Music, video added to 'It Is Without Remorse'

I came up with the lyrics Aug. 10 and spent the other night writing music for it and then making a video for it.

Lord, was I born a ramblin' man?

It's a ritual I know so well by now: Rent the truck, pack the boxes, drive the truck, unload the boxes, return the truck, get situated. I have it down so well by now I'm not sweating it. There are only a few days left before I move 1,000 miles from the nation's political capital to its, uh, retirement capital, but I'll be fine.

After some counting, I've figured out this is my eighth time moving in eight years. And that's not counting in and out of dorm rooms for the three years before that. I'm such a pro at conducting this ritual.

But there's more to relocating than just the process of picking up and going somewhere else. When you move a great distance, you have to say good-bye to familiar people and places things and get used to unfamiliar ones. When you've had experiences as great as I've had with the people and places of the D.C. area, it's not easy just to pick up and move on.

The past two weekends were great ones for me personally as I reflected on the friends I have and where I am headed. The weekend I wrote about already, celebrating Canadian Thanksgiving, was spent with one of the very first friends I gained upon moving to the D.C. area, my great friend Brian, who has been like a big brother to me over the past six-and-a-half years -- and who even let me pull in some hours at his company when I needed it. We shared some drinks last night, cranking our favorite band, Led Zeppelin, on Finn Mac's jukebox with the World Series on the big screen.

Last weekend was one I spent in Washington with my girlfriend, Layla. She met some of my other closest friends on Friday night, and I took her out on the town for a full day on Saturday to be her tour guide and show her exactly what has kept me interested in D.C. for so many years. Pleased with her taste of the town, she hopped a flight to return home to Florida on Sunday morning, and I'll be joining her in the Sunshine State when November begins. It feels so good to say that.

Oh, and I cast my absentee ballot for Barack Obama by mail this afternoon, which also makes me feel even better about the future.

So I now say good-bye to Jan and Kristin and Betzer, Chris and Aprille, Duncan, Karlin and Tracy, Todd and Whitney, Ed ("Otter"), Archie, Jeff, Nick, J.D., Viddy, Doug, Seth, Robbie, Dorsey, Will and Christine and Ainsleigh, Chef, Petrick, Brandt, Clay, Ben, Glenn, Diane, both Joshes, Fuzzy, Paul, Frankie, Mary, Matt, Louise, Adrienne, Megan, "Hersh," Jess, "Merit," Bill and Joan, Celia, Brian, Irene, "Who the Hell Is" Angela, Kate, Katie, Charlie, the Bay Street Girls, Jesse, the Usual Suspects, Trademark, World Peace Party, the G-Tones, and all my other bosses, co-workers, friends, musicians, SigEp fraternity brothers and bartenders in the D.C. area whose company I appreciated and who had the patience to put up with me.

I also say good-bye to Chuck Brown, the Washington Nationals, Noah's Pretzels, the Washington Post, Metrorail, the DC Delta chapter of SigEp, the SigEp Feds, Zipcar, the Brickskeller, RFD, Ben's Chili Bowl, Five Guys, Wok 'n' Roll, Fado, Blues Alley, Bohemian Caverns, the Black Cat, the 9:30 club, the Rock & Roll Hotel, the Birchmere, Wolf Trap, Merriweather Post Pavilion, Lincoln Park, Stanton Park, Thunder Grill, Union Station, Union Pub, Schneider's, Jacob's Cafe, Tunnicliff's, Yarmouth Management, Eastern Market, Finn MacCool's, the Ugly Mug, Capitol Lounge, Hawk & Dove, Tune Inn, Banana Cafe, the D6, the X2, the 38B, the N22, the Circulator, the MARC train, the Freer and Sackler Galleries, the Botanic Gardens, the Sculpture Garden, the Smithsonian Museum of American History, the Air and Space Museum, the Corcoran Gallery of Art, Farragut Park, Georgetown, Glenmont, the Stained Glass Pub, Clarendon, Restaurant Week and, of course, being called for jury duty every two years on the nose. Every one of these D.C.-area institutions has provided me with lasting memories -- even in the case of a certain winery on 8th Street SE whose name I never really knew in the first place but whose proprietor recognized me by name every time I walked in, right from the very first time I ever bought alcohol in D.C.

