The Proprietor

The proprietor lives in the Midwest, where, as the singer/songwriter Greg Brown put it, “whatever it was, it’s gone.” He teaches journalism at a university and edits a small-circulation daily newspaper. The reporters are encouraged to shoot for the moon; the editors hope they make it across the street. Nonetheless, the proprietor believes it is a worthy undertaking.

The proprietor’s passions are fairly standard for someone of his age and background: politics, world affairs, music, art and, more recently, religion. However, the proprietor doesn’t expect that he will ever be anything but a secularist. His interest is anthropological.

It shouldn’t surprise anyone who has made it this far that the proprietor plays the guitar. He’s getting better, thanks to his ongoing engagement with the Chick Magnets, the house band at a little-known gem on the southside of town called Eddie’s Lounge. His bandmates, Eddie, Truck, Hooker and Rose, call him Waylon, for reasons that no one seems to remember. Las Chicas Magneticas have recorded about a half-dozen CD-length collections of cover tunes, and a few originals by Eddie. You can hear a few selections here.

The proprietor claims no special expertise or insight with regard to what is posted on Six String Ink. He is not a lawyer. He likes Impressionism, for God’s sake. He believes jazz and blues (and Dylan and Waits) are among America’s great cultural gifts to the world, although he personally leans toward americana and alt-country, because, for almost nine years, he lived and worked in Houston, a city with qualities and a sensibility that are not widely understood, probably because it is part of an entity — Texas — that is easily caricatured.

The appeal of any particular piece of information noted here is purely emotional to the proprietor. For instance, right now, he’s listening to The Flaming Groovies. If you check back in an hour, he may have used the Internets, that series of tubes the kids seem to enjoy so much these days, to throw up a video and a Wikipedia entry about the band.

The proprietor is aware that much of the material posted here speaks to more pressing issues than music, specifically the political and cultural divisions that have transformed public discourse in the United States. The journalist George Packer has described liberal as the “name no one answers to” anymore. The proprietor is just foolish enough to answer, although, unlike Mr. Packer, he does not feel he has it in him to write a 400-page book about why he believes what he believes. He has no idea.

The proprietor was raised in southern New Jersey, in a subdivision about 15 miles east of Philadelphia. Of course, he understands that by mentioning his geographic roots he is inviting a lot of really stale commentary about the environment in which he grew up. Some years ago, the proprietor began beating his tormentors to the punch by pulling out his guitar and singing this John Gorka song:

I’m from New Jersey.

I don’t expect too much.

If the world ended today, I would adjust.

I’m from New Jersey, no I don’t talk that way.

I watched too much TV, when I was young.

I’m from New Jersey.

My mom’s Italian.

We’ve read those mafia books. We don’t belong.

I’m from New Jersey.

It’s not like Texas.

There is no mystery. I can’t pretend.

I’m from New Jersey

It’s like Ohio

Even moreso. Imagine that.

New Jersey people they will surprise you.

Cause they’re not expected to do too much.

They will try harder, they may go farther.

They never think that they are good enough.

The proprietor’s father wanted his son to grow up to be a major league baseball player. The proprietor’s enthusiasm for the plan ran out during the Ford Administration, however, creating a rift that endured well into Reagan’s second term. By then, the proprietor was studying journalism at the University of Missouri.

The proprietor’s mother — who is, as a matter of fact, Italian — always thought her first-born should be a writer, probably because it was the only scholastic activity he ever engaged in that rose above mediocrity in the end. The proprietor would like to take this opportunity to thank his mother, a retired middle-school library worker who still lives in South Jersey, for leaving The Carpetbaggers and The Valley of the Dolls among the paperbacks she stored in an old chest in the garage. While the proprietor never made it to the end of either book, he kept coming back to them, day after day.