saint finished school today. Daughter cuts back to one day per week of day care. Middle Child finishes school on Friday.

The Saint is taking not one, but two (and possibly three) courses this Summer. Though she's done teaching, she'll still be a student until at least the middle of July.

Wish her luck.

Adam

Summer Approaches

I'm 85% finished with draft 2 of this novel. I'll likely finish it this weekend. Draft 3 will go even faster than draft 2. My agent should have the manuscript on her desk sometime early next month. That means that if she likes it, draft four should be ready at the end of August.

In other news, Middle Child's baseball team proves to be a wonderful experience for him and for me. The other two coaches have already asked me to coach with them next year. Saying yes was a no-brainer. We have yet to win a game this season, but nearly everyone will return next Spring. The same thing happened with last year's last place team, which is running away with the league this year.

My tenured Saint finishes school in a little over a week. Oldest Son finishes when the Saint does. Middle Child finishes at the end of that week. Daughter will stop day care for the Summer.

Somewhere along the line, the Saint called the guy who painted our house last Summer. Turns out, his brother in law does bathrooms, so we'll be leaving town for a week or so while he renovates ours. I think that's a perfect excuse to leave town for a few days.

And thinking of travel is more than enough motivation to get back to the manuscript.

Adam

Slow, Steady Progress

Daughter caught a cold a couple of weeks ago. She thoughtfully passed it to me. I'm just getting over it. That cold (the bad news) and coaching Middle Child's baseball team (the good news) have precluded blogging.

The update: We're all well, and the novel is moving quickly toward its conclusion. We're within days of the finish line.

In other news, Oldest Son has graduated from basketball to street hockey and the Saint is grading senior theses. I think she's ready to hurl them across the room.

I learned to duck last year, so I'll survive.

Adam

A Whole Week Without Blogging

The funny part is that I tried to blog much of last week. But my home internet connection went down four times between Sunday and now.

We haven't even been here since Friday. So, four outages in internet service between Sunday and Friday. You didn't need to visit this blog: You could hear me, even in Norway and the Netherlands.

Friday, we drove to Fly Creek. My Mother turned... a big number... in January. My Dad turned... a big number +10 in February. They had their big party Friday night.

The Saint, the kids and I drove from Boston to be there.

The catch, you ask?

It's pretty much due West from Boston to Fly Creek, roughly 250 miles. The last big snowstorm of this winter hit at 11:30 Friday morning. It came from the South and moved due North along a 300 mile front. For those who don't like snow, math or geography, I'll translate:

We got in the car at 11:40 Friday morning. It was snowing. All the way to Fly Creek, it was a blizzard. In the Berkshires, it was a whiteout. What normally takes four to four and a half hours took nearly six, with no stops. One major interstate had one lane open.

We took the Jeep and we had it in four-wheel drive the whole way. Not good for our gas consumption, but great for our sanity. The Saint drove, by the way. Another boost for our mental stability.

(In comparison, today on the way back, the whole trip was just over four hours, including a stop for lunch.)

My parents' party was typical of one of theirs: Started early, went late, and every guest had a blast. My rock-star grandmother danced a hole in the floor. I caught up with a bunch of folks.

Yesterday was more of the same, but much mellower. First time I've ever hoisted a stout in Cooperstown on St. Patrick's Day, believe it or not. To the friends I perhaps should have phoned but didn't: I'll catch you next time. This was a drive-by.

Daughter's day care provider is on vacation, so Daughter, the Princess, gets a week with Mimi and Grampie, who will treat her like a Queen. We miss her already, but at least nobody will be calling me a fart head this week.

I brought my computer and planned to write yesterday. I haven't written since Thursday, so I'm behind schedule again. But I don't care.