I've already celebrated Thanksgiving this month in Canada, but I barely even thought about any of what I'm thankful for. I'll have another chance to celebrate Thanksgiving next month in the United States, and then I'll do it better.

With a list like that of everything and everybody I'll miss when leaving the D.C. area, and with Layla by my side and a future bright ahead of me with memories yet to develop, this "Ramblin' Man" won't be singing some Allman Brothers Band chorus about being born in the backseat of a Greyhound bus -- because I certainly wasn't.

I ought to be singing about myself the same ELP refrain I associated with my grandfather when he died last December after having lived a long, fulfilling and rewarding life: "Oh, what a lucky man he was."

Guess it runs in the family.

Canadian Thanksgiving

Just getting back into D.C. after a milestone weekend in my life and also one of those rare meetings of the minds.

The weekend started as a friend of mine, Brian, left work with me early on Friday to book it to the airport. We flew to Buffalo where one of his industry contacts picked us up and took us out to eat in Buffalo. She picked up the tab for Brian and me. Then we stayed in the presidential suite of a swank hotel. In the morning, we met the sales manager for a complimentary buffet breakfast.

As soon as Brian and I said good-bye to her and grabbed some coffees, in walked the woman who was coming to pick us up  and kidnap us for the weekend across the international line. Brian had been Lou Anne's guest last year, so they recognized each other, and our meeting in the hotel lobby -- 30 minutes ahead of schedule -- was unplanned and coincidental. (As in, no cell phones were used in the making of it! Go figure!) We all went up to the presidential suite to sit and talk for a while before grabbing all our stuff and heading on the road.

Getting into Canada, I didn't have my passport, but my photo ID supplanted by a birth certificate worked. (I was just afraid it wouldn't be sufficient to get me back into the States! But it did.) We were coming up to celebrate the early-harvest Thanksgiving holiday with them with a meal on Sunday, one day early. So the first stop we made was a little grocery store where Lou Anne needed to pick up the humongous turkey she had ordered ahead of time for the following day's meal. Brian and I checked out the selection available at the liquor store next door. There were so many beers I hadn't ever seen or tasted before, which is very uncommon for me. I felt like a fish out of water.

We stopped at Lou Anne's farmhouse, where she gave us the grand tour and made lunch. Then she asked what sightseeing we'd like to do. Niagara Falls is in short driving distance, and although Brian and I had each been there before, it's really worth seeing again and again. This was my first time standing on the Canadian side and looking over at the U.S. side though. After that, we had a drink inside the Hard Rock Cafe and ducked into a casino for some rounds of craps, which I now know I understand even less than I knew I did. Once we hopped back in Lou Anne's car, I took a short nap in the back seat, and Brian dozed off in the passenger's seat. The afternoon was capped off with a tour of a winery in Niagara-on-the-Lake before we returned to the farm.

For dinner, we were finally joined by a fourth personality entering the mix. Lou Anne's brother, Frank, who's now a published author. Lou Anne is the editor of his book, and they're now working on a second volume with a third shortly to follow. They share synergy and passion in their work, but she has all these cracks about the hassles of editing her brother's work, and his humor is very self-deprecating. Frank makes himself the butt of every joke, and Lou Anne is eager to go along with the gag. I played the piano and organ for everybody. Even my friend Brian was surprised to learn I am more than a little decent at it. All three of us males are really deep into an appreciation of Led Zeppelin, so we stayed up pretty late discussing our common interest over drinks.

