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Used to be, I thought that rock bands solely made records like The Rolling Stones, Warren Zevon or Guns ‘N Roses: late at night, loaded with gin, and stuffed with amphetamines. And maybe some still do. What’s more, I held some sort of anxious romance for the studio, like the magic there is intangible, elusive…

Oh man, wait until The Nadas get a load of this. At one point in tonight’s rehearsal, I said to the guys, “You know this is The Official Song Of The City Of Des Moines™, right?” But let me back up… My name is Benjamin Wagner. By day, I am a middle manager for a…

I’m a long-time admirer of CBS Sunday Morning, especially the segment before the show’s closing credits when our host (once, Charles Kuralt and now Charles Osgood) transports us somewhere tranquil and scenic for a few, restful moments. Those patiently unfolding natural scenes — from a babbling brook in Arcadia, Maine, to the desert alpinglow of…

By the time I finally got outside and dragged the canoe from the garage to the edge of the marsh, the tide was already receding. The edge of the shore was all honeycombed-mud and half-cracked shells. There would be no boating this morning. I traced the edge of the shore instead, sliding ankle-deep into the…

Everyone’s losing their job. If not, they’re loathing it. Mine’s like Whack-a-Mole or Missile Command or a California wildfire; I resolve one issue, and another pops up, or falls from the sky, or catches fire. You get the idea. Still, even at the end of a Tuesday that feels like a Thursday, at the end…