This afternoon, when we got back, we had 4-6 inches of snow in the driveway. Mother Nature had thoughtfully baked and re-frozen the snow into an icy crust in the meantime, so what would have taken an hour for me to shovel on Friday took Oldest Son, Middle Child, the Saint and me two hours to hack to pieces today. It's not even really finished. We simply declared victory and went inside. My mother sent us home with lasagna and other delicacies. Those are cooking now.

We are all sore. But we are home. And I have 2,000 words to write this evening.

In the meantime, if you're a rock and roll fan, go check out Dave Guarino's blog. He threw up a post last week to which I'd meant to alert you, while my ISP was AWOL. Click here for a direct link to Dave's homage to The Joshua Tree's twentieth anniversary.

My favorite U2 song, "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For", is on that masterpiece. It's also the album that hooked the Saint on U2.

Be sure to check the comments, too. They're piling up, and they're also worth reading. I'm not talking about my comment, which was, basically, "Nice job, Dude," which translates, loosely, to "I wish I'd thought of that." Dave's wife Heidi was particularly prescient. Her description of Dave at a U2 concert is nearly word for word how I'd describe the Saint at the same venue (and how the Saint would describe me at a Springsteen show).

Back to writing.

Adam

Winter in Boston: A Case Study

Unless I'm on a beach with the Saint on my arm and a drink in my hand, I hate hot weather. I love winter. Every time the snow falls, the Saint or one of the kids snaps a picture of me wearing shorts and a t-shirt while I'm shoveling.

This year, I don't love winter so much.

We went through a December when the temperatures were above freezing almost every day. January was balmy. I think we hit 70 degrees once or twice.

So February should be great, right?

Single digit temperatures for days on end. Wednesday, the mercury finally climbed again, until it was just warm enough for snow. Which turned to sleet and freezing rain. Oldest Son and Middle Child shoveled. And shoveled. And shoveled. I came home from work and shoveled some more.

I scraped off all the snow and ice. Got right down to the blacktop on the driveway and sidewalk. Cleaned the van and the Jeep. Put down ten pounds of salt. Went to bed exhausted (after posting my St. Valentine's Day Ode to Bruce, drafted in the self-congratulatory warmth of a glass of cognac). I may even have extended my middle fingers at the sleet falling outside.

Yesterday morning, the ice on my sidewalk and driveway was three inches thick and the temperatures were in the single digits again. Not only was all that salt useless because the temperature had fallen so quickly, it was frozen under the ice. I don't have skates.

Normally the Saint and Oldest Son go off to school together. Yesterday, the Saint had to get Daughter and Middle Child to day care and the school bus, which is usually my responsibility. The sludge and ice had pooled around the van tires, then frozen solid. The van was literally frozen into the driveway.

The Jeep has four-wheel drive, but even that's no sure bet when the snow plows pile a three-foot drift across the driveway... and said drift freezes into a hard, slippery, immovable object. The Saint crashed down off the... ice thing... with such force that I thought the air bags had deployed. She got everybody where they needed to be, but was twenty-five minutes late for school.

I overcompensated for failing in my parental duties: On the way to work, I helped the neighbors dig out their car. Then six of us fought a sheet of ice for traction. The car went nowhere. Eventually, the wheels spun a giant rooster-tail of sludge at us like it was coming from a snow-blower.

Did you know that if ice shoots into the air at just the right angle, it can fall directly between your jacket and your shirt? I didn't know that either, until yesterday morning. After we backed away, of course, a quick tap on the gas put the car safely in the middle of the street. My neighbors and I were exchanging high-fives like drunks at a football game.

I earned a great reward for my good manners. During the seven-minute walk from my house to the bus stop, I fell eight times. The walk took twenty minutes.

This morning, we planned ahead. We left early. The Saint carried Daughter to the Jeep. I carried the Saint's school stuff. I'm grateful we hadn't switched loads, because I ended up on my back, under the Jeep, sprawled like a snow angel in a Springsteen shirt, but with less traction. The Saint's school stuff ended up all over the driveway. Oldest Son and Middle Child smirked until they couldn't hold it in any longer, then howled from the safety (and warmth) of the Jeep. Daughter sobbed because she thought I was dead.