On Sunday, we had a quick breakfast at the farm. Lou Anne stayed back to prepare Thanksgiving dinner while we three kings went over to Frank's place to check out everything he has collected related to the band. There was enough to do for hours, and we really only scratched the surface of a thriving glacier. In the middle of the day, we broke for some outside time and fresh air. Conveniently enough, Lake Erie is just across the street from Frank's place, so we hopped a barrier and sat on the ledge dangling our feet over rocks and the lake. We could see Buffalo just on the other side of the water. Frank says this ledge is his place to get introspective, so he and Brian took a few minutes away from the Internet and cell phones to think about where we are in life and what we're doing. Me? I took a load of photos of the scenery and of the three of us.

Dinner back at the farm was wonderful. The three additional people who joined us resulted in a fusion of personalities. The company was excellent, and the food couldn't have been better. There was very little difference between that meal and the ones I grew up eating on the same holiday but on Thursdays in late November. I encouraged Frank to bust out his acoustic guitar and play whatever Neil Young and Led Zeppelin songs he knew so I could jam with him. That went unbelievably well.

This morning, it was awful we had to leave so soon. I hope to be back again someday soon. It's not really Canada I'll be missing so much as Frank and Lou Anne. They are just some really great people, and I'll now respect their friendship much more.

Rote memorization, and a noise complaint

"I pledge allegiance/ to the flag/ of the United States of America;/ and to the Republic,/ for which it stands:/ one nation,/ under God,/ indivisible,/ with liberty/ and justice/ for all."

I was first introduced to these poetically arranged lines of prose in kindergarten. It was through rote memorization that they became a ne'er-understood ritual for schoolchildren 180 days of every year. For one thing, we certainly didn't know what words like "allegiance" and "indivisible" meant, much less why our allegiance was being pledged literally to something symbolic, a piece of cloth. Years later, we were privy to (and perhaps in solidarity with) arguments against the pledge's use of the words "under God."

I think I can count on one hand the number of times outside school I have been in the presence of a pledge of allegiance. The pledge seems irrelevant to me as anything. It's simply a recitation of a pledge whose underlying meaning I fail to grasp fully. I understand pledging oneself to his or her nation. I understand supporting the troops fighting for his or her nation. However, the flag? Does questioning why one would pledge a personal connection to a piece of cloth, no matter how symbolic its stars and stripes may be, make me unpatriotic?

A gig I played in Maryland at a partisan political function made me think about that conundrum and more. I've lived in the politically charged capital area for six years. In that time, I watched many hours of political television and read many column inches of political periodicals. But as for actually participating in our democracy, I can claim only that I voted a few times, spread a few self-created e-mails mainly about the District of Columbia's lack of voting representation, switched my political party affiliation once, wore a few buttons in support of particular candidates, and had drinks with some of the capital's movers and shakers. At times, I may have unknowingly sat next to a member of Congress on the Metro. A few more times, I've been an impartial reporter watching as lobbyists and private-sector constituents made points to their elected officials, but that's about it. In all, I would say I'm politically aware and yet not politically active.

Yesterday, I had a front-row ticket to see how the other half live. With a set of 88 keys in front of me and ready to see if a bunch of white-haired Republicans remembered how to twist again like they did 50-plus summers ago, I saw first how political activists conduct themselves when they're among themselves. And you know what? I'm glad I haven't been politically active.

The Grande Old Party officially kicked off its afternoon picnic with the pledge to allegiance, followed by an improvised prayer led by one of the moose hunters hand-selected only seconds in advance after the first two turned down the offer. It being a prayer, I wasn't all that surprised to hear God's name invoked. But my jaw dropped when I heard Jesus Christ mentioned as our lord and savior. (OK, so I looked around and didn't see any Jews, Muslims or Buddhists crying foul, so maybe the prayer leader was safe.) But then my jaw took another fall when the prayer went on to thank God for John McCain and his pick of Sarah Palin and for the policies that are right to lead this nation down the correct path. Since when does God -- yours, mine or anybody's -- give a shit about Wall Street bailouts? I was later fed the lame excuse that she was nervous and didn't know what to say; my problem with her prayer has more to do with what she didn't know NOT to say.

