Woebegone Productions

Dear brothers,

A Russian adage describes the fulfilled life: have a family, build a home, plant a tree. Chekhov extends that by personal example, going off to doctor the tubercular sanitaria in the forsaken expanse of Siberia.  As Christians, we know the fulfilled life is not mostly up to us, that our fulfillment comes through a salvation guaranteed in our infancy; and with Jesus’ 33 years or Hamlet’s 27, we take what duties befall and contribute aesthetically, ethically, immanently, transcendently however we can.

Before we’re all fifty we’re going to produce something that enhances the world. We already have: Lena, Kirsten, Josef, Andrew, Tilo, Andrea, Ben, Emma.  I told a friend in Prague (cousin of Vinny Del Negro, incidentally) on March 19, 1999, “Not that I’d desire to, but having held baby Joey, I now can die.” Of course I alluded to the Ojibwa proverb that Dad liked, “today is a good day to die.” Around the same time, when a music reviewer for the Guardian newspaper met Liam Gallagher, prepared for a prima dona and then surprised by being swept into the charm of the moment, asked the singer for an autograph for his daughter; “She’ll die with delight” the papa gushed, so dead-pan Liam included under his autograph, “Don’t die.”

Enough of mortal talk—too much and maybe not enough ripples from Tuscon (see the “Young Turks” commentary on the aftermath on YouTube, btw).  I’m forever interested in this stuff, but want to suggest something more:

How about we meet this summer to plan a production company—really and literally.

Josh, you have a penchant and background that can absolutely extend musicology whether in reviews (your interview of Liam Gallagher would compete favorably with the Guardian guy’s), management (Joey on bass, Ben on drums, Kirsten on keyboards, Tilo on brass, etc—and believe me, we have dozens of originals already in my head, if only occasionally on my fretboard) or theory (you have conceptual wordpower beyond outlandish Scrabble scores). You also understand the twists and turns of cyberspace.

Jon, you have a poetic journey that is as authentic as Seamus Heaney’s (I’m on an Irish lit binge, having enjoyed The Dubliners for the dozenth time and having a part in persuading our drama teacher to try Brian Friel’s Dancing at Lughnasa for the high school spring play). Your sensitivities to engineering, literary and legal foundations are unique and auspicious toward the pragmatics that contribute to (or, in cynical hands, douse) dreams. Your bird poems should not depend on other publishing house wait lists.

I’ll play the part of Lev Mikaleavich Myshkin, suggesting a name like “Woebegone Productions” or envisioning how our aforementioned kids could tap into their dads’ and uncles’ pre-humous inheritance.

Jon, you want an excuse to attend the family reunion despite the late July contracts you’d miss. I want an excuse to get out of my stultifying 1,700 Euro duties as department chair, which would compel me to be back in Prague August 6, effectively dousing dreams… If I take the trip west, I’d definitely swing through Cutbank, Montana, revising A Bruised Reed along the way. We could meet in Boy River or Bejou or Glyndon—that’s west enough.

I’m not suggesting we jettison the enterprises that pay our wages so we can pay our bills. Before we’re fifty, though, shouldn’t we shake the dice better than Mark Cuban or Jimmy Wales?

Solo gracie, logos, veritas (or however Luther squared the Greek and Latin!),

Dan