The neighbors heard utterances from my mouth that they hadn't heard since yesterday. Daughter realized that dead men can't swear.

The thermometer hit 30 today. The van is still frozen in the driveway. Every muscle in my body is sore from shoveling or from trudging through ice banks. I've crashed to the ground so many times that my bruises have bruises.

I would like to go to Miami.

Adam

Jump Shots and Home Runs

Busy week this week. Friend Dave called Wednesday afternoon. He had four tickets to the Celtics game and wanted to bring Middle Child and me with his oldest. So, yeah, it was the Celtics game, and I haven't cared about the Celtics since 1988 or so. Not to mention that the Celts are in the middle of an epic losing streak.

But the nice parts:

• Good friends
• Good company
• Shaq returned to the Heat

Oh, yeah: We were sitting in the Pepsi luxury suite. So there was great food and beer, and it was all free. I confess, I was craving Diet Cokes all night. Is that a blasphemous admission? Friend Dave's Pepsi sales rep was spectacular with the kids. They both came home with mini Celtics basketballs.

Yesterday, I had lunch with my old office mates from my consulting days. They just changed offices. They're now in the old Celtics suite. (Do you sense a theme here?) Celtics logos everywhere, even in the private shower in the bathroom.

This morning was the weekly basketball ritual: Middle Child played at 8 a.m. I usually hit those games (Friend Dave is a coach, and his oldest is on the team with Middle Child), but this morning, Middle Child asked the Saint to go, so Daughter and I got to hang out with Dora the Explorer. Oldest Son plays at 2, and I'm going to his game.

Meanwhile, the Saint is grocery shopping and we've got laundry going... Ahh, domestic bliss.

But baseball season is right around the corner. How do I know this? Because this morning we also signed up Middle Child for his third season of Little League. I coached Oldest Son's team last year with two other guys (I was doing it for Oldest Son, but it also ended up being the best gift I ever gave myself). Middle Child asked me to coach his team this year. That's a no-brainer.

Allow me to elaborate, because as great as baseball is, this is not all about baseball.

There's our group of five couples. We became friends because our kids all went to Kindergarten together (Middle Child's class). But the clincher was that in the Spring of 2005, all five of those interconnected kids ended up on the same baseball team, and three of the five dads were coaches. We started having cookouts every Saturday, after the game. That led to Saturday cookouts, post-season cookouts, and blowouts... pretty much on demand these days.

Yes, we know how cool that is. And now another season starts.

All of this as I'm crawling closer to the finish line on this novel. If this book were a rock and roll song, we'd be listening to the guitar solo between the third and fourth verses. Speaking of rock and roll, go see Dave Guarino's spirited defense of U2. Dave's rant drew a loud "Amen" from me.

It reminded me of the time a rival political operative dissed Bruce to my face. The results: Not pretty, but poetic in their brutality.

I may tell you about it some day, but not until the book is finished. Now, however, I have to go watch a basketball game. Oldest Son has inherited the Saint's talents in the low post. The results for the other team: Not pretty, but poetic in their brutality.

Adam

Does This Look Harmful to You?

Click here.

Does that little bacteria seem like it could bring down a Saint?

Right. Not possible, is it?

But the Saint has strep. Again. She's getting a throat culture right now. The doctor on call has already ordered up the antibiotics, which I'll pick up as soon as the Saint gets home. I've dipped all the toothbrushes in Listerine.

Scary, how well-oiled this machine is.

Oldest Son, the new teenager, is playing PS2 with Daughter. Get this: Middle Child didn't want to miss Mass two weeks in a row, so he called one of his friends and asked if he could go with his mother.

So now, we wait.

Adam

Limping into 2007

I'm fine. The Saint is fine. The kids are fine. (Daughter got her first haircut this afternoon, and she's ecstatic, not fine.)

