What’s the deal with the trend of naming books? I am talking particularly about appending the subtitle: A Novel. This is often combined with using a single noun for the main title. Here are some examples: Stonehenge: A Novel, Raiders: A Novel, March: A Novel. I do not know anything about these three books. I have not read them. I do not want to say they are good or bad reads. I am simply focused on wondering what sort of purpose the subtitle serves. I already know it is a book. Shape alone is a dead giveaway there. I picked the book up in the fiction section; that tells me the kind of book. What possible purpose does the “a novel” subtitle serve? Now, if the title were Noun: A Kick in the Ass, I could see the need for some extra specification. Does conspicuously subtitling writing as “a novel” make some sort of cultural claim for the novel as a literary form? That is, does this overt subtitle substitute as a more refined expression of an otherwise vulgar boast: Noun: Not Shit?

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My child bride, Whirl, has begun to identify certain quirks of my characters as “windmills.” She compares my behavior to that of an errant knight, de cuyo nombre no quiero acordarme. And I must give her her due. She has a point. I have taken up particular causes—some may say particular frivolous causes—and attempted to advance them to no discernable end or for no obvious reason.

These impossible, foolish tasks prove capable of capturing my attention, raising my ire and consuming precious time and energy: both physical and emotional energy.

It causes me to wonder if other people have windmills and if so what they might look like. The more interesting question may be: why do we build these windmills at all and set them as targets?

Two prominent windmills on my psychological horizon are sport utility vehicles and cellular phones. These objects—these material objects—have the capacity to bring me to a frothy, bilious boil. But when I think on the topic with more circumspection I begin to realize that like most inanimate objects the true objects of my aversion are not these base things, but rather the way they have insidiously inserted themselves into my everyday life. They have done so at a cost.

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Whirl and I have been going through our belongings—paraphernalia, equipment, gear, goods we have collected. We have lived in our current home for a little over two years now. Before we moved we culled and sorted a slightly different menagerie of items. We separated it into categories: trash, donations, gifts, keepers. The goal was to minimize the amount of stuff we would need to move from one place to the other. And as we had lived in that apartment for almost six years, we had accumulated enough stuff—stuff that we found we weren’t using—that it had completed filled every possible corner of storage space.

Our loft has very little storage space. That is by design. That makes sense to me. The idea of the loft—particularly as Whirl and I envision it—is to present a large open space. The more closets and cabinets you build, the smaller that open space shrinks. As a consequence it becomes important to keep track of your accumulated substance. We develop guidelines for what stays and what goes.

I find fascinating the choices I historically have made on that score. I can alternate at moments between maudlin sentimentalist and draconian protagonist. Clichés: If I have not used this in two years, I will not ever use it again. Protests: But that is my favorite! Negotiations: If I have to get rid of this, you have to get rid of that. Whirl and I both agree that the previously mentioned two-year guideline does not apply to books. Stephen King has defined being rich as, “When you can go out and buy the new hardcover version of a book whenever you want without having to wait for the paperback to come out.” I am not convinced that we are rich by Stephen King’s standards. Nevertheless, it is a noble rubric by which to define wealth.

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We are living in a culture of fear. We have fetishized our fears, trepidations and anxieties to such a monstrous degree they have consumed us. Fear eliminates options. Fear stifles creativity. Fear paralyzes. Fear poisons. Fear murders the reasoned ability to act. Our fear thrusts us into one of two courses of action: fight or flight. And when our fears encompass the painful consequences of fighting, we are left with one choice—which is not a choice at all. We run.

Fear is a compelling motivator. And fear is not necessarily an irrational response to certain stimuli. When faced with very real danger, fear reminds us—sometimes not so gently—that there is a preferable alternative. In that respect fear is a good thing. Arbitrary death and injuries—be they physical, mental, emotional, financial or familial—are wasteful tragedies. They should be avoided—prevented if possible.

But our culture has transcended this simple approach to danger. And in so doing has made us more isolated, less tolerant, more prone to selfish bouts of anger, rage and conflict. Perhaps these are fleeting reactions to a perceived lack of control over our own destinies. That saddens me.

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Somewhere between Mick’s house and my house I lost my wedding ring. I lost my ring last year when I got injured. I had my wedding ring with me that afternoon at Mick’s house. That was the last time. After I awoke from the coma and was released from the hospital I received my personal effects. My clothes—pants, shirt, leather jacket—had been destroyed by the emergency room scissors. Everything had been cut off of me and discarded—everything except for my White Sox baseball cap. The hospital personnel kindly kept safe my wallet and watch.

Not so, my wedding ring. My wedding ring was gone.

My wedding ring—the one object I never removed. The one object I always had with me. The one object I could never lose. A simple, heavy platinum band without ornamentation or adornment, the ring was an impermeable symbol of my marriage.

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Loyal friends and readers have commented more than once on my choices of musical quotations peppering my writing. Dropkick Murphys, The Chieftains, The Pogues—these are the bands to whom I have been listening with the greatest frequency and enjoyment in the past year. Some of their music has undoubtedly crept its way into my writing.

Tuesday night, Whirl, Liz, and I attended the Dropkick Murphys’ concert at the Vic Theatre. I have always enjoyed going to the Vic, and Tuesday was no different in that regard. The Vic is an intimate and intriguing space, full of history and character—and not particularly big: it has room for about 1500 people. Wherever you sit or stand in the Vic, you will see and enjoy the show. Dropkick Murphys are essentially a punk rock band. They formed in 1996 in the Irish Catholic working class neighborhoods of South Boston. They blend punk, Irish folk, rock, and hardcore into their own unique sound. One apt description voiced it as a combination of the Pogues and the Ramones. They share their experiences and beliefs in working class solidarity, friendship, loyalty and self-improvement in hopes of bettering society. They play fast, aggressive rock ‘n’ roll infused with Irish folk influences. Bagpipes are nearly as prominent as guitars. In the true spirit of punk rock we view the band and the audience as one in the same; in other words our stage and our microphone are yours.

The set at the Vic was incredible.

Dropkick Murphys have become more popular in the last couple years, although I have yet to hear them played on the radio. They were mentioned at least a couple times in Faithful—the fascinating journal written by two Boston Red Sox about being Boston Red Sox fans, Stephen King and Stewart O’Nan. King and O’Nan picked an incredible season: 2004. They were not alone. Dropkick Murphys released the EP, Tessie, in 2004. The album features the Murphys’ version of the official Boston Red Sox anthem, “Tessie” . The original “Tessie” was a Broadway tune. Boston fans adopted “Tessie” during the 1903 World Series. Fans sung it regularly until 1916.

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