When I was young, my mom used to talk to herself. Not in a crazy cat lady way, mind you, but undirected muttering all the same. I don’t remember what she said, but I now recognize that it freaked the hell out of me. And the pitiful thing is, I recognized that it freaked the hell out of me at just about the same time that I recognized that I do the same goddamn thing.
And I do remember what I say. Usually, it’s some sort of play, where the only part you can hear is mine. Sometimes, I’m working out some complex social interaction, so that I don’t put my foot in it when that situation arises: an argument with one of the idiot VPs at my place of employment, for instance. Or sometimes I’m making grand, moving testimony; in some of these plays, believe it or not, I’m running for president (leaving aside the fact that I’d make a truly abysmal president, no matter how low our standards seem to have sunk nowadays).
But my favorites – mostly because they get me to practice – are the concerts. Maybe I’m in the new folk contest at Falcon Ridge, or maybe I’m at a gig where the performer is crashing and burning and, in frustration, dares someone in the audience to do better. I ascend the stage. I strap on a guitar. I kill. And the crowd goes wild.
My friend Island Girl has this joke/not joke where she sends me birthday gifts with a Superman theme. T-shirts, lunchboxes, breakfast cereal (my, my, the breakfast cereal was awful; we both got a good laugh out of that one). She exaggerates what I’ve done for her, but it’s true that I’ve helped her dig out of some pretty deep holes. And the image of me stepping out of a phone booth, cape flowing behind me, is amusing enough that I used it on the cover of my album “I’m Not A Modest Man” (go download it; I’ll wait). And the crowd goes wild.
We all love to be the hero of our own story. But “the crowd goes wild” is not the nature of heroism.
My dad is in the hospital as I write this. He’s gonna be fine, now that they’ve finally gotten off their collective asses and figured out what the problem is, but you worry, when the person in question is 92. And our health care system, as many of you must know, is a dysfunctional marvel of Rube Goldbergian dimensions, and just figuring out who to talk to on a day-to-day basis could tax the patience of Mother Teresa. My brother’s doing a lot to help, but he has a kid and a crazy schedule, and my wife, She Who Must Be Taunted, wants to go to Cleveland to help, but I know she’ll overfunction and I won’t risk her health on my dad’s behalf. I’m the big brother, and I have all the powers of attorney if it ever comes to that. My job.
And for this, and many other small but taxing obligations, my wife calls me a hero.
I don’t feel like a hero. I feel, frankly, oppressed by my determination to do the right thing. I feel aggravated and overburdened and interrupted and imposed upon. And dammit, the crowd isn’t going wild. But apparently, this is what heroism looks like outside of my head.
Many years ago, I wrote a song called “Ordinary Guys”. Here’s the first verse and chorus:
It’s a trillion dollar ransom if it’s a dime
Space lasers pointing at the White House dome
It’s an evil genius and his master plan
Forget about the Air Force
Looks like a job for SupermanSo I grab my cape and I slip outside
As bad news dribbles ‘cross the TV screen
Panicked pedestrians stop and stare
At this reckless fool
Standing in a phone booth in his underwearIt’s a superhero shortfall
A security surprise
And the only people left are
Us ordinary guys
This ordinary guy is hosting his first Somerville Songwriter Sessions on June 3. Come by and cheer, so the world sounds like it does in my head for a while.