When I said, "limping," I meant literarily, to coin a new word.

Remember your high school history classes?

Okay, I mean: Pretend you remember your high school history classes. I majored in History and wallowed in inane details.

All that crap about European explorers sailing from Spain and Portugal to the New World? Any of that ring a bell? Ever read the translations of the explorers' journals? They all dreaded the Horse Latitudes. Near the Equator, where the winds died.

The. Ships. Would. Just. Drift.

Sailing without wind can be a bit arduous.

To lighten the ships, the explorers would push their horses overboard so less powerful breezes could fill the sails and propel the boats toward better winds.

I'm inching through the Horse Latitudes now. With this book. Hence: Literarily.

I mean, I should be crashing toward the climactic scene, but writing the damned thing is... The winds have died. I'm looking for a breeze.

It took me four and a half hours to hit my thousand-word quota this evening.

During my last writing session, I hit a thousand in 70 minutes.

I know the winds will come back soon. They always do. I'm not worried, but I'm not exactly moving. I'm looking forward to my upcoming Albany Research Adventure with the Saint (and with my brother, who may still be unaware that he's the tour guide).

On a totally unrelated note, Kelly Malloy has a couple of great posts, but they're not about writing. The first is about the stellar New Year's Eve party we celebrated with our friends the other night.

Here's the deal. There are ten of us: Five couples, each with a child roughly the age of my Middle Child. All these kids of roughly the same age were in Kindergarten together, then they all played on the same Little League Team (for two seasons). We've been hanging out for three years, going on four. We've never needed an excuse to party, but the built-in holidays are wild.

We spent New Year's Eve as part of that group. Five couples. Eleven kids (plus another half couple and two more kids making guest appearances, like Tom Berenger in the last season of Cheers).

Food everywhere. Toasted ravioli. Stuffed eggplant. Crab cakes (Further proof that God exists). Stuffed mushrooms. Taco dip (the Saint's). Swedish meatballs (mine). Shrimp. Champagne, beer, wine, great company, lots of football, about 38 crazy-ass conversations and at least as many vows of secrecy...

Best New Year's Eve ever. Yes, Christmas was also the Best Christmas Ever. So shoot me for repeating the phrase. Repeating it doesn't make it false. At around 11, we had dessert, a spectacular chocolate trifle-- not my mother's, but still spectacular, and a champagne toast.

We partied until midnight. Toasted some more. Hugs, kisses, blah, blah, blah. Then, like old, married people, we packed up the kids and drove home (every couple had a designated driver).

Here's the kicker. At Chez Hurtubise, we were all in bed by 12:20. The kids slept until 11:00. I only woke up once. (My cousin Matt, the recent groom, roused me with a text message at 2:29 a.m. to tell me he'd required some assistance leaving a restaurant the night before. How is this relevant, besides waking me from an entirely pleasant dream? The Saint and I provided the gift card to the San Diego version of said restaurant as a wedding present, and it's also where Joe Konrath and I chowed down after drinks with Jerry Healy in Boston.)

But I went back to sleep. And the kids didn't come downstairs until 11 a.m.

Do I have great kids or what?

Which leads me to Post Number Two from Kelly Malloy. Let me refresh your memories with this rant about my recent parental failure.

Then read Kelly's post carefully.

"D" is Middle Child. No, he DID NOT spill the beans. No, he DID NOT crap down the chimney and ruin Christmas for his friend.

I believe I hear a refrain: Do I have great kids or what?

Let's blame the Saint for that.

In the meantime, does anybody have a horse I can toss off a boat?

Adam

While the Plowmen are Digging

Holy Cow, what a Christmas!

Best ever.

Before the Saint, the kids and I went to Connecticut to visit her parents, siblings and our new niece, we opened presents here.

I love the whole gift giving thing. We gave the kids a bunch of books, DVDs, music, toys, clothes, and games. A friend of mine had given us a DVD player for our car, so I did some last minute purchasing.

