More. Music.
First of all, as she (not my daughter) oh-so-cleverly probed me over the phone last night, "isn't it a little hot for long sleeves?" And I'm sure my concurrence brought a sinking feeling to her heart, which was not the point. But after getting my darling girl home today, I first stripped back to the guinea-T that shows off my sexy shoulders -- and after a moment here at the keyboard (fans a-roaring) realized it wasn't going to work. The sweat was pouring off my arms, onto the desktop, and in a moment my mouse would have been afloat. So back on came said long-sleeved shirt, to perform one of its several duties, in this case, absorb the perspiration before it could cascade onto my work space.

(There may be a good deal more sweating to come, as I re-encounter life without Jose Cuervo. I know, it's a fucking shame, especially when I only made his acquaintance quite recently.)

Second of all: this is a special shirt. It was a thank-you gift from the mother and step-father of the boyfriend of one of my other daughters. I'd whipped up a draft logo for the family business (an excavation business, entitled 'Earth Movers Inc.', and yes, they wanted a design of a track-hoe hoisting the earth, our globe, the planet, Gaia, in its bucket...).

They liked it so well it became official, and it's now stuck in vinyl on the side-panels of various trucks, printed in thermo-plastic raised embossed ink on business cards, and stitched in yellow, black, white, green, and blue thread above the pockets of these light-forest-green linen shirts.

And I liked the shirt so well that, in addition to sweating in it, last night while preparing ice cream to eat in front of the DVD my daughter recommended we rent, I sprayed several long and, if I do say so myself, highly artistic lines of chocolate sauce up and down my front, Emma's bare arm, her hair, the kitchen cabinets, the floor, and probably some spots I won't notice for many weeks.

I'm pretty sure I missed the dog. The shirt cleaned up okay with a liberal application of cold water, but by now it really does need to be laundered.

Third. The music. Emma's choice last night was to rent 'The Last Waltz.' I had never seen it. I had barely heard of it. But when she said that the experience of this movie was such that if one were, say, contemplating suicide, that it could save one's life, I thought, sounds good to me.

When we loaded the disk in my player, and had to take out 'Saving Private Ryan' first, Emma looked at me wryly, and said "You needed a pick-me-up?" I shrugged. (Ghosts of Jose Cuervo.)

The Last Waltz is easily worth an entry of its own (which this was supposed to be) -- or perhaps many entries. I think one reason I allowed myself to sidetrack on the long-sleeved shirt is that I am very self-conscious about my ignorance of American culture, rock and roll, and the popular music scene in general. I read blog entries all over the place that make witty passing references to performers that I've never heard of, and I feel like the new kid in third grade all over again, standing in the corner because I don't know what a 'cubbie' is.

But oh my god. If you, like me, are pop-culture deprived, this film will set you on your ass. And perhaps, point you in some directions for further research and appreciation. These are some of the most soulful, roots-ful rock-and-roll performances you are likely to see outside your own nearest live arena or roadhouse. A parade of greats -- names even I knew -- make guest appearances with The Band for their farewell performance: Eric Clapton, Van Morrison, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, Muddy Waters.... Ferlinghetti does a mini slam based on the Lord's Prayer, and kills. This is the mid-70's. My Beethoven/Beatles years. Sure, I dug Cream, Credence, the Doobie Bros, the Stones, Motown, ok, everything was in the air... but I wasn't listening, nor did I have the American background to absorb it all in any organic sense. Elvis? A cipher. I was so clueless.

One final note, for now: Robbie Robertson. Had I heard this name before? How could I not have? And yet.... His pretty-boy face, his dangerously thin frame, the bell-bottoms, the intelligence, the amazing amazing guitar work, but most of all his role in this event, bringing together all these talents from The Band's 16-year history on the road, put me in mind of Malcolm Gladwell's discussion of people he terms 'Connectors' in his book The Tipping Point. (Paul Revere was a Connector.)

I'm convinced, in addition to his obvious musical talent and artist's soul, Robbie is also a Connector, a collector of people, an enabler, someone who can selflessly become the nucleus around which great things happen. A great film, and likely the greatest music film I've seen.