The prayer ended with a restrained "amen," and following a perfunctory rendition of "The Star-Spangled Banner," it was time for the band, including me, to entertain with the Coasters' "Young Blood," the Rolling Stones' "Brown Sugar" and other assorted love songs. Since the Republicans in our band were dedicating every other song to Sarah Palin, I took it upon myself to interject what I considered a mild anti-Republican jab into "Superstition": I followed up the line "Seven years of bad luck" with an improvised "and going on eight."

I'm not big on rote memorization, and it seems like that's all Sarah Palin was doing in that first interview with Katie Couric when she seemingly tried to spout off every talking point in existence in the span of one sentence. Sarah "Punchline" Palin's performance in the later-aired interviews were similarly unimpressive, such as when she was at a loss for any Supreme Court decisions with which she disagreed, or when she couldn't name a newspaper she reads. And I thought the lackluster performance that saw Palin visibly squirm in her chair was a point everybody, regardless of political leaning, could universally concede.

There were no such concessions from the people I talked to at the event yesterday. One blamed the interviewer, Couric, insisting Couric is "a B-I-T-C-H." (Yes, the person who said this spelled the word aloud to me, either because the word is not appropriate in polite company or because it bestows more punch when spelled for emphasis -- i.e., "Katie Couric is not just a bitch; she's a B-I-T-C-H." The distinction here must be crystal clear.)

I don't see how Couric's demeanor could be the culprit for Palin's embarrassing performance. I will agree we didn't see the same squirming when Palin took to the podium facing off Thursday night against Joe Biden, even if she did rail against debate moderator Gwen Ifill on more than one occasion. But the fact that she didn't monumentally falter on that Washington University stage in St. Louis only intensifies for me how poorly she did, in contrast, when she was lobbed Couric's non-"gotcha" softballs. The only way Republicans see fit not to agree on that point is by sidestepping the issue and instead focusing on an irrelevant point -- exactly the way Palin herself insisted on changing the topic and not addressing Ifill's questions during the debate. I find this to be disingenuous and dishonest.

I also felt the same way about one of the messages I saw relayed on the back of two T-shirts on display yesterday. Shortly after I picked my jaw up off the ground following the so-called prayer, I saw two backs emblazoned with pictures of Barack Obama and Osama bin Laden, with only the rhyming portions of their names in writing, and the second letters of each highlighted in a different color. It said, "The difference between OBAMA and OSAMA is just a little B.S." Disingenuous, dishonest, disgusting!

Now, it's not that I disagreed politically with the things said at yesterday's event that has me up in arms. And it's not that I would have rather hugged some trees and attended a Muslim marriage of two lesbians. It's just that these political activists are so philosophically divergent from me that I struggle to understand their behavior on the most fundamental level. One woman who appeared to be in her 70s or older came up to the band during a song in our second set and emphatically cupped her ears and otherwise signalled that we were too loud for her liking. I signalled back, shooing her away, because she was right next to our sound system, the single aural vantage point at which we were loudest. When the song ended and her excessive-volume protests were still continuing, I immediately pointed the speaker and informed her, "That's a speaker. Of course it's loud here. Don't stand next to the speaker." She responded in the only sensible way one could: by taking my advice and retreating. Wow, what a novel concept!

The woman's retreat doesn't mean she eschewed victory, for what is victory? How can it be defined in any confrontation? How can victory be achieved in a war whose stated goals have shifted whenever the original mission was declared accomplished and the new goals were judged irrelevant or unattainable? I don't claim a personal victory over the woman with an unworthy noise complaint; in the end, I believed it was logic and reason that triumphed.

There will be a victory after all the votes are counted on or shortly after Election Day. It is my hope that the winner of this presidential election is the one who espouses superior logic and reason.