Santa gave the Saint a pearl necklace.

The Saint rocked my world: She gave me an iPod. I know, I know. I'm one of the last people on the face of the planet without one. But still.

Now that we're back from Connecticut, the Saint is in danger of becoming an iPod widow. Before we left, I put a bunch of Bruce stuff on it. While we were there, I added a little more. Since we've been home, I've gone through every CD in the house and lifted stuff (except I'm a little light on Zeppelin because I can't find disc 2 of my four disc set).

I loaded 98% of my Springsteen catalogue, including the entire Fenway concert and a good chunk of the Albany Devils & Dust show (friends have gifted me with bootlegs from time to time).

But the best part? I have 8 different versions of "All Along the Watchtower," and for the first time, they're all in iTunes, and they're all on the iPod. I have three Dylan versions, one from Hendrix, one from Neil Young, one from Indigo Girls, one from Dave Matthews and one from U2. They all kick ass (though Hendrix... I mean, come on, is there a better version?) and Neil Young's is particularly passionate (ain't the dude from Seattle, but it's good).

I'm still looking for a bootleg version of Bruce doing it on the Vote for Change tour in 2004. That's Nirvana.

Now I know why so many people are strapped when I go to the gym. I stuck the headphones in my ears on Christmas Day and I completely misplaced ninety minutes. I guess it shouldn't surprise me that I've spent the last way too many hours updating iTunes and popping everything onto my new toy. Tomorrow's workout is gonna fly by.

We've got a lot of rock, a heavy dose of country, with alternative, folk, blues and pop thrown in for flavor. And I'm about to load Leonard Bernstein's version of Beethoven's Ninth at the Berlin Wall.

I've represented the usual suspects very well:

• I copied most Bruce albums in their entirety
• Followed by about 50 Johnny Cash songs
• Then most of my Kristofferson stuff (all the old stuff plus The Austin Sessions)
• U2, REM, Waylon Jennings, John Mellencamp, Bob Seger, Clapton, Skynyrd...
• I even threw in a little Billy Joel, Garth Brooks and one-hit wonder Dobie Gray.
  

You get the picture.

But I keep coming back to this: I now have all my versions of Watchtower in one place.

Hope your Christmas also rocked.

Adam

One Year Burnin' Down the Road

A year ago today, I created this blog with my first post. It's been a great trip around the sun.

We've traveled quite a distance together.

Much has changed:

• I've met a bunch of new friends through this blog
• Bruce put out a new album
• Kristofferson at 70 is still a rock star
  
• We elected a Democratic Congress (and here in Massachusetts, a Democratic Governor for the first time since 1986)
• I'm halfway through a new novel

I'm also grateful that everything important remains the same:

• The Saint is still the Saint
• My kids are still spectacular
• The Saint is still the Saint
• My friends remain my friends
• The Saint is still the Saint
• I have great agents
• The Saint is still the Saint

You get the idea. Thanks to all of you for continuing to drop by. It's been a wild ride. Here's to another great year.

Adam

Greetings from Fly Creek

Hi, all...

We're here. The Saint, the boys and I arrived in Fly Creek Wednesday night (Daughter was already here). We'd planned to do run the Thanksgiving traffic gauntlet on Thursday morning, mostly because everybody else is on the road on Wednesday.

But the weather forecast all along the Mass. Pike for Thursday morning was terrible. We piled into the van and drove Wednesday night.

Thursday: Dinner at my Mother's house for 28. The great Jim Atwell sat on one side of me, the Saint sat on the other. Too much good food to list here, but my mother's oysters once again proved God exists.

Last night, post dinner, the Saint and I had drinks, venison jerky and wasabi pickles with Lt. Ed Novak, his wife, and another couple, up on a hill in an area that makes Fly Creek seem like Manhattan. Tonight, in a little over an hour, actually, the six of us are joining another couple for dinner in Cooperstown.

I've been meaning to work on the manuscript all weekend, but I only managed a hundred words today. We've been doing things with the kids instead. Today we took Daughter to see Santa.

At the end of this post from last Christmas, I mentioned that Daughter is terrified of Santa. My mother took Daughter to see Santa earlier in the week. Daughter shook hands with the Big Dude, but didn't sit in his lap. Today, even with another Big Dude there to protect her, she wouldn't sit, either. But I did snap a decent picture with my cell phone camera.

Tomorrow, we rejoin the rat race back to Boston. The batteries aren't recharged yet, but we're close.

Adam

It's Hard to be a Saint in the City

Tomorrow, the Saint heads to New York for a weekend with her sisters. Instead of Weekend at Bernie's, this is Weekend in Brooklyn.

The Saint's sister is with child, you see. Very, very much with child. But the Saint's brother in law has to go back to Seattle because his sister is getting married, and he's in the wedding, which of course was planned long ago, before this whole baby thing happened. How do those baby things happen, anyway?

So the Saint is taking Amtrak to Penn Station tomorrow. The Saint's other sister is taking Amtrak up from Washington. Hopefully they'll meet in the middle of Penn Station, find their pregnant sister in the mob, and spend a weekend doing whatever three married sisters do without their husbands.

The good news: I get an entire weekend with Oldest Child (the newly minted teenager), Middle Child and Daughter. I have everything planned, and I'm also ready to toss the plans out the window.

On the playlist: Bruce, Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Hank Williams Jr., and Merle Haggard, with some Bob Seger thrown in. Not one song recorded after 1984 shall be heard at my house this weekend!

On the TV: Oldest Child has requested ample time for PS2. Middle Child has requested time to watch wrestling. Daughter has requested time for Hi-5.

I have requested football. But I'd rather hang with the kids, and when they're asleep, I'll write.

If the weather's crappy, they can watch what they want, and I'll referee. If it's nice outside, the park beckons.

I've promised the Saint that we won't order out for every meal (have I mentioned that my mother reads this blog?), but I need to be flexible. I have Sunday Dinner planned already, and I'm making that myself, so technically, I'll honor my promise even if we order out tomorrow and Saturday. Which is not a bad idea, now that I've hung it out there.

And my novel continues to... percolate. Or a better analogy: It's like bourbon in the barrel, absorbing the sugars from the oak, aging, mellowing... letting the story condense and come together.

This weekend will be strange. I'll miss the Saint, but I'll have a great time with the kids, and I'll be able to put a ton of words onto the hard drive.

Happy Weekend. It's almost upon us.

Adam

I Forgot It's Halloween

Not exactly.

Random Thought #1: I've been trying to write this post for an hour. Every time I type a word, somebody rings the bell. I took Middle Child out trick or treating. He secured a large haul and decided it was time to come home. Have I mentioned that he's very intelligent?

Daughter was a Princess. Let me rephrase: Daughter is always a Princess. But today she had a Princess costume.

Random Thought #2: In other news, we have the revolving door into the germ factory.

See if you can follow this:

1. After Columbus Day, Daughter got strep throat.
2. As Daughter got well, the Saint caught it.
3. The Saint got a really, really, really, really bad case. You've seen the last couple of posts about the... fortnight (first time I've ever used fortnight in conversation, written or oral)... the Saint and I've endured... The past fortnight has been rough because the Saint has been ill. The strep moved in and wouldn't leave. Three (count 'em: One, two, three) different rounds of antibiotics. And now we're on a fourth, but she's feeling better.
4. Just in time, Daughter has strep again.

Random Thought #3: I'm rapidly approaching 50,000 words on the new novel. I've written 5,000 words this week. I got a little sidetracked because one of my friends from high school is an accomplished novelist. She's also a book reviewer, and every time Nelson DeMille releases another, she gets a review copy, and then I get a review copy... And I can't put down DeMille's latest.

My new novel is fun. When I wrote my first, which is still on submission, I had no idea how to write a book. I just sat down and typed. I cranked out more than a quarter of a million words, then cut that to just over a hundred thousand.

With this one, my agents "suggested" an outline. Much easier. And I'm projecting a rough draft of about 115,000 words, so I can cut it to 100,000. But I wrote the first one faster. I blasted it out in huge chunks of 4-and-5,000 words at a pop. These days, I'm laboring to crank out a thousand. Is it that I have a third child? That I'm no longer running my own consulting business?

Not sure. Probably both. What I can say is that the writing is better, tighter, more focused. The story is more natural. And my agents love it. So I've learned something.

Random Thought #4: Joe Konrath is often blogging about the publishing business. I found a great article about the music business at Backstreets. It's from a magazine in Pittsburgh, and it's about Bruce, Inc. If you want to learn more about this business, read the article about how Bruce runs his business. It's an eye opener.

Random Thought #5: I need a Cooperstown/Fly Creek fix. And some venison jerky. And a large bourbon. And a conversation and a few beers with Lt. Ed Novak. And a conversation and a few beers with the great Jim Atwell.

Adam

Finding my Inner Badass

The last couple of days, I've needed to tap into some anger.

I needed prison songs. I needed "Dude on the verge of exploding" stuff. When that happens, my three buds (Bruce, Kris and Johnny) won't do. When things need to be really bad (in a good way), I need Hag.

Why?

I may have mentioned (a few dozen times) that a good chunk of my new novel takes place in a prison. My protag is an inmate. So who better to get me in an inmate's mindset than a former inmate?

Now playing on iTunes: Hag: The Best of Merle Haggard. I'm wallowing in my redneck upbringing. When I grew up, redneck was a term of affection (and it still is among my friends from Cooperstown, one of whom lives on a self-created street called Redneck Drive--he's one of the guys doing VenisonFest with Ed Novak and me).

So Hag's rocking his way through his greatest hits (is there a better country song than "I Think I'll Just Stay Here and Drink"?), because I need to climb down and grab the third rail. Seems both my agents love what they've seen of my new novel. Among other things, they want me to keep my protagonist exactly the way he is. Which is pretty much what the Great and Gifted Jamie Ford opined the other day.

So I've dialed up Merle on the old laptop. He's magic, as always.

Bottom line, I need to step up my pace. That starts now. Hag helped.

We will, of course, still be celebrating next week's National Holiday. In fact, stop in on Saturday, when Bruce turns 57. I have a very special guest appearing here for one post only. If you're a fellow evangelical Bruce fan, you'll want to come by for the virtual house party. I can guarantee that when the countdown officially begins this Sunday, there'll be nothing but the Boss anywhere near the stereo.

Anybody have any requests? How about Favorite Bruce Moments?

If you're following the links on the right-hand side, the fabulous Jim Atwell has gotten three columns (count 'em, one, two, three) out of a bunch of lost cows.

Not funny, you say? Click on over to the Cooperstown Crier website. I dare you not to laugh.

On other matters, the first cold of the fall has arrived. I mean the kind of cold that follows "common," not the kind that precedes "weather." Care to guess who was lucky enough to benefit from Mother Nature's (or some snotty kid's) largesse?

Yeah. The guy who needs to step up the pace is sidelined by a cold. But I've purchased NyQuil, which means I'm about to have:

1. A great night's sleep
2. Crazy dreams
3. Need for an alarm clock
4. A wake-up call
5. Somebody haul my ass off the mattress.

The Saint and Oldest Son leave for school at 6:40 a.m. Middle Child is strong, but not strong enough to separate his old man from a NyQuil slumber. Daughter will be tuned in to Hi-Five if she's awake, so Middle Child will have to go it alone, or hope The Saint stays around an extra five minutes. One thing's for sure: The morning commute will be even more of an adventure than usual.

I wish you crazy dreams as well